That Summer Belonged to Us

Then fate, in the form of tragedy, played its part…

Julia had overheard Nashe arranging to go swimming one evening with three of his mates, so she arranged to meet three of her own on the same stretch of beach, where there was a diving raft afloat not too far out to make it a difficult swim at high tide. The party of girls arrived soon after the young men and there was a cheerful exchange of surprised greetings, over-acted a little by the schemer, as they chose adjacent wooden frames of canvas-stripped beach-huts in which to change and leave their gear out of sight of people strolling along the promenade. There was laughter and banter as the young people trod warily and quickly over the shelving pebbles to the sea into which they plunged with shrieks of pleasurable shock from the girls.The water was soon up to their necks and they all made for the raft, which was bobbing gently, invitingly, bathed in the warm evening sunlight. Naturally, there was competition as to who would reach it first and the girls were more than content to let the men win easily. Julia allowed herself to be hauled on board by Nashe and expressed her thanks for something she could easily have done herself, indeed usually did.
‘Fancy seeing you here,’ he said to her and she answered with a judicious smile, not sure whether or not he was teasing her. It was a happy, lively group, diving and swimming, all displaying their healthy, sun-tanned bodies, the men showing off their swimming abilities, the women their fetching bikinis. Despite the vigorous exercise, the session did not last as long as it would have done under the daytime sun. Julia and her friends began to feel chilled first and made their way to shore, soon followed by the young men, who had quickly lost some of their enthusiasm for the sport with the loss of anyone to impress.
Nashe had arrived in his car with one passenger and one of the other men had also brought a friend in his, whereas the girls had been dropped off by a father with a people-carrier. When offered lifts home, the daughter of the obliging father was annoyed to find that she would be the only one waiting for his return, the other three having made more agreeable arrangements. Julia would go with Nashe, but first he had to take his friend home to a farm several miles out of town. Would Julia mind the detour? Julia definitely would not.
The cars were parked on the wide grass verge at the far side of the road. Julia was sitting behind Nashe and his friend. In the other car they were waiting for Selma Farrell to join them, but she was still chatting to the girl who was waiting for her father, feeling guilty, no doubt, at leaving her for a more exciting ride. Someone shouted across to her to hurry up. Nashe was beginning to draw away, when Selma, thinking she might miss her lift in the other car, made a sudden dash across the road. She was hit by a van travelling fast towards the town.

Recalling the scene as she sat on the sofa that evening, Julia experienced the horror of it once more and was, as usual, overwhelmed with the desire to block it from her memory. They had all seen it happen and been unable to stop it. Their warning cries had barely left their lips before Selma was struck down. Julia had difficulty remembering the names of her other two friends and could remember nothing at all about the friends of Nashe, but the name Selma Farrell was seared on her mind as indelibly as the sight of her, lying there in the road while they waited for the ambulance, her brightly striped towel and orange-patterned bikini pieces lying beside her. Then there was a blank space, beyond recall, blocked out by numbing shock, or subsequently erased as one mercifully forgets how severe a pain has been, yet vaguely holding an anxious wait at the hospital and tearful explanations to Selma’s distraught parents, before Julia could re-live the remainder of that evening; late evening by now and this time she was sitting beside Nashe in his car, the friend having been dropped off at a farm track on the edge of a village previously unknown to her. She was weeping uncontrollably, facing away from Nashe towards the dark shapes of trees and high hedgerows, briefly illumined by the glancing headlights. After a mile or so, Nashe stopped the car in a lay-by and turned to her with words of comfort, but she did not stay to hear them. The moment the car stopped Julia had opened the door and run off into a small copse, futilely trying to flee the unbearable. He gave her a few minutes to herself before following. He found her leaning against a tree, no longer crying, just a limp figure with her head hanging in sad acceptance that there was no escape from the fact that Selma Farrell was dead. One moment she had had a friend, the next, as the shout of warning died within her throat, she had watched, powerless to help, as that friend was killed. Nashe took her into his arms. At first she did not respond, just lay against him in the patchy moonlit darkness, comforted by his embrace and the warmth of his body. After a while, she started to tremble. She lifted her tear stained face to his, as if mutely asking to be kissed better, like a child does when it has been hurt. Nashe kissed her gently, comfortingly, and was staggered by her response. She clung to him and kissed him back passionately, hungry for his love. In that small copse on that narrow country road began the short, intense love affair that was to alter Julia’s life and, she thought now, looking back objectively, have hardly any effect on Nashe’s. Not that it had been his fault. She had ended it by pushing him away, back to Frances and, subsequently, when the consequence of their love became apparent, she had kept that knowledge to herself for as long as possible. Why had she done that, she now asked herself.

From the novel Cross Currents by Barbara Masterton, Il Moscardino 2012

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YourBooks.it & Cross Currents

Inserimento di Cross Currents di Barbara Masterton nella vetrina di YourBooks.it.

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Il Cornista è approdato su MyBook

L’ultimo concerto del cornista di Marina Joffreau viene presentato su MyBook.

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MyBook & Barbara Masterton

Il 26 maggio 2012 Barbara Masterton è su MyBook con Cross Currents.

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Cross Currents in primo piano

In data 18 maggio 2012 Cross Currents di Barbara Masterton viene inserito nelle vetrine di ShowBooksLibera il Libro.

 

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Buon cammino, Moscardino!

Le copertine di questi primi tre eBook del Moscardino sono state illustrate dalla stessa talentuosa mano: quella di Carla Lastoria.
Quanto realizzato finora ci pare un buon inizio, ci auguriamo di  avere ancora un lungo cammino davanti a noi. Ai lettori l’ardua sentenza!

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Cross Currents

L’attività prosegue e il 17 marzo 2012 viene alla luce, in versione eBook e in inglese, Cross Currents di Barbara Masterton.
L’autrice, romanziera già affermata, aveva in passato pubblicato unicamente con editori tradizionali. Ambientati prevalentemente nel Sud dell’Inghilterra e in particolare nel Dorset, dov’è nata e cresciuta, i suoi romanzi si contraddistinguono per uno stile narrativo molto curato ed elegante unito a un’acuta analisi introspettiva delle sue eroine: donne che lottano per affrancarsi dalla schiavitù dei ricatti morali che affliggono i rapporti famigliari, dei segreti taciuti e dei meccanismi, talvolta perversi, messi in atto da personalità irrimediabilmente sempre in conflitto ed esacerbate dalle convenzioni sociali.

In Cross Currents la protagonista è Julia, un’attraente e nubile madre quarantenne che accetta, per inerzia, di sposare un suo precedente e ricco spasimante dei tempi del liceo, adattandosi a condurre un’esistenza agiata accanto a un uomo che sente di non amare:
“So he saw the fast approaching mountain of water almost as quickly as she did, whose expectation seemed to have conjured it from the far ocean beyond the heaving bay. Julia held her breath, every muscle of her body tense as the mighty wave rose across the pebble strand and flung itself upwards to engulf the wall. A moment later, there he was, still there.Julia relaxed with a huge sigh, of what, relief, disappointment? Yes, of course it was relief. There he was, crouching against a metal seat, holding on for dear life, triumphant. She watched him straighten up and continue his arduous progress towards her, growing larger by the minute, returning home. She rested her hot forehead against the cold glass, drained of strength, unutterably tired as if she had been struggling inside with a turmoil as wild as the one outside. She did not raise her head until she heard the sound of his key in the door and his shout, unnecessary but typical, announcing his safe arrival.
«I’m back, Julia.»
Yes, so he was. The atmosphere in the flat changed perceptibly with his entrance. As the door banged shut behind him his over-powering personality surged through the rooms, very much as the wind had done earlier. It seemed to Julia that everything, animate and inanimate, experienced a frisson of awareness at his presence, the very dust in the air stirred beneath his breeziness. From introspective lethargy, Julia became bright and cheerful – he wanted her no other way, having no patience with emotions he would not take the trouble to understand. (…)

It had taken Bruce six, unrelenting months to convince Julia that she had much to gain by marrying him and another six months for her to realise how much she had lost by acquiescing. How foolish and selfish she had been, how easily flattered and deceived. Not that she had thought herself to be in love with him. Physically attracted, yes, very much so, as if her body craved a reminder of an almost forgotten pleasure, but she knew what it was to be truly in love, to have that love fulfilled and then to be deprived of it. She also knew what it was to be loved and not to be able to return it.”

Per anni ha gelosamente custodito uno scomodo segreto che ha fatto soffrire i suoi famigliari, in particolare l’adorata madre che è venuta a mancare senza potere conoscere la verità, ma anche chi è stato condannato ad amare Julia di nascosto e in silenzio.
La gelosia, l’invidia e l’egoismo serpeggiano in famiglia, avvelenandone i rapporti. La rivalità fra sorelle è una realtà antica quanto il mondo, latente ma sempre viva, radicata e multiforme:

“As soon as he had left the room, Julia opened her eyes and consulted the digital clock beside her on the bedside table, just in case for once he had made a concession for Sunday morning, but no, it was just past seven-thirty, time for her wake-up cup of tea from now till eternity.
On weekday mornings and most Saturday mornings, Bruce left the flat before Julia made an appearance in the kitchen and had his breakfast at his restaurant, walking there and back for the good of his physique. He liked to kick-start the day of as many persons as possible. Julia drank the tea and went to take a shower; a thorough cleansing to wash away every trace of the night, every memory, but that was not possible. Her mind, which was still starved of love, felt betrayed by the body which was having too much of a good thing. It was ironic, but Frances envied her. Not that she had ever said so, but between sisters what was not said, or was merely hinted at, could be even more meaningful than explanations. Julia had been given to understand that Nashe had become unexciting in bed and Frances did not need to be told that Bruce had energy to spare. Julia smiled rather spitefully at her image in the bathroom mirror as she brushed a little too vigorously at the enamel on her teeth, as if they were still contaminated with alien saliva. Frances had been against her marrying Bruce and now she thought she understood why. It wasn’t that she would be materially better off than her sister, Frances had more than enough money and a lovely home; it wasn’t even that Julia would be leaving their widowed father to live on his own in his old age, leaving him a prey to the widow next-door, it was that she would be enjoying a sex life a lot more interesting than her own. Julia knew it mattered to Frances from the sort of novels she read. If you can’t do it, teach it, if you can’t have it, read about it. When Thomas had been the lover in question, Frances had been able to feel sorry for her as being unfulfilled, rather sad, really. Julia rinsed and spat umpteen times with gusto, lathered her treacherous body with scented cream, to facilitate its treachery, she realized with a swift pang of shame, covered it with lovely clean, expensive clothes, which were a comforting compensation, and sallied forth into the rest of the controlled environment she now called home, where everything worked at the touch of a button, even herself, all at the mercy of a control freak called Bruce.”

Inevitabilmente, il momento della verità colpirà e sconvolgerà come vento di tempesta la quiete apparente. Niente sarà più come prima, ma proprio in quel frangente Julia si renderà conto che l’amore incondizionato e la fiducia sono riposti proprio dove meno si aspettava, e potrà finalmente iniziare una nuova vita di pienezza.

The activity continues and on March 17th 2012 Cross Currents by Barbara Masterton comes to light in eBook version. The author, already a successful novelist, has until now only published in the traditional way.

Mainly set in the South of England, and precisely in Dorset where she was born and grew up, her novels are characterized by a refined and elegant style of narration, coupled with a sharp introspective portrait of her heroines: women who struggle to free themselves from the bondage of moral blackmail which poisons family ties; from well kept secrets and  twisted dynamics set in motion by conflicting personalities beyond remedy, embittered by social conventions.

In Cross Currents the main character is Julia, an attractive single mother in her forties, who out of apathy accepts to marry a wealthy previous suitor from her schooldays, fitting herself to enjoy a comfortable life with a man she knows she doesn’t love:

So he saw the fast approaching mountain of water almost as quickly as she did, whose expectation seemed to have conjured it from the far ocean beyond the heaving bay. Julia held her breath, every muscle of her body tense as the mighty wave rose across the pebble strand and flung itself upwards to engulf the wall. A moment later, there he was, still there. Julia relaxed with a huge sigh, of what, relief, disappointment? Yes, of course it was relief. There he was, crouching against a metal seat, holding on for dear life, triumphant. She watched him straighten up and continue his arduous progress towards her, growing larger by the minute, returning home. She rested her hot forehead against the cold glass, drained of strength, unutterably tired as if she had been struggling inside with a turmoil as wild as the one outside. She did not raise her head until she heard the sound of his key in the door and his shout, unnecessary but typical, announcing his safe arrival.
«I’m back, Julia.»
Yes, so he was. The atmosphere in the flat changed perceptibly with his entrance. As the door banged shut behind him his over-powering personality surged through the rooms, very much as the wind had done earlier. It seemed to Julia that everything, animate and inanimate, experienced a frisson of awareness at his presence, the very dust in the air stirred beneath his breeziness. From introspective lethargy, Julia became bright and cheerful – he wanted her no other way, having no patience with emotions he would not take the trouble to understand. (…)

It had taken Bruce six, unrelenting months to convince Julia that she had much to gain by marrying him and another six months for her to realise how much she had lost by acquiescing. How foolish and selfish she had been, how easily flattered and deceived. Not that she had thought herself to be in love with him. Physically attracted, yes, very much so, as if her body craved a reminder of an almost forgotten pleasure, but she knew what it was to be truly in love, to have that love fulfilled and then to be deprived of it. She also knew what it was to be loved and not to be able to return it.”

For years she has jealously kept a deep secret making her family suffer, especially her mother, whom she adores, who dies without knowing the truth, but even someone who was doomed to love Julia in silence.
Jealousy, envy and selfishness are well spread among the family members, poisoning their relationships. Rivalry among sisters is a reality as old as the world, latent but nevertheless still alive, deep-rooted and many-sided:

“As soon as he had left the room, Julia opened her eyes and consulted the digital clock beside her on the bedside table, just in case for once he had  made a concession for Sunday morning, but no, it was just past seven-thirty, time for her wake-up cup of tea from now till eternity.
On weekday mornings and most Saturday mornings, Bruce left the flat before Julia made an appearance in the kitchen and had his breakfast at his restaurant, walking there and back for the good of his physique. He liked to kick-start the day of as many persons as possible. Julia drank the tea and went to take a shower; a thorough cleansing to wash away every trace of the night, every memory, but that was not possible. Her mind, which was still starved of love, felt betrayed by the body which was having too much of a good thing. It was ironic, but Frances envied her. Not that she had ever said so, but between sisters what was not said, or was merely hinted at, could be even more meaningful than explanations. Julia had been given to understand that Nashe had become unexciting in bed and Frances did not need to be told that Bruce had energy to spare. Julia smiled rather spitefully at her image in the bathroom mirror as she brushed a little too vigorously at the enamel on her teeth, as if they were still contaminated with alien saliva. Frances had been against her marrying Bruce and now she thought she understood why. It wasn’t that she would be materially better off than her sister, Frances had more than enough money and a lovely home; it wasn’t even that Julia would be leaving their widowed father to live on his own in his old age, leaving him a prey to the widow next-door, it was that she would be enjoying a sex life a lot more interesting than her own. Julia knew it mattered to Frances from the sort of novels she read. If you can’t do it, teach it, if you can’t have it, read about it. When Thomas had been the lover in question, Frances had been able to feel sorry for her as being unfulfilled, rather sad, really. Julia rinsed and spat umpteen times with gusto, lathered her treacherous body with scented cream, to facilitate its treachery, she realized with a swift pang of shame, covered it with lovely clean, expensive clothes, which were a comforting compensation, and sallied forth into the rest of the controlled environment she now called home, where everything worked at the touch of a button, even herself, all at the mercy of a control freak called Bruce.”

Inevitably, the moment of truth strikes unexpectedly, and like a stormy wind will disrupt the apparent calm. Nothing will ever be the same, but in that very moment Julia awakens to realize that love and trust are there for her, where she had least expected them to be, and she can finally enjoy life to the full.

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Eccessi canori

Il 25 febbraio 2012 esce in versione eBook, e sempre della stessa autrice, la novella umoristica Eccessi canori. Protagonista è un cantante ossessivo che insidia un intero condominio, aspirante solista in un coro che si diletta di musica sacra. Arrigo Martinelli è infatti un melomane incallito che da quando è andato in pensione dispone di tutto il tempo che desidera per dedicarsi ininterrottamente al bel canto.

Chi soffre in silenzio di questa situazione è la moglie Ada, la quale da mattino a sera subisce la sua voce di tenorino sdolcinato che ripete al pianoforte, fino allo sfinimento e insistendo bene nei tremuli acuti, i pezzi scelti per la tournée di concerti e quelli che verranno eseguiti nella famosa messa cantata trasmessa in televisione. Pure i vicini, quotidianamente martellati dal suo canto molesto, non riusciranno a sottrarsi al suo invito per assistere alla registrazione televisiva della fatidica messa e finiranno per cedere alle sue insistenze. Ma la catastrofe annunciata non si farà attendere, e la tanto sospirata serata in musica nel salotto dei Martinelli avrà per lo stesso aspirante solista delle conseguenze irreversibili. Quando anche la musica può essere letale…
È proprio Ada, la sua imperturbabile signora, che sin dall’inizio fa, in un’unica e pregnante parola, un ritratto impietoso di Arrigo: “Un solo timpano gli era rimasto intatto, dopo un’otite purulenta contratta quando aveva appena otto anni. Ai tempi della sua infanzia Fleming non aveva ancora rivoluzionato il mondo della medicina moderna con la sua miracolosa scoperta, per cui anche una banalissima otite poteva causare danni permanenti. Ma il dottor Martinelli aveva saputo trarre vantaggio da quella sua menomazione, chiudendosi in una bolla protettiva che gli consentiva d’ignorare tutto ciò che lo poteva ostacolare nei suoi intenti, o disturbare nelle sue
occupazioni predilette. Era intoccabile, come in una botte di ferro. Scafandrato, diceva la moglie.”

Oppure gli fa il verso in uno dei loro frequenti e velati battibecchi a senso unico: «Quando mai la presenza di qualcuno ti ha impedito di esercitarti? È da stamattina che ti dai al bel canto… “Sai che la vita mia si strugge appoco appoco!”…» canticchiò sdolcinata in falsetto imitando il marito, prima di domandargli sottovoce: «L’ugola ti freme ancora?»
Rivela in uno sfogo all’anziana vicina un po’ svampita: «Lei non interrompe nulla, cara signora Camosso, glielo assicuro (…) non disturba minimamente. Niente e nessuno potrebbe arrestare il flusso canoro che prorompe dalla gola di mio marito. Neppure una cannonata! Si figuri che l’altro ieri non ha neppure avvertito la scossa di terremoto che ha colpito la Val di Susa.», quando la narrazione non penetra nel suo intimo svelando ciò che Ada non osa esprimere a voce: “Chi gliel’aveva fatto fare d’interrompere gli studi di archeologia per sposare quel piciu di Arrigo! Ada se lo era chiesto tante volte. L’unico divertimento che le rimaneva, e che solo lontanamente poteva ricordarle le sue aspirazioni di giovane studentessa universitaria, erano i mercatini dell’antiquariato in Piazza Gran Madre e il Gran Balôn di Porta Palazzo, dove acquistava i vecchi e inutili gingilli di cui aveva riempito ogni angolo della casa e che suo marito definiva acidamente ciapapùver…”
Purtroppo, la smania di protagonismo dell’instancabile cantore mette a dura prova il loro rapporto coniugale già compromesso, e all’ego sconfinato di Arrigo sembra non esistere altro rimedio se non un’azione drastica, senza possibilità di ritorno.

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L’ultimo concerto del cornista

Il Moscardino inizia la sua attività il 27 novembre 2011 con la pubblicazione in formato eBook de L’ultimo concerto del cornista di Marina Joffreau. “Questa è la storia di una giornata decisiva nella vita di Armando Zanetti, cornista in un’orchestra sinfonica di provincia…”, dice il breve testo introduttivo.

Figlio unico di madre vedova emigrata in Francia, e con la quale ebbe un morboso rapporto di dipendenza che si rispecchia ora nella sua aracnofobia, il povero Armando sembra per natura votato al fallimento. Appassionato di fotografia e di fumetti osé, vive un amore improbabile con una giovane e promettente violinista. Deriso dai colleghi per la sua goffaggine, è solito assentarsi dal teatro durante le prove, in attesa che giunga il momento in cui gli ottoni entreranno in azione, e frequenta assiduamente il locale Chez Mimì, gestito da una vecchietta che in gioventù ebbe aspirazioni di soprano lirico e animato da affezionatissimi habitué unici nel loro genere. In questo ambiente, che Armando considera la sua seconda casa, egli si sente amato e rispettato, e ispira pure tenere fantasie a due attempate signore. Tuttavia, in quest’infausta giornata, commetterà tutta una serie d’ imprudenze che gli costeranno molto care. Verrà infatti cacciato in malo modo dal protettivo bistrot, romperà definitivamente il già labile rapporto con la giovane violinista che lo prenderà a schiaffi per la sua indiscrezione, assisterà alla distruzione delle fotografie con cui intendeva partecipare a un prestigioso concorso e si renderà infine ridicolo tentando un gesto estremo, quasi di ribellione, dietro le quinte del teatro. Tutto sembrerebbe preludere alla catastrofe, ma la vita è come una commedia: piena di colpi di scena, e “anche un giorno infausto a volte può riservare qualche sorpresa…”.

È interessante notare che più Armando viene disprezzato dai suoi simili, più profondo diventa il suo rapporto d’affetto e d’amicizia con gli animali. E se non proprio con tutti gli animali, quasi. Dimostra infatti un grande rispetto per i buffi insetti corazzati che disturbano il suo sonno: “Il dorso del piede ebbe un fremito, avvertendo il solletico procuratogli dalle zampette di più insetti bombati che avevano seguito l’esempio del capo carovana. Gli occhi di Armando si socchiusero quasi vitrei assumendo l’espressione assente tipica del dormiveglia. Seguì un vago stupore. Destatosi, scosse cautamente il piede per allontanare gli insetti ma facendo bene attenzione a non schiacciarli. Adesso passeggiavano indisturbati sul lenzuolo.”
Amore per gli uccellini che allietano il suo minuscolo balcone, e per la coccinella: “Armando tuffò la mano in un sacchetto e prese una manciata di mangime per uccelli. La depose poi in una rudimentale casetta di legno e corteccia fissata alla ringhiera con del filo di ferro. Si ritrasse, e subito arrivarono passeri e cinciallegre che festosi cominciarono a beccare i chicchi, per nulla intimoriti dalla sua presenza. (…) Posò amorevolmente l’indice sul vetro e la coccinella ci salì sopra incominciando a passeggiare. Prese poi a spaziare sulla mano che lui girava e rigirava per osservare meglio l’insetto. Questo gioco lo divertiva, riempiendolo di una gioia quasi infantile.”
Perfino i colombi che svolazzano sul tetto del vetusto condominio sembrano trarre beneficio dalla musica di Armando: “Con ancora indosso l’accappatoio si piazzò davanti al leggio. Suonò, e la voce del corno proruppe innamorata come il tubare dei colombi sugli abbaini del palazzo.”
Con Pascià, il pingue cagnolino, e col topolino nano del teatro, intrattiene un rapporto di fraterna amicizia: “Il bastardino, che poco prima aveva abbaiato furioso contro il gatto che si era arrampicato sul tetto del vecchio gabinetto, si avventò ora festoso su Armando. Al posto del collare portava un fiocco rosso a mo’ di farfallino.
«Non adesso, Pascià, ho le prove!»
Cercò di respingere con affetto il cane che gli faceva mille feste, ma si sentiva intralciato nei movimenti per via delle troppe cose che portava con sé. (…)
Da un buco nel parquet vicino alla sua postazione uscì un topolino così piccolo da sembrare appartenere a una specie nana, che si mise a zampettargli intorno. Armando abbassò lo sguardo, lo vide e gli sorrise triste. Sollevò piano il piede e il topo, stando al gioco, gli passò sotto tranquillo, continuando poi la sua passeggiata fra seggiole e leggii.”
Come pure col gatto abbandonato che decide di adottare: “Il gattino miagolava e si strusciava contro le caviglie dell’uomo. Sembrava implorarlo di portarlo a casa con sé. Allora, Armando prese il cucciolo fra le braccia, lo mise al riparo sotto il risvolto del soprabito, e riprese il cammino.”
Avevo detto con quasi tutti gli animali… ce n’è infatti uno che ad Armando non va per niente a genio, e che nei suoi famosi versi Ettore Busetti descrive come l’immonda palla munita di tentacoli assassini:
“Armando volse lo sguardo alla finestrella e scorse il ragno. Ebbe un sussulto e si bloccò come paralizzato. Pure l’urina smise di colare. Il ragno aveva catturato la preda e la stava avviluppando indisturbato…”.
Nel rapporto con la madre troppo protettiva è infatti l’origine dell’aracnofobia paralizzante di cui soffre. Per tutto il racconto aleggia nelle sue delicate tinte pastello il ricordo di questa bellissima donna dalle curve sinuose e avvolgenti, della sua voce rassicurante, del suo sorriso beato e soddisfatto. Il padre, solo un’immagine sfocata in bianco e nero da divo del cinema muto, una fotografia incollata nell’album di famiglia. Di suo non rimane altro che il lustro trombone a coulisse appeso al muro nel salotto come una reliquia.

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