his father was a hard man. Authoritative and determined as its name from the Roman centurion, lets imagine: Tullio. The boy had seen him cry only one time, listening to the tape recording from Alex. Then his father asked him to leave, since Alex was too big for him and was "brainwashed". To do it for him. Then agree with the coach sent him in retreat in Formia, in the same fucking school athletics where the boy was playing to photocopy his cock with your friends. Only this time he was there alone. And with a double ration of bromide at breakfast. Every night, when you key in the deserted dormitory, the boy looked out the window and saw the two large flashing lights of a shark which sadly, before turning for the last time and return to Alex Anguillara.
He was a tender father. I just do not know how to express it. Never a hug, a kiss. Only a few caresses. Delicate and light as a snowflake. He remembered when his father came out of the study and approached behind her on tiptoe so as not to distract him while studying. He gave a look to the tasks and then, stealthily, she passed her hand through his hair. A couple of times and that's it. In silence. Then he returned to his visits. Now that the boy lived in Rome from time to time give him a call. He had written only once.
"My dear son,
consolation that the write when you can not express their feelings as they would like. You and your brother, just the mother, you are my life and my loved ones because many-probably-fake because I lost their way. Today recriminations of having too much and too little substance to the mound to form, perhaps due to forced Spartan education received by my family. I love you and my son-in order not to hurt my straits, I prefer to give you some money for your needs that you need today and not tomorrow when I'll certainly will be valid because procured. The success will, I'm sure. Instead, I beg you to be your brother what Olga softly-but-still tenaciously was for me. A hug. Daddy. "
The guy never found the time to respond to that letter or maybe he did not find the words. Or, as he would have understood a Sunday a few years later, he had only read the letter. How do you do with wills. That Sunday had returned early from his trip out-door. The magnificent garden of the villa of his friend looked out on the green hills of the Castelli Romani. The sun was shining and immediately after lunch the boy had gone to lie down on the grass well mown lawn, not caring to stain the new jeans and a cashmere sweater cream. It was so nice there and for the first time in a long time finally felt free and peaceful. Satisfied with his new group of friends and secretly flattered to be entered into the good graces of the richest among them. We would stay all day lying on the grass, despite being a bit 'moist, but had to do freelance and forced a friend to accompany him back home, leaving the others to tell their holidays in the light of that lazy sunset in late September . The friend unloading in front of the theater sexy Volturno and engages the first, greeting him with a short beep. It was then, as she passed parked at the Ibiza has broken down in the narrow Via Calatafimi gut, that he heard the voice saying: "Dad is dead."
did not listen to his words, but the sharp slowdown in the arrival of the hydraulic mechanism of the lift on the fourth floor made him jump. Upon entering the house as usual, checked the answering machine hi-tech that he had been sent from America. He had seen her in the house of one of his one-night-stand where he had spent the night a couple of times, right to find out where he had taken that wonder. On a warning message flashed incessantly, and the boy pressed a red button reading. A rush of adrenaline flashed the long legs when he heard the trembling voice of her mother who was trying to find the right words to tell him not too alarmed about the health of his father. Tully was in the hospital. The heart. The boy rushed to the station as it was and took the first train to Milan. He found his mother and brother kneeling in front of the plaster statue of the Madonna in the waiting room of the intensive care ward. Poor deluded. He knew that his father is not going to make it. He had fallen asleep on the train, with the text the brochure for the Renault sales force which was to be the next morning in the agency still tight in his hands when he felt wrapped in a warm embrace. He opened his eyes but there was nobody around. It was his father. He had wanted to greet it, he was sure, with the warmth that had never been able to give him all his life. The doctors said that there had been nothing to do, that his heart had been shocked into two after infarction.
His heart was tender his father. Consoled him saying that he had had virtually no time to suffer. But from her mother's inconsolable crying He had seen die in the arms-and that for the rest of his life as a widow would never forgive her for not even having been able to wipe the cold sweat from the forehead of her husband, the boy saw was a white lie . Funny how the corpses seem to move even if they look long enough. In the wet parking lot overlooking the mortuary of the hospital the boy had had all the time that he wanted to be alone with him. To observe it, in silence, not that he was looking for your eyes to see if you were careful as you read his newspaper articles, appeared to be asleep. But it was too thin and pale blue pajamas at that. And his father never wore pajama pants. The had discovered with some surprise on a Sunday morning of his childhood and from that day he had not stopped to fantasize over. Hugged him to feel the warmth of his body and squeezed her hand. It was cold as the gray marble slab on which he lay. Then someone opened his mouth to force Tullio, removed his dentures and fell back into a handkerchief. At that moment the boy resented his voice and knew that his father was really dead. Blighted inner voice. Had repeated so many times that he would die at age 19, that the boy had made a right. In fact we joked about. Imagined to sit with his soul hanging from the ceiling of the church to see who would cry more at his funeral. And you want to distract them, or because trouble shared is trouble halved, was caught doing the same macabre mental arithmetic at the funeral of his brother, the mother and father and ask for one of them would cry more. That the boy's head was tantamount to saying to those who want more? That day in church the boy would never stop crying if from the bench beside her mother had not warned her-so-weeping: "Do not cry. Do not you dare cry! "
The boy obeyed, but it was a mistake. If every tear had a different color, if you could recognize the tears for one or the other, he would have noticed that when it was moved to a movie at the cinema or on television, still gave vent to tears interrupted her father.
was with a tear in his pocket, Silvia said, gesturing with her hands curled in a mo 'claw tears clinging to the edge of the lashes, always on the verge of falling. The boy did she ever made an issue, but felt a little embarrassed when her Dutch boyfriend confessed that "double"-the nickname that had saddled-literally means "tear."
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