2 August 194… – I’ve rented a delightful little hole hidden amidst the greenery for only 70,000 lire. One-and-a-half rooms more or less. I can have lunch under an arbour of unripe grapes watching cars from all over the world speed by. Seeing without being seen, just the way I like it. The rental is for fifteen days, and they tell me that the price is quite good. It is hot, there isn’t much water. No harm done: there’s no other place that offers such solitude and glamour, such genteel ways and naturist freedom. At least that is what those in the know say. Hic manebimus etc.
3. – Impossible to find a slice of beach for me alone. These endless dunes are teeming with human beings. The first acquaintance I make – Alberto – is mere steps away with his family. I will split the costs of the cabana with him. His youngest child, Giorgino, seems to have nudist tendencies. To scare him, we told him that a local cop – “a man in uniform” – would soon come to arrest him. The threat didn’t seem to faze him much.
4. – With a corn-on-the-cob beard and moustache (as a young man, I preferred a palm-leaf beard as a similar disguise), I played the part of the man in uniform, wrapped in a big blue robe. Many laughs and a bit of fear. I’m becoming popular with the children on the beach.
5. – Today, I opened the door of my rental to a single man who could not find shelter elsewhere. For hoteliers, a “single” is the cheeky traveller who dares ask for a room with a single bed. The happy coincidence is that this single is also an old friend of mine, a nomadic philologist. He hates noise and only tolerates the murmur of his electric razor. He shall be well served!
6. – Giorgino has some kind of ailment. I hope that the prank the other day didn’t provoke it. Dr Panzarella, who, of course, would also grace these shores, visited him. He is the man of the day because he commands the trust of Beri-Beri, a demigod of high society whose influence extends well beyond my city. “Panz” goes around in shorts, riding a gracious Vespa. He doesn’t have a free moment, which is why he is staying in Ponente, where there are still a few gorges and stretches of beach that have yet to be discovered. But they tell me that this strip of land – Le Macchie – is the most elegant part of the area. It is inhabited by people who are quite isolated, seeing each other daily and playing bridge or pinochle. The children in Le Macchie prefer Monopoly, a game that helps develop sharp capitalistic instincts in young people. The vigour radiating from Paranzella goes well beyond Le Macchie. He is a benefactor of the human race, and perhaps it is thanks to him that his great protector, Beri-Beri, can boast miraculous olympic longevity.
7. – Some minor stomach troubles caused by the clams at the Petite Chaumière. Insomnia. They send “Panz” over urgently, and he tells me about the other patients he’s visited, including friends we have in common. He speaks many languages, and he says that my buen retiro is awfully nice. He prescribed bismuth pills and told me to read some pages of Montaigne, actually Montagne, as per the best teachings. In the meantime, my cover is blown so I will have to show myself. Giorgino is perfectly cured.
8. – Morning walks among the apple trees that surround and hide the retiro. I discovered a pigeon house, with two rooms, set atop a pole. Standing on the top of a stepladder, I can see a baby pigeon, just a few days old (his twin didn’t make it out of the egg alive). He already has a few feathers – freshly covered –, his neck is still bare, he can only respond to the foreboding coo of his parents with a soft chirp. The landlady tells me that he will be killed and eaten a week before he leaves his loculus and learns to fly. No Panzarella to protect him.
9. – Panzarella or Paranzella? It is a doubt that has been troubling me for two days. To resolve it, I dared travel all the way to Le Macchie where a woman of the beau monde lives. A cultured, incredibly kind woman who makes use of the gifted doctor’s services. But the arrival of the unidentified “Par” – just as I was about to make my embarrassment known – plunged me back into mystery. The house soon filled with people. There were those who came by bicycle or by car, there was someone who had just got off a green scooter. Deep, very intelligent conversations. Two members of parliament, a neurologist, a filmmaker, a few former guests of Beri-Beri, etc. Panzarella was absolutely brilliant. The “single” didn’t have any success and got bored, who knows why. We returned home on foot, in the dark. The coast was an explosion of balalaikas from hidden radios or unexpected cinematographs. The number of big loners is increasing by the hour.
10. – Mosquitoes, insecticide powder, nights where it is impossible to breathe. The little pigeon is still alive and already venturing outside. His parents are giving him flying lessons (but he falls like a ragdoll), and they teach him to get grapes under the arbour. He seems to be unaware of the fate that awaits him. This atmosphere of death is not suited to a resort.
11. – Quick intelligent discussions on the beach. War probable but not possible, possible but not probable, hail stones in Ivrea that weigh six-hundred grams each, literary prizes all over, and an overall increase in prices. I look for peace in the barely marked lanes that connect the sea road with the inner road. There are quite a few, they are not very busy, and are the true attraction (“Panz” says “the secret dimension”) of this place. There you meet affable and loquacious goitered beasts, stuttering dwarf women who go around with young children that are already taller than their mothers. They dare call them diminutive names like Pasqualino and Robertino… Yet I realise that the secret dimension is also travelled by women cyclists as well as pedlars selling skinned rabbits, early figs, and American cigarettes.
12. – Paranzella left for Compiobbi, a new resort launched with great success by the indefatigable Beri-Beri. Now there will also be work for some Asclepiads less famous than him. Orthopaedists who just count on their feet, miserable doctors without streptomycin are besieged by the big loners. Their health is absolutely perfect, but you never know: prevent, plan…
13. – Sleep, Montaigne, bismuth.
14. – Shrill shrieks at dawn, the death of the pigeon, the single takes leave, comforting news from the colony at Compiobbi. At night, you can see fires in the distance. Widowed by “Panz”, Le Macchie are clearing out but the town is still very crowded.
15. – A long talk with Robertino’s mother, a discussion with a ninety-year-old man in red trousers about the antlions of Brazil, 2,700 lire for a cacciucco stew at the Old Arbour restaurant, and the end of my stay. Uncertainty, insomnia. Bismuth pills are scarce at the chemist’s. What if I were to set off for Compiobbi as well?