Tomorrow, in September, we will see
A terrace that faces a town; it doesn’t matter which Sardinian town is. Low houses up to the sea; a far bay. And a sunset, a classical sunset accompanied by glasses of white wine, peanuts, and snacks. And then the starting of the dinner, slowly, because the gathering of the young—boys and girls of three families of friends—still continues. A long table packed with platters of seafood, pasta, salads, and fruit.
In the meantime, it is dark, the right atmosphere for a metaphysical conversation about the sauces, the kind of fish, the quality of the tomatoes. All the young are elegant, tanned, and in good shape. All the young are unemployed except one who works in Germany. Their age varies from 24 to 34, and they seem at ease, free from worry, unperturbed.
At a certain time Claudia comes, a guest. She was in Santa Lucia and says that there are no tourists at all, “the village is empty, what a strangeness.” But the imagine of a desolate Santa Lucia is only a new motive to talk about food.
The main character on the table is a fish called “gattuccio” and everybody’s intent is to say something about its taste in an emphatic manner.
I feel like I’m alone and think that I worked 14 hours a day all through 35 years to prepare and allow my children’s future. I fought to ensure they could have the right education, and opportunities. And that my children went abroad soon because in Italy the space was limited, and worked hard to find their way, following their parents’ example. I miss them: they are working hard also now, in this moment, around the world, since they only have 15 days of vacation in a year.
What hurts me in this terrace is the lack of tragicità—which I don’t like to translate as ‘tragedy.’ Tragicità, and seriousness, and responsibility, is a value in life and encompasses catharsis and sacrifice, ethics and respect, the hardness of parents’ leadership, the duties of the children… I’d like to speak about the situation, taking advantage of this wonderful dinner, about the perspectives of the young, of these boys and girls without hopes—it is a tragedy—but also without tragicità—it is a drama into a drama. I’d like to fight again for this generation—I’m so affectionate, so concerned—but I understand that also the battlefield has disappeared. Nobody wants to speak about difficulties and face problems: in September we will see. Sure, we will see. For the moment, let’s taste this sorbet; it is delicious.
It is night now, the right moment for a grappa and a bout of nostalgia. During my life, I had troubles, impediments and enemies too, real and imaginary. But I feel nostalgia for my enemies too, my fears, and my ghosts.
They are more vivid than this present pond I don’t understand, I cannot accept.