Three-Card Monte Read Free Page B

wearing a blue T-shirt with horizontal stripes and pale-colored pants, an ensemble that gives him an ambiguous air, halfway between a nursing home patient and an escaped convict.
    Massimo has always heard him called “Rimediotti,” and only after many years did he discover that long, long ago he had been christened Gino. He’s a quiet old man, with vaguely nostalgic ideas about the Fascist period, and a notable billiard player.
    â€œHave you done them, Massimo? Can I take them?”
    â€œPlease, Rimediotti, go ahead.”
    Rimediotti takes the tray and heads outside. Massimo hears the radio playing “Y.M.C.A.” by the Village People, turns up the volume, and starts washing the glasses in time to the music. When he looks up, he sees through the window the four old-timers at the table gesticulating, apparently engaged in an unlikely dance to the rhythm of the gay-themed music echoing inside the bar. After a while, all four of them get resolutely to their feet, but instead of going “Why-Em-See-Eh” with their arms, as Massimo has been imagining, they troop into the bar, led by Ampelio.
    They come in all talking, or rather yelling, at the same time. Through careful sifting of the acoustic signal, necessary to separate the voices of the old geezers from the cheerful howls coming from the radio, it becomes clear that Rimediotti is accusing Massimo of ruining his clothes, Aldo is accusing him of spoiling his digestion, and Ampelio is accusing him of having a whore for a mother. Only Del Tacca remains silent, and simply glares daggers at Massimo. Massimo feels compelled to ask him, “What about you, Pilade, don’t you have anything to complain about?”
    â€œDo you think that was amaro I was drinking?” Del Tacca replies, continuing to glare at him.
    â€œYou aren’t normal!” cries Rimediotti, his comb-over slick with chinotto, as a result of the little bottle exploding, which makes him look even more of a disaster area. “You’re a criminal! You’re a moron, you are! That’s what you are! An idiot! How is it possible?”
    â€œI’m sorry, Rimediotti,” says Massimo, continuing to wash the glasses. “It happens sometimes, you know that. The bottle tops explode. I think it’s because of the pressure of the carbon dioxide inside. Or rather, the difference in pressure between inside and outside. Among other things. I read somewhere that the difference in pressure is greater if you’re sitting under an elm. In my opinion, if you’d been sitting next to the tamarisks, nothing would have happened. Can I get you something else?” Massimo asks in his diligent barman’s tone.
    Massimo’s proposal meets with a grim silence from the old-timers.
    When two strong wills share a common objective, and neither of the two has any intention of retreating from his own position, a conflict is inevitable. Like two engine blocks, the adversaries approach each other without any concern for the consequences, and without any possibility of changing their minds. Whoever is toughest wins.
    History is full of such episodes. Think, for example, of Caesar and Antony. Think of Churchill and Stalin. Think of Zidane and Materazzi.
    Here, too, the Moment has arrived. We are heading for a collision. The air seems to freeze, as befits a duel, while the adversaries eye each other warily. Unfortunately, instead of the music of Morricone, which would suit it perfectly, the soundtrack to this confrontation consists of the inappropriately cheerful screeching of the Village People, who are still insisting that there is no way you can be unhappy if you’re hanging out with the boys.
    Heedless of this pleasant background, the duelists study each other threateningly.
    Slowly but inevitably, the music fades.
    The song is about to finish.
    Very soon, the moment will come.
    Â 
    â€œExcuse me . . . ”
    It’s a timid, polite voice, barely audible.