by Edoardo Nesi
— No, Vittorio! No! That’s enough! Arianna said before lying down on the lounger as she tried hard not to think that, just a few hours earlier, it was he who had woken her with a warm embrace and lots of kisses before singing her Happy Birthday and bringing her breakfast in bed — a glass of cold milk and three biscuits because, he had apologized, he didn’t know how to make coffee yet.
Vittorio knelt on the sand for a few minutes more, clutching his hands, then shook his head, gave her one last defeated look, sighed melodramatically, and sat down cross-legged in front of the parasol with his back to her, watching the great race to the sea and grumbling that it wasn’t right he couldn’t take part because no child ever died of it and there was nothing to be scared of, and even if he wasn’t one of the fastest, he would have definitely beaten all of his friends, and would have certainly got a miniparachute.
— It’s not fair, he continues under his breath, scratching away at the scar left by a smallpox vaccination and beating the sand with his fist, more to get his mother’s attention than out of real anger.
He closes his eyes out of irritation and is immediately distracted by the contemplation of the amoebas of light that appear on the screen of his closed eyelids. Suddenly his frustration disappears, his anger subsides, and in a moment everything is forgotten: all he is left with is the good fortune of being a child in summer, and he decides to run to the shore with his net and bucket to catch crabs and sea horses. He opens his eyes and is about to stand up and get going when a stray parachute — the last to be released by the airplane and the only one to get caught in an updraft that took it so high it almost became invisible before the whimsical wind suddenly dropped, leaving it to fall slowly onto the beach rather than into the sea, out of time and forgotten, ignored by all — reaches the end of its descent and falls silently onto the sand right in front of him, without anyone else noticing.
Vittorio looks at it, then at his mother. He raises his eyes to the perfect sky and smiles.
— Hey, thanks.
A NEW BUSINESS
THE BRONZE-COLORED ALFETTA 1.8 slowly makes its way up a dirt track riddled with potholes, cutting through a rough field on the far outskirts of the desolate plain that surrounds the city. If it weren’t for the light mist that had set in, we might be able to see the cathedral bell tower in the distance. It is the end of a cold, dry October. The sky seems made of steel.
The Alfetta stops with the stutter it makes when the hand-brake is applied too fast, and two men get out. They stand in front of the car’s hood, in silence. The one who had been driving has a great mane of white hair and a face carved with the marks and wrinkles of forty years of hard work. The other is much younger. It’s not that they look alike: one is the younger version of the other — father and son, separated by thirty years of life. They have the same severe, angular features. They are dressed the same way. If they are handsome, it is that hard, worn-out beauty of sailors or soldiers. They are wearing suede jackets, flannel trousers of a very similar gray mélange — steely for the old man, graphite for the younger man — and black moccasins. Under their jackets they are wearing matching navy blue lambswool V-neck sweaters and sky-blue Oxford shirts that differ only in cut and size, sewn by their usual tailor.
The son realizes his father is waiting for him to speak first. He swallows hard, and begins.
— I’m sorry we’ve only managed to get here now, when it’s nearly dark, because during the day, with the light, it would have been better. But anyway, you see all this empty land…No, well, it’s not empty, I’m sorry…It’s…that is, well, it’s empty now, but it will…well, it will become…Wait, Dad, wait a moment. Let me start again, okay?
The father nods almost imperceptibly, and his son’s heart skips a beat.
— So…this is ten thousand square meters of land, and it has just gone from being greenfield to being given building permission, okay? It means it can be built on. So, only yesterday, I think, or the day before that, not long ago at all, anyway…And you could buy it for next to nothing, Dad. It belongs to an old woman, no children, widowed…I spoke to her yesterday, we’ve already reached an agreement —
— What? What?— A snarl.—You’ve already reached an agreement?
— No. That is, Dad, wait, I’m sorry, I put it badly: I haven’t already made a formal agreement, I spoke to her. Calm down, Dad. We’ve discussed it, that’s all.
— Ah.
— I just spoke to her about it. I gathered information.
— Ah. And?
— And she would sell. Tomorrow, even.
The father remains silent and keeps his gaze on the horizon.
— Her husband bought it a long time ago, as an investment. And then he died. She doesn’t know what to do with it. There’s an old farmer who keeps an allotment, and every so often he brings her tomatoes, zucchini, peppers…
— It looks like poor Melchiorre’s field…
— Pardon?
— No, nothing…I bet she’d sell. What could she do with it, besides grow radicchio? There aren’t even any roads…
— But there will be, Dad. The council has already put plans forward. This will become an industrial park…It will be subdivided and sold…and this dirt track will become a kind of ring road…No, perhaps not a ring road, but certainly a very important road, okay?
— And what would you want to do with this field then?
— Come on Dad, you know. The new business!
The old man shook his head, closed his eyes, ran his hands through his thick hair, and snorted.
— Ivo, Ivo, I…you worry me. What will you do when I’m dead, huh? How are you going to maintain a business with these childish dreams? Can you tell me that?
— But Dad…
— Ten thousand square meters of land! Do you have any idea how big our warehouse is?
— One thousand nine hundred and ninety-two square meters, Dad.
— Exactly…And have you calculated how much this field would cost?
— Yes, Dad. I’ve calculated everything. Do you want to know how much it would cost?
— No, I don’t. And do you know why? Because I don’t want to spend that money, understand? Work is what it is.
— Dad, work is going well…
— Yes, but we aren’t earning much.
— Of course not, Dad, you only want to sell blankets!
The father’s gaze hardens as he turns to face his son, who looks right back at him. It is the first time.
— Blankets have given you everything you have, young man. Don’t despise them. If it wasn’t for those blankets, we would still all be living in the apartment above the factory…
— Yes, Dad, but we’ve done everything we can with blankets…What kind of a future is there for brown blankets with Greek frets? Plus they only sell in Veneto and Naples…
— And do you think you are good enough to try your hand at something different?
— I want to make textiles, Dad! And sell them for export!
— Well, I want never gets!
— But so many people are doing it, and successfully!
— They aren’t successful! There is no market here in Italy.
— Of course there is!
— That is not true. This is a poor country!
— But it’s growing, Dad.
— Yes, it’s growing. It’s growing even too fast, but it will always be a poor country, and people will always need blankets. And we make them! And we export them!
— No, Dad, we make half-size, khaki-colored pieces with recycled wool and acrylic, and we sell them to that crook in Milan who sends them to Kenya to make army uniforms. I want to make real fabrics, for clothing. Textiles with a wool mix for overcoats, jackets, skirts, trousers, everything, that we can sell to Germany, France, Great Britain, even Holland…
— Ah, but hang on…what wool would you use? Let’s hear it.
— I’d start with recycled wool, certainly, but later on, I would definitely use new woo
l…The son’s face reddens with emotion. His heartbeat begins to race, his breath quickens.
— New wool? Do you know what that costs? And who are you going to buy it from? From that thief Paoli, son of a thief?
— No, Dad. I won’t buy it on the local market, I’ll get it directly from Australia.
— Oh! From Australia! Do you know where Australia is, Ivo? It’s on the other side of the world!
— Dad, there are dealers in town. I’ve already spoken to them. You buy after choosing a sample, and all samples match the goods exactly. The Australians are honest people. They ship it from Perth or Melbourne or Sydney, I’m not exactly sure which, but the ship passes through the Suez Canal and…well, in a month and a half it arrives in Livorno or La Spezia.
— Australia…I’m…Ivo, you will make me use up what little money I have managed to earn…
— Dad, trust me.
— Trust me? How can I trust you? You don’t even speak the language…What will you tell your customers? You need to know languages if you want to export!
— Dad, I’ve been going to Berlitz for a year, studying English and German. When I told you I was going out to play billiards with my friends, I was lying. I was going to Berlitz, until eleven o’clock at night. And now I know English fairly well. My German isn’t quite as good because it’s more difficult, but I’m more or less there. I couldn’t hold a conversation about history or geography, but I have no problem discussing textiles!
The father turned slowly to his son, and in the far corner of his eye there was a flicker of consideration. Although he immediately started shaking that mane of white hair again, Ivo felt he had touched him: languages had been a constant concern for his father, who couldn’t bear not knowing a word of English.
— Dad, listen to me. I’ve thought of everything. We go to the bank and ask for a loan —
— We ask the bank for a loan? As if we were penniless? Desperate? I would feel like a thief going to ask for money, I —
— Dad, let me finish. We ask for credit, or a loan, I’m not sure yet, and we’ll build a big new warehouse: we’ll have everything there, the spinning and weaving mills, then we’ll buy more machinery and grow…
— Have you…No, but apart from the money, have you worked out how many people you would need to get all this off the ground? Do you know that once you’ve taken them on, you have to keep them, because there is no way you can fire them?
— But we wouldn’t have this problem, Dad, because we’d be earning! Our problem will be hiring, not firing!
— Now, listen…
— Come on, how can I think about sacking workers now, when I haven’t even employed them! And anyway, I know I won’t have to get rid of anyone! Like you…
— Ivo —
— No Dad, listen to me. While we’re building the warehouse, we’ll stop making blankets. Or not. If you want, that is, if you prefer, we could continue, it’s not a problem, it’s up to you, but in the meantime, we’ll start producing textiles. Immediately. We’ll make the fabrics, flannel…even velour, everything. But my dream, the only way to start making money, Dad, would be to produce loden.
— Ivo —
— We buy a telex machine, take on some salespeople, and I’ll go around the world doing sales.
— Ivo, Ivo, the world is so big —
— I know, Dad, but I like traveling, it’s not a hardship for me. I like seeing new things, meeting new people!
— You like having fun, I know.
— No, Dad, no. I’ve had too much fun. I want to start working! I want to go abroad. To America even. I really believe in this, I do. With the money I make, we’ll be able to pay off the new warehouse in five years, perhaps even earlier!
The father watches his son light up, his eyes laughing as he gesticulates and talks about his plan — the first he had ever suggested in all those years of respectfully working alongside him, without ever spending a minute more at work than was necessary, without ever suggesting something new. This is why. Now he understands. In this plan, he is an obstacle. His son wishes to build a new business, not expand the one that already exists. He wants his own business.
— Dad, I’m nearly thirty-two years old. If I don’t do it now, I never will. I can’t bear watching Franchina typing out those invoices in the office, answering five phone calls a day, one of which is Mom asking when to put the pasta on…
The enthusiasm that burned inside Ivo was bubbling over, impeding his sight, making his heartbeat race, loosening his tongue.
— Dad, we need to develop our business! The moment has come, not just for us, but for the whole city, for the whole of Italy! In the North they build factories like this every day, and not just in textiles! I’ve seen them. Brianza is one big building site, so are Bergamo, Brescia, the whole of Emilia. Work is growing, Dad, we can’t stand still and just wait!
The invisible sun has fallen below the hills, the light slowly retreats, and it begins to get cold. The father buttons his suede jacket, shaken by the impact with a future that is too strong, too close. Ardengo Barrocciai breathes in the still air of that prickly, bramble-filled field, and wants to tell his son that he is too young, that he is not ready, that nothing he has learned over the years has prepared him for having his own business; that it takes experience to be a businessman, and you only learn by making mistakes; that passion isn’t enough, and enthusiasm is worth next to nothing; that it is dedication and tenacity that make businesses successful; that despite all the work you put in, there is always a risk things won’t work out and you will have to close, or claim bankruptcy.
He is about to tell him all of this, but then he remembers how unprepared he was when he first started making blankets, how he didn’t even know whom he would sell them to, and how much desire and need he had to start working straightaway, and how much unshakable faith he had in himself, and how sure he was to be headed toward a future filled with success. How many years ago? Thirty? Forty? Is it really that many?
— Dad, you told me how Granddad was a cobbler, and that you were the first one in your family to do something different, that you started making blankets against the wishes of everyone else, who would make fun of you and wanted to force you to repair shoes! And I am so grateful to you, Dad, you have no idea how grateful I am…You sent me to a good high school, and thanks to you I’ve lived like a prince, then you gave me a job at the factory, gave me my own office and telephone…but I can’t live wrapped up in cotton wool while the world steams ahead. You understand, don’t you?
Ardengo turns to face his son and sees him transfigured, his features contorted, almost wounded by passion. How very far away those Sunday afternoons just after the war now seem, when he’d throw on an old hat, wrap Ivo up in a blanket, put him in the sidecar, and they would ride around together on that old English motorcycle, his BSA, even when it was cold. And how Ivo loved it when he would accelerate and the motor revved! How he laughed!
This must be how you become old: suddenly, at sunset, in the middle of a field, wrenched by an invisible future, knocked down by an audacious and infantile enthusiasm that is impossible to share. He knew that the day would come when he would have to pass the baton, but he didn’t think it would be like this. He had never imagined that he would feel so surprised, so useless, so exhausted.
Ardengo smiles as he finally finds himself relieved of having to keep his foot on the gas, free now to see all this as the completion of a titanic undertaking that was far too demanding for him and that had continued for too long: a task that he was only able to carry out by giving the very best of himself, each and every day. He feels an enormous burden lifted from his shoulders — a mountain of worries and fears and uncertainties and decades-long suffering, all born of work, that had stopped him from ever sleeping more than six hours a night and that made him jump from his bed every morning at five, even during his rare and brief vacations, filled with a nervous energy that came from God knows where. He asks himself what life he has lived up t
o this point. If he has really lived.
Ivo notices that his father’s eyes are wet. What are these, tears? He draws closer and would like to put a hand on his shoulder, but he cannot bring himself to. He has never done it before. And so he keeps on insisting. There is nothing else he can do.
— Dad, listen to me, please, I believe in this. This is a historic moment. People with small businesses can become successful managers, even industrialists. Like in America! We can build a new business, Dad, now, tomorrow, you and me!
He stops in front of his father, his legs are shaking.
— Ardengo, I promise I will make you proud of me!
The father, whose son has never called him by name, shakes his head just once.
— No, Ivo, I don’t feel up to it. I’m too old.
— What do you mean “old,” Dad! You’re wise, not old. You would be so much help to me. We can build this new business together!
Ardengo embraces his son. He holds him close and speaks in his ear.
— Ivo, I’m not up to these dreams. I can’t even understand them. I’ve done what I can. Now it’s your turn. But remember, dreams won’t get you anywhere. It is a very tough life. You need to work hard. All the time. Every day, even Saturday and Sunday morning, your work is never done, never…
Ardengo is sorry to give this anxious list of cautions against life and its overwhelming force, but he feels he must. He would like to say so much more, and much better, but he doesn’t know how, and he can’t, so he just embraces that reckless son of his that he never felt so close to his heart.
— You build the new business, Ivo. If you need a hand, your Dad is here. You can be sure of that.
THE BEAST
IT WAS THE OPINION OF MANY that there was not an unranked tennis player in the whole of Italy who could beat Cesare Vezzosi, known as the Beast.
His farmhand’s bone structure boasted broad shoulders and a narrow waist resting upon strong, sinewy legs that were just a few centimeters shorter than the canons of classical Greek beauty, but perfect for the short runs and rapid changes of direction required by that incredibly demanding game to which he had devoted himself.
