What we are doing is a journey through the memory of what happened on our blog original. What I propose is a post written when we had just published our first two novels. So there has not been charged River, much less the character of the homeless Venanzio . And it's nice to see the road that is traveled. At least for us, Laura et Lory.
I noticed something. There are more characters to attract the attention of other writers, raise their (our) imagination: the whores and bums.
I've read recently "The book items stolen " of Remo Bassini . I'm reading About Clelia , always his own. In both novels (which I highly recommend to all lovers of good books) there are women who have chosen to beat the pavement: Teresa on the one hand, Aldine other. Women complex, generous, defeated by life, yet strong. I have read, again in recent months, " Etruscan Mystery" by Paul Ferrucci and the best character in this thriller has a strong archaeological dyes Aristide Fazzini, a bum. Characters ai margini ci affascinano, forse perché hanno avuto il coraggio di scelte che appaiono perdenti in partenza eppure (almeno sulle pagine scritte con amore) sembrano sinonimo di libertà.
Per questo voglio sottoporvi due esempi dello stesso genere di personaggi. Questa volta partoriti dalla fantasia a quattro mani della sottoscritta e di Lory.
La barbona si chiama Alanna ed è uno dei personaggi dell’unico giallo che abbiamo scritto (fino ad oggi) ancora inedito: Viole(n)t Red . Le parentesi non sono un refuso, ma vogliono giocare con il passaggio da violet (viola or purple) to violent (violent).
The whore, however, is called Nunziatina to 'swanky and is the mother of the two protagonists of New York 1920 - The first attack on Wall Street (Maprosti & Lisanti ed. ). So satisfy even those who wanted a taste of the book ... Happy reading.
How did he escape?
Alanna looked around warily, expecting that it was a joke. Or rather, a trap. There was always expect the worst from Braulio, his sworn enemy. But to him, and fucking crabs that carry around, there was no shade of the pillars of the subway station.
Alanna pushed forward in the supermarket trolley which was carrying all her things and walked to the car. It was an old Ford Tempo and should not be there long. She was such a meticulous and always did the same around his patrol area. Yes, her. Whatever he said that bastard di Braulio. Un giorno lungo la sponda del Michigan, un giorno costeggiando Bryn Mawr, un giorno risalendo lungo Broadway, un giorno a Thorndale. Li contò sulla punta delle dita sudicie: tre giorni. Era passata di lì tre giorni prima e la Ford non c’era.
Alanna si guardò ancora intorno, strizzando gli occhi dietro le lenti spesse. Poi accostò il suo carrello alla base del pilone di cemento e si avvicinò ancora all’auto. Era vecchia, ma non così vecchia da essere stata abbandonata. La carrozzeria era graffiata, deformata in più punti lungo i parafanghi. Ma nessuno, con un minimo di sale in zucca, avrebbe abbandonato un’auto per this. The light began to fade into the sky and there under the shade of the pillars of the Red Line, it was almost dark.
Alanna drew from his coat pocket his most precious treasure, what Braulio would give anything to rubarglielo: a flashlight. The battery was still good because you used it sparingly. Usually satisfied with the sunlight, that the good Lord had given free to all the sinners of this world. But this seems like a good time to light the torch. Pointed it in the car through the windows dirty. The seat of the driver's seat had a strange color, darker than the rest of the upholstery. But the thing that attracted Alanna was a glimmer on the mat from the passenger side. Her heart gave a start and turned off the flashlight and went back to look around. She loved things that sparkle, but Braulio. With all the speed allowed by its tonnage, Alanna walked around the Ford and tried to open the door. He did not expect to succeed. Whoever had left the car there, had not given thought to lock. Worse for him, she thought as a whiff of the air heavy investing. Alanna was accustomed to bad smells, her first of all. But he could not help but turn up their nose blood. Blood rotten. The smell from slaughterhouse. A smell of death.
He hesitated only a moment, then thought about Braulio. He would not have made him squeamish. It would be taken over the Ford and everything in it. He'd made his home and he laughed at her, his cartoons, his poor things. It was not to happen.
Alanna checked the truck was in plain sight, then put his pounds of fat and old clothes caked with dirt in the passenger seat, feeling the ground searching for the source of the gleam he had seen with the torch. Did not take long to find her and the dim night light above the rearview mirror lit up something that Alanna had not seen since time immemorial: a stick of lipstick. But not any, of the department store. The case era di lacca nera e oro, la marca straniera. Tolse il cappuccio e, con mani tremanti, fece ruotare la base per far uscire lo stick. Perfino in quella luce incerta vide il rosso profondo, vellutato, quasi porpora. E ne percepì l’odore, anche al di sopra del puzzo di sangue che permeava l’abitacolo. Profumava di lusso, di bellezza, di una vita diversa.
Alanna abbassò lo specchietto e si passò lo stick sulle grosse labbra da afroamericana, ritrovando i gesti di quando ancora era una persona, una donna. Strinse la bocca per spargere il rossetto in modo uniforme, poi si guardò e un sorriso le illuminò il viso. Era bellissima, neanche uno stronzo come Braulio avrebbe potuto negarlo.
carefully resealed the lipstick and turned to read the base.
"102, Red Violet," tasks.
Sidney suddenly attracted to him, locking it against his own body. Cecilia could not help his mouth, or of being pushed against the wall. The enthusiasm with which he kissed her, the avidity with which urged her to open her lips gave her vertigo. He closed his eyes as he pushed the against them to feel his excitement. This corresponded because he knew good and the sea, because her heart pounding in my chest while Sidney palpate the breasts through the fabric of his shirt. Then one of his hands went down to the hem of her skirt trying to find the contact with his legs, his skin, while continuing to push the pelvis against her belly. And Cecilia relived a moment he had tried to forget.
It was the last time that his mother had brought with him in the alley Cavalcatoio. Eugene was bigger now and he went around with a gang of street urchins trying to steal something for lunch. Cecilia was a child, Nunziatina did not trust to leave home alone, but ordered her to play with mud, around the corner and not be seen. He had not obeyed. They were animal-like grunts to attract curious and frightened. She peeped out from behind the wall crumbling, muddy little face, and he had seen.
His mother was standing against the wall, a bare foot in the mud, to keep in balance, the other raised to gird your loins and heaving hairy man who was pushed in with quick movements and angry, grunting with the effort, his face sunk between his long wavy hair of blacks and Nunziatina. Were not those on the bare buttocks, hairy pants down to strike, nor the white breasts of his mother and generous excerpts from the neckline of the bodice, exposed as melons to the market. It was the expression on his face. The man grunted and moved, each time slamming against the rough brick, the big toes sunk into the pale flesh of the thigh encircling it. And she stared at the wall in front, dull and dark eyes fixed, his mouth a pose in a grimace of pain and disgust. Then he saw her, she had noticed her, and she continued to stare as the man ended with one last push and a grunt louder.
Sidney's hand, warm and dry, he found his leg, the afferrò decisa l’incavo del ginocchio e la costrinse a sollevarla, proprio come aveva fatto quello sconosciuto con sua madre. Il cuore minacciava di esploderle nel petto mentre Sidney le lasciava la bocca e la fissava, le dita che indugiavano carezzevoli sulla sua coscia. Lui sapeva che, sollevata la gonna, non avrebbe trovato ostacoli: nessuna popolana di Napoli aveva soldi per la biancheria intima.
“Davvero vuoi tornare in terza classe?”, le sussurrò, continuando a tenerla inchiodata contro la parete.
Le braccia che Cecilia gli aveva messo al collo, sfiorandogli i capelli biondi, scesero a cercare di push it away.
"Yes," he said.
"What are you afraid? Pain? I have had a virgin and I know how. "
The hand went up again, looking for the curve of the buttock.
" Lassame. "
" Why? I can feel how your heart beats you that you want it. "
Cecilia tried to break free.
"I can not."
"I'll prove it il contrario.”
Si impadronì di nuovo della sua bocca, con più dolcezza questa volta, mentre con le dita la raggiungeva lì dove nessuno, neanche Domenico, era mai riuscito a toccarla. Quel contatto, leggero e insinuante, ebbe per un attimo la meglio sulla volontà. Le sembrò che tutto il suo corpo si accendesse di desiderio, avvertì l’impulso sconosciuto ad accogliere quell’uomo dentro di sé, ad abbattere le barriere delle vesti per sentire il calore della sua pelle contro la propria.
Sidney percepì il suo cedimento e cercò di sbottonare i pantaloni. Cecilia aprì gli occhi, come risvegliandosi da un sogno e immaginò se stessa come aveva visto sua madre: sbattuta contro un muro, in equilibrio su un piede solo, mentre Sidney si muoveva rabbioso e grugniva, le brache calate.
“No”, gridò trovando la forza di allontanarlo da sé.
Il ragazzo quasi perse l’equilibrio e sul viso il desiderio e lo stupore lasciarono il posto alla rabbia.
“You’re stupid”, la apostrofò puntandole un dito contro. “Sei una stupida. Tornatene in mezzo ai topi, ai pidocchi e al vomito. Tornatene tra le braccia di quel bifolco ottuso di tuo fratello. E’ quello il tuo posto.”
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