Trieste - Part 10
Tuesday, July 8, 2008 at 07:44AM in Trieste "Primo."
"You gentlemen would like..."
"Primo. Adesso."
The old man waved his hand as though he were swatting away a fly.
"Please, you must forgive my friend. He has no manners." He turned to the Clown. "I am speaking to Americans."
"Americani?"
He tapped his fingers on Melancholy's chest again. Tap, tap.
"Yes, real Americans."
The old man was cave-chested and thin. Like Gandhi, Melancholy thought. Disgusting. He must have grown up in the war. That's why he's so small. But he hasn't managed to leave behind the same clean smell. If he taps me again, I'm going to strangle this little fucker.
"Americans. But this one speaks Italian. Che meravigliosa sorpresa."
God, it's pathetic how these Italians grovel before their tourist masters. The whole country's turned into a goddamn museum. It's forever stuck showing the greatest hits of Western Civilization, so the morons can go back home and tell the other in-breds they've seen "Michael Angelo."
"You enjoy Trieste?"
"We've just arrived, actually. Melancholy and I were about to go to lunch, so if you would please excuse us, we should probably..."
"Melancholy? Si chiama Melancholy? Davvero?"
"Really, it's been nice chatting but I'm about to faint with hunger, and I know Melancholy feels the same way. It's been very nice. But we must be going."
"Harry, wait. One moment. He asked me a question, and it would be rude not to answer."
"Primo."
"Aspetta."
"What do I think of Trieste? One of your journalists, Mazzi, once said that to understand Trieste is impossible. We can only love her. Capire Trieste, da lontano e da vicino, è difficile. Forse la si può solo amare, e basta."