Three-Card Monte Read online

  “Ampelio, don’t talk crap. The Internet is a means to an end. It all depends on how you use it. You have access to billions of pieces of information. You know everything about everybody, things that are true and even things that are false. All at incredible speed and without leaving your own home.”

  “You’re right, Aldo,” Del Tacca says. “You know everything about everybody as soon as it happens, even when nothing happens. And without leaving home. It’s just like your wife, Ampelio, but at least you can turn it off.”

  The third man who has spoken is known to the inhabitants of Pineta simply as “Del Tacca from the Town Hall.” This is so as not to confuse him with “Del Tacca from the New Harbor,” who lives next to the new harbor, “Del Tacca from the Streetcar,” who used to be a ticket collector on the streetcar, and “Del Tacca from the Service Station on the Avenue,” about whose activities it seems best to keep silent, let’s just say he isn’t a pump attendant. Del Tacca from the Town Hall is a short, fat man, almost broader than he is tall, who at first sight may seem a little aloof, but who in fact is as unpleasant as a piece of shit under your shoe. A virtue developed, along with his large proportion of adipose tissue, in the course of his years of so-called work at the town hall in Pineta: years of compulsory breakfasts, lost files, and semi-clandestine games of tressette while a line of people waits at a counter displaying a sign that says, “I’ll be right back.”

  In the meantime, the priest has closed the computer screen and sat down at the attractive girl’s table. The girl’s name is Tiziana and she’s been working at the Bar Lume for two or three years as a maid of all work. The aforementioned Bar Lume is owned by Massimo, who corresponds physically to both the priest and Ampelio’s grandson. In other words, the man who has sat down is called Massimo, and he’s the barman.

  Massimo lights a cigarette, looks at the sheet of paper Tiziana hands him, and frowns.

  “That’s all.” It isn’t a question, it’s a statement. Rather a disconsolate one.

  “Yes. That’s all.” Tiziana doesn’t add anything else. She would like to speak because she is a lively, good-natured girl, as well as an intelligent person. Being intelligent, she soon grasped the fact that her employer particularly hates pointless questions and, although with a certain effort, she avoids asking them.

  “So, let’s go over this. The four tables near the tamarisks don’t have any signal at all.”

  “Yes. I mean no, they don’t.”

  “The three near the pillar, a weak signal.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And the table under the elms, a full signal.”

  “That’s right. So . . . ”

  So we’re screwed, Massimo thinks. Shit, it isn’t possible. It’s a conspiracy. I equip the bar with Internet, I spend a small fortune on it, I lose what remains of my mind installing it, setting it up correctly and everything, and in the end what happens? It doesn’t work. Worse still, it works in fits and starts. The signal’s useless. It wavers, it fades, it spits. But in one spot, dammit, there’s a signal. A strong, clear, firm signal. At one table. The table under the elm. The table where my grandfather and those other worshipers of Gerovital have been spending all afternoon every afternoon, from April to October, ever since I opened. I’m sorry, but to hell with them. I need that table.

  It’s afternoon, and the bar, together with most of the town, is indulging in the long postprandial nap that precedes aperitif time. The only people outside are two girls sitting next to the tamarisks over a laptop and two coffee shakeratos, and the four standard-bearers for the elderly, proudly enthroned on the chairs around the table under the elm. After taking the old-timers’ orders, Tiziana comes back into the bar.

  “Massimo?”

  “All present and correct.”

  “So, two espressos, one regular for your grandpa and one with a shot of Sassolino for Aldo. An Averna with ice for Pilade and a chinotto for Rimediotti.”

  “Right. Make the coffees for me, Tiziana, please. I’ll see to the rest.”

  Massimo takes a wooden tray, puts it on the counter, bends under the counter, and takes out a little bottle of dark liquid. He looks at it lovingly for a moment, then grabs it and shakes it hard for about ten seconds.

  He places it delicately on the tray with the bottle opener next to it, then pours a finger of amaro into a glass, adding to it for completeness’s sake another half-finger of balsamic vinegar. Then he picks up a small ice cube directly with his fingers and drops it with a professional air in the glass. Finally, he conscientiously examines the two espressos that Tiziana has made and placed on the tray. He takes a neat sip of both, then in an authoritative manner tops up the contents of the cups with sparkling water taken directly from the refrigerator, and adds a squirt of lemon juice for Aldo, who does after all want it with a shot.

  “Ready, you can take them.”

  “Massimo, come on . . . ”

  “What?”

  “Don’t play the fool, come on.”

  “Never offend the boss. It’s bad manners and not very clever. I could fire you, you know.”

  “I didn’t say you are a fool, I said you play the fool. I’m sorry, but those poor old guys . . . ”

  “Poor old guys my ass. Did you or didn’t you ask them if they could please change tables?”

  “Yes, Massimo, but even you have to realize—”

  “Not ‘even you.’ Only you. Massimo has to understand. Massimo has to understand that these poor old guys are creatures of habit. Massimo has to understand that it’s cool under the elm. Plus, I don’t see why Massimo has to get so upset. The bar doesn’t even belong to him. The old-timers have taken it over. He should just accept the fact.”

  “Well, I’m not taking them these things.”

  “No problem. Rimediotti’s coming.”

  Sure enough, one of the old men has entered the bar. An old man in slightly worse shape than the others. He is tall and emaciated, and is wearing a blue T-shirt with horizontal stripes and pale-colored pants, an ensemble that gives him an ambiguous air, halfway between a nursing home patient and an escaped convict.

  Massimo has always heard him called “Rimediotti,” and only after many years did he discover that long, long ago he had been christened Gino. He’s a quiet old man, with vaguely nostalgic ideas about the Fascist period, and a notable billiard player.

  “Have you done them, Massimo? Can I take them?”

  “Please, Rimediotti, go ahead.”

  Rimediotti takes the tray and heads outside. Massimo hears the radio playing “Y.M.C.A.” by the Village People, turns up the volume, and starts washing the glasses in time to the music. When he looks up, he sees through the window the four old-timers at the table gesticulating, apparently engaged in an unlikely dance to the rhythm of the gay-themed music echoing inside the bar. After a while, all four of them get resolutely to their feet, but instead of going “Why-Em-See-Eh” with their arms, as Massimo has been imagining, they troop into the bar, led by Ampelio.

  They come in all talking, or rather yelling, at the same time. Through careful sifting of the acoustic signal, necessary to separate the voices of the old geezers from the cheerful howls coming from the radio, it becomes clear that Rimediotti is accusing Massimo of ruining his clothes, Aldo is accusing him of spoiling his digestion, and Ampelio is accusing him of having a whore for a mother. Only Del Tacca remains silent, and simply glares daggers at Massimo. Massimo feels compelled to ask him, “What about you, Pilade, don’t you have anything to complain about?”

  “Do you think that was amaro I was drinking?” Del Tacca replies, continuing to glare at him.

  “You aren’t normal!” cries Rimediotti, his comb-over slick with chinotto, as a result of the little bottle exploding, which makes him look even more of a disaster area. “You’re a criminal! You’re a moron, you are! That’s what you are! An idiot! How is it possib
le?”

  “I’m sorry, Rimediotti,” says Massimo, continuing to wash the glasses. “It happens sometimes, you know that. The bottle tops explode. I think it’s because of the pressure of the carbon dioxide inside. Or rather, the difference in pressure between inside and outside. Among other things. I read somewhere that the difference in pressure is greater if you’re sitting under an elm. In my opinion, if you’d been sitting next to the tamarisks, nothing would have happened. Can I get you something else?” Massimo asks in his diligent barman’s tone.

  Massimo’s proposal meets with a grim silence from the old-timers.

  When two strong wills share a common objective, and neither of the two has any intention of retreating from his own position, a conflict is inevitable. Like two engine blocks, the adversaries approach each other without any concern for the consequences, and without any possibility of changing their minds. Whoever is toughest wins.

  History is full of such episodes. Think, for example, of Caesar and Antony. Think of Churchill and Stalin. Think of Zidane and Materazzi.

  Here, too, the Moment has arrived. We are heading for a collision. The air seems to freeze, as befits a duel, while the adversaries eye each other warily. Unfortunately, instead of the music of Morricone, which would suit it perfectly, the soundtrack to this confrontation consists of the inappropriately cheerful screeching of the Village People, who are still insisting that there is no way you can be unhappy if you’re hanging out with the boys.

  Heedless of this pleasant background, the duelists study each other threateningly.

  Slowly but inevitably, the music fades.

  The song is about to finish.

  Very soon, the moment will come.

  “Excuse me . . . ”

  It’s a timid, polite voice, barely audible. But it’s more than enough to break the spell. The voice belongs to one of the two girls who were outside at the table next to the tamarisks. She has come into the bar and is looking at the group with a pair of very, very large blue eyes, like those you see in Japanese cartoons. Behind her, her friend also enters. She has the expression of an innocent child combined with cleavage that’s decidedly maternal. Massimo looks at the first girl in a manner at once questioning and polite, while the old-timers unconditionally approve of her friend.

  “I wanted to ask you a favor. I need to use the Internet, but it isn’t working very well at our table. Umm . . . . I’ve seen that there’s a good signal at the next table, so I wanted to ask if it’s possible to change tables.”

  This is followed by a moment of palpable embarrassment.

  “Don’t ask me, ask these gentlemen, it’s their table,” Massimo says with ill-concealed perfidy, pointing at the old-timers.

  Having, with mysterious feminine wisdom, identified Ampelio as their leader, the girl looks at him and smiles. “Would you mind changing?”

  She underlines the question by opening and closing her big eyes persuasively. Ampelio mutters something in embarrassment, while Rimediotti says gallantly, “Good heavens, signorina, you don’t even need to ask. Please, we’d love to.”

  “If it’s really no trouble . . . ”

  “Oh, no,” Aldo assures her, “no trouble at all.”

  “Really? Thank you.”

  The girl thanks them again with a final big smile and goes out with her friend.

  Silence follows this little scene. Total silence, given that Tiziana has switched off the radio. The old-timers, who were previously targeting Massimo and barking in unison like a pack of long-sighted wolves, are now each looking in a different direction and vaguely recalling a group of strangers waiting for the number 31 bus.

  Massimo, on the other hand, takes a tray and quickly starts filling it. He leans under the counter to get a chinotto, saying as he does so, “Tiziana, one regular espresso and one with a shot of Sassolino. And then remind me that I have to go to the optician’s.”

  “All right. Do you have problems?”

  “No, no. I’m just going to buy a pair of blue contact lenses. Maybe next time I ask for something, I’ll flash my big blue eyes and somebody might actually listen to me.”

  “Maybe you should also hire a nice pair of boobs,” Ampelio says in a surly tone. “You’re already starting to talk as much crap as a woman.”

  “What would you like, Pilade?” Massimo asks casually from under the counter. “An amaro?”

  “The trouble is, Massimo,” Ampelio continues imperturbably, “that even with contact lenses, fake boobs and whatever, you were always ugly and you’ll always be ugly.”

  “I know,” Massimo says, reemerging from under the counter. “It runs in the family. We’ve been ugly for generations. With a few peaks, like Aunt Enza.”

  Massimo and his grandfather look at each other, and both start to laugh.

  When Enza Viviani née Barontini, Ampelio’s sister and Massimo’s mother’s aunt, came into the world, Signora Ofelia Viviani née Medori (Massimo’s great-grandmother and Ampelio’s mother, known to the whole family as “Ofelia of Windsor” because of the amount of gold and jewelry she would put on for solemn occasions) received visits from all the relatives and acquaintances, including Romualdo Griffa, Aldo’s father and an old friend of the family. Romualdo, having bent over the crib and offered the infant a finger as big as a baguette, stood up again and thundered in a stentorian voice, “Dammit, Ofelia, congratulations. He really is a handsome boy.”

  “Look, Romualdo, she’s a girl.”

  “Really?” Romualdo bent again over the crib, incredulous. “Dammit, poor little thing.”

  Getting back to the present day, even the other customers laugh, which is surprising, given that they know the story because Ampelio must have told it fifty times. Tiziana, who doesn’t know the story, smiles, because she has understood that the storm has passed. With the same smile, she goes to Rimediotti, who in spite of everything is still grumbling, while the chinotto drips relentlessly from his effervescent hair. Flattering him with the very same smile, she lowers his head slightly, and dries his tuft. The old man, who, due to the position of his head, suddenly finds himself faced directly with Tiziana’s chest, thanks her and turns red.

  In short, now the storm has given way to a sense of calm, the climate is one of fraternal camaraderie, and thanks to Massimo’s memory Ampelio now feels inclined to rake over the past and to start telling the thousands of stories he has about the days when he and the other doughty pensioners were young, or even earlier. Since the only thing that could stop Ampelio when he has decided to tell a story that goes back to the times of his remote youth would be military intervention by NATO, and given that our elderly hero is a narrator of undisputed talent, even if with a somewhat limited repertoire, the remaining bystanders happily get ready to listen to him.

  Del Tacca, with a glass entirely of amaro in front of him, listens to Ampelio without looking up and chuckles to himself. Rimediotti and Aldo listen standing up, nodding sagely whenever Ampelio introduces a character from the past, to show that they remember him and that he really was a fine man. Tiziana listens with great amusement to the tall stories of this ribald old man whose memory is scandalously immune from the effects of age and hardened arteries. Every now and again, she glares at Massimo, who is still pretending to be working as a barman, cutting, pouring, washing, and moving things about, in order not to give his grandfather satisfaction, even though, in reality, he too is listening.

  After a while, Ampelio starts to talk about the time he and Aldo worked in Pisa and, as a joke, replaced the menus displayed outside the tourist restaurants near Piazza dei Miracoli with other homemade menus, which featured unlikely dishes such as carpaccio of camel’s ass and hair soup. Massimo, who has heard the story umpteen times, takes a tray and goes outside to take the glasses emptied by the two girls who conquered the table under the elm.

  He finds them in a state of great agitation.

&nb
sp; The girl with the big eyes and her friend are clicking frantically and opening all the files on the desktop, in search of something they can’t find. The girl with the big eyes has despair written all over her face and is about to have an attack of hysteria, while her friend sits huddled with a touching expression very similar to that of a lost puppy. Shyly she asks the other girl, “Are you sure it isn’t there anymore?”

  “Well, I can’t find it. Look . . . How the hell . . . How is it possible . . . It was here! It was here! Oh, my God . . . ”

  “If you’ll allow me,” Massimo says, taking the laptop from the girl’s hands and quickly placing it on one of the tables near the tamarisks. The two girls are looking at him with stunned expressions.

  “Don’t worry, there’s no signal there. I couldn’t help seeing the screen. Some of the files have been corrupted. Have you opened a window in a browser?”

  “Y . . . yes,” replies the buxom friend, because the girl with the big eyes is still looking at Massimo as if he was a talking rabbit. “I opened a window because I wanted to show her a place in Barcelona, and after a while . . . I don’t know, after a while . . . ”

  “After a while, the window changed color and then froze.”

  “That’s exactly it. The window turned green and . . . ”

  “Hmm. It’s a virus that’s been going around these last two or three days. It only works if the computer is online, that’s why you don’t have to worry now. Did you have any important documents?”

  The girl with the big eyes nods, still in a semi-catatonic state. “My presentation.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The presentation of my seminar. The papers that I was supposed to be doing the seminar with.”

  “That you’re supposed to be doing a seminar with,” Massimo repeats, a tad pedantically.