Fortunately, you found Cammarota immediately, and without making too much of a fuss about things he told you everything about the television: the man from Bologna took it, a certain Ettore, the same one who took it to Rome, someone who had a rig and carried goods between Naples and the north. Yes, it could have been the 2nd or the 3rd of June. He was happy to take it, he said, because he had a taker for it, either in Bologna or in Milan.
Well done, Camarota. Well done, Kociss. Ettore from Bologna. Stiv’ll be happy.
‘What’s this about the television?’
‘What? The television? Pff, I know about as much as you do, it’s something that interests my friend Stiv, who’s very busy now, so he asked me to do him the favour of taking care of it, because he knows he can trust me.’
‘And do you think it’s normal to send a friend to Frosinone to ask for a television?’
‘What do I know? He asked me a favour, and I’m doing it, I’m not going to ask him this and that, wouldn’t be a favour then, would it?’
‘Salvato’, you’re an idiot!’
Past Cerpano, a kilometre before San Giovanni Incarico, you see this lake, the trees, the shade. You turn on the indicator, turn down the avenue and pull up right on the shore. It’s almost seven, it’s not so hot, there’s going to be a spectacular sunset between the water and the clouds.
You turn off the engine. Lisetta yawns. You take off your shoes and dip your feet in the water. Lisetta yawns. You wet your forehead, and remember the name of that lorry driver, Ettore the Bolognese, mustn’t forget that. Lisetta yawns. She’s tired. She worked till late. She goes to sleep.
She’s asleep.
She’s missing the spectacular sunset. She turns on to her side, revealing her legs, an earthquake of flesh. She’s not wearing a bra. It would drive you mad.
You’d never hurt Lisetta, never. But a kiss, yes, a quick one, just to calm you down, not to do anything worse. A kiss, a little one like this, nothing important. Lisetta, you’re driving me out of my mind.
There. A kiss.
‘Salvatore, what do you think you’re doing?’
Chapter 35
Bologna, Bar Aurora, 20 June
Sudden silence. Almost magical.
Heartbeats and breaths float between smoke and ceiling.
Lips form circles, utter heavy sighs. Oooh. Here it is, look, what a beautiful thing!
Nothing about Rocky Marciano against Ezzard Charles. Those blacks, even the old ones, are always animals.
Nothing about Guatemala, agrarian reform, the USA’s ignoble attack to defend the interests of the United Fruit Company.
Nothing about Ethel Rosenberg, just a year ago. A whole year? Christ, how time flies.
Nothing about cycling is dead as a sport, someone should get involved, they should get rid of the cycling aces, the ‘Bernina strike’, they’re taking too much money, Coppi has gone soft in the head, the Carlino says he has a lover, L’Unità says he hasn’t, it must be a clerical attack on a left-wing sportsman, but he isn’t the man any more, Bartali is forty and puts more grit into it, even without drugs.
Even Benfenati has stopped talking.
Carried in like an ancient pharaoh by the Capponi brothers, the set enters the throne room.
The Bar Aurora has never been so full. Everyone’s there. The ones who hadn’t shown their faces for months. The ones whose wives always keep them at home. The ones who aren’t Bologna FC fans. The ones who have debts and, yes, they’ll pay them tomorrow. The ones who think, in the age of motorised transport, that sitting in front of a piece of furniture is a complete waste of time. You’d think that Anselmo Lunardi, known as Baldo, incognito from Prague, was there, and even the Old Man, God rest his soul, straight from the Certosa cemetery, so that he can say to his wife, when he’s lying beside her again, ‘Argia, you’ve no idea what you’re missing.’
As they hoist it on to the tabletop, everyone wants to help, touch, join in. ‘I was there!’ they will tell their grandchildren.
Heave!
A little more to the right, that’s it, lean it over a bit more, that’s the way, all those dials. Christ it’s heavy! Christ it’s big! Christ!
Sure it’s all new, but perhaps it should be said that all these people aren’t just here to see a television, not least because, more or less, we know what it’s like. And many of us, last week, were in Bar Franco enjoying Coppi’s arrival in Bolzano, the only stage that he has really put his back into just to show everyone that when he wants to be he’s still the Champion of Champions. But what do you expect, cycling isn’t all that interesting, you see the finishing line, you see the people, you see Coppi pulling out, but you don’t know how it was, in the mountains, or rather you do know, but you know it from the radio, and that isn’t the same thing. Seeing a football match is another matter, especially if Italy are playing the game of their lives in the World Cup. With Belgium you win or you go home. And then you’ve got to hope that England will knock out the Swiss, weekend dilettantes; if you believed what Czeizler said they’re almost as strong as the Hungarians. On Thursday some of us didn’t even go to Franco’s bar, because we didn’t see much point in paying a surtax on coffee to see Italy — Switzerland. But we lost. And the ref disallowed Lorenzi’s goal for an offside that never happened, but in the end all that matters is the result: 2–1 and thank you very much.
‘And where does this plug go? What is it, the aerial?’
More than anything else, though, what we’re excited about is that we bought the television by ourselves, for our bar. An American television, a luxury item. And from now on we won’t be forced to emigrate, to go somewhere else, where the bitters are more expensive, the coffee isn’t the one we’re used to, and even the people’s accents sound different. You feel you’re on loan, it’s no good. To cut a long story short, it’s an event within an event, the Italy game and the television in the Bar Aurora, in between the article in L’Unità on the death of Stalin and Capponi’s medal.
‘Is there a piece of cardboard somewhere? Let’s put it underneath so it’s level.’
Meanwhile Benfenati launches off on a lecture about football. He hasn’t said a word for ten minutes, it’s a shame to waste valuable propaganda time. ‘These footballers are paid too much.’
La Gaggia tries to grab our attention with the Montesi case. Alida Valli’s embroiled in it now, because of a phone call to Piero Piccioni.
‘I’ve had enough of this!’ observes Bottone without letting La Gaggia finish. ‘I don’t understand a word of it! It’s all far too complicated. If they find out anything that makes any more sense, come and tell me, ok?’ He raises his voice. ‘Now, let’s see if we can get this contraption up and running, come on, the game begins in ten minutes.’
The seats are already reserved. Old guys at the front, younger ones behind them, a few standing up. Pierre starts fiddling with the dials.
We’ve got less than ten minutes. Direct link from Lugano. Italy — Belgium, commentary by Niccolò Carosio. World Cup.
‘Give the Filuzzi King a hand, there, he doesn’t look so good at fiddling with buttons.’
‘He’s handy, that one, he’s practical, leave him alone.’
At Lugano stadium, Italy comes on to the field with Ghezzi Magnini Giacomazzi, Neri Tognon Nesti, Lorenzi Pandolfini Galli, Cappello — The guy from Bologna? Hey, fantastic! — and Frignani.
Nicola comes over. Pierre spreads his arms and shakes his head.
‘Couldn’t you have set it up earlier on?’ asks Bottone.
‘I said so, didn’t I? Don’t say I didn’t,’ almost in a whisper, like a prayer, the comment brushes Garibaldi’s lips.