by Gianfranco Menghini
As in a Feydeau comedy that, instead of having as scenery the Paris of the Belle Epoque, in this book has the sunny and warm places in the French Riviera. Where the hot sun puts an itch on its inhabitants, to induce them to weave easy licentious relationships. Well, it knows the mandrill Fedele, faithful only to his love appetites. Who, longtime before that burst the financial scandals in Milan, had himself ambushed, taking with him, a little at a time, a fabulous egg nest, fruit of his illicit trades, despite the little-eyed controls of the Italian monetary authorities. We are in 1992 with the unlashed war of the Gulf. The primary mobile phones begin to change the way of life to the people, further the fact that the politics of the Italian Republic receive a painful lash by the judiciary, which disrupts the whole system.Everything is enough exhilarating, if albeit at the end, things recomposed themselves, as if it would handle of a healthy lesson of life, which puts the protagonists in the right track.
Read an excerpt from the book
If Carole did not tell her, she should never believe. When she landed from the train to Cannes that morning of February, the weather was gorgeous and seemed the spring would already blossom owed for the number of colorful flowers that adorned the Croisette flowerbeds.
She had left in Paris a dreadful weather, so much did cold and damp and with a tense wind which, coming from the mouth of the Seine, was sweeping with impetuosity the boulevards, whose bare trees have assumed a gloomy air for the gray light from the sky uniformly covered.
It had her disliked having not to take the plane which in a bit less of all hour should carry her to Nice, but although she would find the pretext that at the arrival, she must go to a taxi to the railway’s station to get on the train bound to Cannes, had instead had the irrational fear that with such weather would occur a flight accident. And finally, the trip was comfortable. With the TGV running over three hundred kilometers an hour, she had come to Marseille without realizing herself. It was a pity in that station. She was compelled to change the convoy, traveling more slowly. The rhythmic swinging of the train reconciled her a short sleep until Cannes. Her neighbor’s armchair, a gentle lady with whom she had switched a few words down to Toulon, after starting the train from that station, had made her realize that if she wanted to sleep on a little, she should guard her luggage, a rigid suitcase and a bag that had struggled for herself to put upon the shelves, although in that first-class compartment, there were only them two, neither other passenger could reasonably mount on it, as the train to Cannes did not stop intermittently.
If her father allowed her to take the train during the night, she should sleep comfortably in the wagon until destination, on the normal international train which went to Rome. Two days before she had had the last engagement with him. She was very fond of him and regretted herself that, as during her childhood, he would have her in such a manner cuddled as if she would be his princess, and since she had passed the adolescence, instead, he would transform himself in a man, before apprehensive and after, who knows why, even jealous.
She, an independent and controversial spirit, once became old aged did not have herself escaped neither an opportunity and her mother accomplice, had taken so much freedom with the easy pretext of studying with her two heart friends: Carole and Brigitte. Her father had grumbled first, but then ascertained that the three girls reunited themselves rotating from the house of one to the next, considering the good results obtained by his daughter, had tranquillized himself.
Her parents’ apartment on the fourth floor of a 19th-century building across the Boulevard Jourdan street, corner Rue Nansouty, faced to the Parc Mont Souris. Often, and especially when it was raining, a thing not infrequent in her town, since she was a child, happened to her to stay for some hours with the forehead leaning against the window glasses to look, lost in reveries, at the plants, among them a dozen of sycamores, strangely done grown together in the front part by a gardener, certainly very fanciful. The sycamore was the tree preferred by her both for the broad foliage then the large leaves to which she attributed to a vague plane shape. At the arrival of each autumn, she felt a pang at the heart in seeing that after having changed the color, those small gliders began to fall, if it did not blow the wind, into slow spiral going to heap themselves on the wet soil. And just on the eve of the departure, she spent the sleepless night facing to the closed window. However, her thoughts have not wondered, as it had always arrived to her, in the uncertainty of mild reflections interrupted by the intelligent observation of what was happening in the park, but by a very precise one that had been the cause of her determination to leave after a while. She was worried about what was happening to her, and to nothing was worth in observing the park in the dark color of the night, neither she was distracted the intense vehicular traffic of the two great avenues, which had begun to diminish after two o’clock in the morning, until to interrupt itself at three o’clock, time in which she had begun preparing for the trip, despite her train would depart at five.
Being the situation, that day by day was becoming increasingly more critical among she and the father, her mom had supported her been to renders herself to the Côte d’Azur where she knew that in those days a magnificent sun shined. She had provided her with money, much more than would serve her if even would take a room at Gray D’Albion or in another similar hotel. The Hotel Martinez, in which she should appreciate her daughter would lodge, since she counted on the friendship of its manager, was unfortunately closed during the winter.
Christine, though, did not confide to her Mom what the real reason for her trip would be. She had always trusted all the little and great secrets until her relationships with the father began to deteriorate. Since that moment on, she had begun to feed the doubt that her mother would refer to the husband in turn. Then the trouble should start, indeed. And, given the character from the parent, they should be very serious…