In the previous chapter: be ', I seem to have reached a good point, no?
He discovers that practically nothing. And who is that guy? Boh.
just that there's another guy who tells you to go see a newspaper. Well, it will be.
You two seem to me that these two idiots.
And she seems a bit 'at a time ... but yes, but yes.
These two, it ends up that lemonade.
I turned the car toward the Via Larga, after a mixed set of traffic lights with mirror those palaces that conceal the employees. Proceeded in fits and starts, without saying a word. Emily probably thought I was shocked by his action of reactionary bucarmi the car, but that was not the reason. It was clear however, how he moved his hands clasped as mozzarella, which began to move her guilt.
was in the middle of Broad street, after a shop selling sundries and military uniforms, which badly tore the clutch and turned off the machine to take the green. I was surprised how much of her gesture.
It had never happened. And we both knew very well how this could damage valves and pistons. Without calculating the clutch discs that were closed abruptly. But instead
curse me, I burst out laughing. Of a smile that forced me to stop the car in front of a bus, not caring how it was obvious the no parking and stopping. The bus would arrive, however, was stopping in the middle of the carriageway and the indifference of the passengers had also played a role. And when that happened, I was surrounded by millions of ants shall release the obstruction.
Emily's concern was evident when he started biting her nails. The care devoted to his hands was not enough to nerve syndromes. But it was enough to unfreeze the situation and begin the discussion on Turri. As for defense strategies, I was a real magician.
"Wait a minute, now I tell you" while the tears down my already over-achieved the cheekbones, making slalom between the hairs of his beard.
"I found the article speaks of Turri," I said between sobs obtuse that I caused my breath stopped.
And I told her everything. In a variable interval between two minutes and half an hour. I could not help myself.
"Poor fellow," was his comment after learning of pigeons. On the other hand there are the journalists to a wedding with such stories. The taste of the macabre has always been a good game to the success of an article, and no matter the setting or the party's liberal newspaper, in these cases. And the fact that the same Turri along the canals with his 127 gave no less color to the piece.
But at this point was the funniest thing. It seemed you wanted to describe a characteristic of the city of Milan, the amount of pigeons in the center of Milan had always fascinated the tourists. But the pigeons themselves, animals are harmless and stupid enough, they became a weapon of death and destruction, was never even considered. Instead, this time they rebelled. It is unknown if the engine against the noisy machines of the '70s, or against a snub suffered in your area, as in the great gangster movies now gone. The fact remains, well described in the article, that a flock of pigeons-but then, the birds move in flocks? - Had attacked machine Poor Turri. But not only. The first of these birds had even broken the window, leaving the feathers on an outcrop, while a second, which followed on its heels, had stuck with the bill in the temple.
At this point, Turri had gone astray, "for fear" he had told the police, "already dead," said the paper, and was finished in the Naviglio Grande. If he died or drowned if he had been killed by the pigeons was not yet clear. Signal that manifesto, however, were left on the area of \u200b\u200bpigeon crap, without disturbing and unconscionable. As if the pigeons would like to inform civilians that they had to leave the area.
It did not end here. The journalist, he reached the place first of the Force, indulged in pseudo-scientific treatises, and added that the pigeons, a bird most advanced of their kind, the crows, once hunted and killed thanks to the burner. And again, the swinging movement of the head, back and forth, was a thing of the past: in fact, just this spring device in the neck, allowing them to absorb the impact and stay dry. In this way, then, had been killed Turri.
"Funny, no?" I said, unable to stop.
No, she was not funny. With eyes wide open and hands congealed, Emily was shocked.
I did not think that my narrative ability was so uninvolving. And the more it made me laugh, the more I looked at Emily's eyes widened. At one point I stopped, fearing perhaps that the bulbs come out of their sockets.
"What," I asked. It did not seem so absurd to laugh at death unlikely. Perhaps because it was not a relative of mine, obviously, but it did not seem so absurd. Like the vet who had to leave a constipated cow. But he smoked and, with the atomic fart cow, caught fire. Some stories are funny as already underground legends, imagine if they become reality.
But she did not agree. He considered him stupid and in bad taste. And then there was a dead person, even if I did not know directly, it was still a friend of Mr. Anselmo.
"Argument weak," I replied angrily. It is possible that a person of taste who have never laughs, is cutting through the legs of the net once you enjoy, what the fuck.
Basta. I had been ruined the day. I would stay in a bad mood until the evening.
rekindled the car, only satisfaction, he left the first time. I put the arrow, the first, with the intention to bring it home, storing them in boxes and drink a glass of wine. Emily gets by. As for me, might as well go on foot.
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