Vittorio Graziosi was born May 4 1960 in the very beautiful and historical city of art, Jesi, in the Marches. The city in which Frederick II the Swab was born. His passion for writing was born to tell the stories that he found beautiful. In fact he was afraid that many stories that do not become news headlines could be forgotten forever. So he thus began to write them, but because of a type of modesty he wrote in pencil, so he could erase them. In this manner he completed his first collection of three longs stories, titled "The Shadow of the Waves" published by Crispino editor. They are three stories from the news. In the same year I published "How to Adopt a Cloud" also with Crispino.
It is the story of his year in prison in Gaeta for refusing to do military service. Then in 1999 he published "The Jonquils on the Shore of the River", (again Crispino) life in the sixties in Jesi as seen by his child’s eyes, a nostalgic story of times no longer. His passion for classicism and a crepuscular style becomes evident. Maturity that becomes evident with the story of Joseph Smidt the "dwarf tenor", who really existed. This incredible person who died in a concentration camp by the hands of Nazis had lived an incredible life. The book is titled "The Slight Drama of the Nightingale" and it was published by Pequod in Ancona. In 2004 he published "Up until the end of train tracks". The publisher is "La Prospettiva editrice in Civitavecchia. It is the story of the redemption of a killer who looks for this redemption of his violent life in the freedom of a population.
The story begins when Mario, a murderer with a guilty conscience goes into hiding in a farm house in Tuscany. Here he does not find the peace he is looking for .
He became an assassin blinded by jealousy after having discovered that Alessandra is a prostitute in a brothel, and he continues to kill when in raptus. but his second victim , in the form of his guilt, looks for him during dark nights.
He is tormented and to continue fleeing is an act that he cannot avoid doing.
He is not afraid of being arrested, not any more, rather he is looking for a redemption for his guilt that scares him like a rabid dog. He will flee up until the end of all train tracks … up until the end of the Earth . There in a village on the sea he will become a fisherman living like a hermit until the far away scents of Africa attract him, nearly the promise of a new life.
He departs in his little boat to land in Algeria. He will become a Tuareg in the immensity of the Atlantis in the desert where he learns stories of French repression and ransoms of heroes born in the desert. After this experience he decides to return to the sea, convinced that only in this way he would be able to find an answer to his desire for redemption … but just when he has begun to embrace life and smile again a car bomb injures him. He wakes up in the hospital with an idea for rehabilitation .. to do something for that oppressed population.
In the end he decides to constitute himself to the head of the Italian police on the condition that he may deliver a letter of supplication from the Algerian Liberation Front to politicians and journalists. He will spend his next 25 years in prison hoping not to die there because he has a tomb to take care of….,
..The evening ending conversing on the benches along the riverside. The darkness of the night rendered in vane the attempt to look into each other’s eyes. Franca’s shyness was an insurmountable wall and her hands chained between her arms under her breast disoriented Mario, and irritated him.
The sun began to rise, but Franca had not asked to be taken home yet. She looked at the sun painting gold on the tired water of the summer river. She waited for a future invitation.
Mario, still undecided, had taken her hand and suggested a smile that promised her. Then he kissed her delicately.
Dark days passed for Mario and bright days for Franca.
To be happy is a precarious condition for everyone, but Franca accepted this fact without opposing resistance.
…It happened one Spring Evening.
The wind had swept the sky and the streets all day.
Franca did nothing except think of him.
The dark houses and reddened roofs rendered the evening even more nostalgic.
Mario mirrored himself making the knot of his tie . Every time he was filled with a certain embarrassment : to look at his eyes in the mirror and see that shadow of the shroud barely perceptible.
Every person has one , often hidden by loud laughs, by a distracted look, by a kiss full of passion.
He walked quickly and the city, satisfied with itself, moved the cover of the night , preparing itself for rest .
The candle, behind the enormous curved glass , illuminated Franca’s smile. Her hands touched without formality . The red wine seemed an alcove of sensual flavours and little drops of dew blossomed on her skin and tasted like wood or a dream.
Franca was a flowering almond tree and her breasts with dark nipples veiled with her blouse asked for confidence.
Mario , on the second glass of wine, did not understand if he was the executor or the victim . Soon he would have to decide. The voraciously eaten steak and the stroll on the riverside for a little intimacy , while the lights of the restaurant far away seemed like fireflies stopping to drink on the water surface.
The first kiss had been involuntary and sweet.
Franca’s mouth was expert and Mario fitted his thoughts of passion between her lips and her mature teeth.
They were not yet hands of an assassin, those that ransacked that warm body. There was respect, curious about cast tastes. The hands moved slowly as if to ask for permission amply conceded. But nothing else happened, nor sacred or vile.
He stared at the darkness of the ceiling in the room. The fresh sheets softly massaged his nude body.
While he tried to imagine the scene that he would soon experience, the door opened letting the light from the hall enter. The thin figure breathed nervously while letting her dress slide down unto the floor. Mario remained immobile, attentive to each small signal, and felt his body tremble with tension. He abandoned himself to the senses, leaving all modesty behind.
Alessandra had tendons that moves like snakes in the sand. Her hands ran over him looking for the anxieties of an unknown body , lingering and then accelerating while her breathing had little chirps.
Days followed with the taste of Alessandra in his mouth. A song by Edith Piaf followed the autumn wind with that melancholic atmosphere, never completely sad, but never fully happy.
They constructed their story of passion with anger because they had to part after making love. Mario did not rush himself because he was afraid to force things. So he lived long silences like entire nights and days in which Alessandra was perhaps distracted by other kisses.
He wanted to spy on her, to weigh her thoughts, her glances.
But a phone call, a new appointment and everything calmed down.
Normally very refined, Mario found no peace in looking for something that would increase his attractiveness; in front of the mirror he re-promised himself detachment and measured phrases. But then he saw her. That fresh body, the straight blond hair and her blue eyes with the taste of high mountains, between fragrance and light. But jealousy is a voracious termite and those questions of an inquisitor were born against his will. So he erased Alessandra’s smile, always more rare with each meeting, but there was no solution. He was not able to impede his mind from his evil plans.
He had stopped experiencing Alessandra’s intimate complicity that would prevent these thoughts.
He began to follow her…
In cell thirty seven in the little prison in the provinces the shadows always have the same thickness, only a different temperature according to the seasons. Years go by without pain nor noise.
Mario, after the final sentence to which he did not appeal, had slowly modified the furniture to his perpetual needs. The closet full of little wooden structures holds instruments for daily pleasure:-a chess board, cards and a coffee pot.
The few letters he received from unknown admirers who had followed the story through newspaper articles had been thrown away as soon as he had read them. He does not understand the phrases contained in those spasms of deliria , actually he is afraid of them.
He is tired of strangeness.
Hung on the wall are two newspaper clippings of boats confused with flowers in the foreground and dunes of a desert in a game of shadows and lights. He keeps these images as a heritage of life.
Thus years of slow and repeated gestures go by . A perpetual motion to confound time that passes and that marks his skin until the features are modified. Now he is an old man, tired, but standing strongly on his two feet.
He has a lived face like a suitcase used for a thousand voyages: the same tiredness, same certainty to not have any more hopes to spend at sunset. The desert population in the meantime has obtained the rights to their own destiny, but has not known happiness.
The internal wars have continued for decades ,committed by the Berbers themselves against other Berbers. Mario is distant from all.
For years he has received news reports on the dealings of that population , but he never replied.
After twenty five years of prison with never having requested it , he is conceded free weekends, a reward for perfect conduct.
He can go out Saturday mornings on the condition that he returns to the prison Sunday afternoon.
He is undecided in accepting this privilege, he asks himself how they could have forgotten Franca. He has not. His light eyes behind the thick lenses look with attention at the tree lined street that lead to the cemetery in Perugia. The March wind puts desire into the newborn leaves. There are no cypresses in this street. The little trees touch his white hair like children, disrespectable of this old man who is looking for new words to tell to the photographs on the tombstones.
Roberto receives a grievous news, his son is one of the victims of the 7 july 2005 attempt, in London. The world falls down with its sky. Nothing will make him rejoice anymore. He passes days of pain and sadness, lapsing into slovenliness and melancholy. The only visit he receives is the one of Francesca, his son’s girlfriend, for a coffè, in the noons, before the work… for the rest he remains dug in the static shadows of his home, with the closed shutter. At the end, neither Francesca will come up again. Robert imagines that the reason is a new boyfriend, and he deems it fair and unavoidable…
Then, in the night of the last day of the year, he finds her a-squat under the rain, in her garden, and after taking her in the house and nourishing her, they make love, hoping this way to do the magic of making his son Paul alive again.
But being under the raind gets him a terrible flu.. a gift from heaven Roberto guesses… the best way to lose life, but it won’t happen.
At the days of semi-uncoscience follow the convalescence’s ones, during which he receives Lucia’s call, the woman whom he has had a deep relation with, twenty years before, with consequent birth of Paul. Lucia is a scientist, busy all around the world who has left to Robert the duty to make grow their son. Having heard about the death of Paul, she calls Robert, asking him what he wants to do to avenge their son’s life.
An electrical shock for Robert, since he had lost time only lamenting. It’s time to account for his father duty and to find a way to revenge the death of his son.
So he decides reach London following news given by the Farnesina, and to search for the terrorists and to apply with them the law of retaliation.
He gets a job in the neighborhood of his son’s death…. And starts searching the traces of the assassins. But his peaceful nature and ------- make him not so dangerous… he looks inside himself for the detrmination to avenge Paul, but his enemies find him and beat him down before he cold do something determining.
It’s the drop making the vase run over… with the rage found in the pain for the suffered wounds he takes the bus, going to the house where , he knows, lives the family of pakistans relatives of the attackers of London. He rings the bell, holding tight the gun that he’d use against whoever would open that door. But after having rung with persistence, and having waited in vain, he feels ridiculous…. And alone… in fort of a close door and an unfinished revenge. Pouring out every rage, decides to leave, when sees the old man saw the first night.
Here is the place to start the revenge. He looks for his gun, in the pocket (forgotting to have thrown it in the river) but the Old pakistan stops him and, in italian, tells that he was waiting him.. that sooner or later someone would have come, asking for the blood shed by his son, the terrorrist. But … not before his nephew, curiously looking his grandfather talking that unknown language.
Lookin at that gorgeous child, Robets gets an idea. He will adopt the son of the terrorist… there is the --- applied, he will be recouped with a child from the terrorist himself. He will grow him up as a Godfeared boy, an far away from every reason of hate. After an initial hesitation.. the grandfather accepts, saying: " Grant him a honorable life, there he will only be a symbol, the son of a terrorist for someone, the son of a martyr for the others… I don’t want it to happen…".
The time passes by and he little Kaled becomes a joung doctor, taking care of his "father" Roberto that, by now, is near at death for an incurable bad.
Roberto looks at him fallen asleep for the tiredness, at the bottom of the hospital bed and fells recouped for the death of his son. Kaled si a determined and good man, the gentleman that he had promised to God when Paolo was born. And God’s reply doesn’t make itself wait… the day that Roberto closes his eyes forever no bomb explodes in the world… no rose is drenched by blood.