In the entrance, as we walked through the
narrow corridor toward the large ground floor hall, I noticed in the backlight a
bit of smoke coming out, along with a
soft but intense hustle of animation. The room had in the meantime been filled.
Among the fans, as announced by the outdoor parking, there were numerous
"motorcycle-rockers", also called "speedies" due to the
frequent use of amphetamines, which they preferred among all drugs then in
circulation for the particular charge they give them. They were sold in slippers similar to cachet
for the headache and nicknamed in London jargon "speeds". Their
typical clothing consisted of robust boots, jeans, short-sleeved cotton
t-shirt, and a jacket, also in black leather jeans, usually covered on the
shoulders of small truncated-conical metal studs . Not so often, this eccentric
clothing, coupled with their high stature, the black beards on which even
longer blond hair lay apart, conferred on them
an aspect of metropolitan Vikings.
Nonetheless, these were quitter and more peaceful than the most colorful and folkloristic
"punks" who began to show
themselves in the second half of the '70s, shocking with their appearances
the London streets.
Even in the hall, the sight had changed: a lot of young people were now
knocking at the billboards, behind which many young barmaids were very busy running from one point to the other in the long
counter, satisfying quickly the various requests of the many enthusiasts
consumers.
Around the platform, now illuminated, with
the musicians already on the stage giving the final touches to the instruments,
sat in a semicircle a discreet crowd who was waiting the music to start laughing and
cheerfully joking between a sip of beer and a smoky.
Between the counter and the platform, in
the middle of the room, other players had gone to the billiards and were
playing under the gaze of friends and
enthusiasts. Above the pedestal, in the right wall, were now visible the sofas
I had not noticed before.
I directed my friends straightly to the
first floor through the large staircases that were already filled up with
spectators, almost a natural queue of that crowd gathered around the footpath.
Numerous compartment tables had been busy, and large shelves of beer and drinks
could be noticed up on theim.
Giampiero immediately understood the
situation and thought well, followed by Michelle, to go back after asking what
we intended to drink. We had seats at the end of the sofa at the back. From my
place I saw a nice portion of the footpath, where an athletic man wearing a black, adorable tights, with
long and black hair ending in a thick tail, tried the efficiency of the sound system with style
cries of proof .
"How long have you been staying in London?" I asked Martine.
We took sit on one of the dark circular stools that were
scattered around the tables.
"Four months," she replied after
a half-voice mumbled count, pulling out of the bag of strange, thin cigarettes
from a brown and crumpled package.
- "And what are you doing, right here
in London?" I insisted, looking at her as she whispered a voluptuous mouthful
from her strange cigarette.
- "I started a new job two weeks ago;
I distribute female magazines at the Metro exit, but I hope to find something
better; Also because, working twice a week, I do not earn enough, do you
understand? "
"Do not worry," I replied half serious and facet, in order to shed the sad
and worry air that, as I later understood, was a mirror of her most intimate
being, rather than a momentary mood .. "" You can join the great
family of the street-traders and this should not make you feel alone, at least!
"
- "But I do not feel alone at
all!" She protested, always with her melancholy face.
- "You don’t miss Paris, then?"
"Certainly I don’t," Martine
said in a convinced tone of voice- "I've run away from a boring job as a
secretary; My parents are Baptists who observe and pretend to observe strict
rules of life; Moreover, I had a boyfriend who wanted to dominate me so bravely and
possessively as never before. You know why I cannot have any kind of nostalgia .......... "
- "How did you first arrive in
London? - I asked her again after pointing to a distant guy who seemed to have
come out straightly from the "Woodstock" movie, with a wide band that
held her long hair and with numerous necklaces hanging on his neck on a pink
shirt and a hallucinated look, fixed in vacuity while turning his hands open,
slowly, as in trance, following with the
movements of his body, a music that only he had to hear.
Martine laughed, hiding her mouth with her
hand before answering.
- "I turned to an au pair agency, and
so I came to the airport. A family of teachers with two children, home in the
greenery, at North Finchley, on the Northern Line, do you know? I had to work
for six days a week with them always out and I at home watching children and
eating, or rather not eating, the impossible English food. I could go out only once a week and I had to
come back early in the evening, before midnight. Even worse than my parents. Not to mention that I
also had to clean the room and the stuff of the children! All for a wage of nine
pounds a week. My friend Michelle got me out of troubles ............ "
As evoked by Martine's tale Michelle
appears from afar. Launches a festive cry, cuts the crowd for herself and for Giampiero who looks like an eight-handed equilibrist, a
sort of goddess Kali. I try to help Giampiero.
I can get some bottles he holds under his
arms; he smiles to me on his flaming face.
31. to be continued...
