Sunday Morning

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Valeria sleeps. I take the keys and I allow myself a walk through the semi-deserted and silent streets. A chocolate croissant and a coffee at the waterfront chalet. The guy in the bar wants to talk and tells me about his passion for Jennifer Lopez, who meanwhile is seductively dancing on MTV’s screen. Before that, had passed the video of Serebro, three Russian girls winking and a bit slutty, but nice. I pay and go out.

I walk in the shade of the Villa’s trees, then I sit on a bench. It’s not yet ten o’clock and the heat is already terrible. I look at Naples. The calm sea, the boats at anchor, the Posillipo hill. It’s all beautiful and I’m at peace. I think of this city as a woman victim of domestic violence, mistreated every day by those who say they love her. I look for words to describe this perversion of the Neapolitans, but I can’t find the right ones. I only know that the Camorra is not the cause, but the consequence.

I return home without haste. Piazza dei Martiri, via Alabardieri, Belledonne alley. Even there, everything is quiet. Shops closed, in the bars staff are cleaning. Maybe at lunch time there will be some aperitives. I arrive home. I have to work but first I want to remember these things. Valeria is still asleep. Argo roams free, somewhere in the Torca garden.

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