Mentre Oscar mani di fata promette to grant favors to all those present when the robbery tomorrow morning should be successful, Mauritius, Livorno compound and a gentleman with white hair, he laughs when booking a place at a restaurant in this case. He also lives on the street for some time. Since he sold all his possessions in order to treat the child in a private clinic in Houston. His son was suffering from a particularly serious form of leukemia, contracted after having attended a military mission in Bosnia. The gentleman in question had, at that time, a lot of knowledge in politics and national DS Tuscany, having been assessor town of Pisa. A senior official of the Tuscany region promised on behalf of the office he held and the long friendship that bound them that the Region would pay the costs of treatment. He did not need to repeat twice, sold all their belongings and houses to operate the child in the U.S. The operation failed and after a few months back in Italy. When he came to the headquarters of the region in Florence, he was consigned by the same a sealed envelope containing a check. With tears in his eyes thanked her anyway so the friend who had worked hard for him. They were hot tears were tears of a father who had sold everything to save her son, and now with that money could play a second card, to keep alive the hope. Did not open the envelope until he arrived at the hotel. Sitting on the bed planted on the eyes of the amount of zero, a spasm passed over the body muscles, clenched his teeth bite to break up the blood in the eye and ran back to that infamous beauty that had paid the equivalent of round-trip ticket by plane to a person from Florence to Houston. He would have killed him if they had not stopped in time. That envelope was an injury, a stab in the back of a man who was powerless, stripped of everything, waiting to see her son die. He moved to Rome shortly after, to follow the child hospitalized. After his last savings and knew the road to despair. Then the first trades. Selling on behalf of other statues of saints and rosaries in St. Peter's Square the day of the canonization of the saints. The business began to go well, there were the millions, could settle. He decided to risk it. He invested everything he had earned in a year for a final banquet. It was the day of the beatification of Padre Pio. He bought all kinds of things. Rosaries, necklaces, medals, bracelets, gold, silver, figurines. At nine o'clock in the morning had already sold almost everything. The crowd ate its products, had a pocket full of thick bundles of notes cent. He could not keep up with all the hands that pulled him from side to side asking price, has an envelope? Rossi finished? How many carats? Keep the change. It gives me another twenty. No thanks, just silver. The played a couple of times the phone, he saw who was his partner to call him and stood silent to avoid wasting time with customers, "after the recall," he thought. At the third call he asked if there was no need to hear what was happening. The thought immediately ran to his son still in hospital, perhaps a serious relapse. But at that very moment, looking up, holding the cell phone kept ringing, saw him make his way straight ahead, the crowd, a patrol of officers who were advancing towards his resolute stand. Helpless, he sent down a little 'saliva, relaxed facial expression in a paralysis and dropped his arms and mobile phone.
The company had tried to warn him, saying he wanted to close the everything and leave immediately, the finance was coming. She had seen him on television from home. The cameras all over the world had stopped on his makeshift stall and the chaos that revolves around, cried foul against speculation on the cult of saints. The financiers could not fail to intervene in world vision. They seized everything. He had more than one hundred million in cash in his pockets. He confessed that they were saying all proceeds from sales and so seize them to him along with all the goods. He had no license to sell the stuff. The pockets were empty again. A few weeks after his son died. Since then continues to wander around Rome. Every so often you still interested in politics, reads a lot in the newspapers. Starter to work in a bar, after many months of utter bewilderment. I make him my best wishes.
I ask if he has seen others, Gigi, Giancarlo and Caramel. I say no. Two days are not seen around, seem to have found accommodation in a hostel a bit 'in the suburbs. Not much is known more or you want to know, removed, it seems that we are talking about three strangers. The road is too. Has no memory, is a dead name, overnight rewrites his steps and those who do not change the address traces, except in the memories of a few.
I was back to the first track to say hello, I have not found anyone.
[From "Rome homeless", January 15 2005]
Read " Rome city seen from behind "
I'm back in Rome this afternoon, I write from a hostel in Rome, are in a room lit by green lights, walls of lime stone, brown wooden tables, as well as the chairs, on the bar a row of colored bottles of spirits, beer and light bulbs, one red and one orange stripe. Under the green lights there is a large rectangular mirror to fill the wall. This afternoon I went back to the Termini station to the first track. That's weird. Walk the streets and live are two things light years away. Everything appears in a different light. You're in a hurry, you have an appointment, the mind ahead of the curve racing, anticipating the body in steps, focusing on the post, what to do and what to say, and you lose all around and the mean time. Then you stop for a second and remember the days spent out of curiosity. Then open your eyes light up with curiosity and then swarming with lives, bodies and looks that are around chasing each other without even knowing it. 
put to sleep yesterday. On the iron grate under the covered entrance of the building in Via Marsala, on top of the staircase of white and brown travertine and scraps of cardboard trampled by water. At first, I fear, for the first time I admit. Below items are many of us to sleep, at least twenty. When I get close to that of men carpet is just past midnight, the others are lying down for hours. Every step I take I bit my lip and clench their fists into the pockets of his jacket icy. 
In strada capodanno dura una manciata di minuti e finisce dopo pochi panini. Ci si ricorda che è san Silvestro perchè alla stazione Termini arrivata un'ondata di piena, una fiumana di persone arrivate nella capitale per festeggiare. E poi la sera del trentuno passano almeno quattro ronde di volontari con i panini, il thè caldo e qualcuno addirittura con lo spumante. Dal giorno dopo si ritorna sui passi stanchi con cui era finito l'anno prima. 
Termini Station, chatting until late. On the first track took refuge tonight a friend Carmelo, his name is Gabriel, of Latin America. A stocky man, nearly eighty-foot, polished head, shaved, disproportionately large, but maybe it's just an impression, because it is swollen with bruises and scabs and gallons of red wine. Gabriel was beaten last night, after he defended a man by a group of Romanians who wanted him on fire in a sleeping bag for a settling of scores. He got a good fear, he says, and then he got a knife. He has now bought the station from a friend. It shows a blade a foot long. He vows revenge, and as you move two fingers on the throat with a gesture of annoyance, in the eyes can be read by vigorous shaking. E 'restless. 
Gaetano is not the only meeting in the afternoon. About six o'clock comes a new host to our first track, where they now spend my days with my three Virgili, Caramel, Gigi and Giancarlo. It 's a boy of Pescara. Marco. It just got off the train, still breathing heavily. It is not for the race, the easier for the stuff that pulled tonight to celebrate his return to freedom. Marco has escaped this morning from a community drug rehabilitation. He speaks with big gestures of the hand, is agitated and nervous, sometimes loses his eyes staring at a distant horizon, then began shaking his head his eyes from side to side, scratching. 
La penna ancora tra le dita, deposito in magazzini di carta pensieri e emozioni, in modo più o meno ordinato. Mi piace questo stile di vita. No, non dico il dormire all'addiaccio, no. Parlo dello spirito di ricerca. Parlo del viaggiare sempre con un taccuino e una bic nella tasca pronto a prendere appunti. Schizzi. Parlo di spremere i giorni come limoni ogni sera, con cura e, scansati i semi, versarne un bicchiere negli inchiostri di china, per dare sapore alle parole. 
evening arrived at the station a girl named Paola. As if it were the most obvious was close to our group of drinkers, along the first track, and asked for a glass, pouring the red wine all over a river of words that have long wanted to tell, non importa a chi e come. Paola viene da Viterbo, è appena arrivata col treno. Ha venticinque anni ma ne dimostra molti meno. Occhiali rettangolari, un berretto a pompon bianco e blu, calze di lana verde pistacchio che vanno a infilarsi dentro un paio di anfibi neri allacciati con stringhe giallo fosforescente. Le mani in tasca, una sciarpa rossa e un piumino nero. 
rains. Grey sky, the clouds are full, roof wash, rinse the walls, the streets are chasing streams of water wet. Meanwhile, the Tiber, all strutting swells. Spending all day at the station, I have no umbrella, I have a dry change, I can not get wet. 
Salutati Attila and Rois, while Angy still looks around frightened, I go to the station, walk two steps to cool off in this order and incessant rain. ended, I end up ambulare along the first track, where I meet the new Caramel. Together him are Louis and Giancarlo, the first Roman de Rome, Florence other. Sitting on top of one of those cold metal benches, along with Gigi spend an hour or so good to talk. It starts from my nose right down in space with wide stretch along the themes of life. I tell him right away who they are and why I am in the middle of the road, he tries to do the same. There is finally a good climate, open discussion and debate. 
Dopo il panettone e il caffé, usciamo dalla chiesa di Santa Maria in Trastevere sull'omonima piazza, dove, ahimé, ci fermiamo un po'. Roisin è andata in bagno, io e Attila la stiamo aspettando con Angy, la cagnetta, siamo vicino alla fontana e parliamo. A un certo punto dei signori che erano al pranzo con noi, a pochi metri di distanza tirano un petardo. Angy inizia a tremare, piange, ha paura of barrels, wants to escape. Attila is nervous keeps tight leash, the caress and whispers something. Meanwhile, the other a lit firecracker second falling a short distance from us. Bum. Angy does not take more, crying, shaking like a leaf in the wind, a continuous moan. I remain speechless. 
When Christmas is Christmas on the road, at least in the morning, when the day is still as fresh as the air of the first warm sun, and the city slumbers, finally calm. Then you can afford to be a little 'more sociable and to recreate an atmosphere of normality, confidence, socialization with lighter and a bit' mad as their holidays are the worst moments when one is alone. You try to be nicer, there feels a bit 'more relaxed, or at least want to think. I just finished writing my daily thoughts on lines of paper and walk along the first track, without a goal, just to warm the soles and soul. I think. Meetings used to sitting on the bench, I think of right now belongs to him, such a Caramel, Milan half and half Sicilian. I've seen it many times sitting at the usual place on the first track, we salute you, the usual greetings, chat and a bit 'of Pandora. It's nice to start the day in a friendly way, a greeting, a bit 'of kindness, maybe a smile, relax the heart after days of aseptic and looks hard and heavy silence weighed. 
is dark and cold, sitting on a bench in the first track, I read. At that time passes and Roisin Attila, with their dog Angy. bring me an ice cream, whipped cream and chocolate cup, a thought and wish you happy holidays. In response peach backpack between things that on the morning in the middle of Via Farnese gave us for Christmas. A him a red woolen hat, you have a bar of dark chocolate. We greet each other with wide smiles, are in a hurry, I invite them to come together tomorrow for Christmas lunch, which is organizing the Community of Sant'Egidio in Santa Maria in Trastevere, Lucia gave me three good. After half a minute Attila yes and no running back, behind the guitar and a black bag over your shoulder. So much trouble to advise me to go to the cafeteria of Caritas via Marsala, eat all leave tonight, even without good, though I still took care in time. Thanks. I finish the ice cream and I move at a time of one hundred and seven of Via Marsala side of the station. I arrived at the gate, the operator tells me that it's too late now, are closing and I can not enter. 
La mattina di oggi inizia, stranamente, con la colazione. Appena svegliato, verso le sette, trovo intorno a me gettati per terra come sporcizia panini imbustati Cheese and chocolate cakes. They are the leftovers from last night's patrol. A group of Italian Red Cross volunteers who presented themselves to the half yesterday, ignoring the fact that everyone here is already asleep, spent a good half an hour shouting at each other, one step away from us, under the stairs. 
Timoroso di uscire dal sacco e da quel suo caro tepore, mi affaccio quel tanto che basta per avvertire il freddo tagliente che spezza l'aria e lungo l'asfalto grigio graffia pozzanghere sporche di vetro. Ghiaccio. Mi alzo. 