Sometimes something that happens today can take you back to events that

took place many years ago. Right now I am planning to go on holiday with a

friend, someone with whom I’ve never been on holiday before. Maybe it will

work out OK, maybe it won’t. Maybe I’ll end up killing him. The actual

planning brings to mind a journey I took with a friend when I was younger,

and this is what happened.

At twenty eight Renzo was a couple of years older than me, so I

tended to look up to him. I wouldn’t say I knew him well, but he was a popular

figure in our group and could be counted on to offer an original opinion on

any given subject. Our nickname for him was Nerone torno subito (Nero

come back soon). Everyone was drawn to his erratic character but he was not

attached to anyone in particular. So I was a little surprised, and flattered,

when he first proposed the idea of us travelling together. It was Spring, 1978

and we were strolling along Chiatona beach.

“I was on the phone to a friend in Paris the other day,” he said. “I’ve

always fancied a working holiday and he said there’d be no problem finding

work. Why don’t you come along with me for a few months, Mario.”

“It’s a great idea, I’ve always wanted to visit Paris,” I said. “But I’m

short of cash just now.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll help you out, at least until we get there.”

“Won’t we have problems with the language?”

Renzo shrugged. “I know enough French to get by and you’ll soon pick

it up.”

Neither of us were in steady jobs at the time, so there was nothing to

lose.

1
 One week later we boarded the train at Bari Station in the late

evening. Throughout the journey Renzo talked about his friend, Mauro, who

had lived in Paris for five years. Renzo’s enthusiasm was infectious. The

more he talked the more I looked forward to arriving in Paris.

“He’s having a great time. Fantastic food. Beautiful women. Believe

me, he lives life to the full.”

Two days later, early in the morning, the train pulled in at Gare De

Lyon. As we stepped down on to the platform I took a good look round. The

station was even bigger than Milan station. I was glad that Renzo was with

me as I would never have made this trip into the unknown on my own. Until

then I had hardly even left the village. Despite the chilly morning the platform

was alive with elegantly-dressed office workers. Even though we were both

rumpled and grubby from sleeping on the train, we held our heads high,

pleased to be in the glittering capital.

Renzo’s friend was supposed to meet us at the station. After half an

hour there was still no sign of him. Renzo confidently strode up to the bar and

ordered two coffees in French. Afterwards he took a small slip of paper from

his wallet then went to the payphone to call his friend. As I watched I saw the

expression on Renzo’s face change from confident to worried.

“He’s probably stuck in traffic.” He quickly changed the subject. “Look

how alive it is in Parigi! In the village we're barely half alive, but here - “

He was right, just two days earlier I was enmeshed in the petty life of

the village where everyone knew everyone else's business. Here, the vitality

of the people going about their daily lives was infectious. We took a seat in

the waiting room. As I tried to compose my thoughts I observed the people,

while they remained pleasingly oblivious to us.

2
 Suddenly, out of nowhere a tramp dressed in a dirty white raincoat

appeared. He stood for a moment and slowly scanned the faces before him.

His curious gaze finally alighted upon on us. He came closer and stared

deeply into my eyes till I began to feel uncomfortable. Just as suddenly, he

leapt back in pantomime amazement, then disappeared into the crowd.

People laughed to themselves as he moved past.

“Amazing,” said Renzo. “One man alone can make so many people

laugh. This is Pure Living Theatre.”

“But why did he pick on us. Do we look funny?”

Renzo shrugged and said, “Maybe it’s too avantgarde for us to

understand.”

“Maybe,” I said.

We left the tramp with his audience and wandered down the platform.

Two hours later Renzo’s friend still hadn’t turned up so he phoned again. This

time a woman answered and told him to try again the following day. By now

he looked very worried.

“Tell me, how well do you know this guy?”

Renzo gestured vaguely at the air. “Pretty well. I spoke to him on the

phone a couple of times. Well, once, actually. Before we left I told him we

were on our way to Paris. I can't think why he's not here to meet us.”

“Where exactly did you meet him?”

He refused to look at me. Trying hard to summon up the confidence he

had recently lost, he said quietly, “I met him in a bar in Naples. We had a

couple of beers. He told me if I ever came to Paris he’d do anything to help

me. Job, somewhere to live - ”

3
 Something stirred in my stomach. “So you met this stranger in a bar

and now he’s your new best friend?”

“Just calm down. Don't make this harder than it already is, OK?” he

said, turning to face me. “There's no need to dramatise. Things haven’t quite

gone to plan but I'm not going to get depressed about it.”

“Hold on a second,” I said. “Why don’t we just take a taxi to his flat?”

Renzo stared at the ground for a second, then he said, “Unfortunately,

I don't have his address, only his phone number. Don’t worry, we’ll call him

again later. No need to panic.”

He walked off so quickly I had to hurry to catch up with him.

As a temporary measure we sought out a small, cheap hotel close to

the station. Once in our room we were too exhausted to do anything but lie on

the bed. As I sunk into the mattress I told myself that everything was going to

be OK, though I wasn’t quite sure I believed myself.

We spent our first day relaxing and visiting tourist haunts. Paris was more

beautiful then I had imagined. The wide, tree-lined street, the pavement artist

and the general sense of to be in Paris lifted my spirits. The late afternoon we

were in Pigalle (where Renzo insisted on ‘treating’ me to a porn film) and the

Eiffel Tower. By the end of the day my mood had lightened and I told myself

to embrace our trip with a spirit of adventure.

The following day I watched from my bed as Renzo went to the window. Deep

in thought, he stared out on to the street. After a few moments he called his

'friend' again, mumbling into the phone. It was clear that whoever Renzo’s

friend was, he seemed to have disappeared. There was no way we could find

4
work on our own, not without contacts. Also, Renzo’s French was so poor he

could barely ask for directions.

“Doesn’t that give us a bit of a problem?” I said.

“Well... yes and no.”

“Meaning what exactly?”

Here we were, full of ideas, in a city which offered so much. But with

no notion of how to implement our ideas we could have been anywhere. That

strange stirring in my stomach was beginning to return. Before I could say

anything else, Renzo leapt to his feet.

“There’s no reason why we shouldn’t enjoy ourselves for the time

being,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “Let’s go and have a wander

round the city. I think more clearly when I’m walking about.”

We set off like aliens in search of intelligent Life.

We took a bus that passed along the Seine, by the Champs Elysees,

and on to Versailles. I stood before this enormous building, barely able to

take in its splendour. Renzo was also staring but I got the sense that he

wasn’t really seeing it. But then, he had been in a very thoughtful mood all

afternoon.

I was just on the point of heading for the entrance when Renzo out of

the blue said, “I just had another idea.”

I gave him my best hopeful smile.

“Why don't we go to Florence?”

Try as I might I could not connect that Italian city with the Louvre.

Renzo raised his hand. “Why not? We'll have the same opportunities,

great things to see and do. Plus, no language problems.”

“But what about your friend?” I said.

5
 “Forget about him. These things happen. We just have to move on.”

Put so authoritatively and wisely, how could I disagree?

Though everything hadn’t been just fine so far, I saw the point of his idea.

We’d be in a city where we knew the language, at least, so it had to be easier

to find a job there.

After changing trains at Milan we arrived in Florence late on Monday

afternoon. Renzo was now bouyed up with confidence again, and I could only

follow where he led. However, three days in Paris had already eaten into my

spending money. When I pointed this out to Renzo he waved me away.

“Don’t worry. We’ll be OK."

At Florence we found accommodation in a pensione: a long, narrow

room with four beds on the second floor. The furniture was cheap and well-

worn, complete with an old black and white TV. The air was heavy with the

odour of dust and damp, but it suited our immediate needs.

Next morning, after two cappuccinos and a brioche, we set off in

search of work. At every restaurant it was the same story: nothing available,

come back later. As far as I could see this didn’t bode well, but Renzo refused

to be dismayed.

“Mario, we haven’t even started yet.”

In the evening we went to a pizzeria in the centre where Renzo

reminded me about the importance of keeping our spirits up. We were in our

home country, it could only be a matter of time before everything fell into

place.

Next morning we got up early again and at the first restaurant we

approached, Renzo was offered a job in the kitchen, starting that afternoon.

6
His main duty consisted of preparing fish for the Head Chef. I was not so

lucky. One restaurant owner offered me work only if I was capable of cooking

veal escallop. I didn’t see the point of lying. Another asked me to return the

following week.

While Renzo worked during the day I took a break from seeking work

and became a tourist for a little while, mingling with the other tourists at Ponte

Vecchio, Piazza della Signoria and the famous Duomo. Renzo always

brought sandwiches and a couple of beers from the restaurant so I was in no

danger of starving. But after three days with ham and cheese I was fed up

with the same diet.

“Renzo, if this is not asking too much could we have something

different. Some pasta, maybe. Or a steak?”

Renzo immediately took offence. “You think you're pretty smart, don't

you? Tomorrow I'll bring the menu. Anyway, how come you haven’t found a

job yet?”

“I try every day. It’s just that I haven’t had any luck yet.”

I turned my gaze to the old TV. I got the distinct feeling that Renzo

suspected I spent most of the day watching it. I hope he doesn't think I'm too

lazy.

Renzo seemed happy in his new job, even though his clothes seemed

to smell continually of food.

“Still no luck?” he said after my third day as a tourist.

I shrugged.

“Maybe you’re not trying hard enough?”

“I’ll give it another go tomorrow,” I said, a little taken aback by the hint

of resentment in his voice.

7
 By the end of the week I was still without work. Renzo sprung another

surprise on me. That evening he came home from work earlier than usual.

His stony expression implied bad news.

"Everything OK?"

"I had an argument with the chef," he said, removing his coat and

tossing it on the bed. "He accused me of not cleaning the fish properly. I told

him if he wasn't happy he could find someone else."

“Where does that leave us?"

“We’re going home. Tomorrow.”

“But isn’t that - ?”

“Pack your stuff.”

Renzo, I realised, was full of surprises. A thought came into his head

and he immediately acted upon it. There was no pause for reflection and if

you were involved in one of his ideas you could never quite work out how he

had arrived at a given conclusion. In some circumstances this could be

considered amusing but, having wasted my hard-earned savings following

him to Paris then Florence with little prospect of finding work, I was in no

mood for laughing.

“That could be a problem since I don’t actually have the money for the

train ticket. I’m not even sure I have enough to pay the hotel bill.”

Renzo shrugged. “All right, I promise I’ll take care of that.”

The more he used this expression the more worried I became. After

all, nothing he had predicted had come to pass.

Planning to be up early next morning I carefully set the alarm for

quarter to seven and settled down to sleep. When the alarm went off I awoke

8
to see Renzo leaping out of bed and coming to land on the carpet with a

bump.

“What time is it?” he hissed.

“Quarter to seven,” I told him.

“What?”

“Almost seven.”

Without hesitation he shouted: “Are you out of your mind? Where do

you think we’re going at this time of the morning you stupid bloody idiot!”

“What?” I said, slightly offended. “I thought if we got up early we could

take things easy.”

“Easy? I got to tell you that you are a weight on my shoulders. Now

you start with this bloody clock! The truth is when you were supposed to be

looking for work you never set the alarm. You know how hard it is for me to

get to sleep."

“There's no reason to be upset. You never said anything about having

difficulty sleeping.”

“You’ve done nothing but complain ever since we got off the train. I go

out to work while you play the tourist. You complain about the sandwiches,

you keep telling me I smell of fish all the time. You don't even listen to me.

You tell me your nonsense. Do me a favour! Go and get stuffed!!”

While I got dressed, Renzo hauled his suitcase from the wardrobe and

began to pack it hurriedly, murmuring to himself all the while.

“I’ll see you downstairs,” he growled.

He then left the room while I was still packing. A short while later I went

downstairs to join him in the lobby but he was nowhere to be seen. I

approached the Padrona, a short, grey-haired woman in her fifties, with a

9
strangely piercing gaze and asked her if my friend had settled the bill. She

looked at me for a moment, then said, “Your friend paid his bill. I assume

that’s what you’re referring to.”

“You mean there is still money owing?”

The Padrona glanced down at the ledger. “Forty five thousand lire to

be exact.”

I tried to explain that Renzo was responsible for my bill as well. As I

spoke, the Padrona’s eyes grew round with rising anger. I will never forget the

look on her face.

“I knew it!” she said. “You people from the south do it on purpose.

When it comes to paying it’s always a big surprise. I wasn't born yesterday.”

“Please, signora, you must understand, I didn’t plan this. What can I

do?”

She eyeballed me across the desk. “You’re going to have to give me

something.”

I handed her twenty thousand lire. This left seven thousand. Enough

for a sandwich and a coffee but not much else.

“Better than nothing, I suppose,” she said, examining the notes.

I grabbed my suitcase and headed for the railway station. This was

Renzo’s best surprise so far and when I caught up with him I planned to

confront him. The more I thought about it the angrier I became and vowed

never to travel anywhere with him again. Luckily for him he was not on any of

the platforms. I deposited my case at the left-luggage counter and took

another look around the station. Still no sign. I finished up at the station bar,

staring into my espresso and wondering what to do next. According to the

1
departure board the next train for Bari was due to leave at four fifteen that

afternoon. Not that that information was any use to me.

Afterwards I made my way along one of the main streets, frantically

dodging the traffic, and trying to contain my anger. I was now directionless,

helpless, depressed and miserable. Nothing made sense any more.

The sign for the Police station drew my attention like a beacon in the

sea of my confused thoughts. As all other options were closed to me I headed

quickly towards it. It occurred to me that if I was given an appropriate

document I might be allowed to board the train and pay when I got home.

There were three officers on duty, one reading a Stampa at the desk,

the other two standing nearby. I glanced from one to the other, in search of a

friendly face. The youngest officer finally said, “Can I help you?”

Maybe it was the result of their quietly serious manner, or the way their

eyes seemed to bore into me, my voice was so weak I could hardly hear it

myself. On hearing ‘friend’ and ‘argument’ all three officers became

interested.

“Then what happened, you killed this friend?”

“Maybe when I see him again I will kill him."

“Excuse me, what is your problem exactly? Could you be more

specific,” said the young officer.

I repeated my story as clearly as my remaining energy would allow.

“Easy.”

“It is?” I said, a little taken aback.

“You get on the train and take your seat. When the ticket collector

comes along you tell him you have no money. By law he has to give you a

ticket and take down your address so that you can pay later.”

1
 I decided there and then that this helpful officer of the law was my new

best friend. I left the police station a much happier man, a though I was

dreading the embarrassment of having to explain my situation to the ticket

collector.

There was still no sign of Renzo on any of the platforms. Which way it

went didn't make much difference to me, by this time I was past caring. I had

time on my hands and nothing to do but observe people, their differences,

wondering if by chance I might see a familiar face. Suddenly a small robed

figure emerged from the crowds, a nun calmly making her way along the

platform. I don’t know what was going through my mind but I decided to throw

myself on her mercy.

“Please help me, sister,” I said.

She paused and looked me up and down.

“I lost my wallet somewhere,” I said. “Can you spare me five thousand

lire?”

“What do you need five thousand lire for?”

“I haven’t eaten since yesterday and I’m trying to get home,” I said.

She thought a moment, then took out her purse. I was relieved when

she unfolded two thousand lire. “I’m afraid this is all I can give you. I shouldn’t

really be doing this.”

I took the money and thanked her profusely.

Then she said, “If you are really hungry, there’s a soup kitchen

attached to the church round the corner. Santa Maria Novella. But you have

to be there at twelve. It’s only open for an hour.”

“Thanks, sister,” I said. “You’re very kind.”

She nodded and moved off to catch her train.

1
 I wandered about the station for a while, then as it approached twelve I

headed for the church. The soup kitchen was in a building at the rear. The

queue was made up entirely of tramps of all ages. Feeling embarrassed and

humiliated I joined it. I wondered whether Renzo would call this ‘Living

Theatre’ too.

Someone tapped me on the shoulder and asked me for a cigarette. I

told him I don't smoke.

“I'm not what you think.”

“What do you know what I'm thinking?” I said.

“Look, I'm not a tramp, I just come here to talk to someone.”

“Oh I see.”

He walked off, sniffing the air snootily, looking for someone else to talk.

I eventually found myself in a large white tiled room with a little wooden

cross on the wall. The main area was laid out with long tables and benches.

Behind a serving hatch nuns dished out food from tureens. I silently ate my

food in the company of my new friends, remaining at the table long after they

had left. It wasn’t as though I had anything better to do. On the other hand, If

someone had asked me last week where I expected to be in a week's time I

would never have guessed that I'd be sitting at a table with tramps and

homeless people. Then another idea popped into my head.

“I never saw your face before.” said the little nun who was busily

clearing the table.

I told her it was my first time here. Then another idea popped into my

head and I told her the lost wallet story.

“Every day there is someone who can’t make do with what they have.

Always they want more.”

1
 Then she went to fetch a plastic bag from a nearby chair. “Look this

came this morning. Why don’t you take it? There might be something useful

in there.”

I thanked her and left, wondering what kind of impression I must have

made to have been the focus of such charity.

At four fifteen I settled into my seat and fanned open my newspaper,

feeling like a normal person for a change. The day’s events had left me

exhausted and still they kept flashing through my mind. I also had one more

problem to solve. I had deliberately chosen an empty compartment so as to

save my blushes when the conductor came round. But just before the train

pulled out an elderly couple entered, nodded and sat in the section in front of

me.

I tried to read a newspaper but I couldn't relax. Every time the

connecting door opened I lost my concentration. I just wanted the

embarrassing business, this final obstacle, out of the way as quickly as

possible. When I heard the famous call, “Tickets please!”, my stomach

performed a somersault.

“Tickets please!” said the voice, only this time it was at my shoulder.

Now I knew what people meant when they spoke of ‘breaking out in a

cold sweat.’ I rose from my seat, hoping no-one could hear me.

“I don’t have one,” I said quietly. “

“What did you say?”

“I don’t have the money to buy a ticket.”

The conductor sighed, then said in a booming voice, “Right, you don’t

have a ticket. Presumably, you want me to make a ticket out for you which

you’ll then pay for later. Is that right?”

1
 I heard a rustle nearby. I glanced back and saw the elderly couple

peering over the seats. The old man began to edge their suitcases further

along the luggage rack. By this time my cheeks were burning and my palms

were soaked with perspiration.

“Personal details,” said the conductor, pen poised above his notepad.

The five minutes he took to fill out the form were like an eternity. When

he finally put away his notepad and moved off, I gazed at the ticket as though

it were a holy relic.

At last I was on my way. I went to the bathroom and doused my face,

feeling better by the moment. When I returned to my seat I found I was the

only occupant in the compartment. My two companions, obviously fearful of

being robbed and murdered as they slept, had moved to another one.

Everything that had happened during my trip with Renzo flickered through my

mind like a video loop. At no stage could I see that I was at fault in any way.

As the train passed over a particularly boring stretch of country I

opened the bag the nun had given me. I drew out a green Loden coat that

looked like it had hardly been worn. I tried it on. To my delight it fit me almost

perfectly, though it was a little long in the sleeves. I paced up and down the

aisle a few times, feeling elegant and carefree. Trying out a manly pose in the

doorway I thrust my hands in the pockets. My fingers came into contact with a

small sheaf of paper held together by a paper clip. As I withdrew my hand I

immediately spotted the colour of lire.

All together there were ten thousand lire in crisp notes. Also clipped to

the money was a receipt from a restaurant. If this was the stranger’s change

he was clearly wealthy enough not to miss it. Along with my beautiful Loden

1
coat, this was enough to make me feel like a normal traveller. Humiliation and

inferiority were now behind me.

As the sun set once again I felt like I'd been travelling for months.

Struggling to make sense of the past week's events I closed my eyes and

drifted off to sleep. Soon, I found myself laughing, as though at the key

scenes in a comedy film.

I awoke as the train pulled into Bari station the following morning,

having slept soundly through the night. I was pleased to be on familiar

territory, glad to be almost home. I ordered myself a double espresso at the

station bar. Then I noticed that the local train for my village wasn’t due for

another two hours. I took a seat in the waiting room and watched the crowds

drift by.

A sea of anonymous faces. Anonymous, that is, except for one. I

turned away in disbelief, then glanced out the corner of my eye. I would

recognise that proud strut anywhere.

It was like a generator starting up or a fighter plane preparing for take-

off. The anger charged through my veins. As we all know, when adrenaline is

present it’s time for fight or flight. There was no doubt in my mind which

option I was ready to take. I started to pace towards him, fists clenched,

mentally rehearsing the blows I intended to shower down on him. Everything

seemed to fade as I focussed on the object of the attack.

I was just a few paces from Nerone when he saw me. After a brief look

of surprise a slight smile played at the corners of his mouth. The smile turned

into a broad grin, then he began to laugh aloud. Like the tramp at the station

in Paris. It was, however, enough to completely defuse my anger. Suddenly I

laughed too. A few other people looked at me like I'd gone nuts. What could I

1
do? You can’t take revenge against someone who is laughing with you rather

than at you.

It was, as Renzo had once said, “Pure living theatre.”

END