professionals, let’s not forget that they’re just kids… If a strong hand is missing at management level…”
, positioned it close to the cage, put his bag over his shoulder, looked fleetingly at the parrot, which was still as imperturbably silent as ever, pulled the door behind him, and set off for the five-a-side football pitch in the Viale Tor di Quinto. Where, out of the other nine players minus one, someone must surely have an extra boot to lend him.
Today must be the first or third Friday of the month because, as agreed with The First Wife, it is up to The Writer to go and pick up the children. That’s why The Writer’s SUV is parked just outside the Irish school from which in a few minutes The Boy and The Girl will come out, the miraculous duo resulting from the encounter of his chromosomes with those of The First Wife. Two finely crafted little jewels the court preferred to entrust to their mother, a decision that even The Writer found fair and reasonable. Seeing them less means enjoying them more, it means making do with being a distributor of Gormiti cards and figures and putting on those ridiculous 3D glasses in the promiscuous darkness of a multiplex cinema from time to time. But, above all, it means having peace and quiet and enoughtime at his disposal to read and write. Or rather, to copy his mother’s novels in peace.
Of course, the arrival of The Baby was completely unexpected, and at first seemed a threat to a family order he had rebuilt with no little effort after the turbulent years of the divorce. Because although it may be true that opposites attract, it is no less certain that if they are too opposite they part. Take The Writer and The First Wife. Impossible to imagine any two people more different. And to think that once upon a time they had called each other darling.
Be that as it may, the siblings have emerged from the storms of that marriage without any obvious trauma—although it may be too early to say: in order to proclaim victory it is necessary to wait for the cyclone of adolescence. In their relationship with their father, they limit themselves to a few sudden whims of little importance, nothing that can’t be solved with a new accessory for the Nintendo Wii (the canyon wheel, for example) or a Winx colouring book. Speaking of which, it is worth noting that The Boy is more demanding and costs more, whereas The Girl is more affectionate and costs less. In future, The Writer is convinced, the proportions are likely to be reversed.
For the moment they have demonstrated incredible maturity. Both The Boy and The Girl greeted with indifference and fatalism (or maybe they just couldn’t care less?) the arrival of that little creature with its vague smell of dairy products and its bald head covered with silky down: The Baby.
In a few moments, they will come out of school in their nice uniforms, cross the garden beneath the attentive gaze of the Irish nuns, and with their colourful school bags, bigger than their backs, run lightly across that no man’s land between the exit from school and the return to the family, a no man’s land where children enjoy extraterritorial immunity and indulge in little impertinences, fierce discriminatory jokes and aggressivegames, before they recognize among the cars parked in the first and second row those of their mummies and daddies, or whoever is driving them, and resign themselves to the authority of adults.
Zzz zzz zzz zzzz… The Writer’s mobile was vibrating. The number of an intern from the publishing company appeared on the display.
“Hello, I’ll pass you to…”
“Hello,” he replied.
“Hello.”
Through the invisible Bluetooth connection, a sombre voice echoed in the car’s loudspeakers.
“We’re in a meeting. We’re checking the votes.”
“Oh… And how are they going?”
“Badly. You have to come.”
“When?”
“Right now.”
“But… but… I can’t right now.”
“Why? Where are you?”
“I’m
, positioned it close to the cage, put his bag over his shoulder, looked fleetingly at the parrot, which was still as imperturbably silent as ever, pulled the door behind him, and set off for the five-a-side football pitch in the Viale Tor di Quinto. Where, out of the other nine players minus one, someone must surely have an extra boot to lend him.
Today must be the first or third Friday of the month because, as agreed with The First Wife, it is up to The Writer to go and pick up the children. That’s why The Writer’s SUV is parked just outside the Irish school from which in a few minutes The Boy and The Girl will come out, the miraculous duo resulting from the encounter of his chromosomes with those of The First Wife. Two finely crafted little jewels the court preferred to entrust to their mother, a decision that even The Writer found fair and reasonable. Seeing them less means enjoying them more, it means making do with being a distributor of Gormiti cards and figures and putting on those ridiculous 3D glasses in the promiscuous darkness of a multiplex cinema from time to time. But, above all, it means having peace and quiet and enoughtime at his disposal to read and write. Or rather, to copy his mother’s novels in peace.
Of course, the arrival of The Baby was completely unexpected, and at first seemed a threat to a family order he had rebuilt with no little effort after the turbulent years of the divorce. Because although it may be true that opposites attract, it is no less certain that if they are too opposite they part. Take The Writer and The First Wife. Impossible to imagine any two people more different. And to think that once upon a time they had called each other darling.
Be that as it may, the siblings have emerged from the storms of that marriage without any obvious trauma—although it may be too early to say: in order to proclaim victory it is necessary to wait for the cyclone of adolescence. In their relationship with their father, they limit themselves to a few sudden whims of little importance, nothing that can’t be solved with a new accessory for the Nintendo Wii (the canyon wheel, for example) or a Winx colouring book. Speaking of which, it is worth noting that The Boy is more demanding and costs more, whereas The Girl is more affectionate and costs less. In future, The Writer is convinced, the proportions are likely to be reversed.
For the moment they have demonstrated incredible maturity. Both The Boy and The Girl greeted with indifference and fatalism (or maybe they just couldn’t care less?) the arrival of that little creature with its vague smell of dairy products and its bald head covered with silky down: The Baby.
In a few moments, they will come out of school in their nice uniforms, cross the garden beneath the attentive gaze of the Irish nuns, and with their colourful school bags, bigger than their backs, run lightly across that no man’s land between the exit from school and the return to the family, a no man’s land where children enjoy extraterritorial immunity and indulge in little impertinences, fierce discriminatory jokes and aggressivegames, before they recognize among the cars parked in the first and second row those of their mummies and daddies, or whoever is driving them, and resign themselves to the authority of adults.
Zzz zzz zzz zzzz… The Writer’s mobile was vibrating. The number of an intern from the publishing company appeared on the display.
“Hello, I’ll pass you to…”
“Hello,” he replied.
“Hello.”
Through the invisible Bluetooth connection, a sombre voice echoed in the car’s loudspeakers.
“We’re in a meeting. We’re checking the votes.”
“Oh… And how are they going?”
“Badly. You have to come.”
“When?”
“Right now.”
“But… but… I can’t right now.”
“Why? Where are you?”
“I’m
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