Salir the stairs with his usual haste was not useless. The doors of the train of 8:42 in fact fought furiously with heels and heels while the controller woman gave voice to his whistle calling all energy order. It was up to wait for the next train. Benches kissed by a hot sun morning were ready to welcome me. I read the paper for a quarter of an hour in peace awaiting the next race. Instead, the speaker announced delays and cancellations of trains to and from Fiumicino airport to the presence of a corpse near the station of Villa Bonelli. Only a few hours later I heard that it was a body of a Dominican with a cut foot. The train arrived punctually at 8:57 Tuscolana station, but his race ended immediately to Ostiense station, where I met other colleagues facing the same problem: to reach the workplace in the shortest possible time. There was only one way, take the metro to Sao Paulo and then take bus number 128 to station Muratella. And so it was. The bus went through the whole Via della Magliana, puffing between bends, weeds and reeds called to make a frame to the Tiber. They hid behind a hedge of its imposing shape of the snake Corviale. A fence of gratings instead of protecting their camp propped clothes hanging in the sun. A beautiful sunny and warm as the only ones known to be winter when they kiss the outskirts cursed by God and blessed by the Devil.
The race drew to a close. The gray stale and terrible anonymity of the business center of Muratella were going to win. I do not know how he continued to shine in the sun on Corviale on Magliana and the gypsy camp until sunset. For me, the night fell sudden and terrible.
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