NyLon! - chapter 9

Nine days elapsed, and she has gone and come, but with with someone else. Nuzzled on the sofa in front of the television set in Roosevelt Island, Raffa and Mauro were involved for the umpteenth time in the romantic cult-movie of their infancy, Charade, identifying themselves in the roles of Audrey Hepburn and Cary Grant. The bateau mouche carried also me from the Latin quarter on the rive gauche river towards the Trocadero on the right one, where Abigail was waiting for me. I recognized her disguised as a road worker removing cobblestonesfrom the Etoile in order to replace them as the homosexual mayor had ordered, and I made them the agreed sign in order to catch up in the nearby McDonald’s on the Champs Elisees, the McDonald’s on the Champs Elisees being a sure place where Crapazzoni would never find out about us: he was on the night shift in the one in Rome’s Piazza di Spagna, some 1,000 miles down. Abigail told me:

- Any moment Crapazzoni will take off from the child of the president in order to meet you in London

Sometimes we secret agents are not very well tuned on our same coded languages

- What you mean for the child of the president?

- Ciampino, of course, you idiot

- Got it - I congratulated her - Great job. How have you made it?

- Simple, Daniel always does the opposite of everything I support, as a matter of principle. However, be careful, the boy is rather sly

- No worries, it will everything go for the best

- Shall we make love?

- Abigail, tou are married

- Moralist

In the event you haven’t understood, we were in Paris, where me and Abigail used to secretly meet every time that she hadn’t to attend a secretariat meeting in Rome or I had to attend an unfaithful harlot in my bed to London. I accompanied Abigail to the Bercy station and left her a kiss. There had never been nothing more than some kiss, between me and Abigail. Ok, on the respective nipples as well, but very little down them.

I took the metrò to the Gare du Nord and three hours later the Eurostar delivered to me to Waterloo, where I changed immediately towards Gatwick, where an EasyJet was about to deliver me nothing less than an entire Crapazzoni.

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Ten days elapsed and with the Turko and the Crapazzoni we are in an Irish pub for the Thursday night Polish dysko-musik Polish. Now, if it is reasonable to expect that Irish pubs are popular here in Londinium, Polish dysko-musik Polish is even more in the Polish area of Acton, where I have kept a garçonniere that turns out to be useful to host the Crapazzoni. Believe me, it won’t be hard to you, Polish disko-musik is disgusting, shittily ugly, never heard anything worse. The muscolar Polish DJ is graduated in moronity and the stink from his armpits is smelt twenty metres away. Crapazzoni is conquered by him. I arrange for him (Crapazzoni) to sleep on the big bed in the Acton garçonniere and I manage myself on the nearby sofa. We try to sleep and as a matter of facts he quickly falls asleep for his customary four hours. I don’t. I turn and turn again, twisting myself. This Daniel Crapazzoni who sleeps near to me is extraordinarily more attractive than I expected from the photo on his website. Tall, blue-eyed haired and that muscolar bushily hairless chest (bushily hairless? Where am I?), you’d say he rather looks like Marco Cappato, whom in fact he interprets in this story. Taken by a raptus, I can’t resist the temptation and jump over him. Disagreeable but not too much and at the same time a little banal, in the anal banana sense, of the first homosexual experience in my life will always remain the doubt: have I had sex with Cappato or Crapazzoni?

Twelve days elapsed and finally the candid Hindu-orobic tycoon John Patel enters the scene! Since nothing comes to my mind for let him do something, he will have to wait the next chapter in order for me to come up with some role for him. Talking about the next chapter, we’ll read about an alarming PPC; Crapazzoni learning English the hard way; the terrifying Tosoni Test of radicality; and naturally John Patel involved in the longest parenthesis in the history of radical literature.