NyLon! - CHAPTER 14

We've got to the foutheenth chapter and I notice that I haven’t yet introduced myself. My name is Granzotto, Bob Granzotto. I was calmly doing the contract calmly killer, that my non-authorized biographer would simply say hitman but contract killer is more politically correct, before that non-authorized (everyone has the non-authorized biographer who deserves) took control of my identity in order to invent improbable adventures that have projected me in the stardom of transnational politics. In my career, I have killed many people, who generally deserved it. In that honorable trade I earned well and I amused myself gretly. Perhaps not all biographers come to damage. The hitman had gradually been made more and more complicated, with the DNA test it was no longer enough to disguise oneself and to counterfeit passports like in the old times, when you had yourself to be only worried by the fingerprints. Now I recycled mysels as a secret agent with poetic licence, and what halo of cosmopolitan fascination and mystery could better encircle me than that of high electron density in the first glimmer of dawn at the horizon of the big apple, where my investigative in nosing out a trace left a month before by journalist in love. Actually the boat had just crashed against the pier projecting me violently on Manhattan. My fault in leaning too much from the upper bridge in crossing the Hudson from New Jersey in order to enjoy the skyline, which extended from Harlem, to the left extreme, the statue of the freedom on the right. It was a matter of a mere issue of perspective without any political significance, fue simply to the fact that I was sailing from east to the west. Had I travelled in the opposite direction, the freedom would have raised on the left against the black working class one on the far right. Unthinkable but in that city, where I noticed with annoyance that something was missing in the middle of my delirious pseudo-philosophical equations and also in the middle of the skyline: from the tip of the island a pair of high buildings that I had noticed some years before. Later I learned that the federal government had contracted out some demolition works to Arabic immigrants whom it would then have sued with deployment of great means and resources, financial and secondly human, just to keep busy the military-industrial complex that was the base of the castle of cards constituted by the illusory economy of the bankrupt Nation. But never mind the politics, I’m not here for the local politics but because of Italian radicals, in order to find the answer to the most difficult fifth question of the Testosoni that will open me the doors to the pathetic theatre of their committee. My bruised nose follows therefore the hormonal trace left by the journalist fallen in love from the east side to the western one, and it leads to me on the cableway to Roosevelt Island. And I find him there, hardly recognizing him from the photo on his book’s back cover. Forget about the flowing raven hair: he got has metalized hair like his pedantic swot colleague in primary school, a bacon belly like Alvaro Vitali and me, two enormous pimples on the lips, the only black hair is that coming out out from ears and nostrils, and the legs more bandy than Naomi Campbell’s. Aware of its aesthetic handicaps, with a big bottle of Amarone in a hand and in the other tong pants extraordinarily looking like the ones Raffa habitually uses, Mauro welcomes me trying to justify himself.

- Previosly I wasn’t so ugly, but I am practicing in order to become editor of Radio radicale, which is my secret dream. Sniff

- Nice to meet you, dear Mauro. You really fai schifo. Indeed, if you want to become editor of Radio radicale you already look like the current one, but you made a mistake in telling me that, for I’ll report it in a transatlanting novel that I am writing on the unlucky radicals like you and everybody else, if any consolation

- Anyway I have no hope, it is written in the Trisagioum of transitory-permanent norms of the party’s charter that the Radio editor is Ergife, the leader of the young Esperantists is Bordini and conferences are held at the Hotel Licheri. But I no longer care, as I’ve fallen in love with an extraordinary woman. Sniifff

Nonchalantly replied the Radical party’s Hugh Grant of the Radical party, voraciously smelling the pants. I felt perplexed, recognizing in them a nose kappero of mine among the small pieces of shit

- Uhm, and who could she will be?

- I can only say that she has made me accept to live my sexuality. Sniiiffff

- Never mind, who cares. Instead, I came here purposely to know from you the answer to the fifth question of the Testosoni

- Nobody knows it, it’s the second most guarded radical mystery. Sniiiifffff

- Ah! What the first one would be?

- Do tou think that I if knew the first, wouldn’t I know the second one? Sniiiiiffffff

- Does this mean that I crossed the pond for no reason at all?

- Correct! Sniiiiiifffffff

Had I the time before the last ride of the cableway, I would have interrogated myself on the third radical mystery: how do you say fuck off in Esperanto. Mauro has been of most insufficient help and now I must count on what Andrea will succeed to arrange in Hamburg with the Tosoni author of the enigmatic Testosoni of radicality.