How had succeeded, that strange old man, in transporting those visions down our sights, below the windows? The same visions I had still in my mind, being so fresh and real, we had just lived right that Friday of 9th November 1979 I was relating of!
We had walked silently. Sometimes we crossed some hasty passing or perceived, almost more than hear it, as a fleeting apparition, a car or a motorbike whose noise was spaced out slowly, as absorbed and diluted in the immensity of the surrounding silence. Turning around several times, after an indefinite time, that desert of dry leaves seemed to stop against an iron handrail.
From my point of observation, tall brushes of trees hid the horizon and I could only see, slightly swaying in the void, a green poster with the write “Winpey “in block red-dark characters.
I felt a pleasant excitement throughout my body. A feeling that immediately was of lightness. A desire to let my body flow in the air, toward that poster, flying the sky.
. As we went down the stairway, the view, under of us, revealed his real contours.
That poster, that seemed to me like suspended in the air from my previous point of view, was the summit of the tall pylon of a crane that laid in the center of an immense housing estate.
I watched again toward that write and noticed that it was hacked against a loaded leady sky with no change of tonality. A dark and heavy vault until my eyes could see.
To find the access of the yard, that occupied a wide place in the centre of a crossroad, we walked for an half along his perimeter. The thick tables that bounded it were interspaced of half an inch, around through numerous working machines were glimpse: diggers, shovels, concrete mixers, kneaders, all firm, as dead animals, in the most total silence.
The entrance was exactly on the opposite side of the inn from where, for the first time, I had perceived the pylon of the crane. We reached it, after a quick and silent walk. Between working machines and shovels, heaps of sand and piles of sacks of cement, bricks, lumbers, irons and utensils, we noticed a small cottage of red plate that was almost in the centre of the building yard. We were approaching there when a small door was opened out of the shed.
- «Hello boys!» - A gentleman said sorting out. - « Can I help you?»-.
His voice was cordial and happy. It seemed he was talking to well known persons.
-« Is there any need of some workers?»- George did him without preambles and also laughing.
We stopped a little closer and so I had the opportunity to better observe him: he looked quite a lot peaky, making a net contrast with the strong black of the hair. He dressed with elegance a brown suit on a white shirt with a red and black cravat.
- « I would not mind at all » - the man replied in the former jovial tone -«but our firm assumes only through the agency. Now I will give you the address so you can go and see there. There are good hopes. Follow me in to the office, please» -, he spurred on, seeing us so undecided.
The office looked like the building field. As matter of fact inside there were numerous buckets full of hammers, chisels, pickets, waterlevels, trowels and other mason utensils.
Once inside, Mr. Joking (that’s was the name he had introduced himself, asking us in turn our names) immediately passed beyond a desk loaded on with papers, different samples of colored tiles and some minute utensils . He scrutinized us for a long while.
-« Where do you come from?» - He asked after a careful examination, dissuading his look.
-«From Italy»- responded promptly George, preceding me.
We seemed to overcome his examination, because he smiled in a satisfied way.
-«Here is your agency’s address» - he said after scribbling some lines on a piece of paper, - «and good luck!»-, added while was handing the note to George!
We had not even had the time to read it that we heard a strong aloud voice:
"-Old Pat doesn't stand people pronouncing his name and that of his Agency in a wrong way and above all he doesn't bear to be told any lies. If you do it, you won't have any job from him."
Then, turning to Mr Joking he added:
- "Sir Patrick the Hanger Winnin’goes again, doesn’t he?" - Only later on we had to realize that the big man we saw rudely laughing, turning a look back on our shoulders, was not misgiving English language at all, as he willingly wanted but to stress the wrong verb, like he really did.
George stood perplexed, with the note in his hand, now looking the big man, who was still laughing, now Mr. Joking, who seemed rather embarrassed than enjoyed.
I walked closer when I saw him reading the note. On a single line the note said:
"Pat Winningoes - Gehenna Geld", and nothing else.
-" Strange names, the last two. They sound quite German" -, George exclaimed by low voice.
- "He has not even put the telephone number. Shall we ask for it?" -, I said.
-" We might take a look for it on the telephone guide. Still if it really does exist" -,
George murmured. putting the note in his pocket while sorting out the cottage. We walked out without even greeting, with fast and nervous footsteps. Before reaching the exit of the yard, nevertheless, we heard a man’s call.
-« Hey, wait a moment, please!.» Mr. Joking came rushing slightly breathing towards us.
- «Do not pay attention to Big Joe, please! He is a joker» - he added gently smiling like he had made the first time, with a tone of reassuring voice.
«Come over with me, please» -, he said driving us over the exit .
- «You cross the road in that direction and take straightly the avenue you have in front; then, taking the third street on your left, that can’t be wrong, you will see a big door in dark wood. There is the agency. Go in….. and...... good luck»!.
He had spoken all of a breath and in so convincing way that we had already forgotten Big Joe and his strange former laughing . The avenue that Mr Joking had pointed us, was really the third crossroad on the left. It was a blind, wide and short alley.
At the bottom a massive dark wood doorway stand out, occupying all the breath of the street..
More than the entry of a job’s agency, it seemed to be as the entrance of a rich and luxurious residence. A few steps in marble lead to an extraordinarily glimmering atrium, to whose sides were risen, also in marble, two mighty columns.
George, walking the steps, almost was very close to stumble. He restored immediately his equilibrium, murmuring an annoyed "My goodness!" and looking on the bottom of his shoes, like searching there the cause of the accident.
The wind was blowing more insistently, and formed in the alley a strong eddy, violently shaking above the front door a rectangular poster which was bestowed with some scotch tape, held out against the wind on a unique side. With my right hand I stopped it on the front door. We read there, in a clear handwriting and cursive characters:
"London Trickery and Illusion Centre."
- «But where the hell did they send us?» -said George looking at me.
- «’I do not know!» -, I answered, releasing the side of the poster, which retook immediately to wave.
- «They made a joke of us, those two braggarts!» -, I told him with angry voice. Then turning to my companion - «Didn't we make a mistake by wrongly counting the crossroads?.» I said returning back on our steps to check in.
- «Come soon to have a look, please!»-, cried George in that while, with excited tone of voice.
I returned quickly on my footsteps and drew close to him. With the right hand he stopped the poster on the front door and surprisingly I could read on it this time - "Pat Winningoes - Geenna Geld Agency - 1st Floor."
-«What devil of history is this? »-, I told George, who was looking at me in a mocking way, with the right hand still fixing the poster on the door.
-« The history is all here» -, he answered. And with emphatic gestures as a conjurer who discloses an amazing trick to the public, he turned the poster from a side to another, showing the different writings we had read on it just a little before. I turned it for a couple of times, as to make myself convinced, while George was already pushing the other half of the front door.
