{"id":2017,"date":"1949-01-10T10:23:00","date_gmt":"1949-01-10T10:23:00","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/qa-www.rivistapirelli.org\/selezione_antologica\/la-mosca-di-fuoco\/"},"modified":"2019-05-15T15:56:04","modified_gmt":"2019-05-15T15:56:04","slug":"la-mosca-di-fuoco","status":"publish","type":"selezione_antologica","link":"https:\/\/www.rivistapirelli.org\/en\/selezione_antologica\/la-mosca-di-fuoco\/","title":{"rendered":"The Firefly"},"content":{"rendered":"","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"","protected":false},"featured_media":1322,"template":"","categories":[],"tags":[51],"class_list":["post-2017","selezione_antologica","type-selezione_antologica","status-publish","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","tag-culture-and-literature"],"acf":{"edizione":"N.1, 1949","autore":[{"ID":353,"post_author":"1","post_date":"2019-04-09 09:49:03","post_date_gmt":"2019-04-09 09:49:03","post_content":"Editor, journalist and writer (1914-1976). He started working in his father\u2019s publishing house at the age of thirteen. In his early twenties he moved towards the world of cinema, dramatizing and directing with his cousin Mario Monicelli the short film I ragazzi della via Paal <\/em>from the book The Paul Street Boys<\/em>. Attracted to journalism, together with Indro Montanelli he founded and directed the weekly magazine \u201cTempo\u201d, working as war correspondent during the Second World War. A key player in the birth of the magazine \u201cEpoca\u201d and of Casa della Cultura in Milan, in 1958 he became a key figure of the new cultural season by founding the publishing house Il Saggiatore. Author of four collection of poems, he was awarded the Viareggio Prize in 1957 with Quasi una vicenda<\/em>.","post_title":"Alberto Mondadori","post_excerpt":"","post_status":"publish","comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","post_password":"","post_name":"alberto-mondadori","to_ping":"","pinged":"","post_modified":"2019-04-30 10:47:33","post_modified_gmt":"2019-04-30 10:47:33","post_content_filtered":"","post_parent":0,"guid":"http:\/\/internal-pcons-be-fondazione-fr-dev-elb-1449244171.eu-west-1.elb.amazonaws.com\/?post_type=autori&p=353","menu_order":0,"post_type":"autori","post_mime_type":"","comment_count":"0","filter":"raw"}],"riassunto":"","composizione_articolo":[{"acf_fc_layout":"composizione_articolo_testo","composizione_articolo_testo_testo":""},{"acf_fc_layout":"composizione_articolo_testo","composizione_articolo_testo_testo":"

To Ernest Hemingway<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The theoretical philosophy lesson finished at six. Prof. B. said goodbye to us one by one on the doorstep \u2013 there were just a few of us \u2013 and the university corridor was dark and cold and very inhospitable. Usually it was foggy outside, and I would say to Remo on leaving: actually, he is intelligent, he\u2019s really nice, and Remo would reply that yes, B. was smart. But Remo had understood everything and I almost nothing of the gnoseological question of knowledge. Corso Roma was covered in thick grey fog which became even thicker in the Bottonuto park, and sometimes, arm in arm, without talking we would walk to Via Chiaravalle where yellow lamp posts cut through the fog. In the building the corridor tiling was white and oozed dampness. The smell was the same as the smell of fog, except it was more pungent and less welcoming and there was a lot of lighting and heating. That winter I got a car, a 509 Mille Miglia dad bought for 1,000 lire and it had 100,000 km on it. It was yellow and had red rims of which some were chrome and others rusty, and there was a hub to remove the wheels which was rusty too. The Pirelli tyres were very worn but still good. It was a two-seat convertible, and there was space in the back for a third passenger, but you could fit two even, if they squeezed tight.<\/p>\n

After a few days Beppe and Filippo got really good. They would lie on the front fenders and Renzo would ride the spare tyre, the very worn spare tyre which was in shreds, so much so that you could see the brick-red inner tube here and there. Mario was worried about that tyre, but I was laughing happily and Albertino said that it didn\u2019t matter, that it was enough to last a few kilometres until we reached the first garage.<\/p>\n

However, we never ended up having to change a tyre, although secretly we really wished we had to. bz were the half-faded letters on the plates, but at night the white and red light of the back lights lit them up well, so our arrivals in Chiaravalle were bold and adult-like, and full of cockiness. From that moment Remo became less introverted and the philosophy professor no longer was our topic of conversation. We talked about cylinders and boring without knowing what they were. He said the car was ridiculous but useful, and Mario christened it Firefly<\/em>.<\/p>\n

I said that yellow wasn\u2019t so bad a colour after all and that anyway the brakes were good. \u2013 Look, I said. \u2013 Remo, Mario and Tullio were all inside the Fly<\/em> and I pushed it up to 70 km an hour along Via Bellini and hit the brakes three metres before a Bianchi bicycle which was stopped in front of the gates of Via Livorno, but the Fly<\/em> kept going and the Bianchi flew forward, then forward again after its second bump.<\/p>\n

Finally, the Fly<\/em> stopped in front of the gates with a few dents on the radiator which started leaking a bit of water. \u2013 Oh God \u2013 said Remo. \u2013 Goddammit \u2013 cursed Mario. Tullio was laughing. \u2013 What the heck \u2013 I said, shaking my head. I got out of the car to see but nothing major had happened and the tyres had held on. \u2013 These Pirelli \u2013 I said. We were amazed.<\/p>\n

That night we drove to the Continental to the party of the Fascist University Youth. Girls were waiting for us. We were wearing black tuxedos and the girls\u2019 shoulders were bare and they smelled good. There were always seven of us in the Fly<\/em>. With the engine roaring we stopped in front of the revolving doors and the doorman welcomed us with a great bow, in the same way traffic wardens at crossroads acknowledged us. They recognised the Fly<\/em> and laughed. \u2013 Look \u2013 they would say \u2013 it\u2019s those with the bz plates. \u2013 So they laughed and never fined me. Only once did they fine us, when the Fly<\/em> stayed all night at the entrance of Via Paolo da Cannobio, outside the tradesmen\u2019s entrance of the Lirico theatre. It blocked the road and many horns hooted to go through, but we were sitting in Sora Amelia\u2019s trattoria courting Elsa. Giorgio had drunk a bottle of Chianti and was throwing up the wine, spaghetti and tuna in a corner with Sora Amelia shouting and Pelosini screaming at Valli because he didn\u2019t know the card game. Mario, Remo and I ate Tuscan beans and Elsa wouldn\u2019t let us touch her, not even her hand… The police left four tickets on our windshield, one every couple of hours, but no-one paid the fine, nor do I know where they ended up. We didn\u2019t even go to court.<\/p>\n

In December that year \u2013 1932 \u2013 it was very cold, foggy and snowy over the barren land, and only a few farmers were working the dark soil beneath its white coat. Mario, Tullio, Albertino and I decided we absolutely had to shoot a film for the lictors. Castellani, who ran the Fascist University Youth cinema, said that it was a great idea and we should prepare the subject and script, and we would see.<\/p>\n

The Fly<\/em> took off like a rocket on Piazza Giovinezza, like a bullet in the Christmas traffic all the way to my house. \u2013 Hooray, we\u2019re shooting a film, the best film in the world and it has to be social \u2013 declared Albertino. \u2013 Sure \u2013 I encouraged him. Battleship Potemkin<\/em>; Old and New<\/em>; The Lower Depths. <\/em>Mario got the idea of setting it in a locomotive warehouse. \u2013 A printing factory would be better \u2013 I said. \u2013I understand \u2013replied Tullio. It was settled. But Remo said he thought it was all so stupid and refused to play the main part.<\/p>\n

Clelia, whom everybody liked \u2013 she was beautiful even if she was aloof and intellectual \u2013, accepted to be the main actress; there were some who said yes and others who said no. Why not? said Giorgio, I will take care of the dialogue. We were pleased because he was an anti-fascist who knew the working class and was against the bourgeoisie. \u2013 Those filthy bourgeois \u2013 said Mario, and went on to recite the Sepolcri<\/em> poem, all agitated like his father. The Fly<\/em> was very useful during that period. It carried us to the outskirts of Milan when we were looking for locations. The Pirelli tyres screeched on the shiny tarmac around bends and gripped the road even at 70 km an hour. There were trees dripping with black on the outskirts and poor people who warmed up around hot chestnut carts. It was a bad winter, they said, and we would get out of the Fly<\/em> with everybody in awe, chit-chatting, and we would gesticulate in the same way we\u2019d once seen Blasetti do. \u2013 The camera goes here, and a nice long shot here \u2013 said Albertino. \u2013 Yes \u2013 I said \u2013 then you immediately want to go for a close-up of Clelia bundled up in a man\u2019s scarf. We felt warm in our feeling of joy, like poor people. The wretched of the earth, sympathised Mario, while Giorgio was taking notes so some of the dialogue would be \u201crealistic\u201d. Holding a bottle of cognac, he said he went to Chiaravalle to look for ambience and the Fly<\/em> would wait outside in the fog, all damp and happy in its yellow and red, which became faint in the gloomy and distant headlights.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

The following month was a hostile and freezing January. There was wind on the plains and extreme cold. We decided to take a drive to Verona to my father\u2019s printing house, in order to find again real locations and get an idea of the masses. \u2013 You need to know the masses very well \u2013 said Giorgio \u2013 to get into their psychology. Tullio and Albertino paid attention respectfully. \u2013 Of course \u2013 said Tullio with conviction. \u2013 And we have to find extras \u2013 added Mario. \u2013 Oh, good God \u2013 I said \u2013 but we have to bring Clelia along. Yet, Clelia had said no, that she wasn\u2019t going to come alone to Verona with four young men, and Remo laughed saying we were stupid.<\/p>\n

\u2013 We\u2019re going anyway \u2013 I decided.<\/p>\n

\u2013 What do we care about her \u2013 said Mario.<\/p>\n

\u2013 We\u2019ll get another hundred \u2013 I said, angry and disappointed. \u2013 We can find another hundred, Maria, Isa, Laura… maybe even Lul\u00f9, the most beautiful girl in Chiaravalle.<\/p>\n

\u2013 If she wants, she can join during shooting \u2013 said Albertino.<\/p>\n

\u2013 Are you mad? said Mario \u2013 What do we care?<\/p>\n

\u2013 Really, \u2013 said Tullio \u2013 we don\u2019t care.<\/p>\n

We left at dawn, it was grey. The sky was like brownish milk. The motorway was covered in frost, a dirty ivory ribbon splitting the opaque and shiny white fields in half. Far off in the distance were blue mountains near fields; only half-dark, with super white peaks pointing to the sky. More mountains further away, but less high, ugly and yellow. At the foot of those mountains were white plains covered in rows of bare trees and people were safely indoors like cattle, horses and tractors. The Fly <\/em>ran along that dirty ribbon. \u2013 It drives well \u2013 I said, satisfied. \u2013 Really well, confirmed Mario, and in the back seat Tullio and Albertino remained quiet for fear of freezing their tongues, although we had put up a jute screen which blew inwards with the cold wind of that frozen winter. The wind was bad and there was fog and dirt and melancholy across the plains. \u2013 Everything alright? \u2013 I shouted at the top of my lungs without turning around, and from the back I heard animal-like muttering. \u2013 They\u2019re fine \u2013 decided Mario. \u2013 You go on. So I pushed the accelerator with my foot, happy to feel the Pirelli tyres grab the tarmac mixed with white slush. \u2013 What a car \u2013 I said. \u2013 What a car \u2013 reiterated Mario proudly. But past Bergamo the Fly<\/em> started feeling tired. It made a whistling sound, as though it were a wheezing horse. \u2013 Good God \u2013 I said. \u2013 Goddammit \u2013 cursed Mario \u2013 it\u2019s making a hell of a noise. Albertino peeped over the screen, red-nosed and stiff-lipped. \u2013 It stinks, it stinks a lot \u2013 he said. \u2013Goddammit \u2013 went on Mario, and Tullio quietly cringed.<\/p>\n

\u2013 Stop \u2013 said Mario.<\/p>\n

\u2013 No \u2013 I insisted. \u2013 It\u2019s nothing, the carburettor is faulty.<\/p>\n

\u2013 But it stinks \u2013 said Albertino.<\/p>\n

\u2013 You stink \u2013 I said, annoyed.<\/p>\n

\u2013 Stop, stop. \u2013 shouted Mario \u2013 Break!<\/p>\n

\u2013 Stop what? You stupid \u2013 I said.<\/p>\n

\u2013 The Fly<\/em>, stop.<\/p>\n

\u2013 The Firefly<\/em> \u2013 grumbled Tullio, and Mario punched him over the jute screen.<\/p>\n

\u2013 It stinks, goddammit, stop.<\/p>\n

I stopped. The damp fog fogged up the windscreen and the sun looked like an orange in the grey and streaked sky.<\/p>\n

\u2013 Open up \u2013 I told Mario.<\/p>\n

\u2013 No way, you open up.<\/p>\n

\u2013 Don\u2019t be stupid \u2013 said Albertino \u2013 let\u2019s open up the bonnet.<\/p>\n

A lot of black, stinky smoke came out and it soon mixed with the fog; the engine made a \u201ctru… tru… tru\u201d choking sound, and it was leaking oil everywhere, a blackish smelly oil. There was black smoke all around and so much fog that trees merged with the sky and plains full of sadness and laziness.<\/p>\n

\u2013 The carburettor. \u2013 I said confidently after a while \u2013 Unless there\u2019s something wrong with the ignition.<\/p>\n

\u2013 Well \u2013 said Mario \u2013 where\u2019s that oil coming from then?<\/p>\n

Tullio lay down under the Fly <\/em>and shouted that the exhaust was incandescent.<\/p>\n

\u2013 You idiot. \u2013 said Albertino \u2013 What do we care about the exhaust?<\/p>\n

Tullio came back out, his face all dirty and oily, his eyes two black lost circles, and he suddenly told Albertino to measure his words because he wanted respect. Mario was watching and had many doubts; I insisted that the carburettor was the matter.<\/p>\n

\u2013 Or the ignition \u2013 said Mario.<\/p>\n

\u2013 Unwind the coil \u2013 suggested Albertino.<\/p>\n

Tullio kept quiet \u2013 he was offended. Being morning, no-one was passing by. It was almost daylight beneath the yellow clouds and birds were flying soft and low over the countryside. An Alfa and then a Balilla drove by and we kept on arguing, all worried and tired and cold, like everything around us.<\/p>\n

\u2013 Where\u2019s the coil? \u2013 I asked.<\/p>\n

\u2013 You tell me \u2013 said Mario, shrugging his shoulders.<\/p>\n

\u2013 No, I am asking Albertino, who studied at the Polytechnic.<\/p>\n

\u2013 In architecture you don\u2019t need to know where a coil is \u2013 confessed Albertino. Tullio agreed and told Mario and me to quit being silly and showing off. Then a lorry stopped, of the kind with a long trailer, and a big arrogant man got out who took a look under the bonnet, pulling his hair behind with his greasy forearm. It\u2019s the bushings, said the pig, the bushings melted, he added, with a distracted, pedantic air. He climbed back up into the lorry which was high above our heads and left us there with those two words while the lorry disappeared in the fog and smoke was still coming out of our bonnet even with the engine stopped. The man had disconnected the wires saying we were mad, barking mad is what he really said, and burnt oil slowly trickled down to the ground where a slimy puddle formed on the dirty white surface of the motorway, and even more blue and stinky smoke from the lorry\u2019s exhaust lingered, and the plains had turned blue.<\/p>\n

\u2013 Who is taking us home now? \u2013 asked Tullio desperately.<\/p>\n

\u2013 Your grandmother with her wheels \u2013 I said. Tullio got angry once again, saying his grandmother had none. \u2013 Quit that and go and flag a car down. Wouldn\u2019t it be better if you were a woman? At least then lorry drivers would stop. \u2013 No-one stopped with that fog for two hours. After which the sun came out, the fog lifted. It was midday and we were hungry and cold, so Albertino pulled out a bottle. \u2013 You idiot \u2013 yelled Mario. \u2013 Why are you so stupid? \u2013 I said \u2013 Now you wait. \u2013 Sure \u2013 replied Albertino \u2013 I will wait for us to be tired. So we drank the cognac straight from the bottle, and it went down warm to our feet.<\/p>\n

\u2013 A lorry, a lorry is stopping \u2013 announced Tullio excitedly, staggering drunk under a bridge.<\/p>\n

\u2013 It\u2019s so small \u2013 said Mario.<\/p>\n

\u2013 But it\u2019s red, said Alberto.<\/p>\n

\u2013 Go on, go on \u2013 I said \u2013 don\u2019t waste time.<\/p>\n

\u2013 Ask him if he will tow us \u2013 said Mario.<\/p>\n

So we were towed \u2013 20 km an hour speed \u2013 back to Milan and the cold was cutting our faces and the tyres made noises similar to hands slapping water in a blue, freezing cold fountain. At times the driver would look behind and laugh.<\/p>\n

Eventually the Firefly<\/em> was sold as spare parts. I bought a Balilla and then a 1100, but I no longer melted the bushings and when it was foggy there were bright incandescent wires on the windscreen. Today the car is heated, there are fog lights, a defroster, lots of switches on the dashboard. The Pirelli tyres still turn and grip tarmac, snow and ice, and get to 100, 130 an hour, 150 even, if you know how to handle it. The tyres grip the motorway so tight, which in December is yet again a filthy ribbon separating rugged, tired fields beneath a white snow-filled sky.<\/p>\n"}]},"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.rivistapirelli.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/selezione_antologica\/2017","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.rivistapirelli.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/selezione_antologica"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.rivistapirelli.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/selezione_antologica"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.rivistapirelli.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/1322"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.rivistapirelli.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=2017"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.rivistapirelli.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=2017"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.rivistapirelli.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=2017"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}