Or: Miami. The Prof has slept well and he is hungry. Two rooms at the Parkview hotel. The suitcases finally go! A Genoese in Miami! He knows everything; damn. However, he is a good man. But he does go on talking... talking…talking. Sheep!
February 22nd
The wash from another boat, travelling rather quickly, slaps the side of our boat and wakes me up. My cabin is illuminated by the splendid sunlight which enters through the porthole. I look around and I see my two friends asleep. Mossatich is sleeping in the bunk below mine, and on the other side there is Sironi, or at least I assume so, because all I can see are a pile of rags. I get up quietly, put on my shoes and climb up on deck. Good morning Prof.
The Prof is already up. Good morning, have you slept well? Of course! Very well. Me too, at long last! He is messing around with one of his suitcases, throwing stuff out and putting it back in a disorderly manor, but in a manor which is more congenial to him. Hey, Menconi, he says, let’s go and have a coffee somewhere. Beautiful idea I say, but we ought to wait for the others; we are due to meet Tirelli and Camilli here so I think its better to wait. But the Prof wants to go, so he goes.
I don't know if he will find a bar nearby because here in Miami the distances are so enormous that you can’t go anywhere on foot. I go down to have a wash and then to put on some normal clothes before going back on deck. At nine o’clock the large heads of Paolo and Mossatich appear as they climb up through the hatch.
Tirelli and Camilli arrive in a big Hertz car, then the Prof comes back, and we all meet in the pilothouse to tell each other about our latest adventures. Tirelli says that he has booked two rooms at the Parkview Hotel for the four of us and we should feel free to go and take a look. We decide that in the afternoon we will pack all the instruments and sports gear, and then we will give everything to a transport company for them to send back to Italy.
Very good I say, but we must make sure that the transport company is safe and reliable because the instruments Bocami gave me are very delicate. At the same time I breathe a sigh of relief because the idea of carrying the seven suitcases plus two of mine though Customs in Milan has been worrying me for some time. Gentlemen, shall we now go and get something to eat?
We all get into the huge car and head towards the hotel to drop off our luggage. Good morning and so on... room 214 and 216 please.
In the hall Camilli has met a Genoese gentleman who is a guest at the same hotel. He is now living in America, and has been married to a local woman for a long time; he happily offers to help us, as this also represents a wonderful opportunity for him to speak with some fellow countrymen. We go out to find a place where we can eat and the Genoese man, having nothing better to do, comes with us; he helps us to cross the roads and talks and talks and talks, we cannot stop him. He knows everything about everybody, he knows Miami like the back of his hand, we follow him and listen to him; he is showing off, and, as he is a sailor, he tells us all about his adventures with numerous attractive women. But where are we going to eat? We keep walking. Quick, turn left, go straight on, now turn right, wait, there’s a traffic light… beautiful window displays! How long do we have to go on like this? asks the Prof. Now it is going to take even longer because the Prof has seen a pair of trousers in a shop and he wants to buy them. The Prof goes into the shop so Tirelli and I must wait for him (I don’t want to lose Tirelli because he is the man who has the money and therefore the keys to the world, as my grandfather used to say!). Meanwhile the rest of the group walk on, they turn a corner and from that moment on, we lose contact. After a while, the Prof comes sadly out of the shop, the trousers don’t fit him, and so we keep going. But where are we going? We have lost sight of our friends. We look around, glance at the shops, and finally have breakfast in the first pub we happen to see. Typical American service. Plenty to eat. The firm is paying, and after all this is breakfast and lunch together. I have been living and eating with these people for a few days now and I am still unable to understand if breakfast is breakfast or whether breakfast includes lunch. When I am at home, I just have a coffee.
Now that we have eaten we can think better, so we decide to go back to the hotel to wait for our friends. After a few minutes they arrive so we get into a car and return to “Passagemaker”. Meanwhile we say goodbye for now to “Zenese" (Genoese in dialect), we will meet again tonight. We are now busy getting the equipment packed ready for the return journey. Everyone lends a hand, and by 2:30 p.m. we have everything packed that has to be sent back to Italy. The carrier arrives on time; we load the boxes, and give him the Ata Carnet. My episode with “instruments” is now closed at last. I just hope that everything arrives back in good condition. We return on board to have a coke, our last free drink on the boat. At that moment Kuk arrives in a car as big as a train, apparently he lives here in Miami. He is looking very elegant and he is here with his beautiful brown haired Cuban wife. We say a heartily goodbye to him; a man who displayed so much skill and patience in many trying situations. (I wouldn’t have blamed him if he had quietly sailed away one night, considering all the mess we had created on his boat and because of all those silly things we had done).
Now it’s 6 pm. Sironi says that it is time to go to the hotel and have a shower, so, as he is the driver, we docilely follow him. "U Zenese" (the Genoese) has attached himself to our group and joins us for dinner; he says that he knows a place where we can eat the best paella in Miami. We are unanimous and follow him contentedly. He makes every effort to ensure that we are all happy, and as we are walking in two groups of six, he goes to and fro speaking to everybody and being very polite. We talk and, as I live in Pegli (near Genoa), I sense that he needs to tell somebody his story. He remembers the streets of Genoa with nostalgia, and asks me so many questions; I tell him that unfortunately, the road where he was born doesn’t exist anymore, that the quarter of Piccapietra has been destroyed and rebuilt, and that “Via Madre di Dio” has changed and is now an exclusive area with many skyscrapers etc.
We arrive at a typical Spanish restaurant in the Latin district of the city; and there are hundreds of places like this in Miami. The walls are covered with posters of the Plaza de Toros which you can find in many Spanish towns, and with plenty of pennants, bullfighting ornaments, swords and other stuff made specifically for sticking into the poor beast. Some walls are painted the colour of blood. The waiters are helpful, and of course our friend speaks Spanish so he is at ease as he orders paella for everybody. While we wait they bring us some white wine, Castilla, which we happily drink; especially as we haven’t drunk any wine since our departure from Italy. The "Paella Valenciana" arrives, and we eat a lot. This American-Genoese gentleman is certainly a good chap, but he also has his faults, for instance, speaking too much during dinner. I believe that in order to enjoy a good dish, you should do as the monks do; eat slowly and silently. Pretending to listen to him, smiling at his wisecracks and his silly jokes, stresses me so much that I am forced to use my brain; but my brain wants to rest while my stomach does the work! “U Zena” is upsetting me so much that I want to get up and leave this delicious meal. But of course, I stay and listen.
He starts to tell us all about the history of American, beginning with the redskins, and in such incredible, colourful detail, that none of us are able to say a single word. We have to listen. Just listen. Camilli winks at me and I angrily look back at him; after all, it is his fault that we are here.
At ten o’clock we leave and go to another place nearby where we can drink till late. It is in a beautiful basement, hidden from the indiscreet eyes of careless passer-bys; the lady behind the counter nods to the Spanish of the “Zenese” and she takes us to another room hidden further away from the first, where there is an enormous counter, and behind it two beautiful girls who wait for silly customers such as us. Since it is our last evening in Miami, we’ll probably spend a lot of money without worrying about it too much. Bacardi for everybody.
There are no other customers in this place. The atmosphere gets warmer as minutes pass by; now this man pays, and we happily gulp down this blond liqueur. Then the Prof pays, then me, then Camilli; the girls accept drinks from us, they learn that we are Italian... we keep drinking... Sironi pays, Tirelli pays, somebody strums an organ... the notes fly, we drink again... the girls are pretty, they wear beautiful low cut dresses, one is Colombian and the other is Cuban. We immediately make friends, they are able to understand us... but there is the counter which separates us. They are giggling when they say that Italians are good lovers; they have jet black hair, with dark, horizontal shining eyes which seem to say “I will knock you down immediately” if you try anything.
They say that it’s nice to be in an American town where they can listen to something different, the “gringos” speak to us about macaroni, spaghetti, mandolins... but you Italians are different; “Italianos mucios amador”, etc. They want to know if we are sailors; no dear Samantha, this damned little devil says her name is, we are not sailors, we are members of an expedition just back from the Bahamas, from the Triangle of death; have you ever heard anyone speak about it? “Triangolo de la muerte?” What is this Triangle? I don’t pursue the subject... poor girl, she doesn't know anything. The Triangle is a stones throw from her and she has never heard about it. Did you hear that, Prof ! She doesn't know anything about it. It is better not to know I say, and I don’t know anything either! Do you even care about it, Samantha? All you have to do is pour the blonde Bacardi to all your customers and smile. The Triangle, don’t make me laugh! Ask him, the Prof, he is a great scientist, yet he doesn't know anything either!
There are no triangles, believe me, no squares and no stripes on this earth. As that guy said... there is just a beautiful island, in fact many beautiful islands all surrounded by marvellous seas, with lots of holidaying Americans who fish day and night, despite the Triangle. That’s all.
Samantha, how pretty you are! She smiles; she takes my right hand, and tells me my future... she says that I will live long and that I will win a huge sum of money. So, as soon as I arrive in Italy, I must learn how to fill in a Football coupon. Its midnight on 22nd. Other customers arrive. The magic circle breaks. Now the girls have to serve them too... so we go. Goodbye sweet Samantha, goodbye! A kiss on the cheek for both girls from each of us; then, continuous goodbyes until we reach the door. What a nice feelings; my God! The Prof, in the euphoria of the moment, goes up to the counter and buys an enormous box of Havana cigars.
The dollars are disappearing rapidly.
Back at the hotel the Prof enters the room and turns the television on; and then, dead tired, goes to bed. After a moment, he starts to snore. I switch the TV off and fall into bed.
I count sheep a million times. I turn again and again, listening to his snoring; it is turning into a nightmare.
Please Prof, turn; he turns, he snores, he is destroying me. Who said that if you count sheep, you fall asleep? The devil grabs hold of me, and with a pillow I have this impelling desire to kill. Calm down, I tell myself. I calm down and keep counting; one, two, three, white, white, black, black and white, come on, jump my beautiful little sheep, come on, one hundred... two hundred... all the sheep of the world... Samantha... the pillow is soaked now.
God damn it! I want to tell all the shepherds in the world, and their bloody sheep, to keep away from me!
February 22nd
The wash from another boat, travelling rather quickly, slaps the side of our boat and wakes me up. My cabin is illuminated by the splendid sunlight which enters through the porthole. I look around and I see my two friends asleep. Mossatich is sleeping in the bunk below mine, and on the other side there is Sironi, or at least I assume so, because all I can see are a pile of rags. I get up quietly, put on my shoes and climb up on deck. Good morning Prof.
The Prof is already up. Good morning, have you slept well? Of course! Very well. Me too, at long last! He is messing around with one of his suitcases, throwing stuff out and putting it back in a disorderly manor, but in a manor which is more congenial to him. Hey, Menconi, he says, let’s go and have a coffee somewhere. Beautiful idea I say, but we ought to wait for the others; we are due to meet Tirelli and Camilli here so I think its better to wait. But the Prof wants to go, so he goes.
I don't know if he will find a bar nearby because here in Miami the distances are so enormous that you can’t go anywhere on foot. I go down to have a wash and then to put on some normal clothes before going back on deck. At nine o’clock the large heads of Paolo and Mossatich appear as they climb up through the hatch.
Tirelli and Camilli arrive in a big Hertz car, then the Prof comes back, and we all meet in the pilothouse to tell each other about our latest adventures. Tirelli says that he has booked two rooms at the Parkview Hotel for the four of us and we should feel free to go and take a look. We decide that in the afternoon we will pack all the instruments and sports gear, and then we will give everything to a transport company for them to send back to Italy.
Very good I say, but we must make sure that the transport company is safe and reliable because the instruments Bocami gave me are very delicate. At the same time I breathe a sigh of relief because the idea of carrying the seven suitcases plus two of mine though Customs in Milan has been worrying me for some time. Gentlemen, shall we now go and get something to eat?
We all get into the huge car and head towards the hotel to drop off our luggage. Good morning and so on... room 214 and 216 please.
In the hall Camilli has met a Genoese gentleman who is a guest at the same hotel. He is now living in America, and has been married to a local woman for a long time; he happily offers to help us, as this also represents a wonderful opportunity for him to speak with some fellow countrymen. We go out to find a place where we can eat and the Genoese man, having nothing better to do, comes with us; he helps us to cross the roads and talks and talks and talks, we cannot stop him. He knows everything about everybody, he knows Miami like the back of his hand, we follow him and listen to him; he is showing off, and, as he is a sailor, he tells us all about his adventures with numerous attractive women. But where are we going to eat? We keep walking. Quick, turn left, go straight on, now turn right, wait, there’s a traffic light… beautiful window displays! How long do we have to go on like this? asks the Prof. Now it is going to take even longer because the Prof has seen a pair of trousers in a shop and he wants to buy them. The Prof goes into the shop so Tirelli and I must wait for him (I don’t want to lose Tirelli because he is the man who has the money and therefore the keys to the world, as my grandfather used to say!). Meanwhile the rest of the group walk on, they turn a corner and from that moment on, we lose contact. After a while, the Prof comes sadly out of the shop, the trousers don’t fit him, and so we keep going. But where are we going? We have lost sight of our friends. We look around, glance at the shops, and finally have breakfast in the first pub we happen to see. Typical American service. Plenty to eat. The firm is paying, and after all this is breakfast and lunch together. I have been living and eating with these people for a few days now and I am still unable to understand if breakfast is breakfast or whether breakfast includes lunch. When I am at home, I just have a coffee.
Now that we have eaten we can think better, so we decide to go back to the hotel to wait for our friends. After a few minutes they arrive so we get into a car and return to “Passagemaker”. Meanwhile we say goodbye for now to “Zenese" (Genoese in dialect), we will meet again tonight. We are now busy getting the equipment packed ready for the return journey. Everyone lends a hand, and by 2:30 p.m. we have everything packed that has to be sent back to Italy. The carrier arrives on time; we load the boxes, and give him the Ata Carnet. My episode with “instruments” is now closed at last. I just hope that everything arrives back in good condition. We return on board to have a coke, our last free drink on the boat. At that moment Kuk arrives in a car as big as a train, apparently he lives here in Miami. He is looking very elegant and he is here with his beautiful brown haired Cuban wife. We say a heartily goodbye to him; a man who displayed so much skill and patience in many trying situations. (I wouldn’t have blamed him if he had quietly sailed away one night, considering all the mess we had created on his boat and because of all those silly things we had done).
Now it’s 6 pm. Sironi says that it is time to go to the hotel and have a shower, so, as he is the driver, we docilely follow him. "U Zenese" (the Genoese) has attached himself to our group and joins us for dinner; he says that he knows a place where we can eat the best paella in Miami. We are unanimous and follow him contentedly. He makes every effort to ensure that we are all happy, and as we are walking in two groups of six, he goes to and fro speaking to everybody and being very polite. We talk and, as I live in Pegli (near Genoa), I sense that he needs to tell somebody his story. He remembers the streets of Genoa with nostalgia, and asks me so many questions; I tell him that unfortunately, the road where he was born doesn’t exist anymore, that the quarter of Piccapietra has been destroyed and rebuilt, and that “Via Madre di Dio” has changed and is now an exclusive area with many skyscrapers etc.
We arrive at a typical Spanish restaurant in the Latin district of the city; and there are hundreds of places like this in Miami. The walls are covered with posters of the Plaza de Toros which you can find in many Spanish towns, and with plenty of pennants, bullfighting ornaments, swords and other stuff made specifically for sticking into the poor beast. Some walls are painted the colour of blood. The waiters are helpful, and of course our friend speaks Spanish so he is at ease as he orders paella for everybody. While we wait they bring us some white wine, Castilla, which we happily drink; especially as we haven’t drunk any wine since our departure from Italy. The "Paella Valenciana" arrives, and we eat a lot. This American-Genoese gentleman is certainly a good chap, but he also has his faults, for instance, speaking too much during dinner. I believe that in order to enjoy a good dish, you should do as the monks do; eat slowly and silently. Pretending to listen to him, smiling at his wisecracks and his silly jokes, stresses me so much that I am forced to use my brain; but my brain wants to rest while my stomach does the work! “U Zena” is upsetting me so much that I want to get up and leave this delicious meal. But of course, I stay and listen.
He starts to tell us all about the history of American, beginning with the redskins, and in such incredible, colourful detail, that none of us are able to say a single word. We have to listen. Just listen. Camilli winks at me and I angrily look back at him; after all, it is his fault that we are here.
At ten o’clock we leave and go to another place nearby where we can drink till late. It is in a beautiful basement, hidden from the indiscreet eyes of careless passer-bys; the lady behind the counter nods to the Spanish of the “Zenese” and she takes us to another room hidden further away from the first, where there is an enormous counter, and behind it two beautiful girls who wait for silly customers such as us. Since it is our last evening in Miami, we’ll probably spend a lot of money without worrying about it too much. Bacardi for everybody.
There are no other customers in this place. The atmosphere gets warmer as minutes pass by; now this man pays, and we happily gulp down this blond liqueur. Then the Prof pays, then me, then Camilli; the girls accept drinks from us, they learn that we are Italian... we keep drinking... Sironi pays, Tirelli pays, somebody strums an organ... the notes fly, we drink again... the girls are pretty, they wear beautiful low cut dresses, one is Colombian and the other is Cuban. We immediately make friends, they are able to understand us... but there is the counter which separates us. They are giggling when they say that Italians are good lovers; they have jet black hair, with dark, horizontal shining eyes which seem to say “I will knock you down immediately” if you try anything.
They say that it’s nice to be in an American town where they can listen to something different, the “gringos” speak to us about macaroni, spaghetti, mandolins... but you Italians are different; “Italianos mucios amador”, etc. They want to know if we are sailors; no dear Samantha, this damned little devil says her name is, we are not sailors, we are members of an expedition just back from the Bahamas, from the Triangle of death; have you ever heard anyone speak about it? “Triangolo de la muerte?” What is this Triangle? I don’t pursue the subject... poor girl, she doesn't know anything. The Triangle is a stones throw from her and she has never heard about it. Did you hear that, Prof ! She doesn't know anything about it. It is better not to know I say, and I don’t know anything either! Do you even care about it, Samantha? All you have to do is pour the blonde Bacardi to all your customers and smile. The Triangle, don’t make me laugh! Ask him, the Prof, he is a great scientist, yet he doesn't know anything either!
There are no triangles, believe me, no squares and no stripes on this earth. As that guy said... there is just a beautiful island, in fact many beautiful islands all surrounded by marvellous seas, with lots of holidaying Americans who fish day and night, despite the Triangle. That’s all.
Samantha, how pretty you are! She smiles; she takes my right hand, and tells me my future... she says that I will live long and that I will win a huge sum of money. So, as soon as I arrive in Italy, I must learn how to fill in a Football coupon. Its midnight on 22nd. Other customers arrive. The magic circle breaks. Now the girls have to serve them too... so we go. Goodbye sweet Samantha, goodbye! A kiss on the cheek for both girls from each of us; then, continuous goodbyes until we reach the door. What a nice feelings; my God! The Prof, in the euphoria of the moment, goes up to the counter and buys an enormous box of Havana cigars.
The dollars are disappearing rapidly.
Back at the hotel the Prof enters the room and turns the television on; and then, dead tired, goes to bed. After a moment, he starts to snore. I switch the TV off and fall into bed.
I count sheep a million times. I turn again and again, listening to his snoring; it is turning into a nightmare.
Please Prof, turn; he turns, he snores, he is destroying me. Who said that if you count sheep, you fall asleep? The devil grabs hold of me, and with a pillow I have this impelling desire to kill. Calm down, I tell myself. I calm down and keep counting; one, two, three, white, white, black, black and white, come on, jump my beautiful little sheep, come on, one hundred... two hundred... all the sheep of the world... Samantha... the pillow is soaked now.
God damn it! I want to tell all the shepherds in the world, and their bloody sheep, to keep away from me!
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