The day of the phone strike several irregularities and oddities were reported. Moreover, single communications were not isolated and often got tangled up, so that you could hear other people having conversations and even join in.
At a quarter to ten that evening I tried calling a friend of mine, but even before I could manage to dial the last digit my device got stuck in a foreign conversation, to which many more added over the course of the minutes in an astonishing mess. Very soon it became a rally in the dark, where people got in and out unexpectedly and had no way of knowing who was actually talking, nor the others to know who we were, so everyone talked without the usual restraint or hipocrisy; very soon an amazing cheerfulness and a collective lightness of the mind prevailed, as it is conceivable used to happen during the wonderful and crazy carnivals of times gone, and of which only an echo was handed down by fairy tales.
Initially I heard two women talking about -go figure- clothes.
"Absolutely not I say the terms were clear you were to deliver the skirt last thursday and now it's monday evening I say and the skirt is not ready yet and you know what I'm gonna do, my dear miss Broggi I'm gonna just leave it to you and you can wear it as you please" It was an acute and petulant voice, talking extremely fast and without interruptions.
"Good going!" a young, hearty, smiling (if a little drawled) voice replied with a northern accent. "And what would you get out of this? You're not gonna get the cloth refunded."
"With all the anger she had me swallow I'd love to see her not even giving me a refund. Clara, next time you visit her please tell her this not how you treat your customers also miss Comencini told me she's not gonna give her business anymore either and that she got her dress completely wrong she looked like a beggar but what you're gonna do about it since she started having more customers she takes her sweet ass time can you remember two years ago when she started she was all "miss here, miss there" she never stopped with the compliments "it's a pleasure to dress a customer like you you give me so much satisfaction" and so on and now look but don't touch she even changed the way she talks right Clara? You noticed that too right, that she changed the way she talks? Meanwhile tomorrow we have a tea party at Giulietta's and I don't have anything to wear what do you think I should put on?" "Are you Franchina?" Clara answered, calmly "you don't even know where to put your clothes anymore you have so much". "Don't say that it's all old stuff the newest is from last autumn remember that tailleur you know the noisette one you remember it right? And after all I don't...". "What about me? I'm tempted to wear the green skirt, the large one with the black pullover, black is always elegant... or should I wear the new one, knitted gray? I'ts more après-midi, what do you think?".
At this point, from who knows where, a man with a coarse accent interjected: "Why, miss, why don't you wear the yellow lemon one, with a big nice cabbage on top of your head?".
Silence. The two women were still.
"Why miss" he kept going, mocking her accent. "Do you bring news from Ferrara? And you, miss Franchina, tell me, did the cat bite your tongue? That would be a tragedy, wouldn't it?". Laughs came from everywhere. Others had clearly joined the group and were listening in silence, just like me.
Miss Franchina responded petulantly "You, sir, I don't know you but you're really rude you know what you're twice rude firstly because you don't listen to others' conversations and this is basic education secondly because..."
"Oh god, what a lecture. Come on miss, or mrs, don't get too wind up about it. It's fair to joke I hope... I'm sorry! If you knew me in person maybe you wouldn't be so angry!..."
"Forget him!" said Clara to her friend. "Why would you give any time of the day to rude people? Put down the phone, I'll call you back later".
"No, no, wait for a moment" it was another man speaking, more polite and insinuating. One might say, more mature. "Miss Clara, don't go just yet, we might not even meet anymore!".
"Well, it wouldn't be this big of a tragedy." There was then a rash of new voices in an inextricable tangle; something along these lines: "Stop it, tattlers!" (it was a woman). "You're the tattler, if anything, snooping around in others' businesses". "Am I the on snooping around? Shame on you! I don't..." "Miss Clara, Miss Clara, tell me" (it was a man's voice) "what's your phone number? Don't you wanna tell me? You know, I confess I have a soft spot for northern girls. A real weakness." "I'll give you the number if you don't stop!" (it was a woman, maybe Franchina). "And you, who are you?" "I'm Marlon Brando". "Ah, ah" (collective laughter). "My god, you're so funny.". "Attorney, attorney Bartesaghi! Hello, hello? Is that you?" (another woman, unheard until now, was talking). "Yes, it's me, and how do you know that?" "I'm Norina, don't you recognize me? I'm calling you becaus tonight, before leaving the office, I forgot to tell you that..." The attorney, obviously embarassed: "Miss! Call me back later, I do not think it is appropriate to let our private affairs be known to the whole city!". "Hey, laywer" (another man was speaking) "it's appropriate to ask girls out though? The esteemed attorney Marlon Brando has a soft spot for northerners, ah, ah!" "Stop that, please, I don't have time to waste in small talk, I need to make an important phone call!" (it was a woman, must have been around sixty). "Hey, check this out" (miss Franchina's voice was recognizable) "are you maybe the queen of the phones?" "Put down the microphone, aren't you tired of talking yet? Just so you know I'm waiting for a long distance call and until you..." "Oh, so you were listening uh? The one who's not a tattler!" "Shut your mouth, slut!"
Brief silence. That was a low blow. Put on the spot, Franchina couldn't reply. Then, triumphant: "Ihiiii! Hear, hear, the slut!". A long burst of laughter followed. Must have been around twelve people. Then another pause. Had they all retired at the same time? Were they waiting for someone else's initiative? Listening closely, in the depths of silence, you could hear rustling, throbbing, breathing.
Finally, with her carefree accent, Clara came in: "Well, are we alone now?... So then, Franchina, what do you say I should wear tomorrow?"
At this point a man's voice was heard, new, beautiful, youthfully open and authoritarian, and astonishingly full of life: "Clara, if you'll allow me, I'll tell you: tomorrow you should put on your blue skirt from last year, the one with the purple golf you just brought to clean... and the black cloche hat, deal?".
"Who are you?" Clara's voice had changed, and was now cracked with fright. "Will you tell me who you are?" The stranger fell silent.
Then Franchina: "Clara, Clara, how does this guy know?...".
The man replied gravely: "I know a lot of things". Clara: "Bollocks! You just guessed!" He said, "Did I? Do you want me to give you another proof?"
Clara, hesitant: "Go ahead".
The stranger: "Well, young lady, hear me out: you have a birthmark, a small birthmark... er, um... I can't tell you where...".
Clara, warmly: "You can't know!" "Is it true or not?" "I swear no one has ever seen it, I swear, except my mother!"
"See I got it right?"
Clara almost started crying: "No one has ever seen it, these are hateful jokes!" The stranger responded, soothingly: "I never said I actually saw it, your little birthmark, I only said you got it!".
Another man's voice: "Stop it, buffoon!"
The stranger, ready: "Easy now, Giorgio Marcozzi, born Enrico, 32 years old, living in Chiabrera street, 5'58'' tall, married, sore throat for two days straight, nevertheless currently smoking. That enough for you?... Is everything correct?".
Marcozzi, intimidated: "Who are you? How dare you?... I... I...".
The man: "Don't take this personally. Rather, let's try to be more cheerful. You too, Clara... It's so rare to find ourselves in such a beautiful and dear company".
No one dared to contradict or mock him anymore. A dark fear, the feeling of a mysterious presence had entered the telephone wires. Who was him? A mage? A supernatural being who operated switchboards instead of strikers? A devil? Some kind of pixie? But that voice was not demonic. On the contrary, an enchanting charm emanated from it.
"Come on, boys, what are you afraid of now? Do you want me to sing a song?"
Voices: "Yes, yes". Him: "What should I sing?" Voices: ""Scalinatella"... no, no, maybe a samba... no, "Moulin Rouge"... "Aggio perduto 'o suonno"... "Aveva un bavero"... "El Baion", "el baion"!." Him: "Well, if you guys won't make your mind up... Clara, what would you like to hear?" "Oh, I like "Ufemia".".
He sang. Maybe it was suggestion or something else, but I swear I had never heard a similar voice in my life. A shiver went up your back, so shining, fresh, humble and pure it was. While he was singing, no one dared to breathe. Then there was an explosion of cheers, "bravo", "bis". "You're really amazing! You're an artist!... You must do radio, you'll make millions, I swear. Natalino Otto can go hide in shame! Come on, sing us something again".
"On one condition: we all sing together." It was a curious party: people with a microphone in their ear, scattered in very distant houses from their opposite blocks, standing in the anteroom, some sitting, some lying on the bed, everyone tied together by kilometers of thin wires. There was no longer, as there was in the beginning, a taste for spite, mockery, vulgarity and stupidity. Thanks to the problematic individual who wouldn't say his name, nor age, much less the address, fifteen people who had never seen each other and probably never would for the eternity of the centuries felt like brothers. And everyone believed they were speaking with beautiful young women, everyone deluded themselves into thinking that on the other side of the wires there were men of magnificent appearance, rich, interesting, with an adventurous past; and in the middle of all that, that marvelous conductor made them fly high above the black roofs of the city, carried away by a childish enchantment.
It was him, almost at midnight, who gave the signal for the end.
"Well, guys, that's enough. It's getting late. I have to get up early tomorrow. Thank you for the great company." A chorus of protests: "No, don't leave us like that!... Wait a bit longer, sing another song, please!"
"Seriously, I need to go... Forgive me... Ladies and gentlemen, dear friends, good night.".
Everyone was left with a bitter taste in their mouh. Flaccid and sad, the last greetings were exchanged: "Well, I guess then it's time to say goodnight... who knows who that guy was... who knows... goodnight... goodnight".
People started leaving left and right. The loneliness of the night suddenly came down upon the houses. But I was still listening.
In fact, after a couple of minutes, him, the enigma, began speaking softly again: "It's me, it's still me... Clara, can you hear me, Clara?" "Yes," she said with a tender whisper, "I can hear you... are you sure all the others are gone?" "All but one," he replied with kind "all but one who's been listening the whole time without ever opening his mouth."
It was me. With my heart pounding I immediately put the receiver down.
Who was him? An angel? A seer? Mephistopheles? The eternal spirit of adventure? The embodiment of the unknown waiting for us right around the corner? Or maybe simply hope? The ancient, indomitable hope, lurking in the most absurd and improbable places, even in the labyrinths of the telephone wires when there is a strike, to redeem mankind from its pettiness?
