I knew he was bothered by the repetition Tokyo Japan of the same verses speaking of food, especially since he had written about freedom and equality. We have a tendency to be reductive, to trivialize and to simplify things. I embraced him and returned to the Tokyo Japan party headquarters. I knew that this would be our last embrace. There was nothing left to do, we would have to reinvent ourselves. Once again there was only one choice: departure. And so I left, once again. Turi left, Tokyo Japan never to return. The village, he said, comparing it to the one he had left, had died, Tokyo Japan embittered, become wealthy, but populated by “jerks” and “snobs.”
Where is Tokyo Japan? – Tokyo Japan Map – Map of Tokyo Japan Photo Gallery
How sad! There was more respect and solidarity when we were poor, but he couldn’t live on memories, and not even with the few people who understood him and loved him. There were good people and some friends, but they were all asleep. True, his choice was the result of long reflection: He thought that his son would never have a future in that place.
He left and returned to Morbegno. He gave me the travel blogs that he had kept with him. I went to see him twice. The first time was a surprise. When I called him to tell him that I was coming to Morbegno for a visit, he broke into tears. I remember the hugs and the copious tears when he came to get me at the station. I remember the care with which he served the delicious dishes prepared by his wife Teresa. He lived in a comfortable house. He was happy that Mariano had found employment with the local police; that he didn’t have to bow to anyone. He was well liked and respected, but he wasn’t happy. He missed the fucking village: the fucking village that you detest when you live in it only to miss it when you are away, that fucking village from which you can never be free. You leave it at your own peril, as you won’t be happy anywhere else.
He was writing a story about four people who return to a dead village. He was writing a memoir about the Carnival. He wasn’t fully convinced. He said he didn’t know where to place commas, periods or uppercase letters. I told him I would do that for him; you just write it, and we’ll fix it after. He wasn’t convinced. He was a perfectionist who had great respect for himself, and for the art of writing. We spoke frequently on the telephone, and he always asked about the village from which he had fled, but wasn’t able to leave behind. He asked about Calabria.
The news in the daily television broadcasts wasn’t good, and he was called upon to provide explanations, though he had no knowledge, to mount a defense even though he didn’t share their point of view. He had to make things clear to cold, stingy people who never even offered to pay for a coffee, who never even pretended to reach in their pockets for money. Murder, destruction, and crime, did nothing else happen in Calabria? Although he wasn’t soft on his region, he couldn’t bear to hear it vilified. There were good people and there were bad people. Had he not made that point in his farces for the Carnival?