Milano, 29 July 1900

Look at the great man. The good king. He who loves his people above all else. The wise father that knows how to dispense and severe reprimands to his little ones and caresses in equal measure. They were slaps the bullets against unarmed people of Sicily in January '94. And a parent's outraged simple reprimands the shot which struck eight brothers wounding hundreds in Carrara in the same month and year of events in Sicily. The cannon of the vile murderess Bava Beccaris? Spanking naughty brats in, showed me strong, however, leave much to the hundreds on the pavement, dead and wounded. Rebellious and ungrateful brats the Milanese in May '98, and ungrateful as well, unable to bear the pangs of hunger caused by the maddening and unnecessary wars of conquest in Africa, from banking scandals and incompetent placed in places of command only to abuse their obtuse authority. And for you, brothers from Sicily, for you, pale bleeding victims of Milan that today the son of the people will take vengeance by executing the good father, one who is guilty of the most horrible of crimes, spreading death and destruction among his people. And after only resonate up the anthem of rebellion: for all victims unavenged, there in the booming roar of the epic, compensate the barricades, lead with lead. And you, unfortunate brothers Passanante and Acciarito, fear not, my hand will be your strongest, and then, your error has taught more than a dagger, a gun can be recovered. Look at gymnasts, strutting about in their uniforms. Strong and say they are free. Helpless and submissive should lead imprinted on their shirts, like the people from which, as the human carcass that generated them. Here, the ceremony is over. He is going up on his carriage, the horses hang their heads in expectation. Well, now leans toward the crowd, well standing, greets your people, good king, as well. Long live anarchy! NOW! "

Milano, 29 July 2000

The alarm clock had started to croak at the appointed time. Numbers and letters annoyingly pierced the darkness with a red glow intermittently: 29.07.2000 H. 03:00.
Free stretched out an arm and ended with a sharp slap to the agony sound. A second time, and even the ringing of the phone, pointing at the same time for safety, made from the poignant notes of the hymn of the revolt. Still half asleep, and with the mouth slurred, mumbled instinct "of the epic rumbling roar ... ... ... lead with lead."
Then, as if suddenly he had a spring loaded, he pulled up suddenly. "And 'now," he muttered to himself, shuffled to the bathroom.

In closing the door behind his house, looked at his watch: three twenty. "I have to hurry," he said hurrying toward the garage of the building where he lived "I have to ride for a good twenty minutes."
Trying to make less mess as possible, pulled up the garage door of the tiny box. He pushed out his old black bicycle by the heavy brakes stick, then took out the wooden stairs to attack, nearly four meters high. Finally checked the contents of a plastic bag: a pound of pot from a stucco wall, off-white, and an iron spatula, flexible and robust, with the wooden handle of beech.
"Well. Everything is there. Now we have to pick up the pace, with a scale bicycle is fucking. Luckily at this time ... ".
Zigzagging the beginning, in the ridiculous attempt to find the right setting, pulling through Viale Abruzzi candles galore. Even before arriving in corso Buenos Aires the coveted equilibrium had been reached, so that taking Viale Tunisia, Libero had begun to whistle happy. Fifteen minutes later, even past the Cemetery, releasing all his good mood, whistling cheerfully notes of Goodbye beautiful Lugano.
In the darkened Diocleziano square find it shameful that a road had been entitled to the Executioner Mac Mahon, the French army general who had distinguished himself for fiercely in the massacre of Communards in Paris in May of 1871 that sad. He began, then, to sing loudly, but not before making sure that there were no police cars around. "We are no longer the Commune of Paris, you bourgeois gave out blood ...". Recalling the reason for which was in the street at that hour, he found wiser to lower his voice, almost whispering the verses later: "No more isolated groups and divided, but the vast class of workers within."
Turning on via Biondi, he smiled, turning his gaze to the left at Stalingrado, the brewery in the '70s was one of the thousand points of meeting of that magma bubbling to the left of PCI.
In the square Zavattari made the round and turned left onto Viale Murillo. "Even two hundred meters and we have," he said increasing the rate of pedaling.
Arrived in the square, half of his nocturnal wanderings, had supported the scale and the bicycle against the wall and had lit a cigarette to collect your thoughts and organize action. Cars around, almost nothing. At that hour the industrious Milan rested quietly or pretended to do so, in the meantime, from there a couple of hours every morning on time as a trigger occurred, the neurotic and insane pace for which was understandably proud.
Available threw down his cigarette, moved under a lamp from a pocket and pulled a sheet of paper on which he had drawn a map and numbers. "So, the works of restoration are fifteen," he said with an eye to the wall at the top, just above the sign for the corner bar. "It takes about three minutes to climb, make edit, and move down the ladder next to the marble. Three for three quarters of an hour fifteen ... good job. " He looked around for the umpteenth time. None. "Well, at work."

The letter of the alphabet I love most

He put the culmination of the long ladder right next to the plaque indicating the name of the square, then bent down and picked up, with the foil, the grout must be the need. He climbed the ladder very carefully one by one, and once reached the top with a spatula, quickly and accurately strike wiped out the last letter of the place names engraved. Back down smiling. "In a strange twist of fate, I find myself having to delete just the letter of the alphabet I love most: the A".
He moved the ladder to the next plate preparatory to repeating the same gesture for the planned fifteen times. In the middle of the work, eight "restoration" had already been executed, Free found himself face to face with an old man, who leaned against the sill of an upstairs window, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, looked at him with eyes smashed from a sleep that did not want to rock him in her arms. "Municipal Works" Free said confidently, spreading the nth pass of filler. The night owl just nodded and threw the butt on the street. Going down, he heard him mumble Free: "You know what I care of your municipal works. Here, if I can not get to sleep .... "

At five to five restoration, as Libero had defined its action was over. Available at the center of the square, planting a heel in the ground made a 360 degree view of himself, to gaze at the finished work, to enjoy the glow of dawn that timidly gave the alarm to his city, to listen to the traffic noise at that hour was not so annoyingly unbearable.

There was one last thing to do, to complete the work. "In the society of the image will not appear if you do not exist." Dialed a number on his cell phone and waited a few moments.
A voice growled tarry, with a tone of annoyance, a "Hello?" That would dissuade anyone from continuing the conversation.
"Oh! Errico, mission accomplished! "
"But ... who the fuck is this?"
"Errico! I am, Libero... mission accomplished! Your father, rest in peace, would be proud of me! "
"Libero! But thou hast in the fucking head, pine cones? You know what time it is? "
"Listen asshole, you know, YOU, what day is today? And July 29, 2000. It's been just one hundred years and I am standing by the three! And I got an ass like that, all by himself. I told you I would do and I did it! So up your ass and come here with your fucking camera, before some zealous citizen will notice and call the cops! "
"Ok! Libero Ok, not get mad. Give me an hour and I am there. "

From Milan's all, to you study

At half past six a crew of Regional news cameraman and commentator, it made a strange service from one of the busiest points of the ring road of Milan:
"Today, July 29, 2000, marks the centenary of a historic fact long since ended up in oblivion, but that has marked the history of Italy in the difficult transition from the nineteenth to twentieth century: in the park of Monza, during the ceremony of a competition Gymnastics, 29 July 1900 King Umberto I was murdered at the hands of an anarchist party from the town of Paterson U.S. with the intention of punishing the monarch, guilty of having suppressed a revolt in the blood of all classes in Italy in May 1898 protesting against the unsustainable increase for most people, and therefore the price of wheat bread. In Milan alone, the royal army led by General Fiorenzo Bava Beccaris, caused more than eighty dead and four wounded, using cannons against crowds of demonstrators. The name is Gaetano Bresci anarchy, and today, some prankster wanted to remember the event naming the square in the regicide "the camera was moved slowly from the foreground of the reporter, more and more to frame the top plate of the square; The voice was now over. "Imagine that the City provide quickly put things in place, but at least for one day will have its traditional square in piazzale Brescia, but an unconventional, anarchic ... Bresci Square. From Milan's it, you study.

Giuseppe Ciarallo