(here's the final version)
Paolo Alberti and Gianluca Morozzi
"How do you think this story here, of Verona?"
"Boh. challenging. But it is worth trying, right?"
" Indeed. So I promised that we will be both. "
" Bravo. What time step to get you? "
" At three o'clock. "
'Saturday at three. All right. "
They both hang up.
Thinking Saturday at three o'clock, the sun will go supernova.
is mid-June two thousand and six.
The two protagonists of this dialogue are exciting Gianluca Morozzi, and Moroz, as he calls the other, and Paolo Alberti, or Bebe, as he calls the first.
Moroz is a writer, travel agent Bebe. In this moment of their lives have thirty-five, and twenty-nine of these thirty-five years know. From first grade, in practice.
At one point in this knowledge-river, wrote a book together. A book on their passions football. It's called The Adventures of Uncle Savoldi.
In the six months following the exit of the book, the author said it had a bit el'esordiente 'everywhere. In Modena, in Rome, Bergamo, Padova. In libraries and crowded in front of four people, at ten in the morning or ten o'clock at night, in cellars and literary festivals Unit, anywhere, in the most varied circumstances.
They also presented in Verona. In April.
the circle Malacarne.
What does?
factor.
Saturday, June 17 arrives, then, with an air bubble African places his wet ass on the lower valley. A moist and murderous hood who tattooed the clothes on your body and makes wide-mouth panting.
And under this bubble of hot air, in this sun-and-white button is right to introduce a note, a side note, purely descriptive: Bebe has a car in dark blue. Almost black.
Under the sun of two and three quarters of this Saturday in the bubble African Bebe enters the passenger compartment of that car blue, dark blue, almost black, and suddenly understands how it feels when a pizza is stuffed into a oven.
Starts the air conditioning by turning the knob to the maximum, while breathing heavily a odoraccio Plastic cooked and Arbre Magique vanilla spray in the cockpit. And while the oven is slowly dying, as a guide if you play the castanets, pinching the flying red-hot.
On Saturday afternoon in June, Bologna is a ghost town. No one around, during the hottest hours. Moroz is already in the street with a bag over your shoulder. It can be seen in the distance walking around gasping up and down the sidewalk, it seems to float on the shimmering reflection of the heat wave.
"Caldino, eh?" Said Moroz. Plunges quickly to the seat, closes it out as if there was the devil arm.
"Caldino, yes."
leave.
The day's program is what has defined difficult Bebe. The club has moved its business Malacarne summer outdoors in a park under the walls of Verona. And in this park, the diligent Malacarne club decided to organize a series of initiatives in play, literary, musical and sporting events.
type presentation of several books.
Type an area equipped for catering. Type
a game of football. Type
viewing on the big screen playing the World Cup Italy-United States.
In all this, the tireless circle Malacarne invited Moroz and Bebe in order:
- attend the football between the Italians and the National Writers Writers
Africans - make the book The Adventures of Uncle Savoldi
- publicly read excerpts of the concerts on stage
- make a commentary of national game of ironic. Gialappa's style.
Now, this is the program that got Moroz, more or less, distracted by his busy schedule.
His list of commitments of the day was not so simple granite.
It was more like:
(Bebe) "Are you sure that we play with the Italian National Writers National Writers against Africans? Did they tell you so? "
(Moroz) 'Well, yes, I understand that ... but you know me call me three times a day to arrange presentations, appearances, debates, lectures, not that I'm listening to precisely every detail of everything they say, maybe I'm doing at that moment other important things, like my ex-spy's blog, responding to readers' mail, schedule a tour of Afterhours, so I just mark the place and time the date, January 20th Pordenone six o'clock, type, and it's not that I'm listening to everything I say after, listen briefly, say Ah-ah in assent, and meanwhile continue to respond to any email of adoring fans. "
(Bebe) "But you have said against Italian National Writers National Writers Africans or not?"
(Moroz), "Something like that. I understand that. "
With this unshakable certainty in your pocket instead of into the sea as it would be fair and healthy, this dark, almost black blue car is pointing in the opposite direction.
At the junction for the Brenner, Bebe is touched by a doubt.
"Have you any spare copies of the book, Moroz? So to speak. "
"No. And you? "
" Absolutely not. I have finished my andarmele to buy and I am ashamed. "
"Do evil to shame. Oh well, they have organized all the kids up. The program of the day they did not have the at least one copy for reading. "
Bebe does not object. The writer is Moroz. The dynamics of the presentations and cultural events he knows. Why bother?
And then, at the height of Reggiolo, the two authors bring to dream experience that awaits them.
Except on the commentary. On that tend to skirt the issue. Not if they say so, but it is unusual and difficult. Bebe and prefer Moroz only when they are inevitably frightened into the problem. Not before. Before I did not need.
Staring in front of them, in addition to the windshield, over the road unfolds under the wheels to display the upcoming practice match between the national soccer writers.
"For me, De Carlo is very strong," said Moroz.
"Shit, you think? Mark on an assist by Baricco, triangular with Lucas ... "Bebe adds dreamily.
"And Camilleri coach, eh? What do you say? "
" If I sign my ingroppo the win. "
I do not think you play. She is a woman. "
"Maybe he is the godmother."
Be ', that mean? Time passes quickly when you philosophizes on the Two Chief World Systems.
In an instant the two are in Verona, in a moment arrived at the park. Also like to leave the city of Verona, on Saturday when there are forty degrees.
opening the door, it's like a buffalo with a fever breathe on Verona. A hot gust that removes a layer of skin immediately, so, by sublimation.
The park is cozy: the walls are left, right, a wooded hill with the stand of the restaurant and a large lawn that slopes gently toward the area where there is a huge stage and screen. Area bars and chemical processes delimit borders north and south.
"How beautiful!" Says Moroz.
"They have done really great things ..."
"Yes, fine, but where the hell is the soccer field?"
At that moment, one of the guys willing Malacarne reaches of the two authors sweaty with a beaming smile.
'Oh, here! Finally! Follow me, and that soon you start to play. "
Bebe Moroz and running, taking a complicated route that provides for the avoidance of power generators for the stage, microphones, lights and a big screen, the circumnavigation of buses and trucks of the bodybuilders of the event, an endless series of short hops to climb cables with a diameter of an anaconda, about a mile running pace in the sun along the L forming the Scaliger walls, and finally a jump with a ditch to cross the Olympic run-up foul-smelling and treacherous.
"Here we are," says their leader, out of breath but still smiling.
Bebe and Moroz, now soaked and exhausted already, raise his eyes.
To the left are the high ramparts Scala. Right degassed an embankment on which the only car left in the city.
In between, a sand a hundred feet long.
the background, two of those prefabricated booth that builders generally use as storage. With terror and wit by investigator, Our notice two things. The first is that both sides of the sandbox, are mounted two doors from crumbling football. The second, which is written on the booth of a mason to pen the locker room.
A second member of the bearded and Malacarne approaches with open arms, like the pope.
smiles too.
"Uh, how nice ... you have arrived," he exclaims. Then she whispers to his colleague, his voice almost inaudible 'Well, at least they came from ... "
Bebe Moroz and pretend indifference. Is coming to the locker rooms across the sandbox. Inside the prefabricated metal, which accounted for twelve hours uninterrupted sunshine, the temperature is that of Manila in a particularly humid day.
When they leave as shavings, a T-shirt, shoes, shorts, ready to play, Bebe and Moroz are faced with this bizarre composition of the teams. On the one hand to complete the Circle Malacarne: four skinny guys who tripped on the legs and make subtle inflections Filini type.
the other three completely anonymous faces who speak with strong Roman accent and a black boy long and thin as a reed.
"As we were saying," says one of the Malacarne "We had some last-minute defection ... there must arrange it a bit '..."
Di scrittori africani, in sintesi, se n’è visto uno solo. Quello lungo e magro.
E per quanto riguarda gli italiani, be’, mettiamola così.
Tra defezioni e improbabili impegni dell’ultima ora, il più celebre degli scrittori in campo è di gran lunga Moroz. E la cosa andrebbe pure bene.
Quel che sorprende è che il secondo, in ordine di notorietà, è senza dubbio alcuno Bebe.
La partita è un penoso turbinare di polpacci e tibie in un denso nuvolone di polvere e sudore. Il ragazzo nero, agile ed elegante nella corsa come un colibrì, una volta a contatto con la palla perde any possibility of coordination terrifying shooting blows everywhere except in goal. The sauna in which athletes are at the end of the shower and pathetically trying to get dressed cause unexpected effects. For example, to start to sweat like pigs in a pot at the same time you play.
With the air of the survivors of the Russian campaign, Bebe and Moroz went to the dining area tracing back the terrible obstacles that running around the walls.
'Well, one is gone "says Moroz.
"Yeah. Good game. Strong National Association of African writers. "
"True, eh?"
the foot of the hill with the restaurant booth, clouded by the effort, the two unfortunate ignore the signs that warn two meters by two, to guard the receipt of cash - to four inches from each other - and climb up the hill panting. So that they must make the ascent of the hill and have to queue twice. Forty degrees, after a football in the sand and a shower in his own sweat.
In the end, fortunately, able to take possession of food typical summer.
A robina digestible, such as polenta and sausage.
the third sausage, before the eyes of Bebe - a victim of a mirage - a beautiful woman appears and naked. It is actually a hairy waiter announces that for the coffee, well, 'there must arranged. Text.
Bebe Moroz and trudging to the whole neighborhood under the blazing sun, until, just two kilometers from the park, unable to find the only bar in Verona. Back to the park, the two authors to pieces start to submit the book to a more and more people.
Ten meters from the stage, the bearded Malacarne approaches them with a smile pulled.
"Um ... guys, obviously you have at least one copy of the book to make two or three readings, right? What we have not taken ... "
Bebe says nothing. He began to grin hysterically.
The program suffers yet another downsizing of the day. The stories are read on the stage of Roman authors which Bebe and Moroz met to discuss soccer. While the two unfortunates, the useless and destroyed by the heat of the day, listen to them lying on the hill.
Then, finally there's eight and a half. The United States-Italy game is close now.
appear on the screen the shadows of the players who are warming. Only the shadows. The sun has not yet fallen, and the light cover of the blinding white towel on which the film is projected the game. Meanwhile, seemingly from nowhere appeared two thousand really angry ultra crowded on the hill. Beginning to rumble. But the plan. Just to point out that we see little, evil and does not feel absolutely shit.
Bebe Moroz and approach the location where sound will comment on the game. "Public hot, eh?" Said Moroz.
"Yeah," says Bebe, very serious, and with a curious feeling of suction that pulsates from the intestine to the asshole.
Roman writers are a little smile of encouragement, they sit down and say
'Good luck'.
crepe meets Bebe trembling, his voice fades into the throat.
The shadows on the screen line up, side by side, hand in hand. From years of football experience, even without audio, you can guess that it is time the national anthems. Bebe I guess, I guess Moroz. But most of all, I sensed the two thousand fierce Verona's hill.
that before starting to heat up softly. Then hiss like steam. Finally, include a Rossini crescendo of curses and imprecations.
the twelfth agonizing scream patriotic "We want to hear innooooooo," one of the Malacarne reaches Bebe and Moroz. Now flattened next to the Viet Cong as a mixer, to try to escape the rough justice of the hill. The
Malacarne took the microphone and very slowly says, "Perhaps you've noticed that there is no sound ..."
'Fuck' is heard distinctly from the center of the mound.
"Here, in fact. The audio is not there tonight because the game will be developed by the writers here, Gianluca Morozzi 'pause' and Paolo Alberti. " Another pause. "Commented ironic ..."
The cry that comes from the hill is an avalanche which causes a displacement type air explosion of a nuke. Two thousand people make it clear that, even to feel true commentary of Italy-USA are ready for anything. Also in place to eliminate the two writers and their fucking ironic of 'fuck is.
Bebe Moroz and warn him about the syndrome of cake comes out of the dancer in a barracks of legionaries in the middle of the desert.
Moroz quietly draws the Malacarne, petrified with terror, the glassy eye of someone who has buffered a car, gave an asshole to get buffered and saw Mike Tyson.
"Look for us is the same, eh ..." stutters Moroz, "we can not do it, the ironic commentary ..."
As an addict in front of a pear, Malacarne suddenly revives. Thanks obsequious. Takes up the microphone and announced triumphantly:
"Tranquilli ... joking ... Well, now forgive the audio commentary with the cro-te-le-ve na-ca-ra!"
"Aaaaaaahhh," sighs the hill.
"And anyway, fuck 'a voice udibilissima gloss.
The game is ugly almost stellar. Fallosissima, chopped, Italy played badly, with the U.S. dominating. Fortunately, you can hardly see. Two thousand people are trying to decipher vague images on a lenzuolone white heat wave in the afternoon. Imagine you would see very well in their homes with their TV, air-conditioning.
Bebe and Moroz, at least, are happy to have avoided the stoning. At this point, the main problem are the Roman writers. Starting with an inexhaustible litany about the merits of the Romans who play in blue, and Totti and Perrotta and De Rossi, et cetera. At one point, the shadows on the screen will shake all together. It comes out one moving forward, then runs to the flag and pretend to play a violin.
Nobody says anything.
The commentator says that goal. Gilardino scored.
The volcano hill promotes itself and explodes in a furious roar.
Bebe, Moroz and Roman revelers embrace. Nobody saw anything, but Italy's winning, it please. Gone are the festivities, everyone returns to poke the eyes in the sheet. The Romans begin their delirium giallorosso, But how fforte Perrotta, 'nvedi De Rossi, things like that, and Totti is inevitable er mejo, Bebe is proud and sure beats:
"But Zaccardo was Bologna, is the today, we have grown us, "
Silence.
"And his first goal he scored at Lazio," he adds subtle and smart Moroz. The Romans believed
nod, then return to watch the game.
"Fuck," he says from a hill.
The sun sets and finally, at least a little, 'you see the game now. But it goes boring. Until, on a ball thrown in the middle of the Italian area, jump on a safe blue defender ready to push it away. A defender of the features known to Moroz and Bebe. A defender who, alone, in the middle of the area, without any pressure on that ball that raindrops slow and easy, missing the ball. What's slams on the supporting leg and pulls very precise and unstoppable nell'angolino port Buffon. The most comical own goal in football history.
And while a volley of curses thundering echoes in the still of Verona, a question lingers in the minds of all.
"Who is that idiot who did own goal? "
An overlay seems to glow around the screen and answers the question.
Zaccardo.
The Romans turn to Bebe and Moroz. They do not say anything, he just smiled with an expression that could have the sisters of an institution for the mentally ill.
"Bolognese of shit" is heard separately from the hill.
Only when the game ends when the boys Malacarne greet them apologizing for the minor setbacks, but still smiling when the park under the walls Scala is a distant green dot in the rearview mirrors, and Bebe Moroz resume to speak.
And draw a first summary budget.
'Well,' Bebe starts "we came here to play in a sandbox the worst game of football in our lives."
"take a shower in a tin box red hot."
"Do not present the book."
"Do not do the commentary."
"See, rather, guess, the worst part of Italy."
"Zaccardo, goes to hell 'is the latest thinking related to the evening.
Meanwhile, the flashing message announcing the motorway queues for work.
Saturday. In June. At night. And one of
workers on the site at night - Bebe is ready to swear - the passage of the car dark blue, almost black, distinctly says' Fuck you. "
0 comments:
Post a Comment