“Abbassa quella trappola per favore!” Tom’s mother would have blurted.

Tom smirked, arms wide open, the red wine flooding the printouts. “Turn that volume down will ya?”

The weirdly syncopated rhythm continued unbothered. Shortly after, Michael walked by defiantly, head down, can of coke in hand. He crushed it then binned it.

“Did ya hear me?” “Yeah” Michael hid back into the cave.

Tom resumed his musings. The budget was there, but the time? The photocopy lying on the table. He had an exhibition looming round the corner of the current month.

BRAT

Grafted in red in a perfectly curving line joining the disgruntled features of the mysterious brooding type.

He had acquired it virtually for nothing in a thrift shop in Bavaria.

“That’s way too little …” the young yet crafty owner had retorted.

The intensity of the black and the red in the details along with the fine embroidery of the chisel, the brush providing the foundational theme, mirror of the enraged inner waters, clearly revealed the hand of the rising figure.  The last of her youth production, it was to be the key element, the stepping land mark into the more mature production.

The cell phone startled him. “Any decision?” ”No, not yet” he mumbled to the museum director. By tomorrow sure…”

Tom had clutched the deal in the end. Callously so. He had a career to defend, not to make ends meet. Not to mention the budget that had to include transport but had no restoration expenses in view.

Michael zoomed out of the room. A hooded grim looking figure followed him back into the cave.

Hi bro hi bro. The door slammed barely covered by those gripping unmelodic waves breaking though the wood and his ear. Tom grabbed the papers. Ex chain smoker, time for a feisty fag.

Hurt. His match in those days. Sitting side by side two inquisitors eyeing each other. Ebullient at times. Silent at others. In rest. Defensive always.

Surprisingly undamaged. Discovered in the cellars of a church in Resia just before the waters of the new lake would have submerged the premises, transported to Bavaria by a retiring pastor, God only knows who, when and let alone why, a mysterious hand had chiselled that word in stark red.

Talk about fashion…you scold a teen today for a gentle man’s habit in the 1600s?

Bro! Brat! Russian for brother. The one he had never had.

A FEW NOTES IN LINKS

(5) Silenzioso slow (Abbassa la tua radio) – Alberto Rabagliati – YouTube

Italiano Digitale – Brat o demure? I tormentoni social che influenzano la lingua

Antonio | The Merchant of Venice, Role, Character, & Adaptations | Britannica

Stuck on the narrative a wonder along the vine yard circling back an ash tray plenty of butts two plastic garden chairs side by side the narrative Inquistor plot twist a kiss of faith…

Please find in the blog the Italian translation

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