Giulio Rimondi – ITALIANA

“I said almost nothing to my roommate; I just loaded my odds and ends into a couple of sacks then headed to the stairs. Once down in the street, I set off for the train station. I had to come back to Italy. My father came and asked me, why I had done it? What did I know of Italy today, after missing all the years. ‘It will all get sorted out,’ I answered, and for a while I got away with it. Then came the time to figure things out for real; and I found myself unemployed and clueless.

Nobody will ever stop to give you a lift at the tollbooths by Bologna; hitchhiking is even outlawed. I go to Trieste. That’s where I found out Elena lives. It is dark by the time I reach Gorino; at a bar there are five drunken men gripping onto the counter. ‘We’ve always done the right thing by the immigrants who work here properly!’ one of them howls, sealing his departure with a glorious curse. Carletto, short and stocky, has spent a whole lifetime bartering shrimps around the markets of Veneto, but hasn’t a single cent in his pockets. He drank them all. For a moment he looks at me with tears in his eyes. ‘We are the miserable ones. Please forgive us if we become annoying.’

Gorizia at the border is freezing. I visit the Great War memorial in Redipuglia. I find all the names of my friends, my father’s, my own. At night I am in Monfalcone, then in Miramare Castle.

Morning coffee in Trieste doesn’t get me going. I try to fix it with a Fernet, but it’s not enough. A bunch of Moroccan guys gather around the pier, about to leave Italy. A Slovenian lady wants to sell me a flower for six euros. ‘Two grandchild home, young, them study! Today Valentine! Flowers for lovers, lovers …’ she cries.
I look for Elena. She isn’t here.”