Almost 20 years have already passed and I still remember Sergeant Muraglia, one of the chefs of the "most beautiful ship in the world". Also that year, according to a practice interrupted only by the need to "show the flag" in the Mediterranean or - exceptionally - in distant or very distant seas, even under the equator, the summer activity for the training of the cadets of the academy and for the usual representation activities would take place in northern Europe.
So, after having set the prow to the west, with only one stopover in the warm waters of the Mare Nostrum, the ship and its young crew would have brought the image of a nation to the Atlantic coasts, as consummated "ambassadors in blue" homeland of illustrious men and full of positive values.
The ship, without wanting to offend anyone, requires huge efforts mainly to two categories of soldiers: the helmsmen, who carry the pack of the seafaring maneuver that (with large sails like tennis courts, a teak deck to "float" with oil of elbow and an unimaginable quantity of brass to be kept "to mirror" daily) it is not a small thing and the cooks, that besides the operations of provisioning in navigation of a masnada of 400 grasshoppers (breakfast, two rounds of lunch and dinner, with three separate canteens, afternoon snack, pizza at midnight, cleanliness of the kitchens and galleys in the harbor) must also be savored wines of honor, lunches, dinners and cocktail parties, parties, etc., so much to do, in port, exclusively nightlife (normally they are rewarded by tolerating small overdrafts at the obligatory return time on board).
Sergeant Muraglia was a twenty-year-old with olive skin, black eyes always a bit 'questioning, which was expressed in a strange Italian-Puglia-part. A great worker. Often, however, he deceived the non-commissioned messenger (said in the Navy "capo gamella"), nodding to mean he understood the orders and then did as he could. And the head gamla brought him to report to complain that the sergeant (siggiente, as he said) had interpreted his "put more salt in the water" with a "for spaghetti follow the same recipe of chicken with salt". And then the whining began "... and now, my mother, 'they're not eating pasta, they're not even dogs!" In short, he had to work under strict control, however, with his gentle work, his speaking in a low voice, with the sound that from the vocal cords took the route of his nose instead of regularly passing through his tongue and mouth, he managed to buy his companions' cover and his benevolence. of superiors.
One of the characteristics of the ship was to turn into a cute, gorgeous buccaneer even the most panzilineo sailor in the eyes of local female fauna, obviously. When I boarded, I asked my colleague that I was going to replace if my fame had come to my ear. He told me that if you did not tow, you had to close in your own lodging with more than one mandate, cross the ship by passing exclusively to the indoor premises and sneezing continually in front of gentle sex with your mouth open, vaporizing as much as possible, emitting possibly even winds and noises I refrain from reporting. Observing these stringent indications, he said safe, the risk of falling was reduced by a good 40 per cent. Hurray, I found my ship!
Even the Good Wall did not escape the rule. He left franchise at a French port in the north, near Le Havre, where the ship boasted in beauty and majesty among the other great sailing ships agreed for a grand international meeting, wearing his invisible uniform by Captain Morgan, attracting the almost immediate favor of a beautiful Norman.
And it was love, true love.
The young man, already before the abbaut (in the sense of the ceremony ...) circulated with the permissions, asking, begging permessin with his Italian by "brother De Rege". And there was no one who could resist him. If he was told "but no, we can not treat you differently" it was enough to wait only for five miserable minutes and here the second commander would have asked for explanation on the serious motive of service for which this serenade could not be given to the sergeant. In short, it was a lost battle. Come on and on, he would also come to the minister. Or higher, if that was the case. All without the slightest violation of the rigid discipline. Beat and quarrel, even the iron bends. This was definitely his family motto.
The girl was queuing for her to meet at work. He had told her to approach the station and to name him, perhaps by showing him the ticket on which he had transcribed it. She entered the undercover deck (called "the castle") on the bench in front of the barberia and waited for him, at every possible interval in the work of the kitchen, to come to her to show her one of her famous sorry or simply to give her a chaste kiss on her forehead.
She did the university, maybe the law. So he seemed to understand. And he was uncomfortably getting to know it. Then, however, he confided to his comrades that he was afraid he could not afford to confront a girl so much more educated than he was. Between me and me, I thought he was wrong, because even with the best bargain and with the best bourgeois dress, he was not the kind of eagle. She had to love her for what she was. Perhaps it had been conquered by those same expressions of the last litter of the litter we saw we raw sailors.
"But what are you talking about when you are together?" I felt ashamed to hear the kitchen colleagues ask him this question. What I was talking about, with my "gallistic" companions when, with my poor English, I was entertaining myself with the Dutch and German tourists who rushed in the summer on the Riviera. "You know, moon, sand, this evening, guitar and fire on the beach OK? I have a motorbike. Will you come with me? Nine o 'clock here, okay?" it was the standard interview, from which I expected a simple "yes-no". I should have imitated Colombo who conversed with the natives, to understand every other answer! Of a lot of words they will not need, I thought.
Instead, he reported that their encounters consisted of miles in which you - in a French pronounced so slowly to seem like an accentuated bad Italian - questioned him probably about the great human needs, the developments of international politics, about imperialism American, on French atomic experiments, and so on; and he probably - by adopting the tactic of normal employment in the husband-wife relationship learned by his parents - simply nodding or responding to what he could understand "the war I was not but there is my friend of Massafra who is was in the gulf "or" I'll stop that I keep famm ".
Poor Walls! Finally, it was the day of departure. The quay was crowded with a multitude of ladies and gentlemen (in truth, that time there was a gentleman dressed in a rather shameless way, but he grew up in the void. The malignants immediately thought of the foreign guy we had on board). Between them, too. They had been left with the promise of a thick correspondence and a return to the crime scene for Christmas.
The Wall returned to being a good worker forever. With a somewhat sader look than usual, which amplified the puppy air that opened the door to everyone's affection. An intense sea seething season and fatigue passed. October came and the return to Italy. Aggregates at the canteen, even chefs could breathe a little. And down licenses! But he stayed on the piece. She had to arrive in December. Then, he would return to Normandy. Meanwhile, she finished the kitchen shifts, and was in the conference room to turn her letters into her hands. On the envelopes they showed beautiful red hearts. He did not understand what she was writing to him, but he did not want to read his letters to anyone. But he was in favor of this or that kind of communion who, in English or French, could have written: "Dear, I've come back to Italy and I'm fine, how are you, I count the days I miss when I return to France. more precise I will let you know. "
She submitted the license request at the end of October. Free from December 5 to January 8. Then finally came the big day. Thirty-five uninterrupted days with the pupa! Booked the Pisa-Paris flight ticket. He slammed the bill, greeted "I'll see you next year" and away. But already on day nine, we found him on board with the usual good face and the lover's lover's air that he had used to convert to that of a bad sadness. "Wall, what are you doing here?" I asked, we asked.
He explained that he had arrived in Paris. That in order to go to Normandy not understanding the writing well, he decided to take a taxi. That arrived there he had to virtually empty the wallet in the hands of the avid taxi driver (but what a greedy, just bastard!). That once he had come up from her in a rush and already did not give a damn about that shit of the taxi driver. That when he met her, she clung to his neck that almost broke away from her, that she began to speak Italian, who had learned it for him because so they could finally understand each other and talk, talk, talk.
That he did not understand an accident of what she said, that he did not care about the accident of the peace partnership ("but what is it?"), That of the July G8 of the judges and of Berlusconi he knew nothing because he was "stev 'to the bush." But why did not she talk to him anymore about love? It remained until the early morning. Then she put him on the train to Paris. He wrote a ticket to the taxi outside the station. He lent him money to the plane. He discharged it as a general merchandise is thrown off a fruit plateau.
"What a bitch!" We thought, and so we all said. He, on the other hand, always with his puppy-like puppy with an adventurous sting in the back, resumed: "It's my fault, I'll make my next vote!" then he said to us, "I'm going to have to get rid of Mimma, my ex, I'm going to miss the moon that I missed, but I did not feel any faces, but I'll have to go to bed soon. licensed, right? "
Then he took my arm and took me aside: "Commissar, I've signed you quietly, all you want." Aggio returned the ticket money. "Do you want me to do an international check?"
Author's note: this story has already been published on the site www.paginedidifesa.it (now no longer active). I thank General Giovanni Bernardi, Director of PdD, for the hospitality I was granted then.
