The dumb guy of men and mice said goodbye to me at the door shaking my hand. He made me promise that I will come back to visit him to taste his Gallura soup. I’ll think about it, I don’t mind the typical cuisine. I light a cigarette, I savor the first puffs. I walk through Piazza Tola and turn into Via Battisti. Where Scioppa used to be there is now a deli. A deadly stench comes out the door. An invisible wall of sauteed onion and garlic. It has infected the area for a radius of one kilometer. Two Congolese work there. The crone has a huge a*s and the face of a bull mastif, the husband is corpulent, but of a mild disposition. She treats him like a doormat. I imagine them in there, immersed in mephitic vapors, cleaning and counting money. I arrive at the end and go up Largo Cavallotti. I le
