attractive by the year. How well that hint of a pot belly suited him. And those crow’s feet round his eyes, those wrinkles at the sides of his mouth, that slightly receding hairline, gave him a certain je ne sais quoi …
‘Graziano! When did you get b …’ said bartender Barbara, going as red as a pepper.
Graziano put his finger to his lips, picked up a cup, banged it on the counter and shouted: ‘What’s wrong with this place? Aren’t you going to welcome back an old villager? Barbara! Drinks all round.’
The old men playing cards, the little boys at the videogames, the hunters and the carabinieri, all turned round together.
His friends were there too. His bosom pals. His old fellow-roisterers. Roscio, the Franceschini brothers and Ottavio Battilocchi were sitting at a table doing the football pools and reading the Corriere dello Sport , and when they saw him they jumped to their feet, hugged him, kissed him, ruffled his hair and gave him a chorus of ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow’. And other more colourful and ribald songs which are best passed over in silence.
That is how people celebrate, in those parts, the return of the prodigal son.
And here he was, half an hour later, in the restaurant area of the Station Bar.
The restaurant area was a square room at the back of the bar. With a low ceiling. A long neon light. A few tables. A window overlooking the railway track. On the walls, lithographs of old steam trains.
He was sitting at a table with Roscio, the two Franceschini brothers and young Bruno Miele, who had come along specially. The only one missing was Battilocchi, who had had to take his daughter to the dentist’s in Civitavecchia.
In front of them were five big steaming dishes of tagliatelle in hare sauce. A jug of red wine. And a plate of cold meat and olives.
‘This is what I call living, boys. You’ve no idea how much I’ve missed this stuff,’ said Graziano, pointing at the pasta with his fork.
‘Well, what’s it to be this time? The usual lightning visit? When are you off again?’ asked Roscio, filling his glass.
Since childhood, Roscio had been Graziano’s best friend. Backthen he had been a skinny little boy with a helmet of carrot-coloured hair, slow of tongue but quick as a ferret with his hands. His father had a junk yard on the Aurelia and sold stolen spares. Roscio lived among those mountains of metal, dismantling and reassembling engines. At thirteen he was riding round in the saddle of a Guzzi one thousand and at sixteen he was racing on the viaduct at the Pratoni. At seventeen, he had had a horrendous accident one night, his motorbike had stalled and bucked at a hundred and sixty kilometres an hour and he had been launched off the viaduct like a missile. Without a helmet. They’d found him next day, five metres below the road, in a drainage outflow from the sewers, more dead than alive and looking like an ant that’s had a dictionary dropped on it. He had been in traction for months with twenty bones either broken or dislocated and more than four hundred stitches on various parts of his anatomy. Six months in a wheelchair and six more on crutches. At twenty he walked with a pronounced limp and could no longer bend one arm properly. At twenty-one he had got a Pitigliano girl pregnant and married her. Now he had three children and after his father’s death he had taken over the business and set up a workshop as well. And probably, like his father, he did some shady deals. Graziano hadn’t found him so easy to get on with since the accident. His character had changed, he’d become edgy and was given to sudden fits of anger, he drank, and the word in the village was that he beat his wife.
‘Who are you going with now, you old letch? Still hanging around with that foxy actress … ?’ Bruno Miele was talking with his mouth full. ‘What’s her name? Marina Delia? Hasn’t she just made a new film?’
Bruno Miele had grown up during Graziano’s two years
‘Graziano! When did you get b …’ said bartender Barbara, going as red as a pepper.
Graziano put his finger to his lips, picked up a cup, banged it on the counter and shouted: ‘What’s wrong with this place? Aren’t you going to welcome back an old villager? Barbara! Drinks all round.’
The old men playing cards, the little boys at the videogames, the hunters and the carabinieri, all turned round together.
His friends were there too. His bosom pals. His old fellow-roisterers. Roscio, the Franceschini brothers and Ottavio Battilocchi were sitting at a table doing the football pools and reading the Corriere dello Sport , and when they saw him they jumped to their feet, hugged him, kissed him, ruffled his hair and gave him a chorus of ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow’. And other more colourful and ribald songs which are best passed over in silence.
That is how people celebrate, in those parts, the return of the prodigal son.
And here he was, half an hour later, in the restaurant area of the Station Bar.
The restaurant area was a square room at the back of the bar. With a low ceiling. A long neon light. A few tables. A window overlooking the railway track. On the walls, lithographs of old steam trains.
He was sitting at a table with Roscio, the two Franceschini brothers and young Bruno Miele, who had come along specially. The only one missing was Battilocchi, who had had to take his daughter to the dentist’s in Civitavecchia.
In front of them were five big steaming dishes of tagliatelle in hare sauce. A jug of red wine. And a plate of cold meat and olives.
‘This is what I call living, boys. You’ve no idea how much I’ve missed this stuff,’ said Graziano, pointing at the pasta with his fork.
‘Well, what’s it to be this time? The usual lightning visit? When are you off again?’ asked Roscio, filling his glass.
Since childhood, Roscio had been Graziano’s best friend. Backthen he had been a skinny little boy with a helmet of carrot-coloured hair, slow of tongue but quick as a ferret with his hands. His father had a junk yard on the Aurelia and sold stolen spares. Roscio lived among those mountains of metal, dismantling and reassembling engines. At thirteen he was riding round in the saddle of a Guzzi one thousand and at sixteen he was racing on the viaduct at the Pratoni. At seventeen, he had had a horrendous accident one night, his motorbike had stalled and bucked at a hundred and sixty kilometres an hour and he had been launched off the viaduct like a missile. Without a helmet. They’d found him next day, five metres below the road, in a drainage outflow from the sewers, more dead than alive and looking like an ant that’s had a dictionary dropped on it. He had been in traction for months with twenty bones either broken or dislocated and more than four hundred stitches on various parts of his anatomy. Six months in a wheelchair and six more on crutches. At twenty he walked with a pronounced limp and could no longer bend one arm properly. At twenty-one he had got a Pitigliano girl pregnant and married her. Now he had three children and after his father’s death he had taken over the business and set up a workshop as well. And probably, like his father, he did some shady deals. Graziano hadn’t found him so easy to get on with since the accident. His character had changed, he’d become edgy and was given to sudden fits of anger, he drank, and the word in the village was that he beat his wife.
‘Who are you going with now, you old letch? Still hanging around with that foxy actress … ?’ Bruno Miele was talking with his mouth full. ‘What’s her name? Marina Delia? Hasn’t she just made a new film?’
Bruno Miele had grown up during Graziano’s two years
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