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6. The story whispered.

list of things to do Andrea Martucci
-which is me-:

1) pay the electricity bill (past due for two weeks)
2) washing
3 ) bicycle chain grease the
3) buy Jack Kerouac biography.
4) discover what thoughts tossed into Ernesto Maria Pasquali.

Yes, because even if the biographical research, although between squeaking and obstacles, he began to outline the stages of the producer and director, it would stop powerless in the face of the impossibility mostrarene the character, weaknesses, and then the dreams of the young intellectual.
In the mists of time were the anecdotes to lord it, but as a historian would base a search on them?

"Oh yeah? And where were when there was still a chance to track down some witnesses, to collect the papers and documents, to preserve his films?" I thought.
Basking in my impertinence, I decided that if no one else in many years he had thought of telling his story, perhaps I could try I .
The story of Easter! The article by his friend Joseph Welsh was there waiting to tell it.
Lost Mom eleven years, Ernest was sent to boarding school in Aosta. A harsh environment, all uniforms and greetings in the choir, nothing particularly attractive in the eyes of a child possessed. Then transfer uncle deputy in Turin. A few dozen miles to the south, geographically, but his spirit was a trip ... revolutionary!
Bewitched by the cultural life of the former Savoy capital, in a few years became a reporter for the Journal of the People and the Press. At his pen was delegated to tell facts not in capital letters, parades and businesses Savoy, but the life of every day: those who would call anecdote, little stories, small portraits of known and unknown. Turin seemed a micro mine, wherever you turn around there was something that demanded his attention: walks to the Valentino Park, the romantic encounters between soldiers and commoners, the astronomical observatory at Piazza Castello, an excursion to the Matterhorn, the market of Porta Palazzo. Eye
fast, pen even more, Pasquali wrote several hundred articles that stung plenty of life in the details that other reporters were not interested. Of course not, they were simply shorthand of reality. Easter, however, was an author .
I paused for a moment. I needed to read those papers, but a consultation with a newspaper was not even remotely be considered.
Unpublished documents, was what you wanted, how! But there was no shining "Stock Pasquali" to reveal the whole story, and those contemplating the unpublished documents of which there seemed to be angry with me right:
"Andrea Martucci -whispered to me at all times-v uoi really know why no one has ever talked about Easter? T u find us, and we will respond. "

At that point, my delirious visions about the whole thing proved a sharp question: if I was no longer the star of a good game, how could I think you can win?

Learn a few tricks seemed a good idea, and after some mulling, I called the cemetery of Piacenza. (continued)

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First

knew everything about him, the name of the father to his sister, named after the street where he lived full number, home phone. I knew that even in hospital he was born, and what city.
I was only seven years, but even then I knew how to commit myself to get what I wanted. This does not mean that my have been a true, great, mainly because first love was totally platonic, not even eaten in a walk hand in hand.
The memory of that first, fiery cooked accompanied me over the years, as well as the image of what in time became a very good boy, less delicate features of childhood and appeared to an Indian prince, already then harem-equipped (I was not the only one to set eyes upon him, in the schoolyard).
surrounded himself with a haughty procession of friends ugly and less prone to the leaders, and ran back and forth to get noticed: irresistible.

Tonight I wanted to see, as a testimony that I have never forgotten. He joined my life in spite of himself, in the memory and reality when I crossed my belly to the event and is stirred by the memory of my seven years. It 'happened over and over again, after many years: at a glance, we recognized, we are excited and went their separate way. So much changed, so different from each other. I've seen young girls engaged with insignificant and leave immediately after high school to enroll, go to work.

willy-nilly, you came into my life. And without touching them.

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5. Let the hunt begin.

Definitely annoying curiosity. Makes you do things you would not remotely conceived, and in return what you give? A certain loss of time. This would think any person with his head firmly on his shoulders, but a hunter legends like me knew that the stakes were very different. Despite the uncertainty of the first investigations, already felt the aroma of something that was worth telling.

think about this while on the phone waiting for confirmation of registry office Montù Beccaria, a tiny village where we had the opportunity to Ernesto Pasquali born in 1883.
"There is only limited data, sir ..."
"Martucci, Andrew Martucci."
"You see, we have first and last name of the parents, the e. .. his father's profession: doctor"
"Anything else?"
"Nothing."

a slight grimace of disappointment, followed by the thought that it was still a beginning, though not very useful. Also providing a precise location family: very few people could afford higher education, at the time.

"Hi, Andrea Martucci, uh ... I'm a researcher at the University of Rome. ...- Called for and this time I was disturbing the National Library in Florence ... to ask if we could have a copy of Joseph Gallico's book entitled 'Turin yesterday', and specifically a particular chapter, the one Ernesto Maria Pasquali "
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I did not have time to prepare psychologically and it was too late, I was already hearing the jingle of 'waiting call.
My God, I wondered, but why they think these hateful electronic melodies should cheer the expectation of who is listening, rather than lead to unexplored worlds of paranoia, as it did for me?
When the agony was over , a voice told me how to get the scans that interested me via email.
Perfect!
In the days that followed I lived in symbiosis with my inbox mail. I checked before breakfast, and after washing the pot, brush my teeth before and after I tied her shoes before leaving the university and soon after returning home, before going to do my job exciting part- part-time and money, e. .. well, you get how it worked.
But on the fourth day the email arrived, and in it a few pages in the Annex, which reveals unequivocally that not only the biography of Easter had been wrongly neglected by all (except by the author of that chapter, his personal friend) but we were in the presence of an incredible sum of narrative elements explosives, meeting a life too short. It was time to rub his hands, and tasted in advance what the research would then confirmed on many other occasions: the hunter had found his legend.

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Puh, spit, spat, yuck ... I logged into blogger and I immediately caught in the face of many a grown cobwebs blog. I just hope I have not swallowed the spider. The days of

maritonzolo (my pseudo-holiday) are running out. Tuesday to return to the north, and when I'm done with layers of dust on the blog, I'll tell you what, where and how the holidays.
And when, where and why the next yard.

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Blues

Denis, when passing or just sad sad times, speaks of the "blues." Well, that's what I feel at this time. A slow blues, poignant, that takes me when I'm alone with myself.

View pictures of old classmates went abroad into the fray, as perhaps I would do myself but as I could, if not unconscious.
sad I read job advertisements, which show that the only profession not to suffer the crisis of these times the call center operator, the store clerk, the waitress, the seller, the realtor, the representative takes -to-door. And I consider myself lucky because I can work as a hostess and I have remedied an interview as a secretary. See baby, it gets worse.
look desperate people jostle to get noticed and even though, deep down, I understand.

I'm afraid. Fear of not succeeding, of not being fit enough: to work, married life, the reality that surrounds me. I feel like I regressed a year when I graduated almost a year ago and after six days I found the easy landing a good job in good standing in the field that interested me. € eight hundred and fifty dancers, not a bad salary for my first real job. Then boredom, routine tasks with less and less interesting and instructive.
After six months, that phase is over. With all the optimism and the desire to find a viable and more challenging alternative.

's been three months. Where I tidied the house, feeling at times a desperate housewife Whether good housewife, I disposed of the boxes for a move out of time, I cooked, I cried, I laughed, I tried to rearrange my life with dignity, sending dozens of resumes, photos, e-mail, letters of recommendation.
had sown as ever, but it did not do much.

I say be patient, and they are right. Should I fill my life: not only work, but what I love. Deceit loneliness by shopping, getting lost among the colorful shelves of supermarkets, but this is not enough.

Alarm, Giulia.

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4. The mosaic of impatience.

know when bruising bursts of temper alternate gelite gusts of gray life on a small screen? Here, there is in those moments that my internal melancholy poet opens the hood and take a look of the lashes looking fresh oxygen. He looks around and tells me that maybe we should concentrate on something. On any thing.

And here I am. I and the silent cinema in Turin, reduced frames and quotes from time tyrant. E Pasquali, in all this? What was left of him, at the beginning of my research? Very little, and that little had been torn into tiny shreds and entrusted to the wind more restless. And I, the Martucci, I had to sniff the wind to get to put the pieces together. A date here, a detail there, maybe a photo, maybe a flan of his film. "The Holy Bible " , for example.

vaunted as the most spectacular film that the film had ever brought to light. Elephants, camels, thousands of extras, massive historical reconstructions. All shouted in the centerfold of the most important newspaper of the Italian cinema of the time. It could have been better to add a shower of adjectives, all those who wanted to, because that movie ... was never realized. You may wonder why! If so, you'll see what I tried. Because of unanswered questions in the life of Ernesto Maria Pasquali, I would have encountered in flocks. And the more suspect, most get caught in the mesh taut elusive detail, narrow escape, but do not make me comfortable soft wrap. In these stories, you know, it wallows a hunter legends. Who would have thought that this would become a film?

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3. First clues.

M entre notes suggested the turntable blues, your Martucci, Hunter Legends, prepares to decide whether what he had under his nose fell within the category mentioned or not. From bad poker player that I was, I would not have had the right nose to sniff out a bluff. Yet the instinct told me that:
No, not a fake. It 's true.
But some evidence would have made me comfortable. Evidence of who might have been Ernesto Maria Pasquali, what really represented the absence of documents on him, and that his mocking smile.
We wanted someone who knew more than me. So interpellai a noted historian of silent film in search of vague confirmations and new tracks. Preliminary investigations were therefore initiated, and when an envelope full of photocopies and information finally arrived in my mailbox, including bills and supermarket advertising, finally I had to do with a tangible sign of legend. Narcotic smell, including adrenaline and gasoline, including travel and suspicion, that when you breathe you can not pretend nothing happened.
The clues in the envelope Pasquali said that he was a brilliant, caustic and, when needed.
The irrefutably proved that advertising sneer against Arturo Ambrosio, noble competitor, and his former master.
simply shrug his voice would sound good reason, and would not be there if that Ernesto Maria Pasquali was the custom, from time to time, to "peek producing competitor. And they were all a little bit. This was the clue I was looking for? The only thing that seemed to emerge was that I was dealing with an unpredictable character, ironic and full of facets, and certainly different from his contemporaries prim and mustache. Should suffice to make a decision? Not yet. I wanted to try a more flavorful bite first to see if this was the legend that was looking for.

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2. The epitaph rebel.

"D a must have to begin somewhere," she said, and I'm sad and bent on specific books of the history of silent films, alone and wandering in the corners of video stores where the sun never hit. Yawned at the thought of boring melodrama put up in costume, or comedies that are no longer laughing, with the inevitable accompaniment of old story played by a pianist meccanicamante frustrated, then besieged by a crowd of peasants, semi-literate, and noisy kids. I was hoping to close the chapter "argument" within the shortest period of time. "Come on so Andrea, and then you finally write your book interview with Godard" as Truffaut did with Hitchcock.
Everything seems to foresee, even Godard's silence towards me (a person is careful-I said to myself - stay safe reordering ideas waiting to be interviewed from here this AM), when he unexpectedly came out . popped out of the dust of history, looking bright, histrionic, e. .. if I had not thought of exaggerating ... I would have defined challenge. But the challenge to who? Certainly not me, who dovevoIl compile a biographical note, not a duel.
"Ernesto Maria Pasquali, film producer, born in 1883, died in 1919" . One minor problem, which seemed to require a study that was not conceding. As I would put that look proud, sure of himself, heedless of the fact that now accounts for little more than a faded epitaph? I was left unanswered. Indifference, for that time, perhaps the last, had the best: turn the page, write, underline, and yawn. My work went on, and I could not help thinking that a speaker would soon rub your hands before you take possession of a labor of others. My.

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1. Footprints in the snow.

M the name is Andrea Martucci, and read that this is indeed a strange story. I did not think I'd ever have the need of having to go around, but it was stronger than me. It all started when, over the last damn university exam (and god bless the 22!), I started thinking about the topic of my thesis.

At the same time there has also thought of my supervisor, and was probably in no mood for jokes:-Martucci, who says of the silent cinema in Turin !
soooo? To me, unrequited love of Godard and the Nouvelle Vague?
Talk with this very Martucci, the aspirant Kerouac?
But dutiful (which also will need when they call someone's answer) as I said Garibaldi, "I am used to obey in silence.
Silent Cinema in Turin. That Pastrone, Cabiria & C. Things forgotten, dusty, loose in his mind. Like a footprint in the snow. Yet, and this was nothing but fate had for me in Serbian. I'll tell you ... the road has been tortuous but full of surprises. As the story of Ernesto Maria Pasquali . That's what I read is true but fictional story.