Wu Ming - 54

‘Dien Bien Phu, you ignoramus! It’s where the French army is based,’ Garibaldi corrects him. ‘This time we’re going to send them home with their tails between their legs, General Giap isn’t an idiot, he’s a skilled warrior, a hero of the people.’

Walterún is still trying to read the article over the shoulders of Bottone, who explodes, ‘Those Vietnamese may be small, but they’re pretty wicked, aren’t they? They might look like puny little shrimps, but they won’t let anyone push them around. Good on them!’

The tram driver Lorini intervenes to have his say, as he pays for his coffee. ‘It’s because they’re so small that they can come at you from all directions before you even notice. While the French, big and fat, make easy targets.’

Garibaldi raises his eyes to the sky and shakes his head. ‘The sort of bollocks I have to put up with. What does the size of the Vietnamese have to do with anything?’ Then, as though explaining a history lesson, he says, ‘It’s because the French are all Foreign Legion mercenaries, they’re all people who fight for money. While the Vietnamese are fighting for their country, to free it from colonialism, just as we fought against the Germans. So were we tiny as well?’

Pierre finishes tidying up the cups on the bar. ‘Then let’s drink this coffee to the health of Comrade Ho Chi Minh.’

‘To his health!’ says Bottone, raising his cup.

‘If the communists win there too,’ says Garibaldi after taking a sip, ‘we’ll have taken the whole of Asia. The Soviet Union, China and Indochina.’

We nod emphatically.

‘And what about us?’ asks Walterún.

‘We’ll come after them. One thing at a time, for Christ’s sake!’

Bottone’s abrupt riposte brings the political debate to a close. On Friday, no subject can hold his attention for long, the Americans could drop the bomb and after a few observations we’d be talking football again.

And sure enough, Melega and Stefanelli are already playing billiards, and the crack of the balls drowns out all discussion of the fate of Bologna FC, which, with Atalanta on the team, has to make up for its 3‒1 loss to Palermo. Capponi does the weekly accounts for the owner, Pierre checks the level of liquid in the bottles, and the tarocchi players argue over a trick.

Chapter 27

Bologna, 14 March

‘I can’t leave Odoacre.’

Angela broke the silence that had engulfed them after they had made love. Neither of them had spoken for several moments. They had stayed there, reading each other’s thoughts, with no need to say anything.

Pierre shook his head. He had never asked her to decide, but she knew that the clandestine nature of their relationship was beginning to oppress him. How long had it been? Five or six months. Yes, it was getting oppressive, it wasn’t easy for her, it was madness, but it was also a breath of fresh air, joy and passion. Odoacre hadn’t the faintest idea what passion was. He was kind, attentive and old. It wasn’t just his age, it was his character, he couldn’t have been any different as a young man. Generous, altruistic, serious, always devoting himself to some good cause or other, always sure of what he was supposed to be doing.

‘Angela, I’m in love with you.’ Pierre’s voice was tired.

She didn’t have the courage to look him in the eye.

‘I’m in love with you and I’m fed up with all this.’

‘I know, it’s as though we’re living in hiding.’

‘No, not just because of the two of us. It’s because I can’t see any future for me. Any future for us. Sooner or later we’ll have to stop seeing one another, before we fall too much in love, before we miss each other too much when we’re apart. We’re fighting a losing battle. But I wonder if it’s right.’

Pierre’s eyes stared into the void. He ran a hand through his hair. She lit a cigarette and handed it to him.

‘Life isn’t fair, it isn’t a polka, it’s hard. It’s been hard for me, and if I hadn’t met Odoacre, who knows where I would be today.’

God almighty, how many times had she repeated that same old story? He’d had it up to there with Angela’s resignation, but Pierre had no answers.

He said, ‘Is this really all there is? Is there nothing else? Is this supposed to be enough? Working and waiting for Sunday?’

‘And what do you suggest?’ exploded Angela as though telling off a child. ‘Are we rich? That man Renato Fanti tells you all sorts of fine things, but it’s easy for him, he comes from a good family, he’s travelled, he’s been abroad, he can speak languages. What are we, Pierre?’

‘Dupes, that’s what. Everything’s fine. The rich are fine, the poor are fine, it’s fine to work like mules, it’s fine for the riot cops to crack our heads open when we take to the streets, it’s fine if two young people who love each other can’t tell anyone.’

‘You and I can’t change the world, Pierre. Even if I leave Odoacre and spit on everything that he’s done for me and my brother, what do we do then? We’d have to leave Bologna, everyone would chuck stones at us. And I’d be called a whore for leaving Dr Odoacre for the Filuzzi King. A pauper working as a barman. Where would we go?’

Angela realised she had raised her voice, and all at once she fell silent. She stroked Pierre’s head, but he remained impassive.

‘There’s something strange about you. Something I don’t get. We have to make the best of these moments, we mustn’t think about horrible things. I know we’ll have to stop seeing each other sooner or later, but until then hold me close and let’s try to be happy. Please.’

Pierre stubbed out his cigarette and hugged her, felt her hot breath against his chest, kissed her face, then saw her tears.

‘Don’t cry. When the time comes I’ll disappear without a fuss. I may go away.’

‘Where?’ she asked with a sniff.

‘I don’t know yet. Perhaps to Yugoslavia, where my father lives.’

Angela studied his face. ‘You really want to leave?’

‘There’s this business about my father, my letters have started being returned to me. And since the age of thirteen I’ve wanted to see him again, and see a country that isn’t like this one, a socialist country, a place where we’ve won.’

‘Odoacre says Yugoslavia is a social-fascist country.’

Pierre couldn’t bear to hear Montroni’s name mentioned any longer. ‘Well I don’t know, at least they’ve had a revolution there. And anyway I don’t trust what Odoacre, Benfenati and all the others say. As far as they’re concerned, whatever the Party says is true. You have to see with your own eyes to judge. My father is no fascist, and yet he’s stayed there. That might be a reason, don’t you think?’

Angela nodded gloomily. ‘This is what Fanti tells you, isn’t it?’

‘No, Christ almighty, it’s what I think!’ He leapt to his feet, then faltered and stopped in the middle of the room, paralysed by his thoughts. He walked towards the window, and peered through the half-open shutters.

She studied the thin shadow that stood out against the blades of light filtering through.

He spoke with his back towards her. ‘I want to see something different, Angela. When I think that my life is going to be spent between the ballroom and the Bar Aurora I can feel myself dying. At the demonstrations, when I get a kicking, I don’t feel like a hero. My father, my brother and everyone else have fought for a good cause, but people my age have nothing but stories about partisans and weapons that are left to rust in cellars, nothing to do but dream of the revolution that never comes. What are we supposed to do? Find a good job, a nice girl to marry, have children, wait till we’re old enough to have people listen to our stories, that time we fought the riot squad? I can’t see myself at the age of seventy playing briscola with Brando and Sticleina. I’m sorry. I don’t want to end up like the guys in the bar.’