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Rating: It was a coincidence. I was cleaning among the things stashed away in the storage room and it reappeared in a cloud of dust: the magical Lesa phonograph suitcase! Phono.Suitcase.Lesa. But much more than three words. A kaleidoscope of colors and memories that could make the Istituto Luce envious! In a flash, a TARDIS appeared before me, wrapped in a white smoky veil that I entered without hesitation. And down. Down. Down, down. Backward in time...
............
odnassaP ad ebutuoY ehc ah osiccu li nemklaW, allad arreug ilged inacirema a amabO, allad arreug ilged inacirema a maddaS, allad arreug ilged inacirema ella eraznaz e ia iniciv isoromur, odnaigudni allus attircs "omecs ihc eggel la oirartnoc", alla arocep ylloD, ilopotnegnaT...to the year 1982.
Pertini plays scientific scopone with Franco Causio, Zoff, and the good Bearzot with the precious trophy prominently displayed, while I, at an unspecified distance, begin to show a vivid interest in the anatomy of Gloria Guida. Argentina and England, that same year, decide to exchange sugared almonds over the Falklands. The world is a big ruckus in the '80s, and I don't even bring up the Palestinian cause that spans decades like vintage wine. But my frivolous and lazy mind has other things to think about; it only lights up in the bathroom with Guida and Fenech (to the great satisfaction of my grandmother, convinced she solved my constipation problems). This whole mess of sensations, events, and various "who-cares" moments are seasoned by my mother's and her sisters' 45 RPM records, kept by my grandmother in a secret spot in the storage room, the same secret spot where she hides the homemade sweets, my very own secret spot, where I arrange my grandmother's homemade sweets and listen to the 45 RPM records kept by my grandmother in a secret spot. To cut it short, there's nothing secret at all, except my grandmother's belief that she has a secret place.
I was saying, the 45 RPM records:
Bobby Solo with Credi A Me / Le Cose Che Non Ho ,
Barbara / Rudy Rickson – La Bambola / Chimera,
Adamo – La Notte / Non Sei Tu,
Peppino Gagliardi – Piango / Ascolta Mio Dio,
Georgie Fame – La Ballata Di Bonnie E Clyde /Try My World,
Wilma Goich – L'Amore Al Mare / Un Bacio Sulle Dita,
Enzo Parise - Santa Rita da Cascia (?!?!?!?!?!?!?)
and Rita Pavone with 'Datemi Un Martello' and its B-side, "Che m'importa del mondo".
I have always liked B-sides and I say it without any innuendo, referring solely and exclusively to buttocks. But Pavone is the exception that proves the rule. What do I care about the world if I have homemade cookies. What do I care about the world if I can lock myself in the bathroom for hours with my grandmother's blessing. What do I care about the world at thirteen years old. The music flows, runs sweetly in the grooves of the disc, hovers in the afternoon hours, in the days of my adolescence, while I do my silly things, my conquests (few) and compile the anthology of my failures.
♫'...I ask nothing more of the sky if it leaves me with you.' ♫ ♫
But who are you, then?? There's no trace of a young girl; but that's okay, after all, I'm already engaged with Gloria and when she's gone, there are always the homemade cookies. So, between Pavone's world, the blonde spied on by Banfi and me, and the infamous cookies, the years go by and the Linetti which once gave shine, now offers a different kind of shine. And it all becomes clearer to me about my mother sitting sideways behind my father on the Lambretta, mocking the vector forces. Everything races by. Fast. My grandmother sits in the kitchen, I enter the bathroom. I exit. There's no more my grandmother, and neither the same kitchen nor the same bathroom. Forty years in a breath of wind. No more soap bubbles on the balcony and basil plants to water. No more Stereo8 and homemade sauce.
Nothing more. The end.
Just a phonograph suitcase appearing out of nowhere, a 45 RPM record with a freckled face prominently displayed and a memorable B-side that I will hardly forget. No innuendo, of course.
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