Silvano kept a safe distance from the partisans, who wandered between woods and gullies around Montaione, San Gimignano and Volterra. He did not understand their reasons, their way of thinking. He felt instinctively that their smell was not his own smell. Their skin had different reasons than his. And those strange, incongruous noms de guerre, detached from any human logic: Sandokan, Ursus, Falco, Caserta, Camoscino, Intrepido, Lampo, Mitra, Tigre, Leone, Condor, Cobra, Orso, Bufalo, il Vendicatore, Potente, Birba, Bistecca, Chicchirichì, Cognach, Emorroidi, Fastidi, Fifa...maybe they had a logic, it had to be a logic in those names, it was undeniable, but still they formed a language that Silvano had difficulty to learn. He did not completely avoid them. In the woods of Jetta, Casa al Rosso and Cetine, he had often met them, had shared their food, smoked their cigarettes, talked to them but had always felt an unbridgeable distance between his own world and their distant w...
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