He was right, my fellow- refugee. I was the blue letter delivery boy. The letter could bring a great joy or a great sorrow. If a family was accepted to the country of their desire their happiness and gratitude were overwhelming. But the logic of the process was elusive and mysterious. An anonymous force would scoop the people from their place of living, tear off the roots, process them through a nameless bureaucratic machine and stash them into the damaged goods basket. After that they are picked out whenever they are lucky. Buyers negotiated the prices and peeled of the extra skin. Sometimes only part of the family was accepted and sometimes everyone was rejected.
Our blue letter hadn’t arrived yet. We had other things to worry about. The tourist season was rapidly approaching and the homeowner wanted us out so that he could prepare the villa for Americans. That would be ironic to meet an American on the street, myself wondering homeless, and ask him for money as a former tenant of the villa. Homelessness was very real and we had to find something fast. The natives got tired of our hungry looks.. There were no apartments for rent, no affitazi for us.
I dismounted my bicycle at one of the crowded cafes at the beachline.
“Hey, signores, parlare Inglese? Anyone speaks English?”
. They were in no hurry. At last one fellow finished his dessert and put down the napkin.
“What do you want?”
“To entertain you.”
“Are you a woman? What you talk about?”
“ You have a scacci computer, a chess computer here. I’ll beat it in the first game.”
“This is the best system soldi can buy.”
“I’ll beat it playing blind, without looking at the board. You will interpret the moves.”
“Porco maladetto, you crazy? No one can do that.”
“I will do that.”
A man in the corner interfered. He was powerfully built, with broad shoulders and bulging muscles. One hand was crippled and there were numerous scars on his face and palms. I saw him before. Early in the morning he worked on his fishing boat with a bunch of other guys. He placed a cup of coffee in front of me and started talking with the others. I indulged myself slowly to the last drop.
“You play, “the pitch – black eyes of the fisherman rotated in the orbits like Chinese balls, “No soldi.”
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