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| (Minima Moralia) |
The last time I was confronted with a conversation like that, like a child observes that the magic of the aquarium on the other side of the glass, leaning on his nose and leaving the halo, while the fish swim happy with their futility, was in a dilapidated Renault Four, which fades into the rust-colored amaranth, and vice versa. As we sailed up the calle Bailen, the Diagonal, la calle Augusta, through stately neighborhoods of the north, to go as far as the Vall d'Hebron, where the dusty football field, nestled in a palm tree dying and a nostalgic advertising signs of Kas Limon, Barcelona could be observed in full, with the smokestacks of industrial and cinturione Sagrada Familia, a city that looked like a tired prostitute lying on the bed with a cigarette in his mouth and the sea from her pillow, the four Argentines packed Renault Four with me in never interrupts the same conversation continued from the beginning of the journey. The theme was just an insignificant detail, the important thing was the tone of passionate get-together at a cafe in the early Twentieth Century, the slope of the sweet voice, consciousness, like a game of Trivial Pursuit, he had nothing to gain the final approval of "being right", and hence the "need" to cover its arguments can be of the utmost seriousness, the desire to dance with the other person, as if the words are hints of a tango by Gardel, or maybe a ranchera of Chavela Vargas. I particularly remember an endless debate sull'Aquarius, an energy supplement on the market just at the time, that the observance from the outside, without an exact understanding of the language, and with the window slightly open, closing his eyes for a moment, one could imagine sitting at a cafe on the Rio de la Plata, in the company of Borges, Galeano, Cortazar and Soriano, Fernando in the hand and the salty sea wind to mess up his hair. But in reality it was much better, because the devil in literature, at the end of the trip was playing football, and those you know to put in front of the Argentine goalkeeper touches with metaphysical doubt that those writers have never counted among their qualities.
Similarly, sitting around the dining table from Laura, waiting to perform the ritual of dell'ingozzamento pasta alla norma (say the standard for simplicity, in reality it was a pasta mythopoeic, almost five meals at the same time, complessissima work and sweet, the gastronomic equivalent of a hard Broadcast), the four Saccardi debate with arancine of Palermo. Influenced by local arancine met in Favignana, unanimously approved high level, and stressed from my personal memories of a summer outing at the time of middle school, when we spent a week in a convent of nuns in a remote village in the mountains of Palermo and modernity and, above all, we discovered the hot kiss un'arancina the flesh of freshly baked from the bar when the square is about to set, the Saccardi found themselves involved in a heated dispute about which was the best arancina of their city. Beyond the content-for me, not knowing Palermo, stuffed like a squid inextricable doubt that I'll bring back to the next visit to St. John of the Hermits (it's really that good arancina the bar Scimone, or is it better than the bar Rosanero? But the bar Scimone may participate in this competition although, in reality, a pastry shop? And also the fact which is only a few arancine day, if you go in the afternoon already do not find them, not disqualified from the game? It should then be able to participate, and probably win, even the mother of Mark, that its forty arancine of the year, however, turns out? arancine And the chefs offer catering Palermo, apply, and why it is so decayed the historic bar Alba?) - the look was gorgeous for me to hear about the four young artists, and find, in the atmosphere for smoking languidly empty their speeches, the spirit of those trips on Renault Four, the conversations of the four Argentine-chance that - four years ago, and update what you once told me his friend Fernando in Madrid: can you imagine what must be Buenos Aires, a city full of Argentines who speak of nothing all the time? I can imagine , as now I can imagine what must be Palermo, when it is time dell'arancina.
Argentina, as Sicily, are places extremes. The south, at least from a literary point of view, it always is. Saccardi I know this extremism and sat on him, deride him, respect him. From Trapani to Palermo, not even one hundred kilometers away, I counted a dozen fires on either side of the highway. The fire licked the fields, mountains, houses, but gave me the impression that it was a normal thing, that people there did much attention. Probably sitting around a table, seized by the smell of frying eggplant, were all too busy talking about arancine to call the Fire Department.
This existential extremism, this macabre taste for contrasts, this cult of the outburst, the last resort of the desperate, converted into artistic genre is finally visible in Favignana, otherwise too idyllic place, in the restored Tonnara or, more precisely, in the former premises of Florio Favignana tuna and Formica. Referring to Le Corbusier, who, from the Victorian, when asked what was the most beautiful monument that Rome offered his view, he answered without hesitation, and with good reason, the Gazometro, also Favignana Tuna fishery is one of the shows more suggestive that Sicily whole sell. I'm sorry for the Villa del Casale, the Theatre of Taormina, the Cathedral of Monreale, I'm sorry for Ragusa-Ibla, the oasis of Vendicari to Cefalù, Caltagirone and the whole Val di Noto, but a more beautiful place the tuna fishery has never seen. Almost put it back (and in that "almost" lurks a further touch of charm, imprisoned in the chipped tiles stacked in warehouses still dark in black and white), is a superb example of how the industry is actually archeleogia our modern humanism, a past whose lights were left on and are impossible to extinguish. Dazzles the majesty of the complex, situated on the sea and protected from the mountain, as the lion sleeps in the cage, the lion represented the entrance to the factory thirsty flora and tuna cans, with the arches of the boathouse, which illuminated the night, appear ready to open mouth the tuna that goes through Egadi distracted, thinking of being in an aquarium.
Saccardi I sleep in the trap and after lunch we go to get them to go bathe in transparent Preveto, or as a coating of clay in Cala d'Azur. It 's a pleasure to late-summer and late adolescence, as well as late afternoon, I heard about crazy things, crazy people, cities unlivable, of nights in Estonia. Locked without keys, in the gilded prison of tuna, wonderful as you want but at the same time scary as hell, with all those empty spaces, the constant noise of the waves, the tubs of cooking, the smokestacks mute, hooks " Wood "cages hanging from the rafters as they hang from the facade of the cathedral of Munster, elements of a hard and thankless as the skin of tuna fishermen, populated by esoteric characters like the old caretaker in his life has never left the island, the curator mystic, the head Satanist, musicians luciferin, tourists dall'abbronzatura grotesque, if they choose the theme of the installation with which to crown the residence, they only make the right choice most extreme, most of Sicily. Of all the stages of production of tuna, the slaughter of sea separating the corridor from Favignana Levanzo to cooking and canning, their eyes full of farce and tragedy, of oranges and religion, sicilianitudine butter, focuses on cruelest moment, what they call the "death chamber", which is also the watershed between the catching and cooking, of waiting room of heaven (or hell) of tuna, the last The residue remaining on the bottom lies the soul of tuna.
Saccardi of the death chamber is the cross of St. Peter, patron saint of fishermen, the cross on the contrary, that apparently meant to be blasphemous, there are demons who tend the nets waiting for the souls of visitors we end up in tuna as ignorant, there are the old original doors of tuna recovered in some dark warehouse, there are lions who drink, there are symbols and holy pictures, colors and shapes, eyes and the words, there are the jazz musicians playing experimental music, and visitors who do not understand contemporary art and Saccardi the dancing with their friends, there is a statue of a temple, the sea of \u200b\u200bslaughter, there is a God, there is room and there is death, there are tuna and the blood and the epiphany of a rite that goes back forever and ever, our fight, there is gold and there is wood, there is the end of summer, yet another summer (and they call it summer) and there's everything else, but lack the arancine. Maybe because you are not yet decided on what are the most good of all Palermo, and must be discussed a little more, 'till next summer at least.
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