Chapter 1

Or: how to embark with seven suitcases that are officially two but are really two if you count them, and other adventures.

February 9th 1977.
We depart from the BOCAMI Head Office, heading for Malpensa Airport, 8 o’clock.
Giorgio Brigidi takes me and the Prof to the airport by jeep. For the 30 Km drive I have to sit on the rear seat, my legs stuck among the suitcases and my head bent because of the low roof. The journey is made up of impressions, questions, and worries about the set of suitcases, seven suitcases containing the instruments that will be used later to demonstrate something or other. I silently swear and keep my head low. The Prof chats with Giorgio. The landscape passes by and we get to the airport at last. Its 08.40 and of course not one of the other members of the expedition is in sight. We are early because we have to get the suitcases through Customs.
I have a forged Ata Carnet. The instruments that have to be in just two suitcases for the Ata Carnet, are in fact in seven suitcases, so when I present myself with all the stuff I just listen to shouts of horror coming from the guy in charge of the Customs papers. He laughs at us and asks how it is possible these days to falsify a Carnet. I show him how easy you can. The Prof tries to hide, he doesn’t want to know about Customs, that man, this is too strong an impact with reality for him; he is a scientist, he can’t stand things that we normal people have to deal with. So it’s up to me, even though, I don’t like the damn Customs very much either. But the instruments are there, inside seven heavy cases, and besides, we have our four personal suitcases too. Alas, what can we do? We have to get through somehow. I get in touch with the Head of the Malpensa Parcels Department and, my God, he’s a nice man who helps us, takes us, drags us, and makes us jump from one office to another. But forgive me he says, even if one wanted to close both eyes, nothing can be done gentlemen; can’t you see, the official stamp from the Milan Chamber of Commerce at the bottom of the sheets is missing! And now for Gods sake, what can we do? Without the official stamp you just can’t get through. And where should we go to get this stamp? They are speaking about us as if we had never left home before, in their opinion we are stupid idiots, but never mind, the important thing is that they let us go; but they don’t. We are stuck here.
Giorgio, I say, please, go to Milan with all that rubbish and get them to put the round stamp on it. Where is the Chamber of Commerce, he says. Bloody hell, look in the telephone directory. Giorgio looks and chases off, like a scolded rabbit. Time seems to be racing away; will we ever be able to leave? However, they assure us that we will leave and, if the worst comes to the worst they will send the Ata Carnet to New York on the next Alitalia flight.
This is a nice prospect indeed. Time flashes by like lightening.
In the meantime we get our personal luggage through. Tickets passed. I’m not smoking and Giorgio Brigidi isn’t here; the Prof’s scarf and detective story which were left on an armchair have been pinched. It is 12 o’clock. The other members of the expedition are coming. Gentlemen, make yourselves comfortable in the first class waiting room, says a female with a forty-two-teeth smile. She shows us to a very cosy room, clearly it is for rich people and I immediately feel at ease, like a fish on a marble slab. I make the acquaintance of Dr Camilli, Prof Mossatich and Mr Mangiali and the whole line of escorts. We are going to the Bermudas. The Alitalia young ladies all give us lots of encouragement; poor dears, they are going to the Bermudas! Only a quarter of an hour till departure, I hope my watch isn’t slow.
Finally Giorgio appears with the Carnet. All done? All done. Now we rush, waving the sheets at the man who shakes his head as a Profession. He finally adds the sacred signature and hey presto, the seven instruments turn into two! Guys we are coming through. Hang on! And when we are in New York with the falsified Ata Carnet, what do we do? You sort it out yourselves! Get going. We are leaving, goodbye and best wishes. Write to me, yes bye, farewell, and tears among those ladies who are present. The Triangle you know; many dead people. People disappear… Goodbye, we climb on board. Good heavens, what is this, a skyscraper? No it’s just a Jumbo, a monster I can tell you. Prof, you are 24A, please sit down by the window. I cannot, I have number 24C and besides I have to take a pill. I am really afraid of making a fool of myself; I can feel sick at times. In the meantime I make the acquaintance of Maiorca and his family; they were already on the plane having boarded in Rome. The stewardesses are nice and there are few passengers in this cabin, you can breath. I can’t stand crowds. Have you fastened your seat belts? Well done, good boys, here we go. Taking off…a tremendous noise and the thing gains height, together with my stomach, which, for a while is in my throat. At last the thing becomes horizontal, off with the belts and people stir; meanwhile the Prof starts to smoke, but it’s forbidden! Well we are Italians, aren’t we? We make friends; we are all going to the same place.
Camilli is a dentist and also a skin-diver, Mangiali is a clerk who goes in for under water photography, Mossatich is a Professor of Physics who acts as a photographer on land, Maiorca is himself, the Prof is a well-known scientist, I don’t know what I am, but who cares, we are going to solve the mystery of the Triangle. The rest of the expedition is waiting for us in Miami. That’s right, that Miami in Florida, where there are those enormous swimming-pools that fill the seventy-millimetre screen and where you always see those lovely girls, so languidly stretched out that they seem to be telling you to….. take me, take me! But try if you dare, you’ll see whether you are the one with an enormous belly and wallet, or the hunk who plays the part of the international spy. For him it’s so easy. Maybe you’d better stay at home and be happy with what you’ve got.
We are above the ocean already. Thoughts head towards just one goal, like missiles in the sky which all end up in the same hole. But I don’t want to think about it. I’m a little scared. However, the others seem quite relaxed.
This is not the first time I’ve travelled, I’m just a little afraid of being sick, not of the Triangle, even though I read the book “The Cursed Triangle” before starting the journey. It appears to be a book written specifically for us who are heading to the same place; it’s like a breviary of death, a nice passport to the hereafter. Hurray, we’ll see then. Some of us are scared to death because a witch, or fortune-teller, saw some kind of misfortune in the tea leaves.
The Atlantic passes below us, somebody reads, the Prof sleeps. He is a quiet man. Eh, wake up; they give us something to eat, looks like baby food. Eating on a plane is so difficult. What should be a pleasure turns into a punishment; small bags under the legs, tray on the tiny table, packets of food that won’t open, drinks balancing precariously on the tray, pillow behind the back, inevitably something falls. Please be careful, excuse me , let me pass, I knew it of course, but for Gods sake wait a moment, now please pass, tray on the ground, glass in one hand, you crouch, twist and he passes. The stewardess asks if we want coffee. I’ll have some. The window shades are lowered and it turns dark. A film starts. It is two dollars to listen to it, zero dollars to look. I look. I doze with just one eye open and glance at the film now and again, finally, after two hours the film ends and the light is back on. Below, there is a fantastic light show and somebody says that we are flying over Newfoundland. I see an enormous expanse of ice and some dots; they are icebreakers, stuck and sealed in all sides. It’s nice to think that Bocami is paying me and I’m warm here. I wonder how cold it is down there. I look away and think about the instruments, seven suitcases that I have to pick up as soon as I get to the Customs. Prof, seven suitcases plus our four is eleven suitcases for two men! Let’s have a drink he says, the Prof is always thirsty. He drinks a lot, but swears that he wants to lose weight. Yes, ok, tomorrow. Time passes… toilet, aisle, nap, window, aisle, crossed legs, yawns, stretch the legs. Coffee? No, thanks. Yes, coffee, he says.
New York! Look down there; the Captain says that we are landing at Kennedy Airport. Good God, it’s impossible, New York, I’m in New York. Oh, how happy I am. Then the idea of the Customs inspection instantly puts my feet back on the ground. Seven suitcases that are two. Who can understand that? Prof, listen, do you speak American? No! Neither do I. Great, isn’t it?
At last we are here, we have arrived, we have got this far. We all get off together; but move as if we are sleep-walking. There is somebody waiting for us, an Alitalia man, our guide who will quickly get us through Customs. Thank God. Who says that we are not efficient in Italy? Hello my friend, come with me, hold my hand firmly; but I’m a little more serious. Off we go to see the ogre.
Everybody goes in one direction, while my Alitalia friend and I in another. I have the Carnet to sort out; open that suitcase, please. Oh no, surely not this one. I open it and start to sweat. Check. The Carnet is written in Italian. The Carnet must be written in English. Oh God, and now what? Here it is written “two suitcases of instruments”, and what’s in the other suitcases? More instruments, OK? “No…it’s not OK”. Don’t understand, do you? No, don’t understand. Two instruments in seven suitcases! I’m in a cold sweat. Alitalia tries to calm down the ogre. But he doesn’t understand much either; eventually, the man calms down. He erases two and writes seven on all the papers and then disappears. That’s done. Malpensa Customs will not be looking forward to seeing me again. Goodbye.

I find the others outside and the Prof raises his spirits. I raise mine too, because he has my two suitcases with him. We head towards the other terminal. We have to wait four hours before we can catch the internal flight to Miami, so we must try to occupy them. How? Gentlemen, we are going to the Triangle. But the Americans don’t appear to be interested, they couldn’t care less. What kind of people are they? We are going to the Triangle, don’t you know? It is we Italians who are going to confront the Triangle. Don’t you understand, don’t you care? No they don’t. They have those enormous cars which run silently and they are not interested in our expedition. We, who have the “Cinquecento”, it is we who are going to the Bermudas. We are hoping to pick up some crumbs that they may have left behind, who knows, maybe we will, we’ll see. But I don’t really believe it. If I look at their cars and then think about our Cinquecento, no I don’t believe it, it is not possible. Don’t be angry. You never have a good word to say about anyone or anything we know that. So, let’s go. I am a pessimist.
It is 4pm local time; we left Malpensa at 1pm our time. What a small world, it has only taken 3 hours to get here! We are all stretched out in Eastern Airlines comfortable armchairs, waiting for our flight.
We start to look around. So, this is the USA, OK.
Their cars are as long as four shop windows and they don’t make any noise. Enormous young men with square shoulders and blond girls in tow pass by without giving us a second look. We are waiting; we are walking up and down. I buy some postcards but I need some stamps, they are dispensed by machine, I need some cents, has anybody got any cents? Let’s go and eat it is 7 o’clock.
It’s self service. A strange mixture of salad and other things with jam, ice cold coca cola even though it is freezing outside. We start to spend our money; $3 and 60 cents. Ok, I haven’t spent too much, and you Prof? Neither have I, $5 dollars, not bad. The others are looking after the luggage, so we go back to relieve them so they can get something to eat. Rest, sleep, smoke, and stretch our legs ready for another trip. We are ready. The Triangle; finally we are able to continue our journey, we squeeze onto the aircraft and off we go. It is a thing much smaller than the jumbo and of course all our movements become much more difficult. But we cannot go back, besides, it takes just 3 hours. We start chatting, and eventually everyone is talking over each other. Camilli starts telling funny stories, he is good at this. Time goes by. We are all going into the unknown; we become friends and start to get to know each other better. Life is so short. We arrive at Miami Airport.

We get off the plane like shadows, we are all so tired. However, someone is waiting for us. It is Ambrogio Fogar with Paolo Sironi, they’ve come to help us, pleased to meet you, welcome to Miami, give me your luggage, there is a car outside. Let’s take a taxi too because we have a mountain of luggage. The air is wonderful, yet it is almost midnight.
The stars twinkle between the palm trees, it takes me back to another century, I am in love with this place already; Miami I love you. I breathe the air which has a smell of youth; it reminds me of spring, the taste of simple things, my teacher and the flowers on the window sill. People are wearing short sleeves, I have a coat. Now we head towards Miami Beach and the ‘Mardi Gras’ hotel. After a brisk drive along a straight road lined with superb palm trees, we arrive. Our rooms have colour televisions and a nice shower with plenty of hot water. These Americans! Lots of little soaps, matches, paper tissues, plenty of ice, mountains of towels. Tell me something Prof, just think about our Italian hotels.
The others sleep on the boat, but because there isn’t enough space the Prof, myself and Maiorca and his family stay at the hotel. Goodnight, see you tomorrow. What a place!
It is the life of millionaires, and it is just the start.