Una Stanza In Cielo
Winter 1984, it’s February 23rd, and my sweet, not-yet-mother, is celebrating her 11th birthday. She knows nothing of a fully lived life, nor of my father, and I’m racing marathons in the depths of statistics. God cries out, «Ahimè, che sia destino o che si déstino!» («Alas, whether it be fate or whether they awaken!»). In the cinemas of this town, “a blessing and a curse,” someone is watching a film titled “Bianca,” directed by a 31-year-old Giovanni Moretti, known as Nanni.
Courtesy of Bianca / Reteitalia via Esquire
In the movie, the history teacher, “un ottimo elemento” (“a valuable person”), shares with his students, thirsting for knowledge, the last bastions of a school where Quality and Poetry defend the walls from the -nearly victorious- attacks of Quantity and the consumer society that follows, the following apocryphal parable:
«Gino, all’ultimo momento, ha perso il posto. Estate del ‘60, c’è il governo Tambroni, dei disordini a Reggio Emilia, 5 o 6 cittadini uccisi dalla polizia, e Gino era triste. Trova una bella ragazza e se ne vanno in Sicilia, in un piccolo villaggio nel cuore del Mediterraneo. Il sole. L’amore. Lo iodio. Il corpo. Quando tornerà a Milano, alla fine del mese, avrà in tasca a malapena gli spiccioli per il filobus. Ma anche un foglietto, sul quale ha scarabocchiato alcune note, queste».
(«Gino, in the end, lost his job. Summer of ‘60, during the Tambroni government, there were riots in Reggio Emilia, 5 or 6 citizens killed by the police, and Gino was sad. He meets a beautiful girl and they head to Sicily, in a small village in the heart of the Mediterranean. The sun. Love. Iodine. The body. When he returns to Milan, at the end of the month, he’ll barely have enough coins for the bus. But he’ll also have a scrap of paper, on which he has scribbled a few notes, these»).
In the classroom, softly playing in the background, is “Il cielo in una stanza” by Gino Paoli. The teacher stands with his eyes closed, leaning against the jukebox discreetly savoring the melodic aroma, nodding in agreement, emphasizing the “obvious” genius that he already knows, revealing a slight paternal envy towards his student-daughters-sons, who, perhaps for the first time, are witnessing History in front of him.
Summer 2024, it’s August 14th, my mother is my mother, just as my father is my father, Claudia is by my side and I’ve stopped chasing things. «Se vogliamo che tutto rimanga com'è, bisogna che tutto cambi» («If we want everything to stay as it is, everything must change»), says another dialogue set in these lands I hold so dear, where I’ve been for about ten days. Poetry, just like love, hasn’t disappeared in the world around me; at most, it may have changed form, but the hearts of the pure remain pure. The sea may seem a bit rougher, dirtier in some places, and the beaches more chaotic. In some restaurants, the food is worse but you pay more; people may seem more superficial, on the surface: but poetry knows no fads.
It’s afternoon, la vita lenta filters through the windows of these deserted landscapes, full together with the sun. I open my eyes, Claudia is lying beside me, sleeping, breathing slowly. I look up at the ceiling of the room and, surprised, I see the sky. I look back at Claudia, reflecting on the last six months of my life with her, and I think:
«Andrea all’ultimo momento, se ne va di casa. Estate del 2024, c’è il governo Meloni, dei disordini a Bologna, 5 o 6 cittadini picchiati dalla polizia, e Andrea era triste. Trova una bella ragazza e se ne vanno in Sicilia, in un piccolo villaggio nel cuore del Mediterraneo. Il sole. L’amore. Lo iodio. Il corpo. Quando tornerà a Roma, alla fine del mese, avrà in tasca a malapena gli spiccioli per la metro. Ma anche un foglietto, sul quale ha scarabocchiato alcune note, queste».
(«Andrea, in the end, leaves home. Summer of 2024, during the Meloni government, there were riots in Bologna, 5 or 6 citizens beaten by the police, and Andrea was sad. He meets a beautiful girl and they head to Sicily, in a small village in the heart of the Mediterranean. The sun. Love. Iodine. The body. When he returns to Rome, at the end of the month, he’ll barely have enough coins for the metro. But he’ll also have a scrap of paper, on which he has scribbled a few notes, these»).
