The farewell dinner to say goodbye to some colleagues went on until late. The transfer dispatch had arrived twenty days before and I was preparing to leave Rome to join the family. Then all together we would leave for the new destination.
I had said that preparing the luggage would take a little time; I would have done it the morning of the following day, the one fixed for departure.
After all, I thought, from a wardrobe, a chest of drawers and a desk - that made up the modern but "monastic" furnishings of the room that I had occupied in the guesthouse for three years - there would be little to take away: some uniform, a little bourgeois stuff, some books ... in short, in a couple of hours - including the procedures for the release of housing - I would have loaded the car and I would have left.
But yes, I could do it all tomorrow morning ... goodnight.
Only those who have lived the military life know how erroneous, even if in good faith, such conviction and know how much a two-door wardrobe with a small top can be an optical illusion.
In reality, for some physical / logistic spell, with the passage of time it grows out of all proportion and depth - perhaps it even invades adjacent rooms - and becomes monstrously large.
The next morning the expressions "some uniform" and "a bit of bourgeois stuff" proved to be at least reductive, first of all translating into a mountain of winter uniforms: beyond the "number one" to keep in reserve for any commandments or other similar events and the number two and three for the periodical "office use", there were - among other things - sweaters of the service uniform, almost never worn; military shirts in such numbers as to allow me to sweat the classic seven a day for at least ten days in a row ... occasion for the truth never presented; a cubic meter of socks and various linens; caps; shoes in numbers exceeding even the needs of an infantry centipede and much more.
The endless expanse of summer uniforms also appeared in all respects, with the connected set of shoes and white stockings.
Nor was the stock of bourgeois clothes that, if sold even at bargain prices, would have guaranteed me a profit that would ensure a very high standard of living for the next ten years.
Even the chest of drawers and the desk gave their small but valuable contribution in the supply of various materials of which I was unaware of their existence.
Excluding the possibility that three years before I had freeze my kit at the time of reaching the capital and discarded the hypothesis of teleportation, it was therefore inexplicable how I could bring all that stuff with the only two mocking suitcases that I pulled out of the uprising and that I managed to fill only with items ... "underwear".
In the trunk of the car, enlarged by knocking down the rear seats, everything else was stowed - that is almost everything - according to a precise disorder resulting from the deviation of the initial respect of a certain willing logic towards the dictates of the highest general incasination and of the unstable balance, gradually increased by the desire to leave as soon as possible, from anger for having been late for the shuttle between the room and the car, the heat of the Roman June and the copious sweat resulting from the operations of porterage.
All this is also seasoned by the time it takes to get out of the eternal city where traffic is also eternal.
Traffic that contributed, after a couple of sudden abrupt braking and some too energetic steering, to collapse miserably all that I had piled with so much effort.
"Pazienza" I told myself "at home I will download everything calmly".
Once I reached the highway I decided to take it easy and stopped at a refueling area for a well-deserved break.
Forced to park in the sun because all the shady places were occupied, got out of the car and opened a back door with the intention of taking the bag with cigarettes and money.
I had forgotten the previous landslide of luggage: at the opening of the counter, an avalanche of merchandise immediately followed, which lowered to my feet despite my extreme attempt to stop the fall. I collected arms and loose trousers, jackets, sweaters, t-shirts, caps, shirts, jackets, a raincoat more and more and - giving energetic shrugs in the pathetic intent to reduce the creases - I rebuffed in a car arguing with some pants put on hangers hanging at the last moment on the courtesy handles.
I retrieved my bag and, to enjoy a cigarette before going to the bar, I walked briskly to a shadowy area a few meters away, occupied by a car with a Swiss license plate.
As I approached, I saw the old lady in the car waving a hand in denial and I heard she was saying "No, thank you, I do not buy".
My English, however basic, was sufficient to understand that he was saying to someone "No, thank you, I do not buy"; evidently behind me there was one of the many street vendors who try to place goods to tourists in the rest areas.
Instinctively I turned back but I did not see anyone, but I saw ... my image reflected in the windows of my car and I realized what was the big picture: a light tan, sunglasses, the beard that framed my face, the appearance turned upside down by the heat, my clothing composed of well-cropped pants and shirt, the dark and slightly dirty machine (also thanks to the "active" collaboration of pigeons, stakanovisti who lived near the guesthouse) from which just before had come out of all the merchandise that I had shrugged, perhaps giving the idea that the same showing to attract buyers ... everything had obviously helped to outline a picture that, in a certain tourist iconography, corresponded exactly to that of a well-supplied peddler of the Mediterranean area ready to launch a potential customer's attack.
A little 'embarrassed by the misunderstanding that had been created, I thought it appropriate to reassure the lady and I said "Okay, you do not buy but I do not sell" I'm an officer of the Italian navy " he does not buy but I do not sell, I'm an officer in the Italian navy ").
He looked at me with the annoyed air of those who do not accept being mocked and accompanied the look with an eloquent gesture, almost as if to drive off an annoying insect, such as "but go to tell someone else". He set off and left.
It was clear that he had not believed it and I, after a first moment of disappointment for not being able to convince her, I thought that - all in all - it had been better this way.
Yes, better to leave her the conviction of having managed to escape the clutches of an abusive, unappetising, peddler who had tried to give her some kind of cheap goods, perhaps of stealthy origin.
If he had believed my explanations, in fact, what a miserable end would have had the image of the "officer and gentleman" after having been so trampled underfoot by that of the "officer and ragtag"?
