He gripped the handle of the case, raised his arm in a farewell gesture and set off up the path.
Chapter 54
Bologna, 1 May, workers’ festival
The old man’s spit hit the eye of far-right MP Giorgio Almirante. A metre further on, meanwhile, a monstrous gash rent the face of his twin.
‘That takes nerve,’ Garibaldi cursed as he cleared his throat and prepared new ammunition. ‘A fascist like that, coming here to speak to us, in Bologna, on the 1st of May. What does he think he’s doing?’
‘It’s like this,’ the other man agreed. ‘It’s all very well saying that we’re against the atom bomb and all things like that, but if they give one to me, a nice bomb, and they tell me me to fire it on Washington, the Americans would be scared shitless, the wankers, and stop telling us what to do, you can be sure I’d press that button, I don’t care about women and children, I’d press it and there’s an end to it, because if you have to choose between two misfortunes you have to choose the less severe.’
‘Let’s just drop it, shall we, let’s not say another word about it, we’re late already.’
‘Yeah, you’re quite right, that’s quite enough: last time the doctor told me terrible things about my liver, and I’m not to excite myself.’
‘You never told me you had liver problems!’ Garibaldi said in surprise. ‘Do you want me to give you a little piece of Chinese mushroom?’
‘Do I hell.’ Bottone’s face screwed up as though someone had held some shit under his nose. ‘I don’t even want to see that filth.’
‘But it’s good for you, you know? It won’t make you sick or anything. You put it in your tea, and it turns into a broth, you drink three cups a day and you’ll be right as rain.’
‘I think it’s all nonsense, that’s what I think. One of those medicines that are good for everything and nothing.’
‘But if the Chinese drink them, they must have a reason, don’t you think?’
‘Oh, the Chinese!’ Bottone muttered after spitting at his umpteenth Almirante poster. ‘They’re strange people, the things that do them good don’t do us good. And listen, if that muck there comes from China then I born Vatican City, Shanghai Plovince, you not know that, honoulable Itarian comlade?’
Bottone smiled stupidly, wagging his head from side to side, and Garibaldi told him to go fuck himself.
Noises were already coming from the intersection of Via Irnerio and Via Indipendenza, and the people were flowing through the gates in only one direction, towards Piazza dei Martiri, from where the procession would soon be setting off for the Margherita Gardens.
Above the heads of the crowd, the red banners of the Trade Union Headquarters, which was based not far away and organised the whole festival, with food stalls, merry-go-rounds in the gardens and a speech by comrade Montagnana in the afternoon.
Alongside the banners, which were gradually increasingly in number, some signs and placards were appearing.
‘Garibaldi, you’ve still got your eyesight, can you read what it says up there?’
Garibaldi pulled the corners of his eyes with his fingers to help himself focus.
‘Sadry, honoulable comlade, I Chinese, I no understand.’
Bottone advised him in no uncertain terms to engage in sexual congress with himself.
‘It says: “No to Italy in the EDC”, “EDC = SS”, “Dollars and bombs: recipe for new Nazis.”’
‘Oh, fine,’ Bottone said, rubbing his hands enthusiastically. ‘Let’s see if we can’t get hold of everyone else, it looks like things are about to get going here.’
‘What d’you mean, Bottone?’
‘Don’t you know? The police have forbidden any placards against the government, the atom bomb and so on. It’s Labour Day, they say, so you can talk about work and don’t fret over anything else. I’d say the fists’ll start flying shortly.’
Bottone has seen a good few demonstrations. The first time was in 1911, a procession against Giolitti and the war in Libya. But he had felt a blow from a rifle butt only eight years after that, during the revolt against the rising cost of living, when the shops were looted. He had ended up in hospital with his head split open, and stayed there for almost a week, but the scar, under his hair, had never gone away.
The experience had left him with an ability to sense the moods of the crowd and the police, to work out when and where the sparks would fly. He grabbed Garibaldi by an arm and dragged him into the middle of the street, elbowing his way through to the other side of the square.
At the head of the procession, on Via dei Mille, were the union big-shots, some city councillors and even Senator Zanardi. The police would never charge at that point. They couldn’t afford to do so over by Via Marconi either, because that was where Trade Union Headquarters was, and they risked getting a damned good hiding. For that reason, Bottone worked out that the attack would have to come from the station or somewhere behind it. But he ruled out the latter hypothesis, because there were very few controversial placards there, and the riot squad needed a pretext for sounding the charge.
In fact, at the designated crossroads, they found themselves facing the classic scene: rifles on one side, red banners on the other, and in the middle an invisible and magnetic trough, as there is when you try and bring together the same poles of a pair of magnets.
‘This is your last warning. Hand in the forbidden placards or we will be obliged to break up the demonstration with the use of force.’
The reply was a unanimous shout, and hundreds of fists raised to the sky. ‘One, two, three, four, Scelba you’re a fucking whore!’
Then everyone launched into a rendition of the Internationale while Bottone and Garibaldi were sucked towards the front ranks.
It was then that something unexpected happened. The script had allowed for another minute or two of confrontation, then the marshal would give the order to charge and the first round would begin. Instead, at the first notes of the workers’ anthem, a solitary individual, immediately identified by certain experts as Giuseppe Zanasi, a former amateur boxer, broke away from the cordon of comrades, took four steps forwards and went and took up position right in the middle of the magnetic field.
There was a moment’s hesitation in the ranks of the riot squad, then one of them advanced towards Zanasi with his rifle raised, intimating that he should leave.
He didn’t move a muscle, arms along his sides, eyes fixed on his shoes. The cop got even more aggressive and struck him on the shoulder to persuade him to shift. The former boxer’s hand grabbed the barrel of the rifle and forced the cop to lower it. The two men stared at each other for a long time. Zanasi said something that many people later swore they had heard perfectly.
‘He said, “Put this away, it’s nasty,” that’s what he said.’
‘No, no, I heard him very clearly, he said “So now what are you going to do? Shoot me?”’
‘What are you on about? He said, “This would look better up your arse.” And there’s an end to it.’
Bottone and Garibaldi weren’t near enough to have a version of their own. Neither did they hear the order to charge, but that was because, in the confusion of the moment, nobody had remembered to give it. Bottone didn’t see the fist coming either. Garibaldi did: he was taller, and saw it very clearly. Zanasi barely looked up, as though his boxer’s instinct suggested where he should strike. The cop went down like a tree. Then they were swept aside in the clash.