Maybe people who don’t hang out in bars can’t fully understand this, but there’s nothing worse than when the manager has his bollocks in a twist. You can’t joke about anything, no one gets a drink on credit, you have to avoid a whole series of topics, and even the espressos taste of chicory.
In short, for almost a month now Capponi has been like a trapped bluebottle, forever muttering, and since his brother got back it’s been even worse, the two of them are barely talking to each other except to say ‘pass me that’. The worst thing of all is that you can’t talk about the problem as though it wasn’t a problem, you have to keep your trap shut, and because you’re in their bar everything gets complicated. The only way is to sit everyone down around the table, with L’Unità in the middle, pretending to read it and comment on it, and every now and again Bottone reads out a headline and if Capponi comes over to our side of the bar Garibaldi starts talking about Indochina.
‘Oh, listen to this: “The banner of Free Vietnam is flying over Dien Bien Phu. The latest attack lasted a few hours. ”’
The Walterún periscope emerges over the sea of white and bald heads. No one in sight. La Gaggia fires first: ‘As far as I’m concerned, it’s Pierre’s fault. He suddenly disappears, as though he was the only person in the world!’
‘Well?’ Bottone butts in immediately. ‘Didn’t your son do exactly the same thing? Had he gone to his mum and said, I’m going to shoot at the Nazis on the Cansiglio, she’d have tied him to the bed, isn’t that right?’
‘Excuse me,’ Garibaldi interjects. ‘What does it matter who’s to blame? I’m fed up to the back teeth with both of them: why don’t we ask them to tell us what’s up, once and for all; they can fuck off if they want to, but at least they can stop this nonsense.’
‘“Solemn obsequies at the coffins of the thirty-seven workers pulled from the Montecatini mines. Fifty thousand Italians at the funerals of the victims of Ribolla. ”’
‘Because in my opinion Pierre hasn’t told us the whole story. Doesn’t he think it’s obvious that he’s worried about things? If his father really was as well as he says, he wouldn’t have that face on him.’
Bottone licks a finger and turns the page. ‘Come on, come on, where does his father come into it? It’s a fight between brother and brother, there’s nothing any of us can do about it, it’ll pass in due course.’
‘You reckon? Then you don’t know Nicola Capponi, “the Bear”.’
‘You’re right! A leopard can’t change his spots!’
Garibaldi raises his hand to tell us to stop, and Bottone lowers his head to read: ‘“Asti, 7 May. We regret to announce the death at around 4 p.m. today, in his home at 20 Via Cavour, in our city, of the very popular former cycling champion, Giovanni Gerbi, known to all fans of the sport as the Red Devil.”’
‘Really? How old was he?’
‘No age at all. When would he have stopped racing? 1910, was it? I remember it clearly.’
‘Listen to this, while we’re on the subject of cycling: “Giro d’Italia, live television reports from the stages, in those towns that have a TV connection.”’
The advertisement is met with more sighs and groans than the abuses of power in the Montecatini factories. The fact is that in the Bar Franco, next door, they’ve just bought a television, and until yesterday nobody cared much, but while television may be a miracle, there’s never anything to watch on it, and anyway the people in the Bar Franco had looked like a bunch of wankers, throwing away a shedload of money to show that they’re better than everyone else. Then Bortolotti, on the day of the Milan — San Remo cycling race, didn’t show up here to listen to the radio, and the day after he came and told us that the sprint, there on the screen, is incredibly exciting. And he also pointed out that the World Cup starts in June, and they’re showing the games on television, and Franco told him that in that month alone he expects to recoup what he paid for the set, by adding on ten lire for coffee and fifty for alcohol.
Nicola, behind the bar, muttered something and that was enough to make us understand that that he doesn’t even want us to talk about this. Anyway, the way he is at the moment you could tell him the Red Army was entrenched in Budrio and he wouldn’t bat an eyelid.
‘Why don’t we have a collection?’ Walterún pipes up all of a sudden.
‘A collection?’
‘Yes, everyone gives a bit, because if we wait to win the lottery, we’ll never see the damned thing. On the other hand, if we all put in a bit, we’ll soon get the 150,000 together, or am I wrong?’
‘Well, maybe,’ Bottone comments under his breath. ‘A fine communist strategy, Walterún; the problem is that we need money for the aerial and the subscription, and the whole thing’ll come to 30,000.’
‘You know what I say? Bollocks to a collection: true communism means squeezing the money out of the boss. Let Benassi pay for this television. Isn’t he the one that cleans up, after all?’
‘“Has the fourth H-bomb been exploded in Bikini?” Gaggia, this one’ll interest you: “Piero Piccioni and Montagna shortly to be interrogated by Sepe. Today in Geneva, conference on Indochina.”’
As soon as Capponi moves away, the group splits up. Some rage against private property, some want to organise a lottery, some announce that they’re refusing to drink any more bitters until Benassi chickens out, and some suggest asking Gas if he’s got his hands on any televisions.
‘What?’ Garibaldi explodes, ‘No, no, no, no! If you want to let him swindle you, you can forget about any money from me.’
‘Come on, Garibaldi, do you honestly think he’s going to do us all over? Don’t we know where he lives?’
‘It’s a matter of principle, I —’
Pierre brushes past Bottone’s back holding a tray, face like grim death.
‘Bloody hell, look at Pierre, what a mug!’
As Pierre heads for the other room, Bortolotti leaves his game of billiards and joins our table.
‘Have you seen the state of Pierre? I heard that things didn’t go as well as they usually do at the “Seventh Heaven”.’
‘Ah, that’s it, you see in Yugoslavia he forgot how to do the twirl. But it’s not serious, call him, go on, and we’ll try and cheer him up.’
‘Never mind, Walterún, I’m afraid today is St Grudge’s Day, there’s nothing we can do.’
‘You’re right, Bortolotti, at this point it’s better to let the two of them stew in their own juice, and turn our attention to this business about the television, because the World Cup’s getting closer, and Italy isn’t going to be much cop, but they did beat the French 3–1, and Cappello’s playing, one of ours, from Bologna FC, like back in Schiavio’s days. In short, it’s worth the trouble, just so that those two grumpy brothers can be dragged into a state approaching euphoria.’
Or at least let’s hope so.
Chapter 8
Near Afragola, 8 May
‘Oh, I did bust my balls, though. These people from Naples, from the Deep South, they’re always yelling their heads off, why do they always have to shout so much? And the children? Let’s not even talk about them, they’re animals, fuck ’em all, I’d shove their teeth down their throats, think about that, their teeth down their throats! And the streets are in one hell of a state, full of holes. And I’ve got piles! One of them’s the size of a doughnut, absolutely bloody enormous, you know the way I’ve always got cream with me? Look how greasy it is, and just smell the stink of it!’