(Translated from the Italian by the writer)
Note: The original Italian version of this story appears in the short story collection L’uomo di Milano, by Riccardo Carta, published by Articoli Liberi
It was harvesting time in Villacarroccia, and the streets buzzed with the steady hum of tractors hauling carts brimming with grapes from the vineyards to the wineries. It was a pleasant day of September and the Mistral wind had brought a cool relief from the north. The breeze carried the rich aroma of Carignano grapes throughout the town, while the rhythmic clatter of the presses blended with the joyful laughter of children leaping onto the overflowing carts.
At the heart of this scene of tradition and vitality was Edoardo Rossoni, a man in his seventies who carried his years with an uncommon vigor. Despite the many Thursdays he had put on his shoulders, he remained strong and full of life. In Villacarroccia, he was more than just a familiar face; he was a pillar of the community, a figure both respectable and respected, known to all as “Signor Rossoni”.
“Signor Rossoni has done a lot for this town,” the people of Villacarroccia would often claim. After the war, narrowly escaping the purges, he had risen through the ranks, first as an alderman, then as deputy mayor, and finally as the town mayor. But the role he cherished most, the one where he felt he had truly excelled, was that of podestà, a position he had held with persistent rigor and discipline during the Fascist era. His tireless dedication during those twenty years had reached the highest ranks of the party, even catching the attention of Mussolini himself. As a sign of appreciation, during an official visit to Carbonia in 1938, Mussolini had gifted him with a magnificent mahogany desk.
That morning, with the sun already high, Signor Rossoni had devoted himself to caring for that desk, a cherished symbol of his tenacious will and a lasting reminder of the great honor he had received. In his courtyard, straw hat perched on his head, he meticulously applied an expensive beeswax polish, specially ordered from Rome through a contact with an old comrade.
How he loved that desk! Of course, he was proud of it, but more than that, it held the memories of a lifetime of service. He cherished it because it guarded his secrets, securely locked in the central drawer or, when particularly sensitive, hidden in the false bottom of the small drawer on the right. It was like a spouse to him. His faithful spouse.
Sometimes, he caught himself speaking to her in fatherly tones. Some in town even claimed they had seen Signor Rossoni embrace that desk. But it was a sentimentality that everyone forgave him easily, now that age was beginning to take its toll. Besides, one had to admit, the desk was truly a work of art: lacquered and decorated in the Napoleon III style, with five dovetail-jointed drawers, brass fittings, finely inlaid legs, and a beautiful crystal inkwell.
For over thirty years, applying beeswax had been a ritual for him. He had never succumbed to the mistake of using wood stain or, worse, repainting it—such an act, he insisted, would be like committing violence against the desk, stripping it of its original beauty. Signor Rossoni neither wanted to, nor could, part with that beauty. Over time, he had even come to appreciate the small, almost imperceptible flaws caused by the wood’s natural aging. This loyal companion had aged alongside him, evolving into a symbol of a past to be carefully preserved and lovingly cherished.
On that late summer morning, refreshed by the Mistral wind, Signor Rossoni found his thoughts drifting back to his meeting with the founder of the Empire on a mild December day. The fresh scent of the wax triggered memories of that historic visit, recalling the firm handshake of Mussolini, which Signor Rossoni, then the Podestá of Villacarroccia, had received on behalf of all the loyal and heroic people of Sardinia. The inauguration of the mining town of Carbonia had marked an epochal shift for the entire Sulcis region, and the post-war years, devoid of heroism and even less of loyalty, had not changed that reality. Although Signor Rossoni had been forced to deny much of his past, that desk remained in his life as an indelible symbol of a hidden, yet enduring, loyalty.
Across the road, Guerino Pirosu and three of his friends were seated on the veranda of Bar Pusceddu, playing their favourite card game cincuxentusu. Like many others, they had spent the day harvesting grapes, but since it was Friday, they had decided to work only half a day. Guerino, a carpenter in his sixties, was better known to everyone as su babbu ‘e sa lina (the father of the wood). He owned a small carpentry shop near the bar, but he was more often found at the bar playing cards than in his workshop. Yet, when he put his mind to work, no one could do it better.
“Two Ichnusa beers and four glasses,” Guerino ordered from the girl behind the counter as he laid down an ace of hearts.
“This is the last beer I’ll drink, then I’m quitting,” he declared immediately afterward.
“You don’t even believe that yourself,” retorted Sergio, one of his friends.
“Want to bet?” Guerino challenged.
“And what’s the wager?” his friend asked.
“A case of beer,” Guerino replied, brushing his thumb against his nose—a gesture his closest friends had come to associate with his tall tales.
With nothing more than a slight grin, almost a smirk at the corner of his mouth, Guerino, pleased with his own joke, raised his glass, preparing to down its contents with a deep breath.
But Guerino seemed only half-interested in the card game. Since arriving at the bar, he hadn’t missed a single chance to glance across the road, where Signor Rossoni was meticulously applying wax to his desk. His eyes followed the brush as Rossoni spread the wax and the circular motions with which, using a clean cloth, he carefully worked it into the entire surface, even into the most difficult crevices. Between hands of cards and sips of beer, Guerino’s gaze shifted from the desk to the old Rossoni, toward whom he harbored strong and ambivalent feelings.
Many years ago, after returning from two arduous years in the mines of northern France, Guerino resolved to pick up his life in Villacarroccia right where he had left off: in his small carpentry shop. But his ambitions had grown; he wanted to expand, to make room for larger machinery and to take on more complex projects. In his youth, Guerino had big dreams, back when too much beer with his friends brought hearty laughter rather than the weight of melancholy.
To realize his dream, Guerino needed an official plan and the town council’s approval—something that could only be secured with the help of Signor Rossoni, who was then the deputy mayor. It seemed so simple—a signature, maybe just a kind word—something Rossoni had promised Guerino during the election campaign in exchange for his vote. And when, after the elections, Guerino went to the town hall to follow up on his plan, he was met with warm reassurances:
“We’re working on it,” Signor Rossoni had told him. “But you need to be patient, Guerino. Fast and good never agree! Remember, Guerino, remember.”
Days turned into weeks, then months, but Guerino heard nothing more about the approval of the plan. A few years later, still intent on expanding his carpentry shop, su babbu ‘e sa lina went back to seek Signor Rossoni’s help. Perhaps he had forgotten, Guerino thought, given all his responsibilities.
By then, thanks in part to the carpenter’s vote, Signor Rossoni had become the town mayor. Guerino vividly recalled the day after the elections. He had put on his best suit—the only one he owned—and borrowed a shirt and tie from his friend Sergio to give himself the look of a businessman, as he’d been advised. He endured the doorman’s irony and teasing, who was unaccustomed to seeing the carpenter so dressed up. Finally, after hours of waiting, Signor Rossoni, slightly annoyed and with the air of someone who had no time to waste, briefly received him, delivering the usual litany of liturgies:
“Your project is my top priority, Guerino. But remember, it takes time. Fast and good never agree. Remember, Guerino. Remember!”
He had been very patient indeed, but after more than twenty years, Guerino, now resigned to his fate, continued working in that small, dark workshop—when he wasn’t at the bar, of course.
Yet, like clockwork, during every election campaign, Signor Rossoni would come around to ask for Guerino’s vote—his and his wife’s—renewing the same promise to approve the project. But it was always the same story. After the elections, that promise would dissolve into a call for patience, accompanied by the familiar refrain: “Fast and good never agree. Remember, Guerino, remember!”
Guerino never had the courage to complain. After all, who was he to lodge resentments with Signor Rossoni? And what would the townspeople think of him? But so be it, all of that was in the past now. It was time to focus on the card game and enjoy a nice cold beer.
The midday sun blazed in the sky, swept by the Mistral. Villacarroccia’s main street had now emptied out and the only sound was that of cutlery clinking against plates from the open windows. Lunch hour had always been followed by a time of quiet and rest—for everyone in Villacarroccia, except for Signor Rossoni. Tireless and meticulous, he continued to lovingly tend to his desk, still applying wax, shielded only by his straw hat.
Signor Rossoni barely noticed the few late-returning farmers who had yet to join their families. As they passed by with crates full of grapes, they respectfully raised a hand from their tractors in a gesture of reverence. Rossoni took pride in that respect, viewing it as recognition for his many years of hard work and dedication to his town and his land. He always responded to those greetings with a warm wave and a hearty “Good day!” He was careful to project the image of a kind-hearted person, while also maintaining a certain respectful distance. He believed he had earned that respect, particularly because he had always respected everyone and everything himself. He was a man of good manners, the type whose outward politeness mirrored his inner integrity.
As Guerino continued to play cards with his friends, the bar had emptied out, leaving them as the only customers. The street outside was deserted, and after several beers, Guerino didn’t even feel hungry anymore.
“Aren’t you going to tell your wife you’re not coming home for lunch?” one of his friends asked.
“Yeah, sure… I’ll let her know when I get back,” replied su babbu ‘e sa lina, casually brushing his thumb across his nose, a sly smile forming under the shadow of his cap. It was siesta time, and the stifling heat made their laughter feel muted, almost subdued.
In that drowsy afternoon lull, the silence that had settled over the street was suddenly shattered.
“Guerino! Guerino!”
The gravelly voice of Signor Rossoni cut through the air, urgent and panicked. He was standing across the street, frantically waving him over, first with one hand, then with both. His nose was flushed red, as if he’d knocked it hard, and his eyes, magnified by thick glasses, were wide with genuine fear. Signor Rossoni was pale and trembling, gripped by a strange and inexplicable frenzy.
“Signor Rossoni, is everything alright?” Guerino asked, incredulous.
The old official didn’t respond at first; he was too shaken to speak. But after a moment, he managed to regain some control and, stammering, pointed desperately toward the desk.
“Look! Look, Guerino! Look at those horrible stains on my desk. How could this have happened?” Signor Rossoni’s voice was almost breaking.
“Hurry, Guerino, do something to save it!”
His words tumbled out in a frantic rush. Guerino, keeping his composure, approached the desk and examined the stains closely, running his hand over them. He knew exactly what he was dealing with—the legendary desk, a gift from the dictator, the one that had always been the talk of the town.
“What product are you using, Signor Rossoni?” Guerino asked.
“Product? What product? I’m using a special beeswax! It’s from Rome!” Signor Rossoni snapped, irritation lacing his tone. “You should know these things…” he added, almost accusatorily.
Guerino didn’t respond. He adjusted his cap, keeping his gaze fixed on the desk. A knot of resentment tightened in his chest.
“Well?” Rossoni pressed impatiently.
“Don’t worry, Signor Rossoni, it’s nothing serious,” Guerino replied.
“So, can it be fixed? Can you guarantee it?” Rossoni asked, almost interrupting the carpenter. His voice trembling with residual fear.
Without flinching, Guerino kept his eyes on the stains in the wood. “Don’t worry. It can all be fixed.”
A fleeting, sarcastic smile played on Guerino’s lips before vanishing, just as a bit of color returned to Signor Rossoni’s pale, wrinkled face.
“Hurry up, Guerino!” Rossoni barked as the carpenter turned to head back to his workshop.
Less than five minutes later, Guerino returned, holding a small bottle filled with a mixture of oil and methyl alcohol.
“Finally, you’re back,” Rossoni grumbled. “Took you long enough.”
Again, Guerino stayed silent. As he approached the desk, he presented the bottle with a calm, triumphant smile. “Here’s the magic mixture.”
“Mixture? Are you kidding?” Signor Rossoni asked, incredulous.
“Don’t worry, it’ll be as good as new. Trust me.”
“Trust is fine, but caution is wiser.” Signor Rossoni retorted, his voice firm.
Suit yourself,” Guerino shrugged. “I’ll just take this back to the workshop if you don’t trust me.”
Signor Rossoni clenched his fists, his jaw tightening as a bead of sweat slid down from his sideburn into a deep crease formed by his tension. He sighed heavily.
“Alright, alright, show me the mixture,” he finally conceded.
“As you wish,” Guerino replied, adjusting his cap again, this time turning the visor backward like a cyclist readying for a final sprint.
“So,” Guerino began, “first, you need to place the desk in an upright position…”
“…being careful not to dent it…” Rossoni interrupted, his tone growing more pedantic with each word.
“Then,” Guerino continued, “to remove these stains, you need to apply this mixture with a brush over the entire surface for two minutes…”
“That’s it?” Signor Rossoni interrupted again; his skepticism apparent.
Again, Guerino didn’t flinch. “Let it sit for five minutes, then apply the mixture again for another two minutes. Continue this process for an hour—no more, no less. And, most importantly, don’t rush.”
“An hour?” Rossoni protested.
“Yes. And remember, not a minute more, not a minute less, or you’ll ruin the whole job,” Guerino replied, his voice steady.
“After that,” su babbu ‘e sa lina continued, “take a lighter, a match, or even better, a cigar, and pass the flame, from bottom to top, around the stains so the mixture absorbs better. That’ll fix the desk,” he concluded.
“Got it!” Signor Rossoni said, already grabbing the brush with impatient hands.
“Just remember, not a minute more, not a minute less,” Guerino reminded him.
As he turned his back on Rossoni, the smirk that had earned him the nickname su beffianu flickered back onto his face.
“Of course! Do you take me for a fool?”
“Goodbye,” Guerino replied, raising his hand, not bothering to look back.
“Goodbye!” Rossoni called after him.
Signor Rossoni grabbed the stopwatch he used religiously for his doctor-prescribed 45-minute walks. But being stubborn, he always pushed himself to walk 50, 55, sometimes even 60 minutes. He set the stopwatch: two minutes of brushing, five minutes of resting—no more, no less—just as Guerino had instructed.
Minutes ticked by, and Signor Rossoni remained at the desk, brush in hand, meticulously tending to his beloved piece of furniture. Despite not having eaten, he showed no signs of fatigue. He had faced many battles in his life and had won them all. He wasn’t about to let this minor setback break his determination. His mind drifted back to the tougher, yet more glorious days, when as podestá, he had personally taken command of an anti-aircraft battery in Porto Pino, abandoned by deserters and traitors. He had manned the Oerlikon 20 mm cannons himself and, he was certain, he had brought down several American and English fighters during that long, blistering summer of 1944. The smell of gunpowder and the scent of pine trees around the anti-aircraft positions were still vivid in his memory. He could still hear the waves crashing against the cliffs during those sleepless nights spent waiting for the enemy.
Meanwhile, Guerino had returned to the bar and resumed his card game. He ordered another beer since the previous one had gone flat. He often asked for two glasses, quickly pouring the beer back and forth to recreate the lost foam, but this time it had become too warm, and not even pouring it between glasses could save it.
Casually, he kept an eye on the time and occasionally glanced across the street, discreetly watching Signor Rossoni’s struggles with a hint of amusement. He lit a cigarette, smoked it halfway, then stood up and began to juggle it like a ball. Guerino wasn’t much of a smoker; he often didn’t even inhale and rarely finished a cigarette. But juggling it entertained him to no end. As a young man, he had played football for the town team with decent success—at least until hunger, filth, and disorder forced him to migrate to France. Upon his return after years spent in the mines, he no longer faced hunger, but the filth and disorder remained, and his dream of expanding the small carpentry shop remained just that—a dream.
The early afternoon sun began to beat down on the tables at Bar Pusceddu, no longer shaded by the cane awning that turned the sidewalk into a veranda. Even the mistral wind had stopped blowing. The air grew thick and still, as if the very atmosphere wanted to honor the siesta’s quiet. Guerino felt his eyelids grow heavy. He stretched his legs under the table and, with one hand, pulled his hat down over his eyes.
Suddenly, in that almost enchanted silence, a muffled cry broke through, followed by a desperate scream. Without even moving, Guerino muttered to himself, “The piglet is ready!”
None of his friends understood what Guerino meant, but before they could ask, they saw Signor Rossoni storming towards them. His thick eyebrows were singed, and his hair was still smoldering. From under his cap, Guerino could swear, he saw smoke trailing from Signor Rossoni’s nostrils.
“You filthy villain! What have you done to my desk? Move, damn you! Can’t you see it’s burning?”
At these words, Guerino slowly composed himself, calmly removed his cap, and locked eyes with Rossoni.
“What are you doing, Guerino? Are you deaf as well as dumb?” the old man bellowed, his fury rising.
This time, the smirk on the carpenter’s face grew more pronounced, almost a mocking laugh. He slowly ran his thumb across his nose and, with a firm tone, said:
“Relax, Rossoni. Relax. Fast and good never agree. Remember, Rossoni, remember.”
