MISS WELBY

NyLon!

A British political party hire a hitman as a mole to infiltrate Italian radicals in order to take them over. Will it all end in tragedy?

Chapter I – Italian radicals

I got up half-heartedly at 6 am and at 7 already was in Hounslow on the A4 when Rafi flew over me in the massive Svirgin superjumbo from New York. I had the impression that the landing gear shaved my head. How could people live there, it was a mystery less comprehensible only than why the hell the airport had been developed to the west of the city, when it was well known that the wind is westerly most of the time and airplanes will always counter wind rigorously. This meant that an airplane per minute, a thousand a day, flew over the city at a low altitude, and naturally in times of terrorism the clever people in the government decided to expand it, Heathrow, with a third runway and a fifth terminal… Bah, politics, politics, I couldn’t help thinking of anything else. And women. It would have taken half an hour more to get and park at Terminal 3, but it would have taken even more to her to tidy up the first class. I wasn’t late. I was never late.

Rafi carried around her forties pretty well. She spent half of them up in the sky reaching the top for her career – responsible of the first class cabin, never more than eighteen passengers and a decent catering to share with her colleague Maria Cristina, a good salary and a fixed route with invariable routine: five atlantic flights a week, alternating weekends between the twin metropolis. That nocturnal flight had been an exception due to a terror alarm on her customary flight from Newark the morning before, which was due in London at 8pm on friday. Had it not been for one of those more and more frequent alarms, she would have ended her working week like it had begun on monday morning in Newark. Instead, the following one would have started on the afternoon flight which would have taken her to New Jersey in time to catch up Manhattan for dinner. A beautiful life her Italian friends were envious of, getting to know a lot of interesting people in first class, although a bit stressful time to time, the bigger annoyance being wearing high heels and nylon stockings, a synthetic material she didn’t like. As usual, as soon as she jumped into the car she got rid of them both, only to put on her heels again, causing me the erection which was to accompany us at home. Unfortunately I couldn’t stop by, I had to go to the party headquarters. I parked Rafi and the Ferrari in the garage, I kissed them both and went walking along the Thames.

Hands in pockets and his head laid back, taking a lazy walk along the Hudson rippled by a breeze ruffling his flowing raven hair, Mauro breathed deeply the air thick of electrons in the first weak light of dawn on the Big Apple’s horizon, estimating his love life a year after he got there. It was 4 am on an August saturday of a year dominated by beautiful Natasha, with whom he experienced the most intense love story of his life but had to split in order to save both lives: the relation of the Russian high diplomat at the UN with the investigative journalist linked to the annoying Italian radicals was not appreciated by the moscovite oligarchies, as the pervasive as well as persuasive Russian mafia in the city kindly let them know. The devastation at the end of the relation with Natasha couldn’t be nothing but equally deep than elevated had been their passion, and in the vain attempt to overcome the depression he gave himself without conviction to an Upper East Side native bird. Beautiful, tall, sexy, an evening Liza was dead drunk he took advantage offering himself to go to her place to translate some dull Italian pop songs, only to find out she was frigid like one of those refrigerators which made the fortune of candid Hindu-orobic tycoon John Patel, although this latter has nothing to deal with all this for the time being. She seemed very sweet: after that night no more than three hours barely elapsed without a phone call, a text message, a mail, a wishing card with chocolates, candies, flowers, an allusive cactus allusive. For weeks they shared breakfast, lunch, supper, the respective sofas and every free moment, as if their bodies rolled up into one in one of those washing machines which made the fortune of candid Hindu-orobic tycoon John Patel, although this latter has nothing to deal with all this for the time being. The whirlwind consumed itself quickly and she slowly began to take back time for herself: gym, jogging, hairdressing salon, shopping, tanning, manicure, chiropodist, brazilian, and getting out to drink and smoke with her friends. The fact that these were named Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda and Samantha should have made him suspicious. She dumped him via email. Suddenly she no longer wanted to see him. Until the day before they were talking about introducing him to her parents upstate and planned a romantic trip to Italy: Rome, Florence, Venice, the lakes… The day after she won’t stand him anymore.

– You are way too much for me, I feel suffocating, it’s better to split

– Fine, I respect your choice, but why?

– I’ll tell you the truth, I’m in love with someone else

Ah!, the usual Upper East Side sport: double dating, overbooking… And that poor cuckold, what had he done for a month?, philosophized Mauro sarcastically, since having been dumped by Liza didn’t hurt a bit in comparison to the suffering for having lost the Siberian tiger. He only had fun for one month, without falling in love, and now was happy again, more than he had never been, while returning at home with an easy gait along the river under the lampposts switching off at the increasing daylight, the smiling dustmen returning his resonant whistling of the enlivened jazz themes he had been listening all night long at Vito’s on the Broadway, and the only thing disturbing him a little were his ears buzzing, a vague feeling of annoyance thet he could have felt if, for example, some failed writer plagiarized one of his articles for the NY Observer, perhaps that one on Liza. But even so he couldn’t care less, for walking vertically towards that pink-blue ceiling of Manhattan, since thirty-six hours Mauro had fallen in love again like never before.

At the Party headquarters in Cowley Street I was greeted by worried Gary and Tim, Gary especially was nervous.

– Hurry up, Charles has been waiting for you in his office for over an hour

– But it’s 9 sharp, I’m on time as always. What does he want? And what is he doing at work so early an a saturday?

I worried myself. It was quite unusual for the leader to be at work at dawn. But I calmed down when he offered me a double shot of single malt. He was the same old Charles. I politely refused – it was too early even for me -, casting a glance at party treasurer’s legs. In her forties as well, but carried pretty bad, swollen for too many single malts courtesy of the leader, whom instead as a brave Scotsman seemed to better absorb all those double shots. But it could be told by the well-shaped legs that she wasn’t bad at all when younger. Janine began to speak to me, fluttering the Financial Times that everybody knew she pretended to read, about the issue they discussed lenghtly with Charles. – We are in an expansion cycle, we sail from 20 towards 25 percent of the British market, which is going to be saturated. It is time to expand with a prestigious acquisition abroad, and the optimal cashflow allows us to do so. We have singled out the prospective purchase but we only have a couple of months in order to launch a hostile takeover before their shareholders’ meeting She paused and looked at me as if she already said everything I should know. I looked back at her inquiringly, but she kept silent. Apparently my look wasn’t enough interrogative. I had therefore to patiently expressed myself orally

– Shareholders of what the dick of a cock of the duck are you talking about?

– Italian radicals

– Never heard about them

I replied turning to Charles, meaning that I expected from him the clarifications of political nature. Charles swallowed and explained

– They are a young small movement – “liberal, liberist and libertarian”, property of the transnational radical holding, which in turn is controlled by an Atanasio Pannella, very popular in Italy and other hopeless countries such as Wallonia, Chechnya and Lucania. To gather documentary evidence our information department advises the reading of “Pannella and Bonino Plc”, an excellent book by a famous newyorker journalist you’ll find in any nearby political bookshop. After which you will infiltrate yourself in their movement in order to better understand their financial situation, inner dynamics, sexual habits, if someone is blackmailable, in short I want to be kept constantly updated

– Ok, fine, but why me?

– Obviously we have chosen you because I’m told you speak Italian well enough. And because your role here, although very important and I emphasize important, is rather, er, little known…

– Poor and dark, so that they won’t suspect that I work for us

– … and if you need anything else just ask me. Except for money, for the money ask Janine. Cheers

I left in search of the book, found it, and seated on a park bench in the cloister of the ancient Westminster convent, looking at the gate on the courtyard of the homonymous school, I rolled a small spliff observing from far away the teenagers in microskirt and began to turn the pages in order to pass the time learning something while waiting for lunch with Vladimira, a Bulgarian friend who works nearby at Sky’s political newsroom. We lunched happily – the spliff made me hungry – and didn’t feel the need to do anything else. We haven’t had sex in over two months – we were no longer attracted to each other – but from time to time it was nice to gossip about her Bbc colleagues on the upper floor of the same building. Building that was off-limits for me because in the Beeb’s political newsroom there was Liubomira, another Bulgarian friend of mine with whom I hadn’t had sex in over four months – we were no longer attracted to each other – but from time to time it was nice to have a few pints and gossip about her Sky colleagues on the lower floor. They didn’t about each other, that I knew them both, thus it was inappropriate for me to visit 4 Millbank. I goodbyed Vladimira with a customary french kiss, I should rather say a bulgarian one, and resumed brooding on my mission walking the narrow lanes on this half of the political citadel west of the parliament, the half with parties’ and TVs’ headquarters, opposite to the width of Whitehall and the ministries that showed themselves on the other side in direction of Trafalgar Square. On Channel 4 modern buiding camped a massive ad of new serial NyLon, which first episode was due the following tuesday. Nice pun. By association of ideas I recalled Rafi’s heels and my erection. I sped up the pace towards home with a feeling that soon a new chapter would have opened up.

Chapter 2 >

  1. uhm…
    ma dove l’avevi pubblicato 4-5 anni fa? sul forum dei radicali?

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