Demo by Alison Miller Page A

gazin into the distance in the dark, his body all white and still. And the slaves strugglin, strugglin out the stone for ever.
    We start goin across a big square wae a church at one side and a statue in the middle. It’s dead quiet for a Saturday. Maybe everybody’s went to the demo. Then we go through some more narrow cobbled streets. Some of the shops have big planks of wood bolted across their windows. They’re all closed.
    Are the shops always shut like this on a Saturday? Even though he’s holdin my hand, Julian seems awful far away.
    What?
    The shops?
    Not sure. Think perhaps it’s the
manifestazione
.
    The what?
    That’s what the Italians call the demonstration.
La manifestazione.
Manifestation. See. He points to a notice on the dark red door of a ristorante :
Chiuso per la manifestazione.
Closed for the demonstration. Bastards.
    Why?
    Don’t want the riffraff of Europe coming into their nice clean restaurant.
    Maybe they’ve went to the demo theirsels and that’s how they’ve closed it. I think this might make Julian laugh, but he says nothin and just starts walkin faster again.
    We cross another wee square, this time wae trees round it. Some of the leaves have fell onto the street and they swish under our feet. They’re different fae the ones in Glasgow. More like old paper. No soakin wet or dry and crumbly like in the park at home. I wish Julian would say somethin.
    What kind a trees are they?
    Dunno. He’s lookin straight ahead and doesny even glance at them.
    Only the leaves are different fae in Glasgow.
    I don’t know, Clare. A tree is a tree is a tree. D’you want to make the demo or not?
    I don’t say nothin. The next street we come to has leaflets and streamers and things in among the leaves.
    Well, here’s where they started from, going by the evidence at our feet. He bends down and picks up a yellow leaflet with black writin. It seems to be all in Italian.
    So, I guess we just follow the paper trail. He looks at me for the first time for ages and I remember when I first seen him standin in George Square and wondered who he was.
    Alright? he says. I nod my head and he starts off walkin fast again.
    It’s like there really is a paper trail. First it’s just leaflets and the odd placard wae a broken stick. But then we come to a bit where the road’s wider and there’s signs to different towns – Pisa, Bologna, Roma – and we’re out of the centre of Florence. There’s no old houses here; just modern flats. Concrete boxes for the masses, my da would say. And all over the road there’s hunners a wee bits of paper scattered, all different colours. A few of the flats have posters and banners hangin out the windows. I can see right into some a them where the light’s on. There’s this one… a young guy with a bare chest is dancin round the room hissel. He sorta boogies over to the window and looks out. Then a dark-haired girl comes up behind him and puts her arms round his waist and her cheek against his shoulder. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I look at Julian and I’m gonny say somethin, but his eyes are far away.
    A couple a guys and a lassie are walkin towards us. It looks like they could a been on the march by the style of them. Jeans and T-shirts, green jackets and coloured scarfs. The lassie has on a red and yellow stripy jumper and a floppy rainbow hat.
    Buon giorno,
Julian says.
La manifestazione?
They look at each other, then start to talk dead slow in Italian and point the way they’ve came.
    Ah, American? Julian says. Hi.
    They smile and say, Hi, like it’s a big relief. Yeah, just keep right on along this road, then it’s on your left? You can’t miss it. It’s e
nor
mous. Bigger’n any we’ve seen in the States.
    The girl with the hat holds her arms out wide and opens her eyes like she’s surprised.
    Yeah, one of the guys says, we sure would like