When it comes to maximum systems, it always seems that, yes, the cause is just, but the concept in its concreteness is always too far away. I speak of racism: the sinister, of words culturally preposterous, mixed racial hatred and ignorance, attitudes, often characterized by "Gorillas" almost to delimit the field of action. Nowhere else but in Rome today, not someone else but me.
ROME - It so happens that, on a cold and sunny day in early December, the coach of the metropolitan 9.20 Lepanto direction, go up at the Termini stop the "same" lady with the cart that carries his stereo and microphone. I say "usual" because those who live in public transportation knows the personalities, the "specks", faces, situations that occur beneath the city. She for a living, singing. Often seen running for the subway with her husband, a man presumably ethnic Roma - but presumably Moldovan nationality - with a mustache who plays the violin. Him to live, passes the bow on the strings. They eat sandwiches sitting on metal benches accommodating the stations and the wind of the train that arrives is not what the change. Characters of the twenty-first century. Icons of poverty and a state of things - economic and social - which should above all lead to a reflection. Not shoes on their feet, but only slippers. Not life in their eyes, but only fatigue. Difficulty of living.
I am sitting in a row of all women: pretty, with the shield that does so much independence, unwittingly attract the eyes of two "male" leaning against the door. Almost forty years, combed and fur jackets: a clock shines under the clean shirt and a Gucci handbag style check in his red brown. Each of us, and emphasizes, to himself, he thinks that "there are more men than once." I still read the newspaper. The singer starts singing leaning to the next port. From my angle, I see. Peace of Mind: a few minutes I arrived at work.
"Do not look if it bothers you," shouts the singer and the car becomes not what you expect. Between Republic and Barberini, the woman singer is defended by a "homo erectus" that sits in front. The young man, about thirty years, has tirelessly pulled the plug that connects the microphone amplifier lady-singer. And now she defends herself - "I have paid for the ticket" - from accusations of him - "You stink, you must be Anna, nun you understand?".
He is - only to watch it - impossible. Black jacket to knee, light jeans, shaving imperfect, skinny but tall, woolly hat on his head. Moving on: Roman accent, "win and win" as the telephone ring, tone of voice very high.
The altercation is amplified and Mrs. singer drops to Barberini, throwing the young gypsy curses. He was satisfied and returned to mutter, trying to steal some applause from the wagon. Silence. Two young black men are looked at. A group of Romanians dirty lime mutters something.
I'm already completely out of my head and I get up, going up to him. Another girl, on the other end of the car, gets up. We are two, from opposite directions. He - the moralizing - is still sitting oblivious. Do you think we should go down. She - who then turns out to be a young lawyer - turns to the moralizing and tells him "ashamed." I rise in the dose, "but in what world do you live?".
Da uomo, il moralizzatore diventa un piccolo stronzo qualunque. Balbetta cose del tipo “’ste buoniste”, “Ve devono rapì i fiji”, “Magari ve rubano dentro casa”, "Puzzave de carogna e stava pure davanti a me". Poi sventolando il quotidiano Metro che riporta una notizia sull’ennesimo giro sporco del campo rom di Casilino 900, prova ad avvicinarsi a noi e a dire “eccoli chi sò i rom…eccoli chi sò…”.
Io lo guardo in faccia e gli dico “sei ridicolo”. L’avvocata si inalbera e gli ricorda che siamo tutti delle persone. Una donna sulla cinquantina, con i capelli rossi e vestita da artista, si alza e grida “quella lady you've driven is a singer. " He is on the ropes. He stutters and return to the previous port where it starts to chatter with those two "stupid" - mentioned above - that Subaugusta at Lepanto had done no more than watching things not them.
Gorillas are now three. Between us and them only partition - which no longer exists, but it is a kind of plastic mat - between a car and another. Us to a door. Them to another. Accusations abound. "Failed" we cry. "Feel-good" they cry. "Go down to the next, it should be ..." says the lawyer. "A singer? Maddecchè printed in talks " they mutter. "Fuck" is heard from somewhere else. "Failed" cried in chorus.
The speaker interrupts us: "Next stop Lepanto." The gorillas do not know that the doors are opened at the station on the other side and block the entry of new passengers. "Ao, and let me enter" reproaches them with an old raincoat, unaware of everything.
three of us, even if on purpose, we go down to Lepanto. Together. We are looking at. We have no words. I watch the clock. I'm late. We all three late, I think. I lift my eyes again, the greeting that seems to embrace that. I winked and the mathematical certainty that even those women are more than once.
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