stand seeing her younger, coddled sister reduced to such a state. Here in Sardinia the small landowners had been modest but dignified and respected, and now the failed agrarian reforms had ruined them, and they had had to emigrate, the women to be servants, which for a husband is the worst humiliation, the men to breathe the poisons of the factories, without protection and, above all, without respect, and in school the children were ashamed of their Sardinian last names, with all those “u”s. He himself had had no idea about this: the sister and brother-in-law had written that they were well and he had thought of surprising them by going to visit and instead it had been humiliating. The children had devoured the sausages and the prosciutto as if they hadn’t eaten for goodness knows how long, and his brother-in-law, when he cut the cheese and opened the bottle of mirto , was moved, and had told him he could never forget that when the property was divided grandfather hadn’t wanted grandmother’s part, but, unfortunately, that had been wasted; for, while it had seemed to them that one couldn’t live on the land, those who stayed had been right. Grandmother, who, as her sisters well knew, was made in her own way, couldn’t stand this, and then today she had also learned that President Kennedy was shot in Dallas, and had ruined a load of laundry. He didn’t care, money comes and goes, but there was no way to calm her and her son was upset. Could they please come to Cagliari, right away, on the first bus.
But then, for my great-aunt and uncle and cousins, things improved. They moved out of the attic to the suburb of Cinisello Balsamo, and my father, who always went to visit them when, as a musician, he was touring, said that they lived in a tall apartment building full of immigrants, in a complex of buildings for immigrants, but there was a bathroom and a kitchen and an elevator. At a certain point you couldn’t speak of immigrants anymore, because they considered themselves Milanese, and no one called them terún , because now the fight was between the reds and the blacks in San Babila, where the cousins beat up their rivals and were beaten up by them, while papa went to the Giuseppe Verdi with his bags full of scores and had no interest in politics. Papa told me that arguments broke out between him and the cousins. About politics and about Sardinia. Because they asked stupid questions like: “Is that sweater made from orbace ?”—of a beautiful heavy sweater knitted by grandmother of the coarse Sardinian wool. Or: “What kind of transportation do you have down there?” Or: “Do you have a bidet? Do you keep chickens on the balcony?”
So at first papa laughed, but then he got mad and said, Fuck you, even though he was a quiet, well-brought-up pianist. It was that they couldn’t forgive his lack of interest in politics—he didn’t hate the bourgeoisie enough, he had never hit a Fascist and had never been hit. They, still boys, had attended Capanna’s rallies, had marched in Milan in May of 1969, had occupied the state school in 1971. But they all loved each other and always made up. They had become friends in that November of 1963, in the attic, when they wandered over the rooftops, climbing out through the little window unbeknownst to their parents: the uncle of Milan who was out selling rags, with the uncle of Cagliari helping him; the aunt of Milan off cleaning for her rich people, and the aunt of Cagliari, completely mad, studying the architecture of the case di ringhiera , with that unforgettable woolen cap kept on by her hair, braided and rolled into chignons in the Sardinian style.
Grandmother told me that later her sister telephoned her from Milan to say that she was worried about papa, he was so out of the world, so engrossed in his music. He had no girlfriends, while her sons, who were younger, already did. The fact is that papa was never very with it: he had short hair when everyone wore
But then, for my great-aunt and uncle and cousins, things improved. They moved out of the attic to the suburb of Cinisello Balsamo, and my father, who always went to visit them when, as a musician, he was touring, said that they lived in a tall apartment building full of immigrants, in a complex of buildings for immigrants, but there was a bathroom and a kitchen and an elevator. At a certain point you couldn’t speak of immigrants anymore, because they considered themselves Milanese, and no one called them terún , because now the fight was between the reds and the blacks in San Babila, where the cousins beat up their rivals and were beaten up by them, while papa went to the Giuseppe Verdi with his bags full of scores and had no interest in politics. Papa told me that arguments broke out between him and the cousins. About politics and about Sardinia. Because they asked stupid questions like: “Is that sweater made from orbace ?”—of a beautiful heavy sweater knitted by grandmother of the coarse Sardinian wool. Or: “What kind of transportation do you have down there?” Or: “Do you have a bidet? Do you keep chickens on the balcony?”
So at first papa laughed, but then he got mad and said, Fuck you, even though he was a quiet, well-brought-up pianist. It was that they couldn’t forgive his lack of interest in politics—he didn’t hate the bourgeoisie enough, he had never hit a Fascist and had never been hit. They, still boys, had attended Capanna’s rallies, had marched in Milan in May of 1969, had occupied the state school in 1971. But they all loved each other and always made up. They had become friends in that November of 1963, in the attic, when they wandered over the rooftops, climbing out through the little window unbeknownst to their parents: the uncle of Milan who was out selling rags, with the uncle of Cagliari helping him; the aunt of Milan off cleaning for her rich people, and the aunt of Cagliari, completely mad, studying the architecture of the case di ringhiera , with that unforgettable woolen cap kept on by her hair, braided and rolled into chignons in the Sardinian style.
Grandmother told me that later her sister telephoned her from Milan to say that she was worried about papa, he was so out of the world, so engrossed in his music. He had no girlfriends, while her sons, who were younger, already did. The fact is that papa was never very with it: he had short hair when everyone wore
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