Mail from land – chapter two




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Mail from land


Baresi calls me on the phone of the corridor to inform me that the next day the delegation of an important Canadian company will come and that they will need the first conference room of the ground floor. I ask him, because I’ve almost completed my turn, if I can get off an hour earlier and recover tomorrow, when I will replace Marta in her mid-day turn.

Mail from land

– Marta said that she will replace you in the morning, because you have an appointment.

– No, Baresi, it’s not like that.

– Okay, that’s the same, an even change is not a problem. And if you have to get out now, go.

– Thank you.

– Listen, Mumba: you know who’s the one who got me a flat tyre?

– I really don’t know, Baresi. I’m sorry.

– Where are you now, Mumba?

– Why?

– Have you finished hiding in the empty rooms or do I have to take measurements against you?

– Sorry Baresi, it won’t happen again.

– Mumba, you know I always come to know everything, right?

– Yes, Baresi, I know.

– Good.

Mail from land

Marta the interpreter has struck again. I get change. I come out from the locker room, pass the concierge and I’m out. It’s almost dark, and it stopped to rain. I get to the car, throw the parking tickets away and start the engine. The gasoline pump repeats its growl. The U2’s discography file is waiting for me, provided that the weather has not damaged my computer.

I can say I discovered the secret of life. It’s the xylophone. After a day of work, I get in the car, I light up a cigarette and I put an old CD of Milt Jackson and Wes Montgomery, titled Bags Meets Wes. I’m not keen on jazz, but I like it, and I love this cd because there’s the xylophone. No one will make me upset now, in the middle of the evening traffic. A scooter comes out of nowhere, I avoid it by a whisker, a bike rides in the middle of the road, no sign of stepping aside; I get its rhythm and enjoy the trumpeting of the row that I imposed on my back. After all, I offered a service: what would have people done at home? Off from their jobs, everyone is in front of the television with quizzes and games, or a football match. It’s not my fault if they don’t have a CD with xylophones and listen to shitty music, if they buy speedy cars and cannot speed, if perpetrators exist, if imbecility exists… engagez-vous, contemporary music it shoots me down, that’s why I play Bags meets Wes! where there is a xylophone, because it’s really nice to feel relaxed in front of all these poisoned people. I mean, they won’t have you.

The cyclist turns, so I keep the right and the row of car passes my car, swearing at it: yes, go ahead, back in your beautiful homes, on your nice cars, in front of your satellite dishes, take your newspaper, remember to keep the holidays holy before they end, buy and spread, sell and spend yourselves, pay new boobs for your wives and the rods of trannies you hold in the contacts of your new PDAs, park your big SUVs in front of the access for disabled, as roads are too small. You guys, you are the masters of the world.

Home, finally. I prepare the sauce for the arrabbiata and heat water on fire. I hope to eat soon. I sit and wait. I toss in my pockets and pull out the flyer of the guy in front of the fast food: forest heritage depleted in favour of pastures for cattle to be slaughtered, the devastating consequences for climate and oxygen, underpaid and exploited employees, it all features as counterpart for the well-known global brands and the advertising spells on children.

Water is boiling. My head is boiling; the Earth: everything. I bung some pasta in the pot and light up a cigarette. Who smokes has made a deal with death. I recently bought an ashtray like the ones in doctors’ offices (or at least, in that of my doctor) with the opening metal nozzle for the cigarette to fall down in the container. I empty it every week, and so I check how much tar is over my lungs. It seems that the multinationals of tobacco also put some ammonia in, to foster even more addiction. Everyone does it, even for mortgages and loans: aren’t they a form of addiction?

I try to relax and I get a text from Marta.

Mail from land






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