by Edoardo Nesi
Ivo Barrocciai adored Milan. It had always seemed to him an incomparably larger version of his hometown, moved by the same spirit and inhabited by the same sort of people, who unfailingly put work before everything else but, once work is over, dedicate themselves and their free time to live their city and her bars, restaurants, cinemas, theaters, discotheques, opera houses, museums.
He was always happy to visit Milan, and how he loved the industrious dignity of the people, their good taste and savoir faire, the elegance of their simplicity and the simplicity of their elegance, their capacity and desire to get to know and embrace the best the world had to offer!
He liked everything about Milan: from its subdued colors to its funny, musical dialect that wasn’t so invasive as to demand recognition as a separate language, from the imposing facade of its Stazione Centrale to the polite lightness of the lines of the palazzi designed by modern architects. He liked the fact that the Maestro Fontana had decided to live there. He liked the trees that seemed to be too shy to blossom, the wide, empty streets, the lovers walking hand in hand through Brera, even the fog. And, of course, the women, who summed up and personified all of this grandness: elegant, serene, and eternally wanting more from life. Not something better, because better would have been difficult and maybe impossible to obtain — just more.
In Milan — and only in Milan — Ivo Barrocciai could feel growing inside him the wild idea of throwing all caution to the wind and listening solely to the voice of courage urging him to be ambitious and tireless, and to live in full the blooming of that formidable Italy which drew its strength from Milan. In no other place did Ivo feel so perfectly understood. In no other place did he feel so strongly the roar of the enormous, invisible energy that created well-being and employment out of nothing through the honest, tireless, and unbelievably hard work of the many men and women who, each day, pursued their most private ambitions and the most material of their dreams.
Because cities dream, and Milan’s dream was naive and grandiose and brilliant, and it told everyone that it was possible to change your life and your destiny if you were courageous enough, and it didn’t matter where you started from, or whether your dreams were large or small, nor whether you were planning to open a business or a shop, a bar or a bank, a publishing house or a newsstand, a hotel or a gas station or a pizzeria. There was a need for everything and a space for everyone in 1975, in Milan, Italy.
— And then there is also the difference in quality and look, Barrocciai, and sometimes even in composition, when it comes to loden. You must consider these things. Though in Italy and Spain the most noble loden is favored, often mixed with alpaca, most of what is sold as loden in Austria and Bavaria is a rustic fabric, rough, almost spartan, made from pure wool and sold exclusively for men, not women. And so…
— So?
— So you will not be able to sell your loden to the Germans. Believe me, I know them. They wouldn’t even consider it.
— But my loden is better than theirs, Mr. Gabriel! It even has cashmere in it!
— You put cashmere in there?
Gabriel furrowed his brow for a moment, surprised, before breaking into a faint smile.
— And why did you do that? There has never been a loden made with cashmere.
— Exactly. That’s why I put it in.
— And why didn’t you tell me this right away?
— To see if you could guess when you touched it.
— Eh, my boy. How much did you use?
— Ten percent.
Gabriel smiled incredulously.
— Okay, five.
The agent picked up the sample and touched it, stroking it against the grain and immediately smoothing it back. It returned perfectly to its original state.
— How much does it cost?
— Fifteen marks. Well, fourteen ninety-five.
Gabriel continued to stroke the sample.
— It’s a wonderful sample, Barrocciai. I told you. Well done. And the idea of adding cashmere is not bad at all…
— So, Mr. Gabriel, what do you say? Will you represent me in Germany and Austria?
The agent lifted his eyes to look at him.
— No, Barrocciai. I’m sorry.
— Why not?
— Because I like you, and I like your fabric. But you cannot go against the market. If a fabric like this doesn’t exist on the market, it is because there is no demand. That’s the end of it.
— No, you don’t understand.
Gabriel stared at him.
—What don’t I understand, Barrocciai? Perhaps you could explain.
— No, I’m sorry, I meant that…well, the market isn’t God, after all…I mean it’s not perfect, Mr. Gabriel. The market is the people who go to department stores and shops, and even if they’re traditionalists, otherwise they wouldn’t be buying loden, they always find the same two or three garments on sale, in the same old style and the same old colors, and so they end up buying those. But it won’t last, Mr. Gabriel. It isn’t a choice.
Gabriel smiled and shook his head.
— I already sell my loden in Germany and Austria, Mr. Gabriel. Not a lot, but a little more each year, and I came to see you in order to grow my business, because the deutschmark is getting stronger by the day, as you well know.
The agent stopped shaking his head and nodded three times.
— I think loden needs a fresh look. It needs to be modernized. And it should also be sold for womenswear. But why are you still shaking your head? We need new fabric in this business, and new colors…The world is made of colors, why shouldn’t we use them? And it’s not just loden, all fabrics need to be modernized, Gabriel. Clothing will change completely. Fashion is on its way, believe me. I know it, I’m sure.
Then Ivo fell silent. It made no sense to keep on insisting: he might seem a naive young man or, even worse, a visionary. Someone in need. Someone who is begging. Finally Ivo realized he had no reason for coming to Milan. He shouldn’t be speaking with agents, but with customers. He shouldn’t send someone else to do his job. He should go to talk to the clients, to every client. Not just in Germany, everywhere. He should be traveling the globe, telling the story of the new fabrics and new colors. Determined, competent, passionate. As Ardengo used to say, with a boner. He didn’t need to wait around for anybody to understand his idea. Gabriel was a big player, yes, but he was sixty years old: soon he’d be retiring to his villa on Lake Como to play grandfather. And then, if he had got it straightaway, it would have meant his idea wasn’t so new, so revolutionary. And revolutions are made by hungry boys from the provinces, not sixty-year-olds with an office in the Galleria. Barrocciai smiled. It really is a wonderful life!
— Thank you very much, Mr. Gabriel. For your kindness and for seeing me, and for everything you have said. I will take heed. Many thanks again.
Ivo stood up and held out his hand, which the agent barely shook, caught by surprise. When he leaned over to put the Ursula sample back into the leather case, his disappointment had vanished, and in its place bubbled the excitement of having finally understood that — like the knights of the Round Table — he held his fate in his hands, and he was now certain that with the help of technicians, finishers, workers, artisans, and, most of all, the Bundesbank, everything would go just as he had planned. He wasn’t afraid that for him to be right, everyone else had to be wrong — even the experts, even the very best, like Gabriel. It would go just like that. It was the age-old, never-ending struggle between the old and the new. Between progress and tradition. In the end, as always, the new would win. He would win.
— Excuse me, Gabriel, may I ask you a question?
— Of course.
— Who is in that photo with you?
— Which photo?
— The one on the desk.
The agent’s gaze turned to the ornate silver frame. He smiled, reached out his hand, picked up the frame, and admired the photo as if for the first time, then he showed it to Ivo. It was a much youn
ger Leo Gabriel shaking hands with Frank Sinatra.
— My compliments, Gabriel! Well, I’m speechless! Old Blue Eyes! Where were you? In Las Vegas?
— In Monte Carlo, Barrocciai. An unforgettable concert, believe me. Unforgettable. I still carry it in my heart.
They shook hands once again, this time with the strength of two lumberjacks.
— I wish you all the best, Barrocciai!
— You too, Gabriel!
When he left the office he found himself before the secretary — an attractive, German-looking fifty-year-old in a grayish-beige suit who must have been a knockout in the past and who was undoubtedly Gabriel’s lover. With a broad smile, she extended his orange Casentino woolen overcoat with its wolf-skin collar. Ivo smiled as he put on the glamorous coat he had decided to wear to impress Gabriel, then effortlessly performed the perfect hand kiss.
— My dear, tell me: how long do you think it’ll take me to get from Milan to Munich with my Alfetta, if I leave right away?
A GREAT SATISFACTION
SOMETIMES, when they managed to send the children to bed at nine o’clock right after Carosello, the popular reel of TV commercials, Pasquale would ask Maria to take a walk with him. She didn’t always say yes. If it was cold or windy, she preferred to stay in and watch television or knit or sew, but she always encouraged him to go and get some fresh air.
She was not lazy, quite the opposite, but often found herself exhausted after a day working at home braiding the fringes on blankets, not to mention the help she gave Pasquale’s mother with housekeeping. Furthermore, she was convinced that a strong young man who worked all day, like Pasquale, needed to get out of the house from time to time for a little breathing space, and she assumed he only asked her to accompany him out of kindness.
It was one of the few things that she hadn’t understood about him at all, perhaps the only one of any significance. In those moments, Pasquale felt the strongest need to confide in her, and even if he never showed it, he was always disappointed when she declined his offer. In those cases, hoping she would realize how important her presence was for him, he shortened his walks to the short time needed to smoke one of his Nazionale cigarettes, piss in the ditch that ran along the dirt track in front of their house, look at the stars for a few seconds, then come back home.
He had fallen in love with Maria at first sight, the day she arrived with the rest of her family from Panni, another one of the small towns in the mountains between Irpinia and Puglia whose inhabitants had unfathomably decided to move en masse to the city that had welcomed and adopted Pasquale. At first, from a distance, it was her breasts that had bewitched him and left his youthful nights languid and sleepless, as he guessed for hours just how large and compact they had to be, impossible to hide even under those loose, punitive dresses her mother forced her to wear, and which Maria donned without protest, certain that the man of her dreams would be able to see past her appearance and fall in love with the girl who knew how to hide her best secrets beneath that flower-printed screen.
When they met at a parish dance, Pasquale was enchanted by her fine features, her melodious yet always quiet voice, the decent happiness he could see in the depths of her astute eyes, and that timid gaze ever ready to lower itself to the tips of her shoes, just like his.
Without actually looking like her — of course — Maria reminded him of Claudia Cardinale, but when Pasquale confessed it to his sister, she laughed and told him he was crazy. He was very upset, and blushed more than ever before. He had meant a character played by Cardinale in a film, or an expression or gesture, or even a simple look of one of Claudia Cardinale’s characters, but his sister’s caustic laughter told him that he might be the only one to see Maria as beautiful as she was. Poor fools!
He was so heartened by this incredible good fortune that he found the courage to declare his love — and how surprised Maria was when that small shy hulk of a man finally stopped throwing her all those smoldering looks and decided to make a move! They got engaged at once, and when Dino was already on his way, Pasquale took her to the altar with her enormous bump, and kept her always with him ever since.
Without Maria he would never have become anything or anybody: everyone said so. He had the strength and the desire to work, yes, and he would have never given up on anything, true, but Maria was honest and intelligent, and Pasquale had quickly learned to listen to everything she said, not least because she always spoke at the right moment, always and only in private. And even though she would never allow herself to give him orders or even advice, she was able to point out the pros and cons of every situation, showing as inevitable the decision that her husband — and he alone — should make.
Once, Pasquale — who held her in such high esteem that he would have been more than willing to take orders — asked for her opinion on the most important matter: how much land he should buy to build their house on, and where.
They had to choose whether to buy licensed land they could legally build on at eight thousand lire per square meter, or unlicensed greenfield land at fifteen hundred lire. Pasquale had just got back from a crowded meeting with a surveyor, who had explained to him and many other men from Ariano and Panni that it was illegal to build on greenfield land, but some of it would soon be declared in line with regulations because people were arriving from the South in droves.
He also said that the regulatory plan put forward by the local council already predicted that the city’s population would continue to grow, even to double. All those people would need and want to build themselves a home, so the map already showed — he pointed to a number of very fine lines that snaked away from thicker lines — dozens and dozens of streets that did not yet exist. Two of these future streets — “fantasy” streets, he had called them — crossed the Green Zone, and so they could build without any fear!
Pasquale, full of enthusiasm, told Maria he wanted to start building their house right away. But how big should it be? And how much land should he buy? There were three of them at the moment, but they might become four, or five, or six…What did she think? Maria blushed, said it wasn’t a matter for women, and went back to her sewing, concerned that speaking up over a technical issue so close in nature to her husband’s work would have undermined him. So Pasquale made the decision alone, the wrong one. After many nights mulling it over, he bought too little land, and when the time came to lay the foundation, he realized that the house he wanted to build would never fit into the minute parcel of greenfield he had bought.
Maria saw him come home with his head hung low, his stomach in knots, humiliated by the need to return to the notary to buy yet another parcel of land because he had not made the correct calculations. Finally she realized he needed her — he really, desperately needed her, and for everything — and this sudden realization warmed her heart, and as she consoled him, Maria decided that from that day on she would no longer keep her mouth shut.
Maria couldn’t bear the cold and hated even the mildest breeze. Going out in the winter was always a hardship for her, but on some clear evenings, when there were no puddles in the streets and the white moon shone brightly in the sky, she enjoyed putting on her coat and scarf to go for a quick starlit walk arm in arm with Pasquale, who was so pleased that he wouldn’t stop talking. He was always defending Vezzosi, who was a bit of a rogue, yes, but also deserved gratitude for taking him on when he had only just started painting and didn’t know anyone, and for ensuring he never went a day without work, and even though he paid poorly and late, it didn’t matter, because the important thing was the certainty that there would always be a job waiting for him when he woke up in the morning.
Pasquale always told her how much he liked his work, that it wasn’t as hard as people thought because once you had built up your arm and shoulder muscles, painting was not really that strenuous. He would explain to her, over and over, that you didn’t use just your arms, but your whole body: your back, your legs, your knees, and your ankles. If you could stand up and move
around while you were painting a ceiling or a wall, even if you were at the top of a scaffolding rig, you didn’t get as tired as when you had to kneel down to finish a wall, or lean over a pair of shutters, or stay hours perched at the top of a stepladder — that was strenuous, even though it didn’t seem so. It was staying still that could break your back.
He would tell her how the painter’s greatest satisfaction was giving the final touch to the house, being the first person to see it finished because you were the last one to go in and work: the one who signed it, and in white, the perfect color that cleaned the world and made it better.
He would tell her how much he liked to be sent around by Vezzosi to paint rooms in which, just a few days later, families with children would live, and sometimes he would entertain himself by imagining the people who would live in those rooms that he was about to paint — the work they did and the life they would have, wondering whether it would be as happy as his.
He put his arm around Maria and they walked together on that dirt track in the cold silence of the winter Tuscan night. On their right was a row of newly built houses, some yet to be finished, all built by people who had arrived from the South like them. On their left a field that spread out for a good kilometer and ended with a long line of small warehouses that had just been built and had their lights on because there was always someone working in that tireless city of theirs.
And during those walks, Pasquale would tell her that she was worth so much more than he would ever be able to give her, and then, with his voice made hoarse by the cigarettes, he would go back to explaining how painting a warehouse was much easier than painting a house, because if the paint dripped it didn’t matter so much. And he would say how wonderful it was for him to walk into an empty warehouse knowing that a full day of calm, quiet work was awaiting him, together with the great satisfaction of seeing that huge space slowly turn white and light up because of him, becoming bigger and more beautiful and losing that horrible, dirty gray that is always a sign of poverty and neglect. Each time he said the word “poverty” he would always add how happy he was to have put it behind him, that nasty son of a bitch, to have eliminated it from the future of his family, and then he would fall silent as if he had completed his mission, and would stay quiet for a while before asking her if they could go home.
