To the Wedding

11

There’s a shop in Asklipiou Street where I get my hair cut. Outside is written: . Which means barbers. Then there’s a slogan: . “No Sooner Said Than Done.” Two men and two chairs, that’s all. No photos, no magazines, no lights. They don’t even use mirrors. Instead, there’s trust. The door opens on to the dusty street where the lorries go by. No other barber in Athens can match the scissor speed of these two. The blades snip all the while, whether there is hair between them or not. Never stop. All the time one of them has a pair of scissors up in the air chattering. They don’t move round the chairs. They stay in the same place and swivel the customer. When they pick up a razor, they hold the head absolutely still with the pressure of a single finger. Sitting there, in my favourite barbers, having my hair cut short, listening to the scissors chattering and the lorries passing, I hear a man’s laughter.

The laugh belongs to a body, not a joke. An old man’s laugh. A laugh like a cape thrown over the shoulders of the words being spoken. The old man asks: You’re looking at the photo up there? It’s my son, Gino. He’s in his scialuppa as you can see. You guessed he was my son? A chip off the old block, as they said before chain saws! He’s straighter, straighter than I am. You’re right, slimmer too. He’s straighter because he’s had an easier life, and I pray to God it’ll stay like that. Difficulties twist a man, make knots in him. My son has his secrets, of course, I’m not allowed to see his minas, but he doesn’t have any serious worries, heavy ones. So you’re looking for an anchor? As large as that! May I ask you what you want it for? The discotheque is called the Golden Anchor? (Laughter) I have several but it’s quite a walk. You can always paint one in gold. They’re on the far side of the boilers, to the left of the tyres. Andiamo. As I was saying, I thought he would study more, my son Gino, and he didn’t. You don’t want any urinals? When he was seven years old he used to go fishing alone. When he was eight he could manage a scialuppa by himself — no one else in the boat. Now he goes to Ficardo and fishes on the Po every Tuesday and Thursday. No, at weekends he can’t, he has his markets: Saturday Ferrara, Sunday Modena, Wednesday Parma. Bathtubs don’t interest you? He’s methodical, and maybe this comes from me too. Scrap is method, you know, nothing else. Method and enough land and being able to recognise what comes from what. Everything has to be recognised and put with its family. Gino could have gone into electronics but there’s the problem, the boy can’t work inside. Four walls are a prison to him. When he comes into my office — the cabin where you saw the photo of him in his scialuppa — he can’t stay there for more than three minutes. He’s a boy who’s always listening to the bells of the next village, as the saying went before there were autostrade. So he chose to have his baraccone and every week he does his round of the markets. He’s a good salesman. He could sell confetti at the gate of a cemetery! (Laughter) Yes, he’s in the rag trade. Clothes. Here are the anchors. The largest there came from a lightship. How much? You’re paying in liquid? Then forty-two million. Too much, you say? You can’t tell a bargain when it’s offered you. Ask around, they’ll all tell you the same — Federico’s not interested in selling — he gives things away. Forty-two million.