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Accetto Chudi


by Matteo F.M. Sommaruga

It was so quiet out there. Apparently no noise was produced in the hearth or the metropolis, during the night, when just few workers were active and most of the students spent the money provided by the family. Most of them pledged for a State support to their own expenses, but socialist regimes hardly pay for free drinks. That's much more the style of a decadent and edonistic Monarchy, celebrating her last days before collapsing.

I was so tired that I fell after a while, completely unconscious. No wardens were expected to come to wake me up. I had not already been captured by the MfS squads and sleep privation didn't concern me. I had no overnight interrogation either, and if my consciousness didn't torment me with the fear of professional failure, I could have enjoyed the night as a tourist in a village on the Red Sea. A prize for the Bauern und Arbeteirn of our sogenannte DDR. Actually, no more ehemalige, since the reconstruction was proceeding quite fast paced. While I was looking for a way out, the press and the leftist had already created an effective team to begin with the annihilation of the bourgeois rights.

I dreamt of a village in Egypt, similar of a huge complex of barracks. Out of an impressive stone in the middle of the main place, was carved the austere face of Nasser, that evidently was not satisfied enough to lead the Arabs towards an Islamic and Marxist paradise and required some European to enhance his portrait on history books. I was alone, all around my just carriages and heavy tanks, ready to fight for the Revolution. I had no energy left, as if I had alone powered the train that enabled Lenin to come back to Russia in 1917. Or as if I had alone repelled the U.S. attempt at the Bay of Pigs. A modern adaptation of the Hercules' tires, that could have awarded the Greek hero with a massive amount of USSR medals and a sort of immortality on text books for the FDJ. "Bau auf, bau auf, frei Deutsche Jugend bau auf", sang some handsome boys and girls, dancing around me, dressed in light blue bathsuites. It should have been the jingle of the village, composed by some creative branch of the travel agency that sent me there. I politely declined the invitation to join and found a place where to comfortably sleep under the assuring protection of Nasser.

The nicer, more romantic and less oppressive tweet of the birds woke me up quite early in the morning. I'm usually tired after such chaotic nights, when dreams, and thoughts and blood pressure mingle together to provide a form of inspiration proper of a beatnik. Ironically I'm reputed to be the most ordinary, conservative, if not reactionary human being survived on the earth, quite an enthusiastic read of Adam Smith and de Tocqueville. And a sever critic of Penn, whose writings sometimes smell of socialism. Well, I was relaxed and excited, ready to get back to my workplace.

I had just to find a way out. Too many cats require the fire brigade to leave the trees they have so magnificently climbed. A window was open on the terrace, offering me an elegant passage to the second floor and, reducing the risk to be spotted by some early accountant, I gained the stairs and went to take place in front of my laptop. I forgot my usual breakfast. I could have bought something at the supermarket, but I was so high on my wicked plans that I didn't care. It was just 8:00 a.m. and I had enough time to start a brief intelligence work on the web. Looking for the next adobe of the magnificent career I was building on the falling debris of the Italian civilization.

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On the other side of Berlin Wall

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