Of those days spent in the farmhouse before leaving to Verona and trying to take the train to Florence Silvano remembered one morning. The sun was already high, and it was hot even though it was September. The sky appeared full of bristly and white cirrus like goat's milk.
Twenty girls on bikes had gathered in the Cascina. They wore light dresses that assumed dark shadows under the sun filtered by the cirrus clouds.
In the distance, in front of them, stood the a far countryside and a linear white road that stood out as if it was carved against the plain.
Silvano stood under the stable's shed and looked at them like one usually would observe a painting.
That image of fresh youth, of flesh exposed to the sun, provoked him.
Even now the memory of that day made him feel such a strong emotion that even at the age of ninety it could become excruciating. It was the same emotion but a deaf pleasure of his flesh, now.
The prostate had been tormenting him for years and only got worse.
To avoid the misery of the present torments, he returned to thinking of the neorealist picture that lingered in his mind, of those girls who solely wore the beauty of youth and had gathered in the farmyard to go to work to the many orchards adjacent to the Cascina.
He remembered Bruna. He came out of one of his brain circuits. Brunette ... how could he forget her!
That morning there was also Bruna in the group. He wanted to call her but he held back. He was not sure she would like it.
The previous evening, in the straw mattress of the stable where he slept, Bruna had offered herself to Silvano.
His comrades, who lived near Treviso, had left early in the morning. They had received clothes and shoes from the peasants. Through an acquaintance of theirs, a friend of a ferroviere who worked at the Verona train station, they had received information about which trains to take in order to avoid Germans patrols.
They had left in the morning about half past three, it was safer to walk in the dark to Verona, a couple of hours in all.
The peasants had supplied them with fruit and bread, they could eat when they need.
In broad daylight a small group of young men with shaved hair and bags full of food would have received too much attention and for this reason they preferred to leave at that hour. The night is darkest just before the dawn.
Silvano had been advised to wait a little longer. The line to Bologna was the most patrolled, as soon as the control would be loosened they would inform him.
Silvano had been bored all morning and had wandered the whole day around the farm, until after lunch, in the early afternoon, he had not come across Bruna's black eyes.
Two firm breasts like two watermelons, a strong nose, a penetrating and proud look, mounted on a stout and candid smile.
It had been a Madonna apparition.
- Who are you? - Bruna had questioned him directly and without respect.
- My name is Silvano. I defected and fled the barracks two days ago. I'm waiting to leave.
- Are you Tuscan? - he asked him.
- Yup.
- Where are you from?
- Di Montaione
- And where is it?
- Near Florence. Do you know Florence?
- Certo.
Bruna had stared at him intently.
"You're handsome," she shot him in the face and had walked away, pushing the bicycle by hand, without looking back.
At night while he slept in the stable Silvano had awakened with fear. Someone had lifted the blanket and introduced inside.
- Who is there? - he groaned, with il cuore beating hard, the recruiter Silvano.
- Ssssshhhhh! - hissed a hot, sweet-smelling female voice near Silvano's left ear. Felt a warm hand on his left shoulder.
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