protagonist in a bar in Cuneo
A Ruggero like good wine and the bulls, and this is my friend Roger.
Oh Lord, my character has many other admirable qualities, including a spontaneous affection and kindness, but I would love for the product of the screws and the product of the field
me closer to him in a particular way and inevitable.
Roger a couple of weeks ago went to Cuneo for business: it takes a caffettino, must have thought, to start the day.
walks into a bar, one of those bars that populate the anonymous provincial town - a sandwich display case, display of potato chips and Pepsi plug, television hanging on the wall and bottles of Averna and Montenegro on the cabinet behind glass al bancone, appliques alle pareti per dare la luce - e che qua Ruggero individua alla base di un condiminio, sotto un porticato anni settanta che il baretto condivide con un'agenzia immobiliare, una toeletta per cani e una tabaccheria.
Ruggero prende la sua tazzina e getta uno sguardo al locale per cercare Tuttosport, e con ogni probabilità lo troverà sopra al frigo dei gelati.
Ma oplà, si accorge che davanti a sé sul muro campeggia, tronfio, un
cartel taurino.
Ruggero si stropiccia gli occhi, mette a fuoco meglio, ma l'immagine non lascia dubbi: c'è un signore vestito di luci, che con un panno rosso guida la carica di un immenso toro nero, il tutto sovrastato da scritte tronitruanti.
Ruggero dimentica il caffé sul bancone e si avvicina.
E' l'affiche della feria del Riso di Arles, 1978.
10 settembre del 1978, per essere precisi.
Cristo, sul poster c'è proprio tutto: i tori e gli uomini.
Sei cornuti di Marcos Nunez, per Paquirri, El Viti e Manzanares.
La tazzina è ancora lì, Ruggero si deve essere incantato, il manifesto gli ha evocato i ricordi di tanti pomeriggi all'arena, il clamore della festa, la sofferenza sui gradini, le bevute liberatorie a fine pomeriggio.
Si guarda intorno, come per verificare di essere davvero a Cuneo, in un bar di Cuneo, e di non aver allucinazioni da astinenza.
"Ma voi lo sapete chi è Paquirri?". A Roger
these words come from the sun, listen to his voice as he rattles off the question and asks if that is his own voice, but he knows the answer, yes, it is he who is speaking, and he and whoever else is he who speaks and who does not know either.
The bartender, busy to prepare as best the top box of croissants, rolls his eyes, moves his eyes from that client in that manifesto, and yet from that client in that manifesto.
"I've never seen a bullfight, I, but my dad always spoke to me of Arles, it was he who went there."
Roger turns to the boy, and no doubt will continue.
"Paquirri was a English bullfighter, one of the greatest of his era, is died in the arena in the mid-eighties. "
The other patrons of the bar approached the two, who leaned against the counter, who remained standing there with his hands behind his back, bringing his chair closer who is an eight or nine Lords of Cuneo, no longer young, to say the least.
white hair, jackets, moleskin cut out of style on which they have the best shades of gray or brown, some have glasses and stick someone else.
A small migration quiet and discreet, but now these gentlemen encircle the bar, Roger and the manifest.
We at this point is
trance.
no longer in Cuneo.
E 'in Pozoblanco one evening in September and tells of that bull named Avispado of that tragic horn to the right thigh of that lap of honor that made the coffin in the arena at Seville.
E 'in Madrid and with his words open its doors to six times the big port of Las Ventas, the six times Paquirri triumphed over the sand.
Roger is no longer in Cuneo.
E 'to the sumptuous Maestranza Seville and then in free-range square of Tafalla, bullfighting is in the museum in Bilbao and in the immensity of
field, where the bulls, you know?, Living four years in the most absolute freedom, cared for and loved.
And then comes in Arles, of course, and there are no more coffee and croissants on the counter, only a long theory of glasses of pastis, their hypnotic and seductive scent, there lined up and ready to be executed immediately rise again.
Roger is no longer in Cuneo, is now in Arles as Paquirri, El Viti Manzanares and in that September 78, and recounts that the Roman circus, the festival of the streets and cellars, dishes of rice and bull, the endless toast, of novigliade the morning and afternoon bullfights, the thousands and thousands of miles made in many years, says Roger of Arles and is passionate about, is there, the brass bands play, the children chase and attack the bulls on the Boulevard , bullfighters come in triumph on the steps out of the arena and bullfighting on foot, looking grim and low There are the magical light of Provence and the sunsets that inflame the roofs, beer nervous before entering and leaving the beer sweet, greetings, hugs, the
picadors arriving on horseback, making the Sunday morning and flamenco bulls everywhere.
The poster on the wall of that bar almost comes alive, seems to see that muleta flutter, feeling the puff of the bull, it seems that the bullfighter is alive, seems to feel his
eh, bull, eh! Silence. The bartender
have a croissant in hand, there has since stopped Paquirri live, Pozoblanco.
These gentlemen are there, each of forty minutes in the same position before, but now someone's mouth open, or long neck to feel better, or soppracciglie arched in an expression of curiosity and wonder.
There is silence now, but it seems you hear the echo of a
pasodoble , which comes from the street. Roger
now remember two things.
One must drink the coffee: it takes the cup, close to the lips, and cold black liquid drops down to the mouth. Normal, he thinks. Two
, Cuneo has come to work and not for a conference taurine.
Shit, is very late.
gathers her two things, puts on his jacket to the good and sweaty and worried it feels in my pants to look for a euro, while divided in a confused
How long? "Coffee is paid for!" meet the gentlemen in chorus. We offer ourselves, do not go and later. Roger
measure the distance from the counter long strides to the door, run out, it's late, then on the sidewalk, please note that it did not even say goodbye.
He turns back, put your head in and is still all in the same position, all. It feels
one of these gentlemen: "... moreover, Arles is only three hours from here, eh!"
(a cartel of the most famous of all, taken from Torocartel )