The Man Who Went North

Back to Italy…

The latte at the breakfast café was good. So were the fresh rolls and, I think it was, the apricot jam. An elderly man who had not been there the previous evening with the men who stared, stood at the bar, an espresso in his hand. He saluted us politely and said he had heard there were foreigners in the village. He had come to see for himself. The villagers had not seen a foreigner, he claimed, since the German occupation many years before. Many recalled military vehicles, steel helmets and submachine guns, and so were reluctant to come forward. He, on the other hand, had lived for many years in Turin in the north where he now was retired and took it easy and was for the second time back in his native land for a visit. He would not stay long. Most of his kin had long since passed away.

He knew some French and his north Italian way of speaking was easy on my ears. We got on quite well. My Danish friend understood enough Italian to follow the small talk but was reluctant to speak himself. He was happy to just listen in the beginning. Then he picked up his courage and asked about the burnt-out house we had seen the previous day. The man looked gravely at us for a while, then quoted the opening line from a then popular Italian song: “Questo é la storia di uno di noi” (this is the story of one of us). Then he told the story:

A young man in that village had saved money for a train ticket from Villa San Giovanni to Milan, which had become a booming city after the end of World War II. Many from the south, “Il Mezzogiorno” as it is known, went there. Most stayed and never went back.

This man did, however. He had done well up north, founded his own company, had a wife and kids and a nice house. When his wife died, he thought he’d reconnect with his roots and bought a plot of land in his home village and set up a nice house for summer holidays. He equipped it with a modern fridge, freezer and gas stove. He had paintings on the walls, two TV sets (one of them even outside under a sunroof), a garage and a shiny Lancia car.

The villagers came to visit. Everything was very nice to begin with. He was welcomed and admired. Then some of the old people suggested he buy them a TV set, too. He was so rich. He thought it was a joke at first. It was no joke, it turned out. They asked for more. One of the paintings, for example. He had so many. They had none. A better gas stove for a young couple with three kids. The villagers came and went. The atmosphere soured. One afternoon, a whole mob of them assembled in his front yard looking sinister, accusing him of avarice and of being coldhearted towards his poor neighbours. He got furious, reminding them that it was he who had gone north and worked hard for many years and saved his money. Not they. They had stayed put and done nothing. They yelled back at him. He chased them away.

A few days later when he came back from a trip down to Scilla, his home had been ransacked and burned to the ground. Smoke was still rising from the ruins. He turned his car around, drove away and never came back.

“Ecco”, said the elderly man with his espresso cup still in his hand, finishing his story with a sad smile and arms raised in a gesture to the heavens.

And yes – there were wolves!

A la prossima volta

Karl