Arthur

They had already made him spend an entire morning to set up all those tables, finish the shopping and make a hundred thousand phone calls, when Michele Scogliamiglio let him know that yes, at the provincial congress, the Ronconi boys would also bring his candidacy for the secretariat of the youth of the party, but that, however, the boss of the big tuft wanted one more of his people on the board of directors and couldn't wait to talk to him.

He then began, as if he had had in front of him a breviary with the litanies of the saints, to blaspheme, both in prose and in verse, every Christian and pagan divinity, while he handled tables and chairs and arranged the necessary things for the day of manciareddri that would be started within an hour. But what did those huge cuckolds still want? Did they even want to remove the flesh from his bones? He then picked up the phone again and began to negotiate: to try, at least, to postpone the debate until later - taking the time to also negotiate with the heads of the other rounds of delegates - before starting to go back and forth for the home and the city.

Meanwhile people – some with guitars, drums and wine; others expensively dressed to communicate elegance and refinement - they were starting to arrive and he wasn't finished yet: could he afford some bad looks for that asshole?

Just as he was fixing his jacket in the mirror near the garden - hoping, in short, finally, to be able to sit down and chat and sing with the others - Fulvia appeared in front of him, with her damned fixations, to put to him the worry that, in the meantime, local headquarters were working and reasoning to perfectly extract his posterior orifice. That great paracula Giuseppina Gladio now did nothing but plot from morning to night just to take control of everything and make herself a candidate wherever she wanted.

All he had to do was turn to the only man capable of guaranteeing him - in exchange, of course, for future and unconditional support - the loyalty of the delegates of that office: councilor Barile, the undisputed leader and great puppeteer of the club.

But he didn't find him in any of the places he was supposed to be, he wasn't able to contact him by phone and no one could tell him anything about where the hell that great whoremonger had gone to.

He returned to the villa when the party had already begun to proceed at full speed without him. Everyone greeted him and kissed him and called him aside to talk to him about this and that, about his next moves and what others weren't doing and what others might be thinking and having in mind until, starting to seriously get annoyed with all that continuous problems that presented themselves to him, he mentally told everyone to fuck off and went to sit where the guitars and the songs were.

All the trays with food brought by the guests were placed on the large table in the room. Some were preparing the doses and serving the dishes while others were handling the barrels and bottles of wine.

«What song are you playing?» Michele shouted as plates of lasagna, sausages and mushrooms, potatoes and peppers, arancini and meatballs passed from above, from hand to hand, and a chorus of popular songs, glasses being filled and various toasts started.

That was the moment in which, when everyone was shouting and laughing about their own business, he heard Lorenzo Grignoni - the one who had been hired by the municipality thanks to Barile's particular interest, soundly putting him in that position for Flavio Palmieri, who believed he could succeed to grab all the places for herself and her family - she heard Fulvia say, as we were saying, that Maria had finally managed to pass the audition for the acting school at the Goldoni in Rome. By now she was ready to move forward in life and the credit went entirely to Barile who went through it again and again at will, wasting himself in that body designed like a masterpiece for the pleasures of the cock.

Godgodgodgodgodgod! - immediately started in his mind as soon as he heard these words which had seemed worse than a punch in the intestines - what the hell were these relics of humanity talking about? Were they fooling him? The Maria that he had never managed to get out of his head, that enormous torture of his bowels that had not been able to leave him for years? Yes, it was her!

He already looked like a dead man when he decided to get up from that seat to pretend to make a telephone call. «Fuck off!» he shouted in a low voice while, after taking the grappa from the cabinet, he filled himself with a healthy glass as if, with it, he could kill all the thoughts that were crushing him.

Music, chatter, laughter and laughter from outside completed the work.

But he soon went back to sitting with the others, drinking wine and singing like a man desperate not to think.

The oleanders that surrounded the garden seemed to frame all that scum that was circling around it as if they were trying, poor things, to make everything more beautiful.

The brain began to pace back and forth as if gripped by a spasm of fever. He downed another glass and started singing, shouting random songs that the others tried to accompany with their guitars and voices.

«What's the matter with you: did you get drunk?» Guido, his lifelong friend and his most faithful, said in his ear.

«No, no, no, don't worry: everything is fine. Today it goes like this: I don't want to think about it."

«Be careful though because you keep hyenas around».

They went on like this until the evening when, as always, only the classic sons of a great cuckold remained with whom we were talking about serious things.

«But what did that idiot Marazza mean with his constant jokes – Lorenzo started to say while they were trying to stoke the barbecue with dry branches – What do they think: they're doing us a favor by supporting us at the congress? What they earn is more than what they give us!

Gianluca Marazza was the most talkative of Ronconi's boys: he wanted to bluff and make him sweat their support a little.

«Eh, you know how he is – replied Michele – he always seems to have a chill in his ass when he thinks he's important for something»

"We should play some tricks on these sons of bitches!"

«But no, no, – Fulvia intervened – because these guys then go after us and against the grain. You know that I'm full of guts and tripe with the regional secretariat."

«Arthur, aren't you saying anything? What do you think about these fitusi? – Guido turned to him, noticing that his head wasn't right there with them – Do you say they're playing fair or do they want to trick us?

He would have gladly sent them all to get screwed somewhere else. But he contained himself and played his role well, as usual:

«But no, don't worry, guys. Don't worry because they play a lot of fools but then they fall in line, believe me. They are gypsies and they want to eat as much as they can."

Meanwhile they passed him a piece of freshly roasted spicy sausage and a piece of bread mixed with the same sausages that were cooking, with the crumb turning red. They also handed him another glass of wine, as if he had only drunk a few. And he drank it in an instant, biting into the food from time to time.

"Come on come on come on! Let's have a toast! – everyone started saying following Lorenzo – Let's drink to our Arturo Andreoni, the next provincial secretary».

He put a smile on his face and toasted, blaspheming in his mind every saint and saint who could get something right.

They went on like this for a couple more hours until, finally, the evening ended and Arturo was able to breathe and try to let off steam.

He immediately rushed into the house and dived into his bookcase. He searched and searched for it. Where had she gone? Here it is: the Saison by Rimbaud. He really felt, lost and drunk, impure. How many tears, divine husband! And it seemed to him that the deliriums and tortures were gangrening his brain as if the devil wanted to hold him back, as if he were turning everything around him into cattle and that life which he really didn't have the secrets to change. And he really did nothing but look for them, always, continuously, and he couldn't find them, he couldn't find them. What a torment, what hell. What a fabulous work it would have become. But philosophers, what a heartbreaking injury philosophy is! Poor dear soul, why do you do this?

He read and reread for hours: trying to give himself an answer that he already knew he wouldn't be able to give himself.

At very high volume some opera arias vibrated throughout the house among the books thrown on the floor in the room. «And laugh, clown!» Meanwhile he ranted. Acting – always – while delirious, you don't even know what you are saying or thinking – and thinking, keeping the thought hidden, is too important in certain cases – and yet you have to make an effort; Aren't we men? No, we're clowns!