This article is published in number 51 of Vanity Fair on newsstands until December 22, 2020
I was in Florence at a concert in Santo Stefano al Ponte, located near the Ponte Vecchio. The event was free. Free things have always intrigued me a lot and not for the reasons you think, but simply because those who give themselves without price do everything to be worthwhile. Sacrarium was the title of the concert and, as the Latin name implies, it was Church things, music, more or less sacred pieces reinterpreted. I sat down – I had also gone to get a perm, because I like being okay in some cases – and next to me was a lady, who I think was in her sixties, blonde, like Jessica Fletcher, with longer hair though , like Nicoletta Orsomando. She was dressed in a classic, beige jacket, Chanelle model, or so I like to remember.
They weren’t expensive clothes, probably hers, but they were appropriate clothes: pink blouse, skirt, pastel shades, all pointed to a lady like many others, normal you would have said … If I think about it, now, I must say she looked a lot like Shelley Winters when she played Correggio’s soap maker, which, perhaps, could have alerted me, but at the time I hadn’t seen the film yet and so I ignored it. He attacked me, and so far it happens, we were waiting for the start of the concert. She was alone, me too. Her voice was vaguely frantic, but she didn’t say anything to worry me at first. We talked about the beauty of the church, its unusual architecture, how it felt good there, a little cool, and then, all of a sudden, she commented: «They often play free concerts here, so I was happy to come here. Even if it wasn’t free I would have come anyway. I always do it. I have listened to beautiful ones, outdoors, in churches, classical and opera concerts, I really like music of a certain depth. With my husband we often went to Maggio, Maggio Musical, then I was left a widow. You know, for events like this they always reserve seats in the first row for the mayor, councilors or important personalities. But I sit there. They are so ignorant, they don’t care about high-level music, they come to be present, made up, sometimes many chairs remain empty. They don’t care. It does not seem right. And then I’ll take it. ” Before I could open my mouth and speak on it, he deepened: “Yes, sometimes, an attendant comes and tries to tell me something like:” Excuse me madam, this place is reserved “, but at that point I yell:” WHAT DO YOU WANT ?! LEAVE ME ALONE! GO AWAY, VIAAAA! ”». I faded all over, because she had really shouted that sentence like a madman.
“So,” she continued, “they get scared and leave me alone.” And then, after a little pause during which her eyes had grown as big as mother-of-pearl, she went on calmly: ‘They fear me, do you understand? They are afraid to go crazy and disturb the concert, so they leave me alone. I enjoyed many of those concerts in this way, even for a fee, which you don’t know, my lady ». Now, no report has ever reassured me that this woman, whose name I never even knew, was really crazy. But who cares after all. The limit or the abyss is sometimes very slight. And often there isn’t. Everyone is insane in their own way. Often secretly insane. I prefer the openly crazy. Like the lady in the front row who rightly took what, without her, would have remained empty and cool. And if it is true that sometimes a woman is forced to be a bitch, sometimes being a bitch is the only thing left to a woman, because as Kathy Bates says in the role of Dolores Claiborne in the Last Eclipse: crazy is the only thing we have left. The only thing that saves us in a world of absurdity ». And since that day, I, at concerts, only in the front row.
BESTSELLER – Narrated by an omniscient cat, “Rollone the Viking”, The starry sky purrs is the fourth crackling (and sometimes a bit spicy) novel by Chiara Francini, after the bestsellers, with over 60 thousand copies, Don’t talk with your mouth full (2017), My mother doesn’t have to know (2018) e A happy year (2019), all published by Rizzoli.
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