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175 pages, Paperback
First published October 18, 2007
He remembered when as a child, without his aunt knowing, he would go with his dad from time to time to play a couple of games. He hadn't been particularly fascinated--as a friend of his had confessed years later he had been--by the sight of all those men joking among themselves, surrounded by a fog of cigarette smoke and the litter of wine bottles. He had found nothing to admire in those red noses and those yellowed teeth and those swollen bellies. What Dino hadn't been able to take his eyes off was the surface of the table--those hands forming a bridge on the baize to support the cue, those perfectly polished pieces of wood moving like silk over the hard, calloused workers' hands, the clacking of the cues on the surface of the balls and that sharp but muted noise of the balls of hitting each other and rebounding off the cushions, that imperceptible sound of the pins as they were knocked down by the balls and fell on the baize. And above all, the automatic, elegant movements of the men at the table. It was as if there, on that green fragment of the world, each man found his own dignity.
Cirillo often watched Dino playing alone. A year earlier, he had even stood there watching him for an entire evening, without Dino noticing. And every time he watched him play, he wondered if Dino would ever beat him. It was hard to say, but one thing was certain--if it did ever happen, it would be a great game. Thinking about it, Cirillo couldn't really figure out why it was that Dino had never managed to beat him--he never missed a shot, always got the cover. If you looked closely--not that he would ever admit it--Cirillo actually made a few more mistakes than Dino did. And yet, when they came to add up the points, Cirillo's shots always scored more, and by the end of the game they weighed in the balance like blocks of granite.
That vile beast appeared at the end of the street, puffing and shaking. A gigantic mouth full of black steaming sludge gaped open, as if stupefied, with pieces of tar dripping from it like some demonic slime. As the beast advanced, it was as if someone was twisting its guts with a pair of pliers, making it creak and groan with pain, forcing it to squeeze out into the sky that smoke as dense and black as effluent from the sewers. As it came closer, it gradually slowed down and sank into itself, hissing and blowing white steam from its ears. It gave a final belch, a lump of black sludge rolled down one side of its foaming mouth and settle on the rest of the steaming heap.