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Monster Movie

In the summer, I always stayed with my aunt and Big mama.

And on the riverbank, we played lots of games.

The most beautiful of all was inspired by the afternoons we spent at the house of our only friends, the magician and his son, two people from whom no one, absolutely no one, would ever go for tea.

The magician was a chubby type with a melancholic and sweet look.

A very kind teddy bear with his “Ma'am this, ma'am that” and “Seeing that the young man is here, what do you say if I tell you a story, which you too enjoy, right?” And he told them so well that we'd be left speechless. Also because writing for children was his profession.

And if it wasn't a story, it was a "Dear ladies, what do you say if I read the tarot for you? But you must promise me not to take too seriously what I will say, that we do this, just to pass the time." And this was music to Big mama and auntie's ears.

And then, you might say, why shouldn't one go for tea with such a delightful gentleman?

The thing is this magician had a bizarre habit: in the middle of a card reading, or a story, it might happen that he would enter a sort of trance, with his eyes going blank and vacant, as if disconnecting from the context to connect to something else; he would then rise and, as if called by something or pulled by an invisible string, start making movements with his arms and legs, a kind of dance between the clownish and the mystical.

Believe me, it was something that left a strong sense of pity in those who observed him, the same sensation one feels watching those madmen who repeat the same gesture for hours as if it were not possible to do otherwise.

To those movements he would alternate an unsettling mumbling of incomprehensible words spoken with a tone of supplication or prayer and, more rarely, with that of a command. All this could last a few minutes, or even much longer.

"I had to keep the evil from entering - he said, coming back to himself, the first time we witnessed that absurd phenomenon - I did it also for you, that it could have slipped into one of your pockets, because evil always seeks a nook to stay warm in. It would be strange, you would agree, were you, who entered here pure as lilies, to come out besmirched by a little demon. Because, you know, with you special care is needed, for you are to the evil as the most splendid flower is to the bee. You are immaculate, otherwise you would not enter this house."

This strange ritual on some days could repeat several times, on others we were luckier and the little demons left us in peace.

The son, a boy of about twenty with a child's face, was instead someone who, when he went to pee, first pulled out the tool and then opened the door. And who, often, oblivious to our chatter, would masturbate in a corner of the room. All things not exactly suitable for afternoon tea, you would agree.

And it doesn't end there. There was also the rhythmic wisdom. That every now and then, nobody knows why, that boy would start to make out of his mouth, in an exclamatory and angry tone, absurd and magical sounds, things like "icicco, cicicco, ci, cii, icicco!!! macco, cacco, macco!!!".

They were sound/words of extraordinary expressive force perhaps aimed at those same ghosts of evil that the father desperately sought to chase away.

But the real rhythmic wisdom came out with the "fat de in the cul," which in Romagnolo means get screwed.

This is how it went: he sat on the ground, with an enormously frowning expression, a sort of super-intensified pippio and stayed like that for a good while, immobile, completely absorbed in himself, almost as if wanting to capture all the energy necessary for a superhuman effort.

Then, unexpectedly, from his semi-closed lips came out, in a barely noticeable whisper, an absurdly tender "fat de in te cul," incongruous like a volcano that simply whistles or sneezes.

After a few minutes, another more determined "fat de in the cul" lofted into the air.

Thus began a crescendo, of frequency and intensity, which from an initial chant led to an almost unsustainable peak of sound violence, after which it declined to a silence charged with energy and little stars.

The whole thing could last a very long time, even hours.

I read somewhere about the singer of a German avant-garde group who in a crazy performance, while the others played their super esoteric stuff, chanted the same phrase for three hours only to collapse to the ground.

That guy almost went mad after a few years.

The magician's son has instead always enjoyed excellent health, proving that in some cases madness (at least the gentle kind) is much better than the avant-garde.

As the avant-garde, after all, is always better than nothing.

That singer loved to call himself a stellar language communicator and, the only American in a group of Germans, his name was Malcom Mooney.

Well dear Malcom, wherever you are, I hope you will allow me to borrow your beautiful poetic invention for the magician's son, who also was, believe me, a stellar language communicator.

And so, even we, in our small way, stellar language communicators, on the riverbank dedicated ourselves to the “fat de in te cul.”

You should have seen us while, sitting in the grass, we were all focused on that crazy and sweet refrain.

Ah, "Monster movie" is beautiful...

Tra-la-la...