The real story of Patrick Winningoes-2

 

https://www.amazon.it/real-story-Patrick-Winningoes-Salvatore-ebook/dp/B0B244SFNQ/

In order to relax I recalled the preceding events, starting from the moment I had firstly met my friend George.

I had known him early in the summer 1979, in a little snack bar of the centre, in the beginning of my London stay. A snack-cafe not so far from Piccadilly Circus, where they made a slightly drinkable coffee. I used to go there, because it was the only place where the coffee was served in the small, classical, Italian cups, and even if it was served with no cream, was still better than that watered black soap that almost all barmen sell off for coffee in England.

The bar was housed in a large rectangular room. On the right of the entry there was the counter with the coffee-machine, while both on the left and the opposite wall, in front of the entry-door, there was a wood bench, lined in plastics of brown color, and, straight above, lined in the identical way, a same long but narrower shelf, plenty of sugar-bowls and ashtrays.

The left wall, for the whole length of the bench, beginning from the shelf and finishing to the originally white-painted ceiling, was made of a thick transparent glass that, giving brightness to the place, allowed the visitors to enjoy a wide outside sight where, just in front, it was well visible the entrance of a theatre with an ample and luxurious atrium.

It was there that George seemed to stare up his look, over the round glasses (like John Lennon’s, I had thought). His olive complexion, the chestnut hair and the black moustaches didn't make him certainly look like a probable Queen’s subject, but I questioned him, this not less, in English. Also because, after all we were in London. What other idiom was I supposed to speak?

He burst into laughter, hearing my question. Not immediately, but after turning his head to look at me, with a funny expression on his face, while with my hands I repeated my request for fire, rubbing, at the same time, my right forefinger on the palm of the left hand.

Lighting his own cigarette, as I stood close and steady, much more interdict than angry, because of his crazy laughing, he told me in a strongly stressed, though smooth, Italian language:

- «Sorry for laughing, but Italian people do make notice of them, when they speak English. You come from Rome, don’t you?» -, he suddenly added, smiling with satisfaction to my sad, affirmative answer.

The place, beside the two of us and a girl sitting on the other side of the bench, was empty. The barkeeper, behind the counter, was preparing a great copy of sandwiches, with cheese and tomatoes, lettuce and meats and a few others with all four ingredients together, according to the best English taste.

- «And you, where do you come from?» - I asked him in some annoyed tone for that reference to the Italian’s accent and particularly to that of the Romans, whose noble descendants I am still proud to belong.

-« I am not Italian» - he answered to me with peaceful voice «but I have lived quite a lot of years in Italy. So I know your customs quite well, and also your accent» -, concluded laughing again tastefully.

This time his laughing, however, didn't upset me at all. Those few words had been enough to make my anger fade away; or maybe I was just only glad to talk to someone without squeezing my brain to translate my thoughts from Italian into English language.

to be continued...