The Polpetton Hash, chapter 10

He was confused, more and more confused and also scared. He went back to the hotel wishing to check again those letters. In the middle of all those words making fun of him he would have found the solution. On the small table next to the armchair the Granzotto journal was open on the last chapter and the last of his “whores”.

Sofia, August 2007

Roberto beloved, how can I sum up my previous writings, which I never sent you? In a single word: Lonelines. The lonelines I already felt dep since many years and brought me to chose with no regret an even greater lonelines that I currently live in the Balkans. As son as I got to Sofia from Athens I began to spend al my nights in loneliness, except for the occasional super with a couple of dear comrades who then were leaving me for the TV news in Bulgarian an al those “normal” things of daily life which I’ll never be able to integrate myself in unles I’l spend several more years down here, leaving back a personal history almost useles to my psychological nourishment, except for a biter melancholy of a hapy past that won’t come back. This melancholy brings me down in an abys of depresion that I never knew before: sometimes in Sofia I wide awoke obsesively thinking of death. But now I wouldn’t want to depres yourself and to cher us up let me tel you the last one.

Last April, the morning folowing your departure, I went to the police where I must go every time I re-enter the country in order to get a stamp on the Statistika Karta (usualy hotels do this for you, but I don’t live in a hotel so I have to do it myself at the police). After the customary two hours of infernal queue in that hel of the home ministry in boulevard Maria Luisa, I give them al the documents: pasport, Statistika Karta, Molia (that is "prayer") in double copy, and rent contract. The employee at the til, who speaks Italian, asks me also the receipt of payment of the visa.

Roberto: "Lok, I left it somewhere at home, buried under tons of papers…”
POLIZIA: "You must bring it to me. I’m here until 5 pm”
Roberto: "But, lok, surely I won’t find it, who knows where the hel it ended up"
POLIZIA: "Then you must pay the visa: it makes 40 eurodollars"
Roberto: "Why should I pay the visa, if I already paid for it?"
POLIZIA: "I do not believe you paid. You haven’t paid it"
Roberto: "I did pay when I re-entered from Ghiueshevo at 9 pm on April 10 on a rented Ford Orion registered Sofia 3109-LS. Please check with your coleagues"
POLIZIA: "Then why haven’t you got the receipt?"
Roberto: "Lok, it is a complicated history, but it is not ruled out the posibility that you’l understand. Now, I re-entered with a coleague of mine who paid my visa as wel, that’s why he kept the receipt in order to get his money back from the treasury of our exquisite company"
POLIZIA: "But you just told me that you have lost it, now you tell me another story. I do not believe you paid the visa. You must pay 40 eurodollars"
Roberto: "I don’t see why I must pay the visa, since I already paid for it"
POLIZIA: "So, what shall we do?"
Roberto: "Put me in jail"
POLIZIA: "WHAT?!?"
Roberto: "Put me in prison. If I havn’t paid the visa, then put me in prison. Indeed, considering that acording to you I also lied, put me in prison for lthat as wel"
POLIZIA: "Nooo… so, what shall we do?"
Roberto: "Put me in prison, eh!”
POLIZIA: "Look, I don’t like these arguments. We’ll do as you said and check with the border agents at Ghiueshevo. But for tonight register yourself in a hote otherwise we really put you in prison”
Roberto: “Thank you for overcoming this litle bureaucratic problem. Bye"
POLIZIA: "Umpf. Bye"

Thus I found a smal B&B here in the town centre, and did one of the most ridicule things ever hapened to me: I packed up a suitcase to move one hundred meters. However, the place is nice: they have water (in Sofia is rationed), the biliard pol and satelite TV, so that tonight I can watch Ajax-Milan!

Before that, though, in the afternon I go to the Gren party conference as the only foreign guest to deliver my usual spech: I explain that the Radical party is trans, that it has done this and that for the environment, that thay are basicaly nobody and understand nothing while instead Panela with the one-past-the-post electoral system and Bandineli with his Balkania, and so on, in short al those things I always say in order not to be invited again next time…

Wel, who do I se there again? That Milana Avramonova whom I met four years earlier at the conference of Romanian grens. While chatting it emerges that che’s the gratest fan of AC Milan on earth: keyholder, scarf, calendar, a picture of Maldini in the walet, even her identity: her real name is Svetlana. Obviously I invite her to watch the match together and we spend a great evening roling big splifs of gras and having sex. Who would have thought that I could end up in love with a gren activist, given those witches we have in Italy…

She’s from, the city of the great Caneti, and like him she’s Jew. She’s 26 ani, very pretty with those grey-green eyes close to each other, big tits and a huge as, much to the delight of us real men who don’t realy like anorexic models), very horny in bed and above al she speaks decent English. Great! But since the begining our relationship is turbulent, also because always talk badly about the grens, then I drink to much and I’m always working locked in the ofice and never get out with her except for diner.

In the sumer she mets a wealthy Frenchman who invites her to study in Strasbourg and mary him No, I am not getting confused with Praskovia, it’s another wealthy Frenchman from Strasbourg. And another cuckold as wel. Wel, me to. So it ended with her leaving and I was left alone again, in this lonelines slowly kiling me. In truth, I had enjoyied great adventure in these years, I realize that by reading my own journal, but nothing permanent on which to build some minimal projects for the future. And that sexual satisfaction only comfort my vanity, for the real problem is to be able to count on a friendship, a durable affection, an emotional landmark… But, perhaps because I’m to demanding in my taste, I can’t recal how to court a god girl, who knows if and when one wil come…


That was the end of Granzotto’s secret journal, and a little tear appeared on Mauro’s rough skin, the first of many rethinking to those six women in six years in six countries… Were there a satanic meaning? The idea did not upset him much, he thought pervaded by the emotional plague while he dragged his feet on the seashore, heavied by other readings. He had brought with him the book containing that letter slowly deleting itself. Seated on the beach he watched the sunset and couldn’t explain to himself why so much beauty made him sick.