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Giovanno Leone stood with his arms crossed, looking out at the rising sun from atop the apartment block in Duefiume Ponte his Urban Arditi company had claimed as a base. He spoke, but not to a person he could see, nor who could even hear him, but if he closed his eyes, he could imagine him in the air before him regardless.
The last Year’s End, his hillman friend had seemed happy, the festivities in Lapizlazulli well enjoyed by him and his wife, though not his daughter. The Year’s End of 1912 was somber without him- and without certainty of why he was even absent.
“Why?” He asked, “I would understand if you were merely dissatisfied with our Nation and wished not to fight. I know sitting about and waiting for the future to arrive on its own, would be the opposite of what we aspired to do. But why <span class="mu-i">this[/ui], why now? Did you think I would recklessly follow you, as I bid you to do for me in the past? Or did you wish to leave us all behind? Your friends and family both? Did you fear that living without conflict would corrupt your Revolutionary spirit? I simply don’t understand, Bonetto. Surely you didn’t do this simply to wound me, vengeance for God knows what.”
“If you can talk to ‘im and he can hear ya,” a sullen woman’s voice floated over from the entrance to the roof, “Throw out your hand and give ‘im a good clout ‘cross the head for me.”
The hulking Sea Vitelian glanced backwards and opened his eyes. “Tell me, Marcella. What do you know of the principles of Revolution?”
Marcella shrugged, and said, “I know if a machine’s broken, then you either gotta fix it or scrap it. That’s the way it is for a lotta things, ain’t it?”
“That’s true enough,” Leo turned his head back to the horizon. Chiara would have been able to speak much more upon that. Yet she had passed from this world, hopefully to a utopia beyond, something further than any Young Futurist might have dreamed. It made Giovanno sad, however, that she was no beyond any of the living. What would she have done? “Marcella,” he posed the question to her, “If Chiara were alive, would she have gone with Bonetto?”</span>
The last Year’s End, his hillman friend had seemed happy, the festivities in Lapizlazulli well enjoyed by him and his wife, though not his daughter. The Year’s End of 1912 was somber without him- and without certainty of why he was even absent.
“Why?” He asked, “I would understand if you were merely dissatisfied with our Nation and wished not to fight. I know sitting about and waiting for the future to arrive on its own, would be the opposite of what we aspired to do. But why <span class="mu-i">this[/ui], why now? Did you think I would recklessly follow you, as I bid you to do for me in the past? Or did you wish to leave us all behind? Your friends and family both? Did you fear that living without conflict would corrupt your Revolutionary spirit? I simply don’t understand, Bonetto. Surely you didn’t do this simply to wound me, vengeance for God knows what.”
“If you can talk to ‘im and he can hear ya,” a sullen woman’s voice floated over from the entrance to the roof, “Throw out your hand and give ‘im a good clout ‘cross the head for me.”
The hulking Sea Vitelian glanced backwards and opened his eyes. “Tell me, Marcella. What do you know of the principles of Revolution?”
Marcella shrugged, and said, “I know if a machine’s broken, then you either gotta fix it or scrap it. That’s the way it is for a lotta things, ain’t it?”
“That’s true enough,” Leo turned his head back to the horizon. Chiara would have been able to speak much more upon that. Yet she had passed from this world, hopefully to a utopia beyond, something further than any Young Futurist might have dreamed. It made Giovanno sad, however, that she was no beyond any of the living. What would she have done? “Marcella,” he posed the question to her, “If Chiara were alive, would she have gone with Bonetto?”</span>
