A man in his fifties, dressed in beige and with a pipe in his mouth, walked under the rain. He goes by “Outsider”, a few weeks ago no one knew him in the city.
Even soaking wet he manages to constantly smile, he's without a doubt someone to admire. Nowadays there are few like him that can be this happy.
His reason for happiness is the rain itself, its sweet dropping on the pebble in front of the glitzy homes and its hitting on the strangers' umbrellas. How wonderful.
His excellent ears could not stop listening to such a treat.
Those sweet melodies could sweep away all the problems in the city, all the sins running down the drain, only to be forgotten.
The rain could cover up the murder in the Southern District, the bribing in the office down the Northern District, the Fae addicted to amnestics right behind the Eastern District, even the…
No, it doesn't cover up this one. Rain can't cover up a discussion in the Western District.
The Outsider starts to eavesdrop near the window of a big palace. He doesn't recognize the palace, nor does he recognize the music being played in the quieter moments of the discussions.
— Listen up! If you still want to hear that fucking Kavov in here I'm going to rip your head off! — says an old man, not many hairs left and very thick glasses.
— Yeah, yeah, talk all you want. Meanwhile, Kavov's the best artist here in Gorična, and you're here rotting by yourself. — responds a young man, a red scarf on his neck.
— You think a little mongrel founded by some mobster is a great artist? —
— Mobster? You know better than me those assholes pretending to be journalists like to pull up a fuss for anything. —
— Oh, shut up. Those new artists don't get a damn thing about music. My family has played better than Kavov and anyone else, ever. — says the furious, old man.
— Do you even understand you old men from the Cenacle are dust? We're lucky here in Gorična there still are a lot of us, yet you won't leave some space for us. You're denying we're the future. —
— I know that damn well. And you still don't get it. You and those cheap composers from Gorična's Deer College. I remember going to see you at some afternoon class, such a terrible show. —
— 'Cause you hate everything. You ain't open-minded, you and all your family. I still don't get how my father could get along so much with you. — says the young man, now beyond tired to discuss with that closed-minded man. It was clear he would have preferred smoking a cigarette.
— That's because your father wasn't like you. Even if he had terrible taste in music, he was clever enough to know when to stop a discussion, you on the other hand take your stereo and continue to listen to that trash. Such a dishonor for the Amaderi family, and such a dishonor for the theater. You're lucky that we in the Cenacle didn't kick you out already. —
— And you're lucky I'm the last one of the family left here. And the Theater Gran Ballo wouldn't even carry on without me, and you know that. I'm the one getting almost every actor and orchestra member. —
— In fact, they all suck. —
— If it's really like that… —
Someone is knocking on the front door.
— Answer the door. —
The young Amaderi goes to the main entrance.
— Oh, Outsider. How are you? —
— Good morning, sir, I swung by here as I heard a lot of talking. It really looks like a nice theater. —
The room is dimly lit, if not for a warm, yellow light from where the musicians were talking. The walls and the floor are both upholstered with a carmine red. There are a few props scattered here and there, including masks and white sheets. A beauty for the eye.
There are several paintings, all depicting instruments or scenes related to music. There's a woman playing the mandolin on the ceiling, and a man picking flowers with a guitar under his arm.
What a beautiful place, if only there weren't such boring discussions ruining it.
— Outsider! Are you listening to me? —
— Sorry… do we know each other? —
— Are you on drugs? —
The Outsider looked at the young man.
— Oh, about that, heard they shut you down. If you need them, some friends at the College still have some. —
— Hm… how do you know my name? —
— C'mon, even if you changed your name because of the law I don't think you lost your memory too. You're quite known here. Anyway, nice job with that surgery. You've really changed after all that mess. —
The room is full of silence. Rain is the only thing they can hear. The Outsider has no idea what the young man is talking about.
— You're weird. Anyway, what do you think of telling me your opinion on a thing? —
— On the discussion? —
— Correct. Follow me. —
The Outsider, so caught up in the rain, didn't notice another sound. A guitar, its melody quietly playing.
For some reason this brings him back to his memories; perhaps it had never happened before, maybe it won’t happen again. His memories had always been blocked.
A beach, a harbor, the hot rain dropping down; that wasn't enough to cover the smell of cuban cigars in the air. Some known faces, some unknown ones.
Weird, that never happened before.
Was it that place's energy? Most likely, ever since he had come in he felt like in another dimension, lulled by stars.
— Old man, this is the Outsider I dreamt about, as I told you already. — said the boy.
It's the old man playing the guitar; as the young one talked to him, he suddenly stopped.
— Alberto, for the gods' sake, I already told you to not let this kind of people in my theater. —
— You're such a paranoid freak, newspapers just told a lot of bullshit about him. —
— Alright. Anyway, Outsider, this is Roberto Baldini, you can just call him Roberto. — says the young man.
— No. I'm Mister Baldini. — the old man interrupts him, visibly annoyed.
— It's a pleasure, Mister Baldini. — responds the Outsider, also clearly annoyed by the old man's manners.
The young one turns around, taking a CD. The cover pictures a shabby road, full of rubbish. The title says: “The Street Kids”, below are written the various translations of the title, so that anyone can read it. Below, on the right, there's a signature: Kavov.
— Alright. Outsider, you'll decide who has better taste in music. Old man, do you wanna start? —
— He already heard my music. That will be enough. —
— Yeah, yeah, that was enough. Oh, hats off. —
— Then I'll go. —
The boy puts the disc in the stereo.
— Listen to this hit. I'm guessing the song better fitting for you is “The Wanderer”. —
A strong, discordant, innovative music.
This one also made him pull his memories out.
An office, men close to him. Cash on the table, a dim light. Still that smell of cuban cigars.
One of them slightly lifts the window blinds; only thing they can see is the rain dropping.
Why all of this? Why did the Outsider think of such things? How was that possible? He was sure he didn't watch The Godfather, nor Sin City, or anything like that as of late, so these scenes clearly couldn't be made up.
No, those were memories.
Shootings. The man watching from the blinds gets closer to the ashtray to put his cigarette out.
What looked like a tall, hairy man opened his mouth.
— Fifteen thousand here. Still short of one thousand. Do I have to pay them a visit or we'll let it slide? —
Silence.
Nobody speaks for some time. Then a man, his face looks familiar, gestures to leave it.
That man, dressed in beige and with a pipe in his mouth.
The Outsider.
— Everyone's here, boss. —
Silence.
The man talking to the Outsider gets up.
— Good, I have to go, see you tomorrow, “Nobody”. —
The music stops.
— So, what do you think? Did you like it? Tell me, who won for you? — ask the young man.
The Outsider, in a weak voice, manages to say just a pair of words.
— Nobody… Nobody did. —
