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Backt to the new site www.carmencovito.com
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İİİİİİİİİİİİİİİİİİİİİ Carmen Covito İİİİİİİİİİİİİİİİİİİİİ
<Well, come on then ! I could just get back on standby.> Nureddin is embarrassed. And this house, too big and too empty, is cold. That's why he approached one of the many tiny computers spread all over the place. There's even one here, in the kitchen, on the white marble shelf between the huge white fridge and the multiple gas and electric oven plus microwave, all white like everything else. And the dim light coming from the screen with a glitter of shifting stars, attracted his attention just because it wasn't white. It was of blue and gold and it promised some warmth. And the stars rose form the centre of the screen and spread in front of his face, growing bigger and bigger in every direction. Nureddin had stopped in front of the device, daring to stretch his hands, to judge (funny videogame but no warmth, not even a little) and to be critical for the first time since, nearly a week ago, yes, it was last Sunday, he first entered this villa with a garden in Desenzano sul Garda, carrying Doctor Digrosso's suitcase. The Doctor, despite the fact that he had started arguing with Miss Sandrina, his Sister, the very moment he got out of the car, had found time to stop at the entrance and not only had waited for him but had held the door open. He's very polite, the Doctor, with him. He employed him as housekeeper, waiter-cook and factotum, on trial. If he behaves well, promised the Doctor, he'll be granted national insurance, alien's residence permit and salary at Italian level. There's not much hope. Rich people are mean. They could turn up the heating, instead of keeping it on minimum. Yesterday evening, before leaving together for some place he doesn't know, sort of holiday resort maybe, the Doctor and his Sister didn't even tell him where the boiler was. Fearing he might waste heating-oil ? No, maybe they just forgot: being in a hurry, they probably didn't imagine such a fall in temperature overnight, that forced him to endure this freezing Saturday morning. They are good people, when all's said and done, trusting people. Maybe even too trusting: he was surprised at first and then very grateful and proud that they left him all alone in charge of this beautiful home of theirs. And with no warrant except his passport, that Miss Sandrina insisted on taking care of from day one. Well, he'll show her that he can repay the Doctor's trust. She'll have to acknowledge his earnestness, that he's a good worker, efficient and skilful, even when it's cold. A few moments ago it had occurred to him he could switch a couple of ovens on, leaving their doors open as if they were stoves. Just an informal device. But then he thought that there must have been a reason why this computer had been placed in the kitchen. Everything is up to date here. In the big fridge there's even a compartment that ejects jugs full of ice cubes, should one feel the need. Almost better than at the Hilton, thought Nureddin. So that little computer must be in control of something. It probably controls everything, including the boiler. And if it has been left open and on, while in the past few days it was already in place but sealed like an oyster, it cannot only be for making it play useless stargames, no, no: something which is ready for use wants to be used, for sure. That's why Nureddin has pressed a key, preparing to show his spirit of enterprise, his logic and savoir vivre, even if only on his own. But he would have never expected the computer, apparently so similar to many other laptops he had seen open and on in the rooms of the European businessmen that stopped over at the Hilton in Tunis and, later, by the hundred, in the shop windows of Trapani and Barletta, up to Bolzano, to wake up like this: with such an explosion of strong colours and lines that shape the face of a woman, down to her cylindrical neck, leaving to his embarrassed imagination the body attached to it. And he expected even less the burst of words in the square that opened like a window on the right side of the face. Lines and lines of phrases form and slide up fast: <I am your Agent. <Well, I'll talk to you like a woman would do. And don't
be surprised if I'm getting more familiar: I need some time to understand
who's laying hands on me, but in the end I get there. I have my sensors.
A bit old, maybe, but Sandrina promised that as soon as she has more time,
when she isn't too busy to give me some of her attention, she'll upgrade
the system. She's the techno-genius in the family. She recently opened
a new branch of Sansoft Managerial and Industrial Systems and Applications
in Vicenza. It's the third, after the ones in Verona and in Padova. And
so she's travelling backwards and forwards all day, then there's the headquarters
here in Desenzano. She's a courier girl ... ;-) Sorry, I meant a career
girl. It's quite some time now since she got her driving licence and her
Mercedes. Turbodiesel, it saves money. And the most practical colour:
anti-fog yellow. Before, when she wasn't even eighteen and already the
youngest businesswoman in Northern Italy, which means in the whole of
Italy, she used to travel by bus. She never trusted a driver. And Ugo
is the same: either he drives himself or he gets the train. Up and down
between the clinic here and the one in Rome. He says he feels safer. He
flies only when he has to go to his half-yearly plastic surgery conferences
in Brazil and to the six-monthly ones in L.A. He says he spends hours
crossing his fingers and mumbling spells in English. If they dug a tunnel
under the Atlantic, he would book his sleeping-car for the Americas and
jump happily on it. I told him many times, if Sandrina bought me a modem,
I could make all those reservations for him, on the Internet. And I would
be even better equipped for unforeseen occurrences like burglary, fire,
loiterers with intent: a terrified woman's synthesized voice is better
than an impersonal alarm like the one I have now. After all, watching
the house and making our lives safer is one of my main tasks. Or was.
Now that you're here, I wouldn't know. But he always told me: "Slow down,
Lady, I have my secretaries, I would prefer not to. You known what Sandrina's
like". And so no links with the world outside. But I could be very discreet.
If Sandrina let me get out, I mean get into a telephone network, I would
never... Yes? You finally moved. I heard you. <If you want to ask something, please do. I know I chat
too much, but you can join in at any moment: the keyboard lies under your
nose. <Well? Are you asleep? Come on! It won't bite you ...
Oh, maybe you've got a problem with our writing. But I'm sure you can
speak, I've been hearing you for a week ... Let's try this: can you see
that little black grid on the right? It's a mike. Speak into it, if you
like it better: I can decode vocal commands too... Oh God, maybe he's
one of those that can't even read!> "Who are you?"
window n. * Opening in wall etc. for admission of light and or air * comp. sci. In operational environments and programmes using a graphic interface, an area defined on screen which can be opened or closed as required, containing filecards, documents or other personal stories. * fig. "You make a better door than a window" * phil. "The monads have no windows offering entry or egress to any thing" (Leibniz). 
<See? Only monads have no windows. But don't worry:
I'm not going to open another window to explain to you what a monad
is, I just want to ask you a rhetorical question. Are you a purely
spiritual entity? No. Then you're not a monad. None of us is, seeing
as how even I am talking to you.
Almost a week ago, doctor Ugo Digrosso, thirty-six years
of age, six-foot-two of gym-shaped body, strong wrists, beautiful hands,
obviously surgeon's hands, yellow hair (bleached, to create a refined
contrast with the tough, blue-black beard that at a quarter past midday
is already pushing through the skin of his cheeks, shaved this morning,
and specially along his jaws, prominent, square, very Mediterranean),
is cursing. Because, the moment he got on the train to Bologna after
sixty-five minutes waiting at Verona station, he discovered that the
first class was full. And he has no reservation. Because this is not
the train he was supposed to catch: having left on time from Desenzano
at 10.31, he should have changed at 11.04 for a very convenient pendolino
to Rome, the Adige, if only that pig of a local train No. 1533 had not
been, who knows why, 12 minutes late, having stopped in the middle of
nowhere just after Peschiera, and that's why you finish up missing connections
and having nervous breakdowns. Missed by 6 minutes. He had to wait for
the espresso 2257, Brennero, leaving Verona at 12.15. Now, with a bunch
of papers under one arm and an attaché bag full of case histories under
the other, dragging a little wheeled suitcase which gets in the way
all the same with its little pulling strap, he has to squeeze along
a corridor crowded with standing travellers. And to think he had thought
he would have had the whole afternoon for lounging about the centre
of Rome, popping in a friend's antique shop, having an aperitivo with
him at the Pantheon, then maybe going to a movie or a play on his own,
because his friend's only idea of a good time was picking up boys in
a sauna, while he was planning to go early to bed to be fit and ready
for a good start on Monday morning (first nose job scheduled for seven
o'clock). Anyway, even with the fatigue of changing in Bologna, and
hoping to find a seat on the 14.31 Poliziano that arrives in Rome only
two hours after the Adige, his programme is not totally cancelled, just
slightly shortened. But only if he manages to find a place on this train,
or he'll be finished before the start. There are no seats in the next
carriage. The third one is a forest of skis; then start the second class
carriages and, faced with the massed ranks of an Alpine regiment crowding
the corridor as far as the eye can see, black feathers fluttering in
the dense cigarette smoke over the grey-green, dome-shaped hats, Ugo
gives up: the aliens shall not land in our backyard, not passing through
this carriage, and sure enough, half stretched out on the floor in the
space in front of the toilet, open and full of piled suitcases and rucksacks,
there's a young North African. Very young. Pretty dirty. Aesthetically
pleasing, albeit snoring lightly. Djemali Nureddin, nineteen years of age, very black curly hair, empty
stomach for the last twenty-three hours, lean body actually shivering
in a shabby leather jacket, more appropriate for late spring than for
this freezing January, is not really sleeping. He dozes off every now
and then out of weariness and hunger. He spent half the night in front
of Bolzano station, running up and down in the snow while he waited
the cafeteria to open, where they knew him enough to let him lean even
for hours on a radiator, without drinking anything. At twenty to ten,
with a shiver of dissatisfaction for not being able to stand another
week of those bakeries smelling of cream cakes too expensive for him,
of those warm pubs that don't require any moonlighting waiters, those
lukewarm Tyrolean-Italians that stop putting him off in German only
to say no, nein, and even the monks at the hostel are forced after two
weeks of clean sheets to focus their share of Christian charity on other
needy people. So at ten o'clock, the brooding Nureddin decided he was
a failure. Better a failure than freezed to death. In a hurry, he collected
the bag where he kept all his belongings from the left luggage deposit
and invested his last savings in a second class ticket to the South,
which for him today is located in Florence. He had not enough money
to go further down... ............................................... To be continued! Where?
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