last moon

Visualizzazione post con etichetta juan. Mostra tutti i post
Visualizzazione post con etichetta juan. Mostra tutti i post

giovedì 21 dicembre 2023

The Dreamer

 



This romance, although conceived and partially dreamed in English, was originally written in Italian language with the title “The Essence of life” in the early eighties of the past century; at the beginning of this new century I made a translation into English language. Hereafter it was published with four different titles: “And then four crows will fly away”; “The thin line between dream and reality”, “Just a story of islands” and “The real story of Patrick Winningoes”. Now eventually it’s published under title of “The Dreamer: a novel of love and madness”. Therefore the present is the fifth edition. This is the synopsis. A noble and rich man, with a double, confused personality, is planning for an unlikely love as well as for an impossible new mondial order. In his reasearch he comes accross two young people searching for a job. He’s ready to employ them with a well paid job but before hiring their services, he asks them to listen to a story: the real story of Patrick Winningoes. But the employer turns out to be a master of trickery and illusionism who has a mysterious plan where he tries to involve the two friends. At the end of this story they will find out that the reality is often misrepresented. And things are so different from how they sometimes appear. The story is set between London and Dublin in the late seventies of the 20th Century.

venerdì 15 luglio 2022

Recuerdos de un italiano en Londres-19

 

https://www.amazon.fr/Solo-como-una-piedra-Recuerdos-ebook/dp/B09Z6C5LKC/

La tranquila vida diaria de Oxford Street a veces se veia interrumpida por la aparición repentina y casi fugaz de los "contrabandistas".

Eran personas acechantes del este de Londres, menos malvadas y deshonestas de lo que su apodo podía suponer, que eran capaces de improvisar una venta en la calle de articulos de lujo falsos más adecuados para la comedia de Goldoni.

Por lo general, actuaban en grupos de cuatro, cada uno de ellos con un papel definido.

Llegaban a la calle Oxford en una hora topica (entre las 11.30 a.m. y las 16.p.m.) después de estacionar en su camioneta en una de las calles adiacentes. Por lo general, ocupaban un segmento de acera entre dos barras transversales; dos de ellos actuaban como postes en cada una de las dos intersecciones, por lo que nunca podría suceder que una patrulla se acercara inesperadamente y los otros dos dispusieran la caja con la mercancía en el centro del pavimento (perfumes, billeteras, bufandas, encendedores, relojes joyas, que variaban según los días, pero siempre eran marcas de lujo pero falsas).

Uno de ellos, el orador, sentado en una de las cajas de cartón, volcóada como asiento, elogiaba la calidad y el precio de los productos expuestos a la venta,, con voz exaltada en ese incomprensible dialecto de Londres, que a su vez era un espectáculo imperdible.

El cuarto compliz, el provocador, estaba colocado detrás de la multitud que regularmente se detenía alrededor del orador, atraída por ese espectáculo improvisado, y luego,  empujando el dinero, visible entre sus dedos, gritaba "... ¡Compro tres de ellos!" , "¡Quiero dos!", "¡Tomo cuatro de esos!" Arrastrando consigo a docenas de compradores que a veces daban el dinero sin siquiera saber lo que estaban comprando.

Una vez uno de los dos de guardia, consciente de la llegada de un par de bobbies, dio la alarma. En cuestión de cinco segundos, sin haber previamente tranquilizado a los clientes ocasionales sobre sus honestas intenciones, los bienes, el dinero y las cajas ya habían desaparecido, tragados desde el callejón frente a la dirección de llegada de los policías. Y después que la patrulla londinesa, completamente ignorante, desaparecia de la vista aguda de las guardias contrabandistas, en el mismo punto se iba  reformando el mercado de ventas fraudalentas. Y debe agregarse que la interrupción no le hizo mucho daño a los asuntos de la banda.

En reversa, el miedo que la banda mostraba de haber por la policia, ya sea cierto o falso, podría haber convencido a la gente de que los negocios propuestos tenían que ser muy rentables.

¡Qué bendita ingenuidad de los británicos y los turistas de Londres!

Recuerdo que mi padre solía contarme acerca de los sinvergüenzas napolitanos que vendían a los compradores ingenuos relojes de oro falso,  desde la época de la Segunda Guerra Mundial, fingiendo que eran el botín del último robo del siglo. Aunque todos conocen el Teatro Napolitano, es algo diferente de la comedia inglesa.

También recuerdo que Bob una vez me confesó que se había ganado de vivir en ese estilo, durante un tiempo, y que sabía que los que lo practicaban eran todos muy buenos chicos.

giovedì 14 luglio 2022

Recuerdos de un Italiano en Londres - 18

 

 


https://www.amazon.fr/Solo-como-una-piedra-Recuerdos-ebook/dp/B09Z6C5LKC/



The Evening News era en realidad solo una imitación del Evening Standard más famoso. Este último venìa publicado en múltiples ediciones desde las siete de la mañana. hasta altas horas de la noche, con una frecuencia entre las dos y las tres horas. De una edicion a otra, solo cambiaba la primera página para atraer a los lectores a noticias brillantes. Se distribuyìa con una red de distribución realmente fantástica.

Las entregas llegaban en una camioneta negra y amarilla, y desde allí, con el motor encendido, sin descender de la furgoneta, volaban los paquetes de periódicos.

The Evening Standard no tenía una fisonomía política precisa (al menos no en el sentido que los italianos le damos a esta expresión) y tal vez alternó su afinidad ideológica con los partidos políticos al gobierno en el cuerpo administrativo más grande de Londres: "The Great London Council" .

Todos esos vendedores me daban una impresión extraña: que siempre habían hecho ese trabajo. No solo por la voz sibilante que los caracterizaba, sino también por su ropa muy sucia. La piel de su cara se veía oscura, casi sucia, debido a la exposición al aire insalubre.


También me parecia que siempre tenìan fríos, incluso en verano, como si en sus huesos hubiera penetrado la humedad y el escalofriante aliento de las corrientes de aire heladas procedentes del Metro.



Usaban guantos que dejaban los dedos expuestos para agarrar fácilmente dinero y periódicos y se calentaban con una taza de té con leche que compraban en el bar más cercano.

A pesar de su aspecto, que en los días de intensa niebla se mezclaba con el paisaje circundante, convirtiéndose en un elemento característico, como las columnas rojas del Royal Mail, las cabinas telefónicas y los taxis negros, las sensaciones que transmitían eran muy positivas.

No digo que fueran alegres, pero puede ser joviales. Una serena y resignada jovialidad, como si la difusión de los acontecimientos londineses y del mundo entero, contenidos en sus periódicos, los hiciera impermeables a las emociones, colocándolos por encima de los acontecimientos humanos, como mensajeros imparciales de los dioses del subsuelo.

Cuando pasaba por allí, donde estaba trabajando, nunca faltaban de asentirme con simpatía, al mismo tiempo emitiendo un sonido que quería ser un "¿estás bien?", Pero uno solo podía escuchar un silbido, como el viento que había entrado en sus cuerpos, consistiendo en tres, tal vez solo dos sílabas, veladas en la garganta.

lunedì 11 luglio 2022

Recuerdos de un Italiano en Londres-15

 

https://www.amazon.fr/Solo-como-una-piedra-Recuerdos-ebook/dp/B09Z6C5LKC/

Una vez, por ejemplo, hubo una cola larga y ordenada de clientes que esperaban ser atendidos en la máquina de helados, hasta el borde exterior de la acera.

De repente, Bob dijo que tenía que ir y hacer una llamada telefónica. Y al decir esto, mostró a los clientes una moneda de diez peniques, manteniéndola en alto entre el pulgar y el índice de la mano izquierda y silbando, con el labio superior ligeramente curvado sobre los dientes, en una serie de disparos de glotis: “Me vuelvo en un minuto! “.

Después de que desapareció en la tienda intenté hacer mi mejor esfuerzo para servir a los clientes. Cuando regresó, viendo tanta gente todavía haciendo cola, me preguntó amablemente, para dejar de lado, trazando un semicírculo con su antebrazo izquierdo y tomó una docena de conos, él fue capaz de llenarlos todos girando hábilmente la mano debajo del grifo de helado, al mismo tiempo que manejaba la palanca con la mano derecha, y mientras yo luchaba para tener los  helados en ambas manos y distribuirlos, los clientes, lo miraban con admiración. Y parecía que estos clientes tendrían la magnitud, porque había más y más detrás de ellos, y el show de Bob se repitió hasta que la máquina pudo seguir refrigerando.

Pero cuando se mantuvo alejado por más tiempo, solía preguntarme, con un gesto significativo del índice frotado en su pulgar, si tenía billetes, a los que llamaba en su jerga graciosa “wonga”.

Fue en ese momento de mi primer noviciado en Londres cuando comencé a amar a los ingleses.

mercoledì 29 giugno 2022

The real story of Patrick Winningoes-3

 

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



My remembering was interrupted by Mr Winningoes’s discreet touch at the door. The man entered holding a tray in a hand on which there were a stumpy teapot in porcelain and three handless cups, decorated with Chinese ideograms.



- «I apologize for leaving you alone for such a long time »–he said happily–«but to make tea is a very serious matter, that requires time and skill. Help yourselves please».


I filled with a lot of attention the three cups. George, taking one on his hand, gazed its outside and the inside for a long time. He seemed particularly interested at the small yellowish petals that floated on the surface.



«They are jasmine's flowers »–Mr Winningoes prevented him–«I get this tea directly from China. It is delicious, isn't it?» –he added turning to me, while I was trying to sip it slowly, in order not to burn me.


“Yes, certain. It is very tasteful '. Does the Chinese cuisine also like you? “–I returned him on my time.
«Oh, yes, indeed so much!» –he answered with a light flash on his face–«I remember when my son Adam was still alive.»


But suddenly we saw that flash of light illuminating his face transformed in a dark and sad countenance.



«My son Adam…»– he echoed bitterly himself, with a smile of self-pity on the pale lips.

We observed a respectful silence for the pain of that man who appeared at times a proud lion, full of projects for his future, to become instead afterward, a man tired of striving, bend by disgraces and by the time.


I wished I had mastered a better English to show him my solidarity and tell him that I didn't even know he had had some children, not even he had gotten married, forming a proper family; apart, of course, his father and mother, whom he had spoken of to us for long time throughout his story.



But who was really that strange man? Was it enough, to know him well, what he had told us himself rightly in that same day? I made an effort to collect my ideas recalling the story in his own words.





 

 

martedì 28 giugno 2022

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...











 

 

 

 

sabato 12 agosto 2017

Memoirs of London - 4


4.
At that time I felt like a stone in a river. I rolled by as the water flowed down. And if the river was dry, I stood still, waiting for the rain to come.
To be raised in a large family, had taught me, at least, to survive trying to be invisible and escape or fight at the right time.
I became a close friend to Erminio and  all his friends became also my friends.
Franco had a wonderful girlfriend, half Italian and half French. They had a nice flat in West Hampstead (or it might have  been in Finchley Road), where we often were invited for diner. We had clever conversation, while dining.
But mostly we  spent the evenings smoking and listening to music. My thought flew in the air following the guitars’ sounds of blues songs or twisting happily around rock’s riffs of skilful fingers. Then I soared over the world and I thought there were spaces for my soul to be discovered or detected, somewhere in the world .
Then I would abandon myself to the currents of the wind like a wingshed bird, hoping to applaud in a timeless land where my soul could dine for ever.
There must be such a land somewhere ! I dreamed of that, evening by evening, day by day, night after night! I didn’t dream of money  or richness assumed that I had enough to live through. I was spirit more than flesh in those days. I had a vacuum to fill up but I didn’t know how.
There were a lot of people, coming and going in that place, at any time. Though Franco and his girlfriend could be considered a conventional, may be even a bourgeois couple, they were very opened mind and always ready to add a dish at their table or to open a bed in the guest’s room for anyone who might enter in their house.
Once Marco came with a girl. A nice one, named Susanna or Simona, I can’t remember now. She was supposed to be his girlfriend, for they said were going to get married. Nevertheless, after diner, she wanted to make a dance for us; a sensual dance, so sensual it was that afterwards she took off even the last of her clothes, looking wonderful as her mother had made her. I enjoyed that very much but I knew she was Marco’s girlfriend and anyway I thought since then that making sex was a matter of  love and affection, not just a carnal contingency. There was also a friend of Franco’s  (named such as Rocco, or some similar name) watching that sort of Salome’s dance. He didn’t see the thing like I did and so made some rude advances with Marco’s girlfriend, assuming she was looking or provoking for something. He totally  misunderstood that strange behavior. He never showed up again in the house, after that. 
Another friend  of   Franco’s came one day, along with his girlfriend, from the wonderful Liguria land. This was a better one; a man of  good spirit, a searching soul, like I was. I'll name him later on in the story.We sympathized immediately.

He  handled some books of Carlos Castaneda to me. They were three books.
I fell in love with those three books. They spoke of the initiation of a young Western intellectual by an Indian wizard, somewhere in the Sierra Madre’s mountains of Mexico.
Though they are called Huichol, they called themselves “The people walking with the Gods” because so they feel through the ingestion  of a green mushroom, called  peyote, which contains a lot of mescaline, a powerful hallucinogen.
We spent a lot of time, talking about these books and planning to go to Mexico together. He also talked to me about a book he knew very well:  Aldous Huxley’s The Doors of Perception. But he told me he never wanted to take LSD, because it was a chemical substance, and as a such,  he didn’t trust it. He wanted to go to the desert land of central Mexico, where those mushrooms grew. May be it’s thanks  to him if I never wanted to tried LSD or other chemical stuff that in those times were in vogue among young people. May be he was the river that moved the stone that I was in a certain direction, instead of another. But he never reached Mexico. He died in a strange way, somewhere in Italy, though I knew it when I came my back from my trip to  America.

4. to be continued...