SeaCastle Magazine SeacastleMagazine n.2 agosto 2017 | Page 23

PERSONAGGI / OUR CHARACTERS
severo e pieno di odio.
Mai in quei giorni gli era capitato di
abbassare la leva della macchinetta così
di controvoglia. Lo fece con sdegno, tre o
quattro volte.
Il carrettiere Mummino uscì con la latta
colma del caffè espresso, dirigendosi verso
il suo mulo per fargli assaggiare la novità
del secolo. Camminando vi soffiava sopra
per non fare scottare l’animale. Meditava
con soddisfazione: il comunismo era alle
porte e pure per le bestie! L’espresso se
lo potevano permettere tutti: cani, porci e
muli.
La sua uscita era stata accompagnata
dalle risate crudeli degli avventori e dallo
sguardo fulminante del barista Totò, che si
aggiustava nervosamente i polsini inamidati
e la cravatta nera a farfalla, sentendosi ora
un semplice garzone.
T
hat morning the little square in front
of the bar was crowded and noisy as
on a Sunday morning. A wave of euphoria
run over the customers, while Spring was
starting to mitigate the rigours of Winter.
In the meantime the coffee machine was
working continuously and the barman had
a hard work with the levers of the espresso
which puffed like a steam train in the
manoeuvre of stopping. It was like being at
the helm of a ship and pride came out with
a little smile which closed in a parenthesis
of wrinkles his plump lips. He had never
liked so much the role of apprentice and
now, which he held the course towards
progress he was proud to be on the
fore bridge. The espresso machine, all
chromium plated beaded by a red band,
had arrived for few days from Bologna.
The contraption, over which you could
also reflect yourself, was his console. The
foamy coffee came out with an aromatic
scent all along Garibaldi road slipping
through the windows, the balconies, the
cracks of the doors. It grazed the buildings
like an invisible mist, went over the narrow
streets, stopped into the courtyards. It
also went into the church mixing up the
vapours of incense. Many and many times
Father Antonino peeped out of the rectory
to understand where did the fragrance,
which competed with the sacred scent,
came from.
It was the barman the author of that
fragrant message so tempting to wake up,
with fun yawns, the men of the town. On
the tables of the bar the cups made a joyful
noise because of the coffeespoons which
mixed coffee, foam and sugar. The eyes of
the customers dipped in the aromatic drink
prepared by the diabolic machine that only
the barman Totò was able to use and that,
as a consequence, had been promoted to
barman.
He had worked hard for three days. The
experts of the firm from Bologna had done
an hard work to teach him how to do the
Espresso: an hand here, the other one like
this. No! The lever must be followed gently.
Right, this way. Look. Let’s try again.
At first, from the chromium plated spouts
came out a sort of slops which gradually
coloured with a spit of foam at the end.
They had used kilos of toasted coffee-
beans, of the poor ones naturally, before
that plenty of foam came out. It had
browny shades which made alluring the
hot drink. Men went out to look for belts,
shoes, socks, pants, waistcoats, ties of the
same shade.
Someone even claimed “The foam effect”
on jackets to show in society occasions.
Those years in which Totò, still a bar boy,
prepared the drink for the most wealth
customers with barley and, for the
common people with seeds of toasted
chicory were far away. Now from the coffee
machine didn’t come out an ordinary
coffee but the espresso and he, Totò
himself, wasn’t a bar boy or a waiter any
more, but a real barman. He was the only
one able to fuse with those diabolic levers
of wellness! Totò espresso would he be
called to seal the couple of postwar years.
They were in the Future
The coffee cups on display on the round
tables of the bar of Garibaldi Road
contained a dream that had become true
to everyone. The espresso should be tasted
charmingly. At first you should wet the
upper lip, then the cup had to be taken
under the nose to cheat the seductive
scent, afterwards putting it gently again on
the saucer you admire the thickness of the
foam and at last, caught it by the handle
with thumb and forefinger, little finger
side up, taste the first real sips. And you
continued until you saw the grains of sugar
laid on the bottom of the cup. A final and
quick turn on air of the cup and down to
bolt the sweet remaining of the espresso
which were chewed between teeth.
That day the carter Mummino was passing
along the road. It seems that the owner
and the horse were following the scent
of the coffee which was foaming on the
scattered tables. The man was carrying
some sacks of grain he had to unload
at San Giuseppe’s mill. It was just the
time to have a break. Attracted by the
scent and by the happy crowd, the carter
Mummino drew the reins and with a long
ahhhhhhhhh, blocked the horse and the
cart and parked them a little further on
the tables. He had heard about this special
coffee neither prepared by brew nor by the
Napolitan coffeepot, which in itself was
an innovation for the town. They called it
espresso like the train which linked Trapani
to Palermo in only five hours. The carter
Mummino searched in his pocket, he had
enough money to afford, for once, the
luxury of a well done drink, a drink which
opened your nostrils, stunned and, as they
said around, left lips softer than velvet and
the tongue like silk.
“We live only once” he thought to himself.
While he was entering in the bar with his
loud voice ordered the barman Totò an
espresso after he had mentally repeated
the order and swallowed some air.
He, who wasn’t accustomed to these town
luxuries, didn’t sip the coffee but drank
it all in one go, scalding his tongue and
licking his lips which hadn’t become velvet
but, bloody hell, burnt. He would have
swear, let the Saints from heaven fall down
and ask for satisfaction, but he stopped
because of the presence of all that crowd
of gentlemen.
When the burning soothed, he started to
perceive the taste of the new drink, with
his tongue he clicked on his palate and
with his strong arm cleaned his lips. Then
he made a hard breath as to say it was
worth while even the burning. Roughly he
should have enough money, even if he was
assailed by great doubts.
He had 50 liras in his pocket. Would they
be enough? He looked round thoughtful.
In any case they would trust the carter
Mummino, who at least twice a week went
uphill the road to reach the mill. He was
always in his way.
He went and pay.
He was holding a ten liras notes in his
hand, and with the other was nervously
searching in his waistcoat pocket to find
more changes, in case he needed them.
Don Maurizio, the owner of the bar,
without rising his eyes, making some
reckoning on a piece of paper, twittered
with his pointed lips “half a lira don
Mummino!”
The carter believing he hadn’t understand,
asked:
“How much?”
“half a lira, don Mummino, half a lira”,
rising his eyes and looking at the customer.
The carter with a smile put the 50
liras note in his pocket and took out
the modest change handling it to don
Maurizio. He went out hurriedly without
saying good bye. It wasn’t a rudeness, no.
Some minutes later he came back with
an opened can, gave it to the barman
asking him to fill it up of coffee, espresso
naturally. The barman looked at him awry
in a questioning expression. The carter
Mummino immediately cleared up his
doubts:
“For this price the espresso for my mule
too”
The barman Totò gave him back a severe
look full of hate.
In those days it had never happened to
lower the lever of the coffee machine so
reluctantly. He did it with disdain, three or
four times.
The carter Mummino went out with the
can full of coffee, going towards his mule to
make it taste the drink of the century. On
the way he blew on it to avoid the animal
would burn. He was meditating with
satisfaction: Communism was arriving for
beats too! The espresso could be afford for
everyone: dogs, pigs and mules.
His exit was accompanied by the cruel
laughs of the customers and by the bitter
look of the barman Totò, who nervously
was adjusting the starched cuffs and his
black bow tie, now feeling like a simple bar
boy.
S ea C astle M agazine 23