‘See you, you old rogue.’
He said goodbye to La Gaggia and Walterún, and waited for a glance from Garibaldi, like a blessing before he set off for the arena.
To Bortolotti, Melega and the rest playing boccette on the billiard table he gave only a nod that was meant for everyone.
Nicola’s face was purple by now, he was about to explode: it was time to clear off. Pierre watched him rubbing the bar more and more quickly, and decided he had provoked him enough.
‘Let’s go!’
The four of them left in single file, dressed up to the nines for a party, ready for anything, like heroes entering the lists to outshine everyone else.
A moment later they were back in command, in the street, with their coats rolled up under the seats so that they wouldn’t get stuck in the wheels. Each one had an elegant accessory that was all his own: Brando his hat, Gigi his leather gloves, Sticleina his father’s watch and chain, and Pierre a white mohair scarf.
At their head, Gigi Mazzoni pedalled straight-backed and chest out, parting on the right, square chin. By day he was a mechanic in a factory, always covered with black oil and with a smell of engines that hit you from a long way off. But in the evening he was someone else entirely: his dancing skill, his smooth, lightning moves, had won him the nom de guerre of ‘the rubber man’.
Behind him came Giuseppe Branca, a barber who, after The Wild One was shown in the cinema, was known to everyone as ‘Brando’, because of his barely detectable resemblance to the actor. He was obviously very proud of it, and from that day the familiar ‘Pippo’ had passed on, to make way for the high-flown ‘Brando’, the ladykiller; and woe betide anyone who called him anything else.
Pedalling away in front of Pierre was Aristide Bianchi, the shyest one, the one Pierre saw as Aramis. He told everyone he was a nurse, but really he was still a trainee at Sant’Orsola Hospital. Skinny as a rake, he seldom took his hands out of his pockets, but he had an elegance of his own and when he walked through the streets of the district he stuck out a mile. For that reason they called him ‘Sticleina’, the toothpick.
Last of all came Piero Capponi, known as ‘Robespierre’. His father Vittorio had been obliged to call him Piero because foreign names were not allowed during the fascist era. But even when he was little, everyone had known him as Robespierre, and that was his real name, because real names are the ones you choose and prefer, not the ones you read in official documents. In the end he had become ‘Pierre’, simpler, and with a touch of the exotic that pleased him. He was twenty-two, eight years younger than his brother, but they were so different that they could have been twice as far apart.
What he had with Brando, Gigi and Sticleina, on the other hand, was more than friendship. It was an alliance of intent, reinforced by habit. The four of them were a unit, the best dancers in the district, and leaving everyone far behind was almost a mission, like fighting Richelieu’s soldiers and making them see that no one was a match for the filuzzi dancers of the Bar Aurora.
At that moment, as they headed towards the Pratello, they felt invulnerable and united. Just like the musketeers.
Communist musketeers, that is.
Tickets into the Pratello dancehall cost 300 lire, but Pierre and his friends got in for free, because there were people who came just to see them when word got around about where they were going to dance.
They were in perfect accord with the Bonora Trio. The musicians knew the dancers’ favourite pieces of music, and were happy to play them. The first one was always a mazurka, not too fast, just to warm up. Pierre paired up with Brando, and it was Sticleina’s turn to twirl with Gigi.
Everyone took to the floor for the mazurka, even the women, who couldn’t usually keep up with the giddy rhythms of those dances. Two or three pieces in, the rhythm started to speed up. Nino Bonora’s concertina, supported by bass and guitar, sounded as though it was never going to stop. By the sixth item on the programme only the musketeers of the Bar Aurora were left on the floor. Shouts of encouragement rose up from the tables, along with applause for the more complex movements. Sticleina, emphasising his womanly way of dancing, started to sway his hips.
Once the piece was over, the guitarist Aroldo Trigari approached the microphone to announce, ‘Hold on tight now, everybody, this polka is a real earthquake!’
Bonora launched in at a breakneck rhythm, and the four filuzzi followed the music each on his own, the couples parting and reforming each time the tune came round again. They ran through four different figurations one after the other, and by the fifth the whole hall was breathing in unison, the girls were clutching their tables for fear of being sent flying, so great was the energy with which Robespierre Capponi executed his famous ‘bend-down-and-turnaround’, a pièce de résistance in which his only rival was Neri Raffaele, known as Felino, from Borgo San Carlo.
The ‘earthquake polka’ was the last piece in the first session. After it, the band played a very calm waltz. The central part of the evening, for devotees, was closer to the liscio, or smooth, style of the Romagna than to real filuzzi. Anyway, no one complained, because this was the opportunity to ask some beautiful girl to dance, and that was what most people were there for.
‘Shall we go on the attack?’ asked Gigi, straightening his tie after all that dancing.
Pierre mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. ‘At least let me get my breath back. Let’s have a drink, then we’ll see.’
‘You just stay there, then. We’ll go on ahead and test the ground.’
Gigi and the others were very well aware that more than one girl had fallen for Capponi’s dark eyes, so they preferred to go on ahead in choosing their dancing partners.
‘Are you dancing, signorina?’ said Sticleina, bowing like an experienced ladykiller in front of a curvaceous brunette.
‘Can you dance like a man as well?’
‘Sure I can, and not just that.’
Pierre stayed at the bar for at least three or four numbers, sipping a vermouth. He knew very well that there was a girl waiting just for him. Even now, when she was dancing with a guy, she made eyes at him each time she span. Apart from anything else, she moved better than all the rest. Pierre figured she would be a fantastic filuzzi dancer as well, chucked away his cigarette and crushed it beneath his shoe. He crossed the floor as though it were Piazza Maggiore on a Sunday morning, keeping his hand in his trouser pocket, under his jacket, more Cary Grant than ever. Arriving in front of the girl, he offered her his arm and invited her to dance with a glance and the faintest of smiles.
After the first pirouette he asked, ‘What’s your name?’
‘Agnese Bernardi.’
‘Do you live here in the Pratello?’
‘Yes, not far away.’
Pierre reflected on the rule. If you invited a girl from a different district to dance, after the first number you had to drop her and leave her alone for the rest of the evening. A second dance and it meant you were making your move.
So, when the music stopped, Pierre tried to take his leave. Just at that moment, whether on purpose or by chance, the girl lost a shoe. As he bent down down to help his partner put it back on, Agnese Bernardi clearly gave the impression of taking longer than strictly necessary. They were still clinging to one another as the band struck up once more, a quick piece that heralded the big filuzzi finale. The girl from the Pratello starting moving in time with the music, and Pierre, after a moment’s hesitation, forgot the rule and started moving along with her. They jumped, swung, swayed and pirouetted: the couple left everyone else standing in terms of rhythm and agility. The whole place was abuzz. She smiled, she was pretty, and she really could cope even at the fastest tempo. Pierre put her to the test, and she responded in perfect harmony. They were still together by the third dance, without noticing, out of the pure pleasure of dancing. For him it was an opportunity to try out the fastest rhythms with a girl rather than Brando, his usual partner. With all the friendship in the world, it was a different thing.