#Signora Marsigliese

[japannkenn]

my elegant luberto summer romance montage maladaptive daydream starts now 🥹

[ironychan]

Scary Monsters

Because what I need right now is another unfinished fanfic.  This is for @sweatersexual​ and @dysphoria-sweatshirt​.

Part 1/? - Rocco’s Closet

Things began, as they often do, innocuously enough.

It was a cool, overcast June day in Portorosso, and Luca and Giulia had gotten home from school only a week earlier.  Luca had spent most of his time so far with his family in the water, but was eager to catch up on what had been happening in town as well.  He was sitting with his friends on the edge of the sea wall, watching the tide roll in and listening to Alberto tell the definitely true story of how he had saved Massimo from a giant shark, when Signora Marsigliese approached them.

“Ciao!” Giulia greeted her.

“Buongiorno, bambini,” the woman replied. “Ah... may I have a word?”

This was not the way people normally began conversations with adolescents, and Luca's first reaction was to wonder if they were in trouble. It didn't seem likely – he and Giulia hadn't had time yet to get into mischief, and if it were just Alberto she wouldn't have wanted to talk to all three of them. Still, he was cautious as he asked, “is something wrong, Madame?”

“No, not exactly,” she replied. “I wanted to ask you a favour, on behalf of Rocco. He's convinced there's a monster in his closet.”

Giulia scoffed. “There's no such thing as...”

“As what?” Alberto interrupted.

Luca and Giulia both looked at him, and found him grinning.

“No such thing as what?” he repeated. “As monsters?”

Luca snickered.

“Not in little kids' closets, there's not,” Giulia said.

“I've tried to tell him that,” Signora Marsigliese sighed.  “He says he knows it's there because he's seen it, and he insists he wasn't dreaming.  He wants me to ask if you boys would stay the night and scare it away.”  She gave Luca and Alberto an apologetic smile.  “He figures since you're monsters too, of a sort, maybe you can at least talk to it.  I'm ready to try anything if it'll get him to sleep through the night again.”

“I think we can do that,” said Luca.  It was always fun to sleep over in a new place.  They'd been in Signora Marsigliese's grocery shop plenty of times, but their only glimpse of her home was through the front door when Alberto delivered fresh fish. “Right, Alberto?”

“Yeah, sure,” Alberto nodded.  “We'll yell a bunch in the middle of the night, and tell him we killed it.”

“I'd rather not the yelling,” Signora Marsigliese observed, “but yes, please.  Tell him it's gone, and we'll all sleep better.  Thank you.”

It was now Giulia's turn to giggle as the woman walked away, and Luca gave her a questioning look.

“What's so funny?” asked Alberto.

“I was just picturing this giant scary monster, like Godzilla, coming out of the closet, and you two trying to look mean and frighten it away,” she snickered.

“We can be scary!” Alberto said indignantly.  “The first time I transformed in front of you, you were scared to death.”

“Only because you surprised me,” Giulia scoffed.  “If Luca hadn't pretended to freak out, I'd've figured it out in about five seconds. You are the least scary monster I've ever met.”

“Who's the scariest, then?” Alberto wanted to know.

Giulia replied without hesitation: “Luca's mom.”

Alberto turned to Luca to see what he thought of that.

Luca shrugged.  “She can be pretty terrifying.  Anyway, there's not gonna be any monster, so we don't need to worry about whether we can scare it.”  He thought for a moment, then glanced warily at Giulia.  “Right?”

“Of course there isn't,” she said.  “Why would there be a monster in Rocco's closet?  What's it doing in there, besides scaring him?”

The boys had no answer for that, and so it seemed settled.  That evening, with the permission of their families, Luca and Alberto knocked on Signora Marsigliese's door.  She let them in, and called out to her son.

“Rocco!” she said.  “They're here!”

Rocco came hurrying down the narrow steps and into the tiny front hall, most of which was taken up by the large ficus plant under the front window.  Signora Marsigliese's son was well-known around Portorosso and everybody agreed he was a very strange child, though not in a bad way.  He preferred to watch group activities like football games or the Portorosso Cup race, rather than participating, and even in the winter he liked to have gelato to lick.  The oddest thing about him, though, was that despite being around eight years old, he never seemed to speak.  He must have done so occasionally, since he'd clearly spoken to his mother about his monster, but Luca couldn't remember ever hearing a word from him.

He did not speak now, either.  Instead, he took Luca's hand and led the boys up the stairway to his room.

Like all indoor living spaces in town, this was tiny.  The doorway looked in from the foot of the bed towards a window above its head, with just barely enough space for a person to walk around.  If they were sleeping in here, Luca and Alberto would have to be on the floor on either side of the bed.  Next to the door that led to the hallway was the door to the closet.  This was closed, and a chair had been wedged under the handle.

“That's where your monster lives, huh?” Alberto asked.

Rocco offered a piece of paper with a drawing he'd done.  It showed a rotund, furry creature with black and yellow stripes like a bumblebee.  Its head was decked out with crooked horns, red eyes, and a mouthful of sharp teeth.  Two arms each ended in three clawed fingers, and it walked on three legs.  It did not resemble Godzilla, or anything else Luca could think of, but it still wasn't anything anyone would want to run into in the dark.

“I think we can take him,” said Alberto confidently.

“Yeah, you'll be safe with us here,” Luca agreed.  “We'll just tell it that it'll have to find a different closet to live in.”

“And if it doesn't want to, there'll be trouble!” Alberto said firmly.

Rocco smiled.

Signora Marsigliese served pasta for supper – trofie with tocco de funzi – and then laid out blankets and pillows for the boys on the floor. They settled down with their heads towards the closet so they would see the monster before it woke Rocco.  Rocco himself filled a bucket and a pitcher with water and placed them within easy reach so Alberto and Luca could transform quickly.

“Sleep tight, boys,” Signora Marsigliese said as she turned out the light.  “Let me know if you need anything.”

Luca wiggled deeper into his sleeping bag and shut his eyes.  It was a little strange to think of trying to sleep with a bucket of water right next to his head.  He hoped he wouldn't roll into it and knock it over in his sleep – Signora Marsigliese wouldn't appreciate having to clean that up.

“Does this monster usually show up right as you're going to sleep, Rocco?” asked Alberto.

Rocco, peering over the edge of the bed, shook his head.

“When you wake up in the middle of the night, then?” Luca guessed.

Rocco nodded.

“All right.  You go to sleep.  We'll keep watch.”

The younger boy smiled and lay his head down on his pillow.  He looked very happy with the arrangement.

Luca hoped it would be a peaceful night.  If Rocco had another nightmare he might be angry that Luca and Alberto hadn't been able to stop the monster coming in.  Maybe just having somebody there guarding him would be enough to prevent that.

Signora Marsigliese had a large clock in her upstairs hall, and through the thin walls the ticking seemed very loud.  This didn't bother Luca, who was used to hearing clocks in the buildings in Genova.  The only clocks in Massimo's house, however, were quiet, and Luca could hear Alberto tossing and turning and pulling the pillow over his head in an attempt to muffle it.  Then, just when it seemed like Alberto had finally fallen asleep, the clock began to chime midnight.

“Ugh!” groaned Alberto from under his pillow.  “Why does she have that thing?”

Luca held a finger to his lips.  “Sssh!  You're gonna wake Rocco up.”

“How can he be asleep with all that noise going on?” Alberto whined.

“He grew up in this house,” said Luca.  “He probably...”

Luca stopped there as a different sound intruded – a gentle creak of hinges that seemed terribly loud in the quiet house.  Alberto heard it, too, and the boys sat there very still for a moment in the dark before turning their heads towards the closet.

It looked the same as it had before.

Luca breathed out.  “Probably the house settling,” he decided.  That was what Giulia's mother always said when their house in Genova made strange noises in the middle of the night.

“Yeah,” said Alberto, and started to lie down again.

Then they heard it again, longer this time – creeeeeeeeak – and as they watched, the door opened just a centimetre or so, before it gently bumped against the chair that had been set up to keep it shut.  There was a pause, and then it opened a hair further, the legs of the chair making a scraping sound as they were pushed across the floor.  Luca's eyes were riveted on it as it inched towards his face.  He wondered if it would keep going until it hit him, and whether he'd be able to wiggle back out of the way quietly enough for whatever was in the closet not to notice him.  What if it stepped on him?

The chair stopped moving.  Luca kept his eyes on it, barely daring to blink – and to his utter horror, a clawed hand reached out of the closet and moved the chair to the side.

At last Luca was able to tear his gaze away and look at Alberto.  He found his friend looking back at him with huge eyes.  For a moment neither had any idea what to do, but then Alberto seemed to make up his mind.  He grabbed the bucket Rocco had left him, and poured the water over his head to transform.  Luca did the same, and as the creature stepped into the room, both boys jumped up and did their best monster shrieks.

The three-legged, bumblebee-striped beast that had just emerged from the closet screamed right back.  Rocco sat up straight in bed and squealed.  For a long moment, everybody just stood there yelling, and then silence fell again.

The closet monster's glowing red eyes were huge, and it had its clawed hands on his furry chest as it panted in terror.  Then it seemed to get a handle on itself and demanded, in the voice of a middle-aged woman, “what are you doing in here?”

Neither of the boys had expected that, and neither was capable of a response.

“Are you with that school group?” the creature wanted to know.  “You're not supposed to be on the scare floor!”  It – she – looked at Rocco, sitting bolt-upright in bed with his blanket clutched under his chin, and held up her hands.  “I'm sorry.  This is very irregular,” she told him.  “I'll get these two back where they belong, and hopefully we can resume normal operations tomorrow. Very sorry.”  She grabbed Luca and Alberto each by a wrist, and dragged them into the closet.

Except it wasn't a closet anymore.  Rocco had showed them the inside earlier – it was not very deep, and contained mostly clothes organized by colour and shoes neatly lined up in the bottom, with a few toys and books on the top shelf.  Now the creature escorted the boys through that same door into an enormous, dimly-lit room that seemed to stretch away forever on both sides.  The door slammed shut behind them, and the being that had closed it hurried forward to see what was going on.

This second creature seemed to consist mostly of a mass of shaggy grey fur, with knobby-kneed legs sticking out the bottom and two eyes on stalks emerging from the top.  It was wearing a hard hat, and had short arms, one of which was holding a clipboard.

“Louise!” it exclaimed.  “Louise, what happened?”

“These two were hiding in there waiting for me!” the yellow and black creature replied, holding up her arms and almost lifting the two boys off their feet.  “Did you see them get in, Curtis?”

One of the moplike thing's eyes looked Alberto over, while the other inspected Luca, and then the mop below them wagged from side to side as if the creature were shaking its head.  “I've never seen these kids before in my life.”

There was the sound of murmuring from all around them.  Alberto and Luca peered into the darkness and found it was full of creatures of every possible description.  A big hulking apelike one had shaggy green fur like moss growing all over it.  A red one had three eyes and crab claws.  A third had multiple tentacles that it was using to hold on to half a dozen mugs of coffee.  The boys inched closer together.  No matter what Giulia had said earlier, there was no word for these things except monsters, and not the kind of monster that people meant when they said 'land monsters' or 'sea monsters'.  These were monsters in the sense of something scary and unnatural, and they were all looking at Luca and Alberto with annoyed or disapproving expressions.

“They must be with that class that was touring the place,” sighed the creature called Louise.  “I'll find the rest of them while you reset the station – we're gonna have to give that one a few days off, at least.”

“Yes, Ma'am,” said Curtis.  He pulled a lever, and pieces of machinery on either side of Rocco's door disengaged.  “I'll file the report!”

Louise gave her prisoners a shake.  “You boys hear that?  Your antics might have cost us a door!  What have you got to say for yourselves?”

“Um,” said Alberto.  He was rarely speechless, but this situation had done it.

“Sorry, Ma'am,” said Luca meekly.

“You'd better be,” Louise declared.  “Now, let's go find your teacher.”

A metal door at the far end of the room rolled open, and Louise half-led, half-dragged the two boys through it and into the hallway beyond.  The light was much better here, almost painfully bright in comparison with the bigger room they'd just left, but there was much less to see – just neutral beige walls and a hard, charcoal-grey carpet.  More monsters were moving around here, going every which way, carrying objects both recognizable and not.  Some of these stopped and stared as Louise and the boys passed by, but most were absorbed in their own tasks.

“I didn't need this today, you know,” Louise said conversationally. “I have a performance review coming up.  In this business you have to be twice as good as a man to get half the respect, and there's this jerk in management who...”

“Louise?” asked a voice.

Her furry shoulders slumped.  “Yes, Steve?”

Alberto and Luca looked back over their shoulders to see what they had to assume was the creature named Steve, which had just stepped out of a washroom.  It was teal blue, and shaped roughly like a human except that it had no head – just a roughly spherical torso with eyes, a mouth, and a moustache in the middle of it.  It was wearing a striped tie around what might have been either its neck or its waist depending on how one felt about its unorthodox anatomy, and had a trilby hat sitting on its shoulders.

“Are these two yours?” this creature asked, seemingly startled by the idea.

“No,” said Louise.  “They were causing trouble on the scare floor.  I'm taking them back to their tour, and then I have to get back to work, so...”

Steve clucked his tongue.  “Oh, that's right!  Big performance review coming up.”

“Yes, and I want to go into it on a strong week,” Louise said firmly.  “I'm all about consistency.”

Luca felt a familiar tingling sensation in his toes.  He was drying off, and his feet were starting to transform.  He looked over at Alberto, and sucked in a breath through his teeth as he saw the fins on his friend's head vanishing into curls of sandy-brown hair.  Luca started trying to pull his hand free, but Louise tightened her grip, all while still glaring at Steve.

“I have things I need to be doing, too,” Steve said, “so why don't we discuss this over dinner?  How about Winsor's Chophouse?  You look like a girl who enjoys a good steak.”

Louise was not tempted.  “Will the rest of the board be there?”

“Nope!”  Steve smiled at her.  “Just the two of us.”

Luca could see his vision changing and feel his hair growing in.  Four green fingers became five pink ones, and he had to stand up straighter to balance against the disappearance of his tail.  Alberto was struggling, trying to free himself from Louise's paw before she could realize that the boys were a very different kind of monster than she was.

“I keep telling you,” Steve went on, “if you really want to advance in your career, you need to make connections.  You've got to...” he glanced at Luca, probably intending to tell him to stop squirming, but if so the words never came out.  His eyes went wide, and he screamed like a frightened child.

This startled Louise so badly she let go of the boys and took a step back, and Luca and Alberto seized the opportunity.

“Bathroom!” Luca grabbed his friend by the shoulders, and they fled into the washrom Steve had come out of.

“She'll follow us!” Alberto protested.

“She can't!  It's the men's!” Luca told him.

Safely inside, they leaned on the sinks and panted for air.  They hadn't run very far, but both were on the verge of utter panic.

“Where are we?” Luca asked. “How is all this in Rocco's closet?”

“Do I look like I know?” Alberto demanded.

Luca felt sick.  If Alberto wasn't even going to pretend he knew the answer, then they were really in trouble.

There was a sound that Luca recognized as the crackle of a public address system, and a woman's voice began making an announcement.  “Ladies and gentlemonsters, we need you to evacuate the building in an orderly fashion.  Please do not... hey!”

Some scuffling followed, and the next voice they heard was Steve's.  “Code black!  Code black!” He shouted.  “Containment breach!  There are human children in the... ow!”

The first voice spoke again.  “There is no need to panic,” she declared.  “Remain calm, go to your designated emergency gathering points, and let the exterminators do their jobs.”

“Exterminators?” Luca whispered, terrified.

Both of them had the same thought at the same time: Louise had assumed they belonged here as long as they looked like sea monsters. Hopefully everybody else would, too.  They needed water.

Luca turned the sink taps on full blast and began splashing himself. Alberto did the same and stuck his head under the flow.  Face, hands, feet... Luca scooped water up in handfuls and poured it down his collar, and then he and Alberto did each other's backs to bring out their tails and dorsal fins.

“We got this,” said Alberto.  “We got this.  We're just two totally normal closet monsters.”

“Right.” Luca checked his feet and grabbed his tail to make sure it was all there.

They heard the door open.

“I think they went in here,” said the voice of Louise.  “I heard one of them shout bathroom, and I... oh.”  She saw them standing there, huddled nervously close to each other, and blinked in confusion.

Behind her, three more figures entered the room.  These were a variety of shapes and sizes, including one that was barely thirty centimetres tall and sitting on a larger colleague's shoulder.  All were dressed in yellow plastic suits from head to whatever they had for toes, with reflective visors and a breathing apparatus.

“Didn't you boys hear the order to evacuate?” the tiny one demanded in a squeaky voice.

“We were scared.  We hid in here, um...” Luca tried to decide whether the creature who'd spoken was a Sir or a Madame, couldn't, and was forced to leave the end of the sentence hanging there with no vocative at all.

“There's an emergency exit just at the end of the hall,” the tiny creature told them, shaking what must have been its head.  “Somebody take them outside and let's finish searching the area.  If this is another false alarm, I swear...”

“Come on, boys,” said Louise, gesturing for them to follow her.  Her hands were now covered in bandages.

Alberto and Luca didn't like the idea of going with Louise, but staying here was no good, either.  They joined her, dripping on the floor as they went.

“Why are you wet?” Louise asked.

“We're sea monsters,” Alberto replied.

“It's not good for us to dry off,” Luca agreed.

Louise looked skeptical, but she said nothing more and led them out into the car park.  Dozens of bizarre creatures were milling around there, talking to each other or smoking cigarettes while waiting for the all clear to go back inside.  The one called Steve was sitting on the hood of a car, pouring out his heart to a one-eyed, egg-shaped creature in a floral dress.

“... and then I realized the kids weren't monsters at all!  They were human!”

“That must have been terrifying,” the egg said.

“It was!  They were awful and hairless and pink!” said Steve.

The egg hesitated.  She was bubblegum pink in colour herself, with no hair on a head that sloped right into her shoulders without stopping for a neck.

Steve seemed to realize he'd made a mistake.  “Horrid things with big goggling eyes and too many fingers,” he added.

The egg narrowed her own gigantic eye, and put her seven-fingered hands on her hips.

Louise, meanwhile, was looking around for something, and seemed to spot it when she found a being with two heads sitting on top of long necks that extended from a very round body.  This creature, with a powder-blue cardigan on, was counting a crowd of smaller beasts that Luca wanted to think represented kids a little younger than him and Alberto... but really, who could say?

“Excuse me!” Louise called.

One of the heads turned, while the other continued counting.  “Yes?”

“I think these are yours.”  Louise pushed the boys forward.

The head examined them.  “Marie,” she said.

The other head kept counting.

“Marie!” the first head repeated.

The second one sighed.  “Yes, Jeanne?”

“Do we know these boys?”

The Marie head finally turned to look.  “Oh... no, I don't think we do.”

Luca was really scared now. What were the monsters going to do when they realized the boys didn't belong here?

“What are you talking about?” asked Alberto.  “Of course you do.  I'm Alberto and this is Luca.”

Luca nodded eagerly.

Marie and Jeanne looked at each other doubtfully.

“I know them,” said a voice.

This speaker was one of the apparent children.  It was a squat little creature with several crab-like legs and a few too many eyes.  He was wearing the top half of a sailor suit, with the cap on his head, and holding a large swirling lollipop.

“They're friends of mine,” he announced.  “My father said they could come.”

Marie and Jeanne looked taken aback by this pronouncement, but the boy just licked his lollipop and waited, confident that the teachers would have to do what he said.  Apparently, he was right.

“Oh,” said Marie.  “Well, then.”

“I guess that's all right,” said Jeanne.  “Come along, then.”

Louise shooed the boys towards the teacher as if glad to be rid of them – probably an accurate assessment – and Marie-Jeanne herded them into the rest of the group of children.  “All right,” Jeanne said, “now that we've got everybody and then some, I suppose we'd better head back.  I don't think we're getting the rest of our factory tour.”

“Are your friends coming with us back to school?” Marie asked the grey crab boy.

“Yes,” he replied firmly.

“All right,” Marie said, “everybody onto the bus.”

The kids formed a line to a bright yellow bus, and climbed up the steps into the vehicle one by one.  Luca looked back over his shoulder for Louise, and found her watching as the mop-like creature came running up.

“Louise! There you are!” Curtis exclaimed.  “Can you believe this?”

“I'm not sure I can,” she replied, and then thought for a moment. “Those two boys I found... do you remember what they looked like?”

“Uh... I couldn't describe them to a sketch artist,” Curtis said, “but there was a purple one and a green one.  Lots of fins, long tails, scaly skin.  Why do you ask?”

Marie-Jeanne put a hand on Luca's shoulder to urge him along.  “If you're coming, you have to keep up,” said Jeanne.

“Sorry, Madame,” Luca replied, and followed Alberto and the crab boy onto the big yellow bus.

The driver was wearing a uniform like a human bus driver might have, but he was green and had a row of spikes down his back like a cartoon dragon.  The name Vasquez was embroidered on one of his pockets, and a bottle of water was sitting within reach on the dashboard.  As they passed, Alberto snatched the bottle and poured the contents over himself and Luca.

“Hey!” exclaimed Vasquez.

“We're sea monsters,” Alberto told him, handing the empty bottle back.  “We're not supposed to dry out.”

“Hey, now, you ought to ask!” said Marie, as she and Jeanne brought up the rear.  “Even if you are Harry's guests, you need to remember your manners!”

“Sorry, Madame,” Luca repeated.

“We're Miss Lavigne,” Jeanne told him.

Alberto and Luca followed the crab-like boy named Harry to the very back of the bus, and sat down on either side of him there as the vehicle coughed to life.  Vasquez pulled out of the parking lot and onto the road.  It turned out to be a very rough ride, and Luca quickly began feeling carsick.  He tried to look out the window to keep his stomach calm, but Harry grabbed his arm and pulled him and Alberto in for a private conversation.

“Did you see them?” the crab boy whispered excitedly.

“See who?” asked Alberto.

“The humans,” said Harry. “That's what the announcement said: there were humans in the factory!”

Alberto and Luca exchanged a worried glance.  “We didn't see any,” said Luca.

“No humans where we were,” Alberto agreed.

“Oh.” Harry let go of them and scowled in disappointment.  “Wait, so why did you wanna come with us so bad?”

“We just didn't want anybody to realize we weren't where we're supposed to be,” Luca explained.

“Where are you supposed to be?” Harry wanted to know.

The boys exchanged another glance, and silently agreed to change the subject.  Alberto offered a hand.

“Alberto Scorfano,” he said.

“Luca Paguro.”  Luca did likewise.

Harry shook each of their hands in turn.  “Henry Jeroboam Waternoose the Third.  My father owns the factory,” he added proudly.  “We supply all the scream power to Monstropolis and the surrounding countryside as far as the River Panic.”

Alberto nodded as if that made sense.  “Uh-huh.  So... are you scared of humans, Harry?”

“My father says it would be foolish not to be,” Harry replied, “but fear is healthy when tempered with reason.”

“Right,” Alberto said.  “Have you ever seen one?”

“I've seen pictures,” Harry replied.

Luca realized he knew where Alberto was going with this, and his stomach sank – he knew in his bones it was a terrible idea.

Sure enough: “you wanna see a real one?” Alberto asked.

“Alberto, no,” said Luca.  “We didn't see any humans, remember?”

“Yeah, you said you didn't see them,” Harry agreed.

“We didn't see them today,” Alberto replied, ignoring Luca's wild head-shaking, “but we've seen them before.  In fact, we see them all the time!  If you can help us stay good and wet and convince the grownups we belong here, we'll show you two humans!”

Harry looked suspicious.  “You guys are in trouble, aren't you?”

“Of course not!” scoffed Alberto.

“Maybe a little,” Luca admitted.  They were going to have to get out of this place somehow, but they had no idea how to do that.  Somehow they would have to stay safe until they could figure it out, and it was going to be a lot harder to stay wet here than it was to stay dry in Portorosso.  They were going to need help, but he still felt like this was not the best way to get it.

“But you know where to find two humans?” Harry asked.  “Real humans, not just pictures or people in Hallowe'en costumes?”

“Of course we do,” Alberto said.  “Cross our hearts.  Right, Luca?”

“Yeah,” said Luca, with less enthusiasm.  “Promise.”

“Okay,” said Harry, “but if you can't deliver, I'm gonna tell my father you were sneaking around in his factory.  Then you'll be in real trouble.”

Luca swallowed hard, but Alberto patted Harry on the back.

“Don't worry,” Alberto said.  “You won't be disappointed.”

[jamielucafan01]

Giulia: “Nice of Signora Marsigliese to invite us over for Portorosso’s annual town picnic, eh, Luca?”

[unknownthebook]

Alberto's Math (Pt. 6?)

Okay, so this isn't Vespa math, but I wanted to try a "sequel" scene of sorts; this is a continuation of Alberto's Vespa Math Parts 4 and 5.

Most of these drabbles will be independent of one another, and I swear after this I will go back to Vespa math XD.

Alberto has recently discovered that his math abilities span past Vespa math. However, he doesn’t see the point in doing math without Vespas. They’re the only thing he’s interested in calculating; well, besides food. He’s decided to stick to Vespa math and Vespa math alone.

(Alberto enters the kitchen to find Giulia doing summer homework at the table. She recently used him to figure out math answers, and he’s still pretty mad at her for it. When he glances over her shoulder, he can see that she’s doing different math now, though she’s just as frustrated. She won’t use him this time. Actually…)

Alberto: The answers are [-4- _/144,718]/3 and [-4+ _/144,718]/3 for the one question, and 12 for the other. (_/ is sign for square root)

Giulia: Ooh! For which ones?!

Alberto: *smirks* For the two questions you asked me last week.

Giulia: What? But I asked you those last week! I don’t need them now!

Alberto (as his smirk grows): Exactly.

Giulia: *eye twitches and she clenches her teeth as she tries to remain calm* Okay. Then what are these answers?

Alberto: Mm, pass.

Giulia (who is stuttering with rage): W-Why?

Alberto: Call it payback for using me last week. (He changes his tone to “teasing” before speaking again.) Have fun Giulia~!

Giulia: *snaps her pencil in half in rage* That’s it!!

(Giulia screams in Italian as she begins wrestling with Alberto, who’s practically choking on laughter.)

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

(Alberto got a few bruises from Giulia and decided to get out of the house for a bit. He’s walking through Portorosso when he spots Ercole trying to impress a group of Portorosso’s younger kids. The catfish lost a lot of followers after the Portorosso cup, but some of the really young children are still naïve to his tricks.)

Ercole: -he tried to attack me, but I outsmarted him! I used olive oil on the floor to make him slide away. *looks proud of his obvious lie*

Young girl: Wow Ercole! You’re really smart!

Ercole: Of course, I am! I am Ercole Visconti! No one can outsmart me!

Alberto (as he rolls his eyes): Really Ercole, give it a rest. Everyone is smarter than you.

Ercole: *glares at Alberto* Oh really? What do you know? You’re a sea monster, you aren’t nearly as intelligent as a human!

Alberto: *gets up in Ercole’s face* Oh yeah? What’s the square root of 9,806,452,731?

Ercole: Easy. 87,207. *puffs out his chest*

Alberto: *scoffs* Wow, you’re wrong, shocker. It’s 99,027.53522.

Ercole: *practically growls* Obviously you’re lying because you’re jealous of my mathematic prowess!

Alberto: Okay then, I’ll prove it! Er… *spots Signora Marsigliese walking down the street* Signora Marsigliese! Could we borrow a moment of your time? *waves at her*

(She approaches the group.)

Signora Marsigliese: Can I help you with something, ragazzi?

Alberto: Could you ask us a math question that you know the answer to? Preferably something difficult.

Signora Marsigliese: Mm… I can’t think of anything off the top of my head, let me grab a paper and pencil and I’ll work out a problem.

(The group waits as she fumbles through her bag, gets out paper and a pencil, and works out a math problem. Ercole and Alberto glare at each other the entire time. By the time Signora Marsigliese has finished, a slightly bigger crowd has accumulated. They heard the commotion and saw the boys glaring at one another. Luca is among the crowd.)

Signora Marsigliese: Alright then, simplify 3 to the fourth power divided by 4 to the eighth power, times 320 (3^4 / 4^8 x 320.)

Alberto: 0.395507813.

Signora Marsigliese: *looks impressed* Correct.

Ercole: What?! You could not possibly have answered that quickly! He saw through the paper!

Luca: But Ercole, he was glaring at you when he answered.

(Some of the crowd members chuckle.)

Ercole: *stamps his foot on the ground* No! That is not fair! I demand another question.

Alberto: Fine, I’ll let you answer this time. Signora Marsigliese, would you ask a similar question, please?

(The crowd remains silent as she calculates another problem.)

Signora Marsigliese: *makes sure the paper is covered* Simplify 2 to the twelfth power divided by 3 to the fifth power, times 207. (2^12 / 3^5 x 207)

Ercole: Simple. It’s eh…. C-carry the 1…. *sweat forms on his brow* 3,516?

Alberto: 3,489.185185. You’re only 26.814815 off.

Signora Marsigliese: Alberto is correct.

(The crowd gives hums of approval as Ercole begins throwing a fit. He screams and kicks over a barrel, hurting his foot in the process, which causes him to scream some more. Eventually, he stomps away from the scene. Alberto gets some praise. When the crowd dies down, Luca approaches him.)

Luca: Was Ercole picking on those kids?

Alberto: No, but he was lying to them. Probably trying to gain followers that he can boss around again.

Luca: *hmms in thought* He needs to try making honest friends for a change.

Alberto: Not like he deserves them. He tried to kill us.

(Alberto wraps his arm around Luca’s shoulder and leads him towards the Gelato shop. Celebratory gelato is required.)

Alberto: Sooo… were you impressed? *blushes*

Luca: *chuckles fondly and blushes* You always impress me; but admittedly, listening to you do math is amazing.

(Luca wraps his arm around Alberto’s back and both boys lean their heads against one another as they walk. Alberto decides that using his math powers to annoy and impress others is just as fun as Vespa math.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

BONUS SCENE

(Alberto and Luca are on the island. They’re stargazing from the roof of Alberto’s tower, like they used to.)

Luca: Did you know humans use a weird phrase to describe people they could get into a relationship with? They call them “fish in the sea.”

Alberto: *chuckles*What?

Luca: *sits up*Yeah! They’re all like: “Well maybe you can’t be with him, but there are still plenty of fish in the sea!”

Alberto: *laughs*That’s crazy!

Luca: I know, right!

(Luca lays back down and looks back into the night sky. He sighs and grows melancholy.)

Luca: Well… I learned that there are about 3.031 billion people in the world. And I know sea monsters have never really gotten a good population count, but the number is probably similar, right? How do they know when they’ve found the right life partner? What if the person they want to be with doesn’t want to be with them?

Alberto: *looks over at Luca* Why are you so worried about it?

Luca: Well…. What if it happens to me?

Alberto: …I can tell you the probability of that.

Luca: *locks eyes with Alberto* With math?

Alberto: *smiles at him* I don’t need math. The probability of you struggling to find someone who will love you and cherish you for the rest of your life is 0%. You’re amazing Luca, and someday you’re gonna meet someone you love that will be very lucky to have you.

Luca: *blushes*Do you really think so?

Alberto: *reaches over to intertwine their fingers* I know so.

(Both boys smile at each other before going back to their stargazing. Their hands remain intertwined with one another.)

[cherryblossomshadow]

When Signora Marsigliese taunts "Alone again?" to Giulia when she and Luca split up their team? When the volunteer organizer hands the Paguros a mop and bucket "for when Giulia 🤮" ?

Imma riot on some Italian fishing town! Imma do it! 😠

[themilanobitch]

another linguistic consideration I have about Encanto (because I guess that’s all the kind of considerations I get to have nowadays) is how different the use of the language is when compared to Luca. this isn’t necessarily a critique (though if you want to read it as such be my guest), and I’m aware the two movies are extremely different in multiple ways, but there’s a palpable divide in how the characters in Encanto speak spanish vs how the characters in Luca speak italian that really shows how different “cultural” movies can be when directed by anglophones for anglophones vs by people who actually belong to said culture for people who don’t.

all the spanish in Encanto mostly boils down to food names, appelatives, and terms of endearment, and aside from the initial abres tus ojos, which is immediately translated and thus doesn’t count in the consideration I’m making, the longest spanish sentences I can remember are Julieta’s te amo, cosa linda and Bruno’s half-muttered sana, sana, colita de rana.

in Luca, however? they go off the rails with the language. like, let’s set aside the fact that most of the voice actors are native italian speaks (to the point where Ercole and others like him don’t even change voice actor when the movie is dubbed in italian) and their accents are REALLY heavy, they don’t just throw in a random italian word every now and then to add that *foreign spice*, they give you full-on whole sentences and absolutely no help to figure them out. sure, the food names are still there, as well as some appellatives, but non preoccuparti, Giacomo? salve signora Marsigliese, due sogliole, grazie, ciao? che puzza, Ercole? and of course, piacere, Girolamo Trombetta? none of that is ever translated. you’re left trying to fill in the blank with the context the sentence is spoken in, which I find absolutely delightful.

I don’t know where I’m going with this, I loved Encanto and I’m not trying to throw it under the bus, but the fact that Luca ends with the infamous Girolamo Trombetta, and Alberto somberly asking Luca to figure out what it means for him while Enrico Casarosa as well as the italian audience and like 90% of the cast are in on the joke of how silly the meaning actually is and how ridiculous it is is a dozen times better than an anglophone adding a spanish word once every fixed number of sentences to remind you the characters are all speaking a foreign language, in case you’ve forgotten

[dtbookworm]

Here’s what Signora Marsigliese has to listen to when she has to talk to Giulia Marcovaldo in chapter 8 of my fic To The Ocean And Back. Yeah, she’s a whole lot of crazy. Here’s the link! https://archiveofourown.org/works/35937997/chapters/100100859

[bobtheacorn]

HA! Anon from earlier here. I don’t know how I put U on the fic ask game. I meant to type Q! (About discarded scenes or storylines) Sorry about that! But thanks for answering anyway :)

You're fine, dude! I'm excited to answer any of them! xD fic ask game

Q: Do you have any discarded scenes/storylines/projects?

I actually have quite a few discarded scenes from the last part of a depth of pure blue! If I get stuck writing a scene or I'm not quite satisfied with it, or not certain where it needs to go, sometimes it comes out easier if I change the POV character - so sometimes I end up with two or three renditions of the exact same scene! I usually scavenge lines and dialogue from those, but sometimes I'll write out a full scene and then just scrap it to go in another direction.

For part 3 of adobp, I wasn't sure where to start it! So I wrote about five different openings. And I wrote a scene with Cicco and Guido interacting with an OC, talking about Alberto, but I scrapped it because it was when I had "shenanigans" in the preliminary tags for the fic and I ended up going in a slightly.... darker.... direction lmao So it didn't quite fit anymore.

Also, I had been fiddling with a Luca-going-into-hibernation fic for months, I just couldn't figure out which angle to come at it from! I wouldn't call it "discarded" because I ended up integrating it into my halloween fic (which also took a much darker spin on what was originally gonna be an incredibly fluffy friendship thing...), but, in the spirit of Ciao Alberto, here's the scrapped opening under the cut:

--

_Last night was one of the coldest nights of the year.

Snow is falling the next morning. A dusting of it covers the ground, settled on windowsills, blown into small drifts in shaded corners. Kids bundled in jackets and scarves race around the piazza, their faces flushed with cold, their laughter loud in the quiet air. The wind from the sea blows stronger, the sky overhead a mottled grey.

For the first time in his whole life, Alberto is warm.

Massimo got him some new clothes.

Well, they’re not new.

Signora Marsigliese has a son who’s gone off to University, who left behind some clothes he didn’t want and had grown out of. Everything’s a little too big. But the sweater is soft from years of wearing and it keeps his body heat in, even if Alberto does have to turn the sleeves and the trousers up two or three times so he can walk and use his hands.

The cold has never really bothered him.

But he used to hate snow because it meant spending weeks under water.

Now he’s standing in a boat, watching it dance and fall around him and disappear into the grey waves. He slept in a bed last night, in front of a heater, with a full belly.

It’s crazy.

It’s crazy that this is his life.

"Another great catch, Alberto," Massimo chuckles, pulling in the last bit of net onto an already impressive pile of fish.

"Told you this was a great spot," Alberto says with a broad grin.

He keeps his hands busy and his head down so the heat spreading over his face isn't obvious. Massimo rarely delivers praise, but when he does so it always catches Alberto off guard. Alberto doesn't know how to respond to it without giving away how desperate he is, so he just tries to ignore it.

[meowymcmeowerson]

ercole: signora! i’m 16!

signora marsigliese: you said that last year!

ercole: but i’m a vampire, so i don’t age! i’m pretty much immortal!

[sunshells]

Firmly  holds  a  rope  in  his  hands.  “  Where  are  you,   Signora  Marsigliese ?  ”

[japannkenn]

Summer’s On (And Portorosso Sometimes Has to Sell Out)

By japanken on Archive of Our Own

June

*~*

Unsurprisingly, the day that summer ‘starts’, Portorosso is the same as it’s always been. But within a few days, it’s booming with business. Like night and day, like turning on a light switch, the monotonous humdrum of your little corner of the world melts away under a foreigner’s idea of the Italian summer dream vacation.

Massimo pulls you aside on the first of June.

“Listen, ‘Beto,” he says gravely, and you cower where he’d sat you down on his bed. He pauses, his eyebrows furrowed in thought. For a moment, you think you’re in trouble. You’ve been a bad employee, you’d been unable to control yourself and thrown a fish right into Signora Marsigliese’s vase again, you’d overspent on your weekly funds and—“I didn’t have to tell you this before, because when you arrived it was already past tourist season.”

“…Yeah?” You wait for the punchline, the thing that may or may not ruin your night.

“Portorosso gets… intense.” He settles on the correct adjective that paints you a funny picture. The signora that works the gelateria throwing you out on a pitchfork. Ercole and his goons arrive back in town. What? What could possibly be worse than those things?

You eye him conspiratorially but he is quiet for a long time. Machiavelli lopes by and you follow the graceful arc of his tail.

“Let me just show you.” He walks over to the refrigerator and starts digging behind it with his one arm. You have to stop yourself from rushing over and saying here let me help you with that like you always do even if you know it’s patronizing. You always forget that he’d been in existence for longer without you for however old he is and he probably didn’t even need your help. Which. It's sobering, that’s all.

You just watch, eager. Not a moment later, he finally finds what he’s looking for and catches hold of some sort of cardboard advert. He brings it over to you, wordlessly placing it in your hands.

You focus hard to be able to read it. 1.85liras libbra.

Forming a list, the prices of a pound of fish that you sell on the daily is only worth half the price. You look up at Massimo, confused.

“It becomes war. Bloodshed.” He says. “But like last year, I am prepared.”

You blink.

“Pardon,” you try to be polite, but you haven’t clued in yet. “I don’t understand what you’re—,”

“Tourists, Alberto. The other businesses will compete for the most sales by drastically lowering their prices. That’s why,” he taps the cardboard sign in your hands. “We have to go lower.”

Oh. Ohhhh.

Immediately, you have passionate opinions on the matter. “This is selling out, though.” You try to tell him. “People need fish. We don’t have to lower our prices. We’re essential. If we do this, we won’t even make it through the week!”

Massimo shakes his head, putting a firm hand on your bony shoulder. “You will soon see.”

You are only a little intimidated.

The next morning, you open up shop just like you had for a year, flipping the sign to Yes, we’re open! And you display this morning’s catch, yesterday’s leftover herring and bass into icy buckets. It’s another normal day. You don’t understand what Massimo was so worked up over.

The day’s sales actually decrease, and it makes the lowered prices end in vain, but you don’t say anything and neither does Massimo.

It’s not until the third of June that you finally see.

You’re on lunch break and you head to the gelateria for a pistacchio, but it’s half a lira and you don’t have change to break, so… you get nothing. You shoulder out of the small shop, reeling. You have… too much money?

The days eat into June, and vacationers arrive from all over. You see all types of people from every side of the globe, but none of them look like Luca. You have watchful eyes, taking glances at the customers you help while you wrap up their fish in paper, drop it into a bag.

For the first time, lines start to form at the pescheria. You’d never served this many customers back to back. At one point, Massimo creates a makeshift second checkout line to get customers out faster. You have never seen anything like this in your entire life.

You have to become faster at packaging fish, you have to become better at counting change, you have to develop conversational skills because boy, Americans love to talk and show off their broken Italian. You try not to wince as a middle aged American man tries to tell you something about his wife and it ends in utter disaster, so you send him off with free limonata as a peace offering.

The thing is, the pescheria makes less money than before. If you’re lucky, you can average what you used to before the summer started. But Massimo seems utterly unbothered by it. He seems happy enough with a full pescheria, and as long as he can afford the ingredients to make your favorite trenette al pesto once a week, you can’t care that much either.

“Where do they all go?” You ask Massimo one night as the two of you are counting up the day’s total after closing down shop. You have a small, fruit flavored lollipop in your mouth; a tourist gave it to you because aren’t you just the politest little boy?

(Patronizing, patronizing people. At least you get candy.)

“A lot of the people that live here rent their houses to tourists during vacation holidays,” he says to you. “I once tried it to make a little extra money.” He stops as if to mourn the decision. Then he nods to himself and continues counting the money. “Mai più.”

Intriguing. “Young couple?” You offer knowingly. He pauses, a little surprised by your vulgarity.

“Eh… yes.”

You have to take a break and search for Machiavelli in the back room to stop yourself from laughing in front of him because god you are endlessly amused by the idea of your big strong dad curled in on himself in his tiny bed as he tries to ignore the obscene sounds coming from upstairs.

Along the coastline of Portorosso, more fish gather in the traps that you and Massimo plant. Crabs tend to be caught up with them more often, as well Bluefin tunas if you’re lucky. He tells you that those are popular, but you don’t believe him because you don’t like tuna at all. But like with all things, your adoptive father is always right, and you’re always wrong, and you are proven wrong when the day’s limited catch of Bluefin tuna is all sold out by the end of the day.

This is one of those things you’re glad to be wrong about, because the rule was that whatever you didn’t sell by the end of the day, you would have it for dinner. Crabs are fine— delicious even. But you become a salesman when there’s one too many tunas left and the crowds start to become sparse by sundown. “It’s fresh,” you tell them, and that usually works— at least on the Americans. (They are oddly delighted and scandalized by the idea of ‘fresh’ things, as if it’s a novelty in their weird country. But what do you know)

So, that’s how most of your June goes. Massimo needs you more, which is nice. As boring as it was to tend the pescheria for hours on end (longer than you ever had before), there was nothing like the way Massimo would nod at you and tell you good work, and there was nothing like helping close up the shop. Words were hardly exchanged, but… he just got you. Alberto and Massimo, Massimo and Alberto. You and him.

~*~

[ironychan]

It's time for RANDOM MINOR CHARACTER HEADCANONS!

Signora Marsigliese has a twin sister - you can see her in some of the crowd shots where they used the same model but gave her gray hair. Signora Marsigliese dyes her hair and her sister doesn't, partly because they have different views on aging gracefully but mostly because it makes them easier to tell apart at a glance.

I have heard Gelato Kid called Rocco but I don't know how canon that is... he's standing next to Signora Marsigliese at the dinner party so I have decided he's her son. He can talk but mostly doesn't. They have their own system for communicating and it works just fine. Gelato is his favourite stim but it's less about the flavour and more about the texture on his tongue. When he was younger his mom took him to a doctor in La Spezia, who said he needed to be in an institution. She had a look around the place recommended, said absolutely not, and took him home.

[diazpoems]

MASSIMO IS SUCH A GOOD FATHER SUCH A GOOD MAN I ADORE HIM I BET HE GIVES GOOD HUGS

I love how Giulia isn't angry or scared, really. at least not after some initial shock. she still wants to be friends with Luca, but she's scared for him

the happiest she's... ever been? oh honey-

the way her eyes widen when he talks about his parent's sending him away

HE CLIMBED THE TOWER. RAPUNZEL RAPUNZEL LET DOWN YOUR DAMN HAIR

he never talks about his mother... are the marks on the wall south about that maybe? or maybe he feels just as trapped as Luca, but deals with it in a different way?

oh no its not his mom its his dad

abandonment and self worth issues. that's the reason for the posturing.

he jumps. off of a building. this boy I swear-

its the grand gesture folks

MASSIMO IS BEST DAD

I feel like his tail would affect his swimming tho, so would that weaken his performance? and his webbed hands and feet too. with all those things hidden, it would make it really hard to beat everyone

I wonder if its an actual thing to oil up before swimming. I don't think the logistics of that are accurate but I could be wrong. plus its... oil in water

OH IM STUPID IM VERY STUPID HE'S WALKING

OOH OUCH THE FISHES ON HIM

im physically cringing at the idea of having to bike uphill

I KNEW ALBERTO WOULD COME

THEY'RE SOULMATES

yeah id never do well anywhere that's superstitious like the most my father believes is some aztec myths and the umbrella indoors/walking under a ladder things I would just not be able to stand it. id be that one crazy town idiot who seeks to meet monsters and stuff

THEY ARE TOGETHER ON THE BIKE ONCE AGAIN AND LUCA SAVED ALBERTO IM JUST OVER THE MOON AT HOW CUTE THIS IS

y'all are afraid of what you think you know but you don't understand a damn thing about, and that's on the fact that this entire movie is a queer allegory

you're the only monster here ercole

stop bloviating please its getting old

HA EVEN HIS GOONS GOT FUCKING TIRED

ohhh god forbid your poor expensive sweater be ruined

ah yes, the mother mood "im SO PROUD OF YOU and SO MAD AT YOU"

signora marsigliese reminds me of a teacher I had a long time ago

THE LESBIAN GRANDMAS ARE FISH

love the grandma. she's the best

"some people will never accept him. but some will. and he seems to know how to find the good ones." I CRY

[pangeanews]

“Tutte le mamme di Milano ieri hanno pianto”. Luglio 1947: 44 bambini muoiono in mare, ad Albenga. Gianni Rodari scrive il suo primo, straziante articolo per “l’Unità”. Eccolo

Tutte le mamme di Milano hanno pianto. È una tragedia feroce quella che abbraccia in una morsa il giovane Gianni Rodari, all’epoca ventisettenne, agli esordi della sua carriera giornalistica. La tragica morte di oltre quaranta bambini fu infatti la prima collaborazione di Gianni Rodari con l’edizione milanese dell’Unità; in quelle stesse concitate ore anche Dino Buzzati inaugurava la sua collaborazione con il Corriere della Sera (il 17 luglio 1947 usciva il suo pezzo: Tutto il dolore del mondo in quarantaquattro cuori di mamme).  Doveva seguire il fatto terribile di cronaca nera: erano annegati quarantaquattro bambini milanesi della colonia marina di Loano. La motonave su cui viaggiavano colata a picco, dopo l’urto contro un palo, ad appena cento metri dalla spiaggia di Albenga, il maledetto 16 luglio. È quasi impressionante che lo scrittore più amato dai bambini, premio Andersen nel 1970, abbia scritto, per «L’Unità» quel 18 luglio 1947, a due giorni dalla disgrazia, un articolo così profondamente tragico e di una tale bellezza angosciosa. La delicatezza e la profondità della descrizione dell’animo umano con cui Rodari riporta alla luce il dolore disumano della madre orfana del piccolo Enzo e del papà che ricordava di aver riempito d’acqua una bottiglietta sono straordinarie. La vitalità dei bambini riflessa nel ricordo delle bucce d’arance disseminate sul marciapiede, le cartacce delle caramelle, la carta stagnola di qualche cioccolatino. Il chiacchiericcio dei bambini paragonato a uccellini svegliati dal sole fra i rami, le madri che vestono i bimbi, che sistemano i capelli con il pettine bagnato, allacciano i sandali. Solo uno scrittore di razza come Rodari può far piangere disperatamente con queste poche, familiari, nitide descrizioni. Leggendo questo pezzo sembra di comprendere, in un lampo, la sua vocazione di narratore di storie per bambini. Quei morticini bianchi, il dolore senza pace di genitori impotenti di fronte al destino crudele, quelle piccole mani che non saranno più sporche di vita e di fango pesano come una pietra sul cuore del sensibile Rodari, che ne rimane impressionato. Sgomento. Ferito di fronte alla vergogna di sapersi vivo. Infatti si piange per la “vergogna di sé, per l’oscuro agitarsi di antiche memorie, per aver amato troppo poco la propria madre”, ma soprattutto “per essere lì vivo e goffo mentre la morte si era posata sui visi dolci, sui visi troppo belli che ormai non avevano più nome”. E i nomi che Rodari inventerà nelle sue storie saranno moltissimi, lieti e leggeri: Alice Cascherina, Giovannino Perdigiorno, il signor Fallaninna… Penso, con mestizia, al bambino bianco di questo articolo contrapposto al suo famoso “bambino di gesso”. Ma soltanto nella sciagura più profonda nasce la letteratura più grande. La vocazione autentica è una cura contro il dolore, è il bel vestito che copre la ferita, la sua cicatrice. Era l’estate 1947, la guerra iniziava ad essere un ricordo, pochi mesi prima, Rodari aveva lasciato (l’8 marzo 1947) “L’Ordine Nuovo” ed era approdato all’edizione milanese dell’“Unità”. Il caporedattore di cronaca era allora Fidia Gambetti che ne tracciava il ritratto. «“Ultimamente sono arrivati in redazione colleghi giovani e meno giovani. Dalle province della Lombardia, dell’Emilia, del Veneto; da altri giornali; dall’attività politica”. Con Crosti, Panozzo, Montesi, Pancaldi, Signori, “un altro ‘personaggio’, fra i nuovi è Gianni Rodari. Lavora in cronaca, allegro, pronto alla battuta, con quel suo viso da ragazzo, un ciuffo di capelli renitenti al pettine, sempre sugli occhi pungenti e arguti. Quando lui è presente, in cronaca è spettacolo: fa discorsi o recita in vari dialetti, imita o fa il verso a questo o a quello; improvvisa originali e divertenti filastrocche che talvolta si ritrovano scritte qua e là sui tavoli e sui muri”». Quel pettine bagnato dalla mamma, forse lui cercava di sfuggire.  Ma il giovane Gianni Rodari per dipingere così umanamente il dolore altrui, conosceva bene il proprio, vissuto precocemente, anzitempo.

Linda Terziroli

***

Tutte le mamme di Milano hanno pianto

Fin dal mattino grigio la notizia ha pesato sul cuore di Milano, quasi incredibile, quasi assurda. Le voci degli strilloni erano quelle di tutti i giorni: gridavano alle fermate dei tram le cifre spaventose della tragedia con accento stanco, professionale. Dal balcone del Municipio penzolava inerte la bandiera listata a lutto. A quell’ora i milanesi si recavano al loro lavoro. La prima inesprimibile sensazione di sgomento, ognuno se la teneva in petto, la sentiva ingigantire d’ora in ora, mentre la cifra non si fermava e ognuno ripeteva meccanicamente i gesti di ogni giorno.

Ma in tutte le case di Milano, ieri, si è pianto. Le madri hanno vestito i loro bimbi, come ogni mattina hanno ravviato i cari capelli col pettine bagnato, hanno ascoltato il loro chiacchiericcio di uccellini che il sole sveglia tra i rami, hanno piegato il ginocchio ad allacciare le fibbiette ai sandali: i bimbi sono scesi nei cortili, le madri li hanno uditi giocare, si sono affacciate alle improvvise risse subito dimenticate, si sono sentite stringere indicibilmente il cuore.

Tutte le mamme di Milano ieri hanno pianto. Come non è vero che si può piangere solo per egoismo, per la gioia distorta di saper salvi i propri cari da una sciagura che è piombata invece terribile su altri! Le mamme di Milano hanno pianto per i quarantaquattro morticini di Albenga: ogni mamma si è sentita ieri madre di quarantaquattro piccoli annegati, ha sentito le invocazioni strozzate dalle onde, ha pianto le sue lacrime sui teneri petti dove il cuore ha taciuto per sempre.

E le altre mamme, quelle che nel cuore della notte furono destate dal colpo battuto alla porta da un vigile, o piuttosto da un crudo destino, le mamme che sono accorse al Castello coi visi stravolti, anche queste mamme non hanno pianto solo per il proprio piccolo, per quello che le ha chiamate morendo, senza che lo potessero udire. Nell’atrio della Torre del Filarete, senza conoscersi, si gettavano una nelle braccia dell’altra, mescolando le grida disperate e le lacrime, fatte sorelle dalla sventura, trasformate l’una nell’altra nello stordimento della sofferenza.

«Il mio Enzo» chiamava una donna con voce disumana. Nessuno conosceva il suo Enzo. Ognuna di quelle madri aveva un «suo» Enzo, o Pierluigi, o Carlo, che aveva portato nel grembo, sorridendogli ancora prima che egli ne uscisse per vivere. Un suo bimbo, di cui aveva sognato il nome molti mesi prima di poterglielo sussurrare.

Un brivido correva freddo nel sangue dei presenti. E forse invece ognuno ha pianto per vergogna: per vergogna di sé, per l’oscuro agitarsi di antiche memorie, per aver amato troppo poco la propria madre, per essere lì vivo e goffo mentre la morte si era posata sui visi dolci, sui visi troppo belli che ormai non avevano più nome. Dal finestrino d’uno degli autobus pronti a partire per Loano un uomo tese le braccia piangendo a qualcuno che giungeva sorretto dai parenti. «Signora», gridò: «eravamo alla stazione, assieme, si ricorda? Sono andato a prendere l’acqua per tutt’e due, si ricorda? Erano insieme, il suo bambino e il mio!».

Era andato a riempire d’acqua una bottiglietta, l’aveva porta ai ragazzi dal finestrino. Ed essi l’avevano posata sul sedile, erano tornati subito ad affacciarsi. I ragazzi sono imprevidenti. Dopo dieci minuti d’attesa in treno, ecco che essi avevano esaurito la piccola scorta di arance: vedevi le bucce disseminate lungo il marciapiede, e le carte delle caramelle, e la stagnola d’un cioccolatino. Poterle ridire adesso quelle affettuose parole di rimprovero e di raccomandazione: «Tieni da conto per il viaggio, e non stare in piedi sul sedile, non sporgere le mani!».

E quelle manine, adesso, doverle pensare bianche, rigide, dure. Che cosa non hanno toccato quelle mani, ottantasei mani di bimbi: la palla di gomma, le palline, i quaderni, e pezzetti di vetro, e chiodi, e giocattoli. Poterle baciare, adesso, sporche d’inchiostro, di fango, sporche di vita, d’allegria, di salute. Uno dopo l’altro gli autobus si sono allontanati col loro tragico carico umano. Mamme e papà non hanno visto sfilare al loro fianco le strade di Milano, le case, le piazze della loro città: essi non vedevano più ormai che un piccolo morto bianco, immobile e chiuso nel suo breve spazio, due labbra pallide su cui pesa il bacio silenzioso della morte.

Gianni Rodari

***

Era nato a Omegna, sul lago d’Orta, il 23 ottobre 1920 (nel 2020 ricorrerà il centenario) e vissuto a Gavirate, nella provincia di Varese, all’età di 9 anni, era, infatti, rimasto orfano di padre. Parla di sé, in una preziosa “Autobiografia”, all’interno del volume biografico Storia del giovane Rodari a cura di Pietro Macchione, scritto in collaborazione con Chiara Zangarini e Ambrogio Vaghi (edito da Macchione). “A 11 anni entrai in Seminario e ne uscii a 13: non saprei ricostruire per quale processo vi sia entrato, ne sono uscito perché trovavo umiliante la disciplina”. Leggere era già la sua passione, una passione ben alimentata: “Dall’età di quattordici anni leggevo di tutto, soprattutto filosofia, letteratura, storia dell’arte e delle religioni”. La poesia fu il primo – e forse il suo più congeniale – strumento, della precoce vocazione letteraria: “Facevo la terza elementare a Omegna, quando scrissi su una carta assorbente i miei primi versi. Quell’anno scrissi moltissime poesie su un quadernetto da disegno, e un mio compagno di scuola le illustrava. La maestra le mostrò al direttore. Ne venne pubblicata una sul giornale dei commercianti”. Ad una fervida fantasia si aggiungeva la passione per la musica, ascoltata e riascoltata, come l’inno di Garibaldi e la Marsigliese, che il giovane poeta ascoltava dalla sveglia di zia Marietta, che contribuì alla sua “educazione musicale e civile”. Un estro che si declinava in giocose invenzioni, non solo in versi: “il primo strumento musicale, me lo feci di mia mano, a nove o dieci anni, servendomi di vecchie scatolette odorose del lucido da scarpe”. Oltre alla musica, la curiosa esperienza di burattinaio che si intravede nei simpatici personaggi delle sue filastrocche: “tre volte in vita mia sono stato burattinaio: da bambino, agendo in un sottoscala che aveva una finestrella fatta apposta per assumere il ruolo di boccascena; da maestro di scuola, per i miei scolari di un paesetto in riva al lago Maggiore, da uomo fatto per qualche settimana, con un pubblico di contadini che mi regalavano uova e salsicce. Burattinaio, il più bel mestiere del mondo”. La scrittura per ragazzi, favole, fiabe e filastrocche è senz’altro parte più rilevante e più famosa della sua produzione, di cui le Favole al telefono, un best seller ancora oggi e Filastrocche in cielo e in terra (Einaudi) sono due titoli estremamente conosciuti tra il pubblico più tenero. “Debbo aver già raccontato o confessato da qualche parte, non ricordo dove, che spesso, per esercizio, vado in cerca di personaggi, situazioni, storie da raccontare, negli orari ferroviari, nell’elenco telefonico, introducendo nelle aride colonne di nomi di persona, di città la semplice provocazione di una rima. Ottengo in pochi istanti la notizia, assolutamente inedita, che “una mucca di Vipiteno/aveva mangiato l’arcobaleno”. Lo scrittore di Omegna (e di Gavirate) ha affrancato il genere della letteratura per l’infanzia, grazie alla profonda ironia, a volte stravolgente e un po’ dissacrante, ma non troppo, con un gioco mai banale e sempre volto all’uscita dagli schemi e dal conformismo della realtà, da quei luoghi comuni che ci imprigionano, ieri come oggi. Per volgere lo sguardo alla libertà, con un sorriso giocoso e una lieta malinconia, per giocare con il nostro quotidiano, ripensando alle tradizioni che un po’ ci assomigliano. Quanto quei morticini della tragedia di Albenga sono all’origine dei suoi scritti più riusciti? I bambini che hanno letto le sue filastrocche sono ormai diventati grandi adulti, in corpi e anime ormai segnati dal tempo. I piccoli bambini di Loano saranno bambini per sempre. “Si può parlare degli uomini anche parlando di gatti e si può parlare di cose serie e importanti anche raccontando fiabe allegre” dichiarò quando ricevette il premio “Hans Christian Andersen per la fiaba inedita”, nell’ormai lontano 1970, quasi cinquant’anni fa. (L.T.)

L'articolo “Tutte le mamme di Milano ieri hanno pianto”. Luglio 1947: 44 bambini muoiono in mare, ad Albenga. Gianni Rodari scrive il suo primo, straziante articolo per “l’Unità”. Eccolo proviene da Pangea.

from pangea.news https://ift.tt/2xQhCFX

[goodbyeguys]

Le tre del mattino” è un libro di formazione dello

scrittore italiano Gianrico Carofiglio, pubblicato nel 2017. La storia si

ispira a fatti realmente accaduti, che l’autore ha voluto riportare per bellezza

di contenuto. Nel libro viene narrata la storia di due personaggi

principali, ognuno relativo all’altro: Antonio, un ragazzo

molto particolare affetto da una forma di epilessia

idiopatica che lo ha portato ad allontanarsi dagli altri e anche da se stesso ma, che con

un evento, si evolverà cambiando prospettiva; suo padre

(di cui non sappiamo il nome), un professore all’università , un’amante della

matematica sin da piccolo e della musica, in particolare il jazz e un terribile

fumatore. La storia viene narrata in prima persona da Antonio all’età di

cinquantuno anni, scritta dopo la morte del padre e pronta a ricordare la

conoscenza tra un padre ed un figlio, all’inizio sconosciuti. Per Antonio, ogni

personaggio incontrato è rimasto bloccato nel tempo, pronto per

essere ricordato un giorno da lui. Partendo dall’infanzia, Antonio fu segnato da due grandi cambiamenti della sua vita: il divorzio dei genitori e

l’epilessia. L’epilessia fu parte di lui sin da quando la mamma lo

partorí, così almeno era come la pensavano i dottori a riguardo. A sette anni ebbe

il suo primo attacco di epilessia. Lo smettere di parlare, finire in un

angolino chissà dove, morire e vivere intensamente, percependo il tutto e il niente, lo condizionò talmente tanto che le persone lo cominciarono a guardare con occhi diversi. Il medico fece una diagnosi approssimativa la prima volta, e anche la seconda. Dopo un periodo di tempo che questi “attacchi” non si

fecero più vedere, ci fu una ricaduta ancora più potente. Era nella sua

camera quando, ad un certo punto, tutto divenne più fioco ma allo stesso tempo

vivo. I medici lo sottoposero a vari esami, che si rivelarono inutili. Non c’era una cura che potesse far cessare queste  tremende situazioni,

quindi lo riempirono di medicinali e gli diedero indicazioni insensate da seguire.

Queste gli impedirono di comportarsi come un ragazzo normale, soprattutto

perché a scuola ormai, nessuno lo calcolava. Divenne apatico, perse tutti i

suoi hobby, il disegno e la lettura non esistevano più per lui, come i suoi

pensieri d'altronde. Non viveva più, c’era solo con il corpo che a mala pena si muoveva. Un

giorno il padre di Antonio si recò a casa di Antonio e della madre, e annunciò un viaggio a Marsiglia, per incontrare un famoso professore di

nome Henri Gastaut, studioso dei casi epilettici nei bambini e negli

adolescenti. La prima volta che andò a Marsiglia fu terribile, forse a causa della presenza di entrambe i genitori, cosa a cui non era più abituato. Quello che gli rimase di quel viaggio fu

solo un ricordo fioco. L’incontro con il

professore era stato abbastanza strano e piacevole allo stesso tempo e, dopo aver

confermato la stessa diagnosi degli altri medici, aveva un tono molto più

rassicurante, regalando speranza sia ai genitori che ad Antonio. Da lui venne a

sapere che anche i più famosi personaggi storici, artisti, musicisti avevano

sofferto di epilessia e questo lo faceva sentire speciale. Si passò da un

ritratto di un medico, una cosa abbastanza bizzarra, ad essere un ragazzo

superiore alla massa. I tre anni dopo furono lunghissimi e, nonostante la

diminuzione dei farmaci prescritta dal professore marsigliese, lui non cambiò e

l’idea di tornare a Marsiglia per un'altra visita di controllo non gli piaceva

affatto. La seconda volta che Antonio andò a Marsiglia fu completamente diversa

dalla prima, quasi sconvolgente. Stavolta però viaggiò solo con il padre e questo aumentò il

suo disappunto.

Antonio, dopo la prima nottata,

si svegliò con un incubo, dove non era altro che un ragazzo epilettico, e doveva accettarlo. Dopo essersi alzato, fece colazione con il padre e

prese insieme a lui un taxi per andare in ospedale. L’ospedale era diverso

dalla prima volta in cui c’era stato. Dopo vari controlli, entrarono nello studio di Gastaut. Lui, con fierezza, disse che Antonio era per l’ottanta percento guarito, ma mancava un ultimo controllo per averne la certezza. Sarebbe dovuto rimanere sveglio, con l'aiuto delle pillole che gli avrebbe dato, due notti, per vedere come avrebbe reagito il cervello in condizioni di

stress. Il padre disdisse tutti i suoi impegni e affittò l’ultima

camera disponibile nell’hotel. Per i vestiti chiesero informazioni ad una

signora, andarono alla ricerca del magazzino indicato e dopo aver fatto

acquisti tornarono in hotel. Stesi sul letto, i due iniziarono una

conversazione, cosa che non accadeva da tempo, sul fatto che la gente sprechi

tanto tempo e di come non se ne accorga, proprio come avevano fatto loro due fino a quel

momento. Mangiarono in un ristorante consigliato dal portiere dell’hotel e assaggiarono la bouillabaisse con del vino. Durante la cena, Antonio chiese al padre come avesse conosciuto sua madre e, lui, gli raccontò di averla protetta

da dei fuori corso durante un rituale goliardico nella loro università. Si

fidanzarono dopo qualche mese ma si lasciarono dopo tre anni di fidanzamento. Dopo un po' si ritrovarono. In tutto ciò, all’università, il padre di Antonio fu uno degli alunni più promettenti, ma con il cuore spezzato. In quegli anni il fumo divenne il suo migliore amico e da quel momento non né potè  più fare a meno. Gli raccontò inoltre di aver dedicato la sua intera vita alla dimostrazione di Fermat, che scrisse un teorema

ai margini dell’Aritmetica di Diofanto d’Alessandria, basato sul cercare le analogie tra le analogie, cosa che lo colpiva immensamente, e fu proprio il fascino provato per la matematica a farla diventare la sua ragione di vita.  Nonostante non sia mai riuscito a dimostrare il teorema lui non

mollò mai, una sua grande caratteristica era proprio questa. Dopo spiegò al ragazzo che capì di essere bravo in matematica attraverso un calcolo. Glielo mostrò, e anche lui riuscì ad eseguirlo brillantemente. Si fecero consigliare un posto dove suonassero del buon jazz, e si avviarono. Arrivati nel locale, analizzarono tutti i musicisti sul palco, cercando di spiegarsi le caratteristiche di ognuno. Quando il pianista se ne dovette andare, Antonio incitò il padre ad andare a sostituirlo. Quella meravigliosa musica rimbombava tra le pareti

del locale e scaturiva un senso di tranquillità in qualsiasi persona

lo ascoltasse. L’emozione più importante, però, fu quella del figlio, fiero del padre per la prima volta. Il mattino seguente si diressero in taxi a

Notre-Dame-de-la-Garde e passeggiarono lungo la spiaggia della città  dove conobbero due donne, Adèle e Lucie. Loro due erano state architette per anni ma, dato che a nessuna delle due interessava

questo lavoro, si dedicarono a scrivere storie per bambini. Tra chiacchierate e

risate pranzarono insieme e i due raccontarono il perché del loro viaggio a

Marsiglia. Anche le due donne non erano di lì, erano solo andate a trovare una loro amica, che le avrebbe ospitate e che

avrebbe organizzato una festa la stessa sera, a cui poi invitarono anche Antonio e suo padre. Arrivati all'indirizzo a loro lasciato, si

presentò alla porta Marianne, l’amica di Adèle e Lucie, un personaggio

interessante da tutti i punti di vista. Passarono tutta la nottata in

quella  festa e, quando gli invitati se ne

andarono rimasero solo loro tre, sul divano, a parlare. Quella sera, alle

parole si aggiunsero anche forti emozioni. Il giorno dopo il medico disse che Antonio era

guarito. Poteva tornare ad essere un ragazzo normale, e alla  fine era tutto ciò che desiderava. Assolto da scuse,

ora era carico di responsabilità. I due dormirono per tutto il viaggio di ritorno e

arrivati davanti casa, il padre salutò il figlio dalla strada, con il braccio

alzato, e senza sigaretta in mano. Dopo la morte del padre, la madre di Antonio

consegnò al ragazzo una lettera scritta proprio da lui. Il padre era felice per

l’occasione che avevano avuto e per le cose rimaste in sospeso, di cui avrebbero avuto

tempo per parlarne. La lettera terminava con una frase, che Antonio copiò sul

muro dello studio all’università. Il libro si conclude con questo punto di

suspense, che porta al lettore un motivo per pensare.

[andreaadastra]

Martedì 8 Agosto 2017

[Foto: La vista sulla valle dal rifugio Regina Elena] Mi sveglio alle 7, passo una notte insonne nel rifugio a causa di un tizio di Genova della Protezione Civile che sembra Jerry Calà obesissimo, con le trofie al pesto al posto della barella. Russa tutta la notte costantemente e mi sento fortunato perchè posso ascoltare questi rumori de profundis direttamente dal letto a castello a fianco, poltronissima numerata riservata VIP. Durante la giornata precedente conosco Diego, simpatico e incredibilmente somigliante ad un mio amico spilungone che ha appena avuto un figlio che ha chiamato Dieg- GIURO. Comunque Diego è simpatico, ma è anche un Carabiniere, quindi quando deve salire sul letto a castello in alto, salta sul mio letto e su quello a fianco con fare ardito et atletico, nel mio ricordo accenna anche diversi “Op! Op! Eh-‘llaah..” Mi sembrava brutto fargli notare la scaletta dall’altro lato del letto a castello, così decido di portare questo ricordo con me per poterlo appoggiare qui.

Martedì è una bellissima giornata dentro al rifugio. Conosco Renata e Piero, la coppia di ultrasettantenni che è responsabile in queste settimane della gestione da parte dell’Associazione Nazionale Alpini. Persone di buon carattere, forte morale, e di natura gentile; lei un po’ apprensiva e lui decisamente fascista col culto della Madonna, si vanta di aver cenato più volte con (quel porco merdoso di) Bagnasco, ma sono disponibili quando si tratta di cose pratiche come fare il bucato, scambiare due chiacchiere, farsi intervistare dal sottoscritto per capire com’è la vita nei loro panni. Trovo un tubo che raccoglie l’acqua a monte, ha un rudimentale rubinetto attaccato e cade in una tanica lercia da fare schifo, lo dico mentre penso a quanto facevo schifo io in quella situazione, quindi credetemi: non ci avrebbe messo il muso un maiale. Lavo tutto nell’acqua gelata, trovo un catino bucato ed un modo per riuscire a riempirlo, resto con addosso un indumento che sarebbe stato perfetto per una giornata caldissima di sole da solo in montagna. Diciamo che se non mi si vedeva direttamente il cazzo era molto facile intuirlo, questo dettaglio mi fa un po’ ridere per la vergogna altrui, un po’ dispiacere perchè è brutto gettare scandalo in una microsocietà all’antica. Il vento che soffia durante la mattina diventerà verso le 15 una tempesta che asciuga i miei panni in orizzontale, a tratti li bagna, poi fa comparire il sole, di nuovo lo fa sparire. Dal rifugio la giornata trascorre serena, mentre i volontari della Protezione Civile concludono i lavori iniziati il giorno prima, finiscono di catramare e dipingere il tetto di primo mattino prima che il vento ceda alla pioggia e creano delle piazzole per tende nel parco sotto l’acqua. Questa attività non è esattamente legale ma tutto sommato è giusta, il rifugio è troppo piccolo, e per parecchi kilometri non c’è un’altro luogo dove cercare riparo in caso di maltempo. Non ci sono piazzole, tutta l’area è una sassaia o un giardino di pietre e rododendri cresciuti su un pugno di terra. Poter piazzare una tenda da quattro potrebbe concretamente salvare delle vite, specie quando il rifugio è chiuso ed i suoi 6 letti a castello non sono disponibili.

A metà mattina ho dato una mano alla signora Renata, dopo il bucato attacco bottone e la aiuto in cucina. Siamo tantissimi per il pranzo, molti amici sono venuti a trovare i volontari che custodiscono il rifugio e quelli che oggi si occupavano di ristrutturarlo, perciò  A PRANZO HO MANGIATO UN SACCO DI FOCACCIA CON LE CIPOLLE E SENZA. Ripeto: la focaccia. In montagna. Mentre fuori c’è la tempesta. E la crostata di albicocche, madò me la stavo dimenticando, meno male che l’ho segnata sui miei appunti di viaggio. Lascio spazio ai viaggiatori più classici (senza tenda che cercano nel rifugio un albergo spartano dove mangiare e dormire) perchè a pranzo non c’è posto a sedere, ne approfitto per fare altro bucato e rilassarmi. Mangio alle 14:30 e aiuto la Renatona a fare i piatti. Alla fine mi promette un letto anche per questa notte e questa sera un piatto di pasta al pesto fatto da lei; è nato un bellissimo circolo virtuoso di ospitalità, lavori manuali, chiacchiere, e cibo, siamo tutti molto felici.

Gioco a fare l’affascinante straniero dal fosco passato venuto a cercare rifugio tra i monti per il tempo che serve. (mentre scrivo questa descrizione rido da solo) Fondamentalmente trascorro quindi una giornata a fare lavori per rendermi più comodo il viaggio che mi aspetta, e mangio ligure 100% con mia somma sorpresa. Dormirò molto meglio senza Jerry Calà.

La sera incontro quattro persone speciali che avevo visto il primo giorno al Soria-Ellena (pazzesco poi incontrarli al Regina Elena, anche solo per l’assonanza). Ho sbirciato questi francesi mentre giocavano a Bridge e mi ha stupito come uno dei quattro avesse un viso furbo e navigato, l’altro un po’ da ingenuo, uno stacco che mi ha fatto pensare ad una bella amicizia o ad una situazione losca con scenari di malaffare e crimine sulle Alpi Marittime (d’altra parte molti passi e sentieri portano ancora i nomi dei ladri che sconfinavano con chissà quali criminosi intenti). Parlo con loro e finisco per spiegare cosa mi porto nello zaino, rimangono colpiti dal mio sistema per mangiare, faccio da interprete per Renata che ovviamente pora stèla non sa una parola d’inglese, e li guardo giocare a Bridge con una gioia negli occhi che solo chi conosce questo massacro di ultraviolenza spacciato per un gioco di carte conosce. Mi raccontano che sono amici di vecchia data, una coppia di Marsiglia (quella con il tipo furbo, come in un racconto hardboiled raga!) ed una di Parig- EH NO, APPENA IL MARSIGLIESE DICE PARIGI GLI ALTRI LO CORREGGONO: “SIAMO DI VERSAILLES” Ne approfitto per ricordare loro che abitare in quella zona è fonte di quel misterioso mal di gola associato a cervicale che viene sovente guarito dalla separazione del cranio dal resto del corpo tramite una pesante lama a caduta, quindi cortesemente che se la menino di meno. Faccio due mani con loro, una la vince il marsigliese all’ultima mano perchè si è affrancato un sette e vince di quello, poi mi spiegano alcuni modi per contarsi bene i punti in mano in base a quanto sei estremamente lungo o estremamente corto di un seme (ad una mano avevo 6 picche mediocri e non sapevo bene come contarle).

Giocare a Bridge mi ha fatto pensare molto ai miei zii, alle estati in Corsica in campeggio oppure in Sardegna in casa, a quante mani giocate col culo e a quanti “Tuffi nel Naviglio” fatti perchè non si sono asciugate le briscole. Credo che anche questa parte del viaggio sia stata magica, anche se non ho camminato in queste 24 ore ho avuto riferimenti simbolici a persone lontane e scene di ricordi passati che sento sempre vicini. Son contento anche di aver bevuto un bicchiere di vino e di aver staccato dal ritmo preciso del viaggio. Purtroppo son costretto a rivedere i miei piani, l’8 che dovevo disegnare sulla mappa diventerà un grosso anello. L’indomani partirò per i laghi di Valscura, lungo il sentiero potrò racchiudere in un anello di terra l’impronta di un lupo che ha fatto il mio stesso percorso poco prima.