THE MAN DOG

 

(This is my first attempt to literary glory at age 16. I just translated in English. I hope you will enjoy it).

The Man Dog.

I

After his wife died Gipo was alone. But it wasn’t until after the funeral that he was able to embrace solitude. During those first unreal days he had, for the first time in his life, felt truly important. All his friends (few) and relatives (too many) were trying to outdo each other in the attention and consolation they gave him.

It was a few days before the gravesite would be ready so that the heavy mahogany casket was placed in its final waiting room at the cemetery that Gipo went through a liberating experience. In that surreal room, were tears flowed and took with them the pain of regret, of love, where his feelings traversed the entire rainbow of sentiments from hypocrisy to desperation, Gipo was sure that his life would change. But he had not idea how much.

During the burial everyone was mute. Gipo thought they must have run out of ideas and words to consol him. Good!

The eulogy was finally coming to an end. Soon the curtain would drop, the actors take their final bows and leave him in peace. He was glad.

The last few moments at his doorway were the worst. He couldn’t get rid of them. The last advice, phony entreaties to be called at any time, for any reasons…and finally the door closed on the people of his former life.

Gipo was about to start his new life. Alone. Free.

He leaned with his back against the door and gazed down the long corridor of his apartment. A few moments passed. Gipo stood quite still; he didn’t know what to do. Sure, everyone had promised to call on him, but he knew they wouldn’t. Even when his wife was alive they rarely received visitors or invitations, nor did they go visiting or extend invitations. This wouldn’t change. Not now.

Finally he moved away from the door. He walked down the long hallway into the kitchen. He decided to have an espresso. He fussed with the coffee pot for a bit, got the stove lit after two or three matches, sat down, stared fixedly at the apparatus and patiently waited.

The neon lighting (which his wife had had installed for reasons of economy) cast a disconcerting glow in the room. He hated that light, it was like if he was still at the morgue. Gipo gave a sudden start as the coffee pot began to rumble like a thunderstorm heard in a distance, signaling that it was ready. He inhaled deeply as he poured the ebony liquid into a small cup. The aroma and taste of coffee were two things he couldn’t resist.

Gipo noticed that strangely enough, he wasn’t thinking much about his wife and her loss didn’t cause him any grief at all. Instead he thought of how he wouldn’t have to suffer her reprimands, her sarcasm and her constant gossip on any and every subject anymore. He felt almost happy. It had been a long time since Gipo had felt anything like happy. And maybe best of all Gipo wouldn’t have to put up with the vast array of wheezing, rasping, rattling and other noises she made every night. It seemed that in whatever position she slept, indecent sounds were emitted through every orifice of her body.

Finishing his coffee, Gipo lit a cigarette. With joy he thought how he could now smoke what, when and how he wanted. And if the curtains stank of tobacco, well: he didn’t care. With the last puff on his smoke Gipo admitted that he was happy his wife was gone. He was a widower. “A happy one” he confessed to himself surprisingly without guilt.

He put on his cap and went out.

II

Of all months, November was somehow the saddest. It wasn’t cold but the damp air made him shiver just the same. He adjusted his scarf and then remembered it had been a gift from his wife. He tore it off and tossed into a trashcan.

He felt warmer.

He walked slowly, watching with childlike wonder the mist formed by the contact of his breath with the humid nocturnal air. The long boulevard was deserted. The naked trees stood like giant prisoners with their feet chained to the earth. The pavement was wet and sticky despite the lack of rain and the white light of the street lamps did not seem to penetrate and win against the dim evening. Occasionally a car raced down the street, came down to the corner going too fast and managed to stop only with a squealing of brakes and frantic downshifting.

Gipo looked at the piles of garbage overflowing from the too few containers on the roadside. He thought that even if his city was one of the most beautiful in the world, it certainly wasn’t one of the cleanest. A bunch of cats were intent on the feast in the pile of rubbish. When they heard Gipo’s steps they turned to look. Like two tiny green lights their eyes were focused on the walking man for an instant. Then they turned back to the business at hand.

At the end of the road Gipo saw a light. It was an all-night coffee bar. Going in, he asked for a coffee. Lazily, the man at the bar fiddled with the machine, slid a cup under the spout and waited. Gipo looked around. It was a dark and squalid place. He drank the coffee, which was horrible, asked for a glass of water to wash the taste from his mouth, paid and left.

A big dog was standing just outside the door. It seemed to have been waiting. It stared at him. Gipo always liked dogs very much. But his wife had never allowed one. “They are SOO dirty!” she would wine in her nervous and acidic voice. Well, now that she was gone, he was the master of the house and if he wanted a dog, who was going to stop him?

He stretched out his hand and caressed it on its head. The dog was docile and let him do it.

So Gipo’s solitude only lasted a short time. Now he had a friend. Didn’t they always say that a dog was man’s best friend? They became virtually inseparable, and Rey (the name Gipo gave him) was an exceptional dog; he never barked, never got in Gipo’s way. Didn’t make the apartment dirty. In short, he had all the qualities that a man could hope to find in a dog. At the same time Gipo had all the positive traits a dog could wish for in a man; he was a good man, never demanding, gave him plenty of food, was punctual in talking him for walks. You know how it is… certain beings seem to be made for each other. With the passage of time the man and the animal grew even closer. Gipo could speak for hours to Rey; Rey always listened.

But one day something extraordinary happened.

Gipo was in the armchair, watching TV. Rey lay at his feet, dozing placidly like only dogs can do it. Then, as he often did, Gipo began to talk to his dog.

“…You see Rey, if you could speak, you’d be perfect, not like my wife who could speak but had none of your good qualities. I sure was lucky to find you that night…”

“…I was lucky too, to find you, Gipo…”

For a moment Gipo felt he had followed his wife to the otherworld. Where did that voice come from? Dogs don’t talk!

“…don’t flip out old friend, it is really me, your dog Rey that’s speaking to you; you see, you humans have always thought that we dogs can’t talk, but you’ve always been wrong…”

“…But…but…dogs bark…” Gipo murmured in a trembling voice

“…It’s you humans that say we bark and you speak but from our point of view, we speak and you bark…”

Gipo couldn’t accept what he was hearing. “…I must have had too much to drink or I am going crazy…or maybe…I am just dreaming…Yes, that’s got too be it. It’s a nightmare…”

“…Nightmare or not dear Gipo, it’s true that I am talking to you and you are listening to me. You are not the only one. It happens from time to time…”

“…What happens?…” asked Gipo.

“…Well, have you ever seen a dog that remind you of someone you once knew?…”

“…Yeah…so?…”

“…You see…those aren’t actually dogs…they are mandogs…”

“…Mandogs! What does that mean?…” demanded Gipo, beginning to panic about what was happening.

“…it means that certain men, like you for example, that are particularly good to dogs can, in turn, become dogs, but can still talk to human if they want to help them become other mandogs too…”

“…You mean you were once a man…?”

“…Exactly…I was an accountant in a small village. I was alone. The society of men had cast me out, or at least I was never considered by other people but amongst the dogs I am an important fellow, and above all I am not judged…”

“…Oh, my God…”

“…Now Gipo do you want to become a mandog? You will never be alone. There’ll always be somebody to help you, either a dog or a man. We dogs always help each other and we sometimes find help from a human…”

Gipo made no response. He let out a whistle and fell back into the armchair.

Outside, the rain was gently knocking at the window. Sad, lonely drops, begging for help.

A long time passed and Gipo wasn’t seen. One day a niece of his wife’s was out for a stroll with her husband and she pointed out a stray dog to him.

“…Doesn’t that dog look like the husband of my dear departed aunt, God bless her?…”

“…What?…” he replied “…But yes, I guess it’s true. Funny, but out of all men he could look like it would be that half-wit uncle of yours…”

“…He’s not my uncle anymore! Who knows what has happened to him…living just like a dog…”

“…Just like a human…” thought the dog as he turned and trotted off down the street.

 

“…The only thing I miss is coffee and cigarettes…”

E Le Suore No?

Ammettiamolo.

Ai preti dice meglio. Mi spiego: Essi hanno figli illegittimi, amanti (di tutti e due i sessi) piu’ o meno nascosti. “Mogli” che vivono nell’ombra; insomma ne fanno e ne hanno fatte di tutti i colori eppure non vengono spretati o mandati in esilio anzi mi risulta  che in molti casi siano le varie diocesi a pagare il mantenimento di questi figli dell’ombra. E’ stato cosi’ da secoli e  va’ in tal modo in questo nostro mondo sbilenco. Nessun stupore. Di questi tempi un prete che ha un figlio illegittimo non fa veramente notizia. Amen.

Ma fa notizia invece la storia che ho letto nei giorni scorsi di una suora salvadoregna, Suor Roxana Rodriguez la quale ha partorito nell’Ospedale San Camillo in Rieti un bel maschietto di 3.2 chilogrammi  che e’ stato chiamato Francesco. Il fatto per se non mi turba, ma quello che mi ha dato fastidio e’ come si sia espresso il Vescovo di Rieti, Monsignor Delio Lucarelli. Infatti il prelato ha suggerito alla suora di lasciare la vita conventuale e di tornare allo stato laicale. Raccomandazione questa che infatti e’ stata subito raccolta e condivisa dalla madre superiora del convento Delle Piccole Discepole di Gesu’ dove viveva Suor Roxana.

Due pesi e due misure. Non sono un ingenuo e non mi stupisco di come la vicenda sia stata trattata eppure mi da fastidio leggere dell’ipocrisia e divergenza di trattamento che la Chiesa di Roma riserva alle donne. Non parlo di Teologia. Questa notizia e’ infatti una non-notizia. Una donna ha fatto sesso con un uomo (anche se aveva promesso di astenersi) ed e’ rimasta incinta.

Da Cattolico vorrei che la mia Chiesa si comportasse in modo piu’ rispettoso verso le donne e che smettesse di considerarle inferiori agli uomini nonostante le belle parole di circostanza.

Mi risulta che il piccolo sta bene e in fondo questa e’ la cosa piu’ importante.

L’Anno Che Verra’

Auguri.

Auguri a tutti voi. A quelli che mi leggono e a quelli che non sanno nemmeno che esisto. Auguri a quelli stanchi, ai tristi. A quelli che hanno smesso di ridere da un pezzo perche’ non hanno piu’ soldi, hanno perso il lavoro o perche’ la moglie e’ scappata con Rino il benzinaio.

Auguri a quelli che strillano sempre anche quando non serve a nulla. Auguri agli stronzi che in fondo non mancano mai basta guardarsi intorno. Auguri a quelli che cercano di smettere di fumare ma non ci riescono che solo sentissero quanto puzzano. Auguri a quelli che ancora credono che Berlusconi e’ l’uomo della Provvidenza. A quelli che stanno a sentire Beppe Grillo che forse strilla cosi’ forte perche’ ha paura del silenzio e dunque Auguri anche a lui.

Auguri ai Cattolici intransigenti che sono convinti di andare in Paradiso perche’ sanno recitare bene le preghiere e fanno parte dell’Opus Dei o di Comunione e Liberazione (son confuso, ma Formigoni ha finalmente scopato o e’ ancora vergine?), comunque Auguri anche a loro.

Auguri agli orfani di Mandela. Auguri a quelli che arrivano a Lampedusa infreddoliti, soli e disgraziati, anzi a loro Auguri doppi.

Auguri a quelli che hanno dimenticato che noi Italiani siamo stati i primi veri emigranti (insieme agli ebrei soprattutto quelli orientali, auguri anche a loro) e abbiamo esportato la Mafia, il primo Made in Italy. Non dimentichiamolo.

Auguri a mia zia Maria che ha ottantanove anni, e’ sordomuta dalla nascita, ha un cancro alla mammella e si e’ rotta il femore e non cammina piu’. Eppure continua a sorridere. Dunque auguri a mia madre (che di anni ne ha settantanove) e che si prende cura di lei.

Auguri a quelli che non sanno amare. A quelli che hanno smesso di sognare. Ai vacui, a quelli con troppi tatuaggi che un giorno se ne pentiranno.

Auguri al Signore che ha tanto lavoro da fare.

Auguri ai miei figli che continuino a crescere sani e con il sorriso sempre nelle tasche. Auguri a mia moglie che e’ la mia vita.

Auguri a Peanut, il mio cane e che mi insegna tante cose.

E in fondo auguri anche a me.

Piccolo Nerone

Un Berlusconi sempre piu’ versione Nerone si permette a lanciare strali e a minacciare non solo il Premier Enrico Letta, ma anche tutti gli Italiani. “Premier intervenga sulla Severino o sara’ crisi”. Queste le ultime minacce di Berlusconi, che lo ricordo e’ un condannato ufficiale. Eppure egli e la sua banda di inutili leccaculo continuano a strillare.

Sono appena tornato (letteralmente ieri sera) e come sempre quando sono in Italia mi stupisce e rende triste allo stesso tempo il veder dedicati alla Banda Berlusconi meta’ dei poveri telegiornali di qualunque stampo e su qualsiasi rete e decine di pagine stampate da quotidiani di ogni risma, non importa se di destra o di sinistra. Del Centro taccio perche’ non so se esiste ancora. Parrebbe che in Italia non esista altro che la sorte di quest’uomo condannato e con molti altri procedimenti penali che continuano a pendere sulla sua testa.

Esiste solo Berlusconi. Si e’ imposto e viene imposto. Egli e’ l’involuzione definitiva dell’Italiano peggiore. Quello scaltro, magliaro, ladro. Perennemente attento alle gonnelle in un delirante bisogno di sentirsi sempre il piu’ maschio di tutti.

Non prevedo il futuro e non posso dire come sara’ quello italiano, spero solo che sia diverso da questi ultimi venti anni.  Spero che l’Italia diventi finalmente un paese normale. Dove ci sia lavoro per i giovani, rispetto per gli anziani. Tasse pagate in modo equo e da tutti. Un governo di donne e uomini che si rispettino e che lavorino veramente per quelli che li hanno eletti.

Spero che un giorno (presto) il piccolo Nerone sparisca e ci lasci finalmente in pace. E che di lui resti solo polvere e cenere.

Spero.

Io Non Mollo, Io Sono Innocente (disse il vero capo della Banda Bassotti)!

Ho passato gli ultimi cinque giorni della mia vita in Italia. Appena in tempo per assistere in prima persona all’ultimo show del mancato dittatore Silvio Berlusconi; quello fatto su un palco abusivo nel centro di Roma (ma chissenefrega delle regole e divieti) in una domenica bollente vagamente sahariana. Spettacolo triste, patetico, stanco. Vedere un uomo vecchio, con la faccia gonfia di botox e silicone con i pochi e tristi capelli tinti e finti, agitarsi e strillare la sua innocenza, di fronte  a sostenitori prezzolati mi ha fatto non solo un certo disgusto unito a un sentimento di pena, mi ha fatto anche pensare a quanto l’Italia sia sempre meno un paese normale. Berlusconi e’ da circa un ventennio (coincidenza?) un serio problema per la crescita e stabilita’ dell’Italia. Egli e’ un demoniaco buffone che ha un solo fine: quello di salvare le sue aziende e fare sempre piu’ soldi. Eppure continua a strillare, ad agitarsi, a minacciare, a sproloquiare. Dice e si contraddice. ” io non ero a capo di Mediaset per evitare il conflitto di interessi quando ero primo ministro quindi sono innocente” per contraddirsi nella frase successiva “I ho pagato 538 milioni di tasse” (scusa, ma se non eri piu’ il padrone di Mediaset perche’ hai pagato 538 milioni di tasse?). Quest’uomo e’ stato condannato dalla Cassazione non dal tribunale di Paperopoli. Dovra’ scontare grazie alla gentilezza di quella giustizia italiana che lui tanto disprezza solo un anno ai domiciliari o ai servizi sociali invece che quattro anni dietro le sbarre (quindi tutto sommato non gli ha detto male).  Senza dimenticare che altre sentenze sono attese. Altri processi, altre violazioni della legge.

Assurdamente invece Berlusconi continua ad atteggiarsi a vittima e a perseguitato politico (qualcuno per favore lo faccia parlare con i veri perseguitati politici). Minaccia direttamente o per bocca dei suoi sgherri, della sua personale corte dei miracoli, dei vari Fede, Brunetta, Santanche’, Carfagna e compagnia bella. I suoi nani e le sue ballerine. Che tremano al pensiero che Berlusconi finisca perche’ se cio’accade, poi chi paga? Continuando la sua politica fatta di nulla, bugie e bullismo.

Quest’uomo e’ un ladro. Fatevene una ragione.

OBVIOUSLY, CHAOS

Chaos.

The last Italian elections  have proven, yet again, the fundamental impossibility for Italy to be a normal country. A country where people find work, pay fair and just taxes, and is represented by honest and experienced people.

A country where the sky is blue, and the yellow sun shines kindly over children playing on green grass, while a festive little paper boat drifts toward the horizon on cheerful waves. A normal country. Where miracles are the exception and not the rule that everyone expects every day. A normal country, where the candidates are not suspect billionaires mixed up in hundreds of controversial court cases that range from corruption to child prostitution. Exactly as Silvio Berlusconi is.

A normal country where there should not be characters like Beppe Grillo, who shouts his empty and rabid outrage, playing the card of boorish populism to which Italians, unfortunately, have been accustomed for centuries.

In a civilized country, in fact, Berlusconi would have already been in prison for a long while. But instead, making use of his inordinate wealth, he’s not only free, but even running (again) to lead the country.

More Chaos.

Beppe Grillo shouts. He destroys, yet, to build is something else. One needs to have real ideas and proven experience. A sense of moderation and respect for others. But too often those who shout possess neither the sense of moderation nor respect for others.

Even though I’ve written this post in English, I am Italian and I would like only to be a citizen of a normal country, where the young find work, the people pay their taxes and there is respect for others. I see instead a bad actor, a fraud, an old man with his face lifted by the scalpels of plastic surgeons, with the audacity to want to lead my country.

There is chaos in Italy. And Italy is our country.