By Wu Ming
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You’re trying to get me to make a dick of myself. 10‒7 is fine. ’ ‘As you wish. ’ The clandestine bookmaker eyed the horses striding along the track and remembered his instructions: keep the odds as low as possible. He scribbled a few conventional hieroglyphics into his notebook before slipping it into his pocket. Then he sent the little boy back to the official bookies. ’ objected the punter, trying to persuade him to raise the odds. ‘13–8, a bargain. ’ Spagnuolo gripped the wad, counted quickly, scribbled something else and pulled off a strip.
The other soldiers looked on in astonishment. Shrugs, unease. ’ The officer didn’t move, the weapon was pointed at his temple, his teeth were clenched with rage. His thoughts raced, paralysing his brain. ’ He hissed, ‘Capponi, I always knew you were a fucking communist. And what do you think you’re doing? Eh? And the rest of you, what the fuck are you doing standing there like idiots? ’ No one replied. Eyes met, but just for a second. No clues about what to do. They knew only that if they disarmed their comrades they would have to shoot them along with the others.
He stopped at the cardsharps’ table. ‘See you, Bottone, I’m off.