My First Seven Years (Plus a Few More): A Memoir
the injury to Fulvio’s neck, which was cut deeply and was bleeding. She picked him up in her arms and ran with him towards a nearby farmhouse where there was a trough in the yard with water from a stream. She jumped right in with the boy in her arms and began washing him from the neck down, swaying with him from side to side, trying with this little game to get him over the shock which had left him speechless. Shortly afterwards, the farmer’s wife came down from the house above the stables, from
narration as theatre, nor did I at that time link the two genres: in particular, I was not yet able to take in the vital difference between recounting and performing, and I was absolutely convinced that theatre-making had all to do with acting, the presence of several actors, scenery, sound and lighting effects … in short, with organised magic. Only much later, when I had already acquired considerable experience of the stage, did I realise that story-telling had been the mechanism which had
guy who was laying the girl?’ I asked, awkwardly. ‘Yeah, that was Stumpy, the Polish woman’s eldest son.’ ‘Stumpy?’ ‘That’s right, you must have seen him around. He’s only got one hand. The other one got chopped off by a motorboat propeller.’ ‘Poor bastard. Life’s hell for these rich folk!’ ‘Anyway,’ cut in Vescica, ‘I’d give one of my feet for a chance to get it off with that Elise. Wasn’t she gorgeous! For one moment I saw her naked as she walked in front of the window … Madonna, never
first-aid services. Minutes later, we were loaded onto lorries and taken to the city. They had struck the entire city centre. I found myself facing the same scene as in Milan, with the one difference that huge craters had opened up and from them jets of water were shooting into the air like fountains: people screaming, the wounded being carried away in the arms of helpers, the dead laid out under the porches. It was a full hour before we got ourselves organised. No one had told us what to do.
in a mirror. She continued to give vent to her irritation over her emotional life: she had a fairly well-to-do lover, but he bored her. Another rub of the cream, this time on her breasts, with a special touch of bright red for her nipples. Then she confided in us about the great love of her life: a right bastard, currently in jail, who exploited her, beat her, then kissed her gently, so that they ended up making love. As she described to us, with the aid of mime, their love-making, she filed the