Order Day
It was a particularly bleak morning. Bleaker than that rainy evening, five years ago, when he had been sitting in a nameless London pub, somewhere near Westminster Station, diving into Sheila’s black, piercing eyes. This morning, the thunder above Florence’s sky would not cease from its song. Lightning, signaling out, caused Alfredo to raise his eyes from the wet cobblestones of the Piazza della Signoria. His eyes rested yet again on the name “Generali.”[1] Nothing in his gaze betrayed the contempt raging within him. Only Rosa, who, in the absence of tourists, was stationed idly next to him, snorted heavily as if feeling the turmoil. The statues around him, creations, monuments of culture, did not attract his gaze to immerse himself in them. Over the years, he had learned to be indifferent to them. In the last few weeks, he had grown increasingly convinced that he, Rosa and his coach were a more important creation. For several weeks, his coach had been driving tourists through the streets of Florence free of charge. For weeks, he had been directing a polite smile, full of compassion, at those who boarded his coach. They boarded wearing the relaxed, silly expression of tourists who did not know that soon, their lives would change beyond recognition. He was doing them a final favor, saving them the 50 euro which in the past had provided him with a meager living. Making a living no longer interested him. Order Day was imminent, and afterwards, he would seek shelter and a living in a different kind of currency.
The black sky imbued the correct hue upon an image which, in his eyes, was so surreal. He looked with disdain at the palace built almost 150 years ago. “Assicurazioni Generali,” he mumbled to himself, emphasizing every syllable and consonant. What megalomania, he thought, to build such palaces in the heart of the piazza, to contaminate it with the name of an insurance company. But the end of the palace was near, and so was the end of the system. Generali’s palaces in Florence, Rome, Milan, and even the one in Zion, in Jerusalem, would soon be in utter ruins. No bomb would go off, but the destruction and desolation which would occur after he gave the order would be larger, more thorough.
He lowered his eyes to the ground, breathing heavily, deep in thought. His right hand was stroking the crest of Rosa’s neck, while his left stroked his own beard. He imagined that if his biography were being written, the header would be in third person singular: “He is Alfredo, the coachman of Florence, and he is going to change the world.” An immense roll of thunder tore through the sky, returning him to reality, followed immediately by an intense burst of rain. A family speaking in a language he did not understand ran to seek shelter under the arches of Loggia dei Lanzi. He caught the eye of a six-year-old girl who had apparently been dragged against her will to the Uffizi Gallery. Her father raised his voice in an attempt to urge her to get under the arches without dawdling. Alfredo saw his lips moving in rage, but the father’s voice was swallowed by another roll of thunder which was louder than its predecessors.
He didn’t let the intense rain distract him from his focus on the family. His train of thought was not derailed by the ceaseless thunder and lightning. He thought about the father, recognizing a man who wanted to belong. He probably wanted to mention, when making small talk, that he had been to the Uffizi, that he was fluent in art, and perhaps in history as well. In order to atone for his actions, which had enforced boredom on his daughter, he bought her a giant teddy bear with sad eyes, probably from the massive toy store on Cavour Street. For a moment, Alfredo believed he would suspend the order. Another thought entered his heart along with the image of the girl and the teddy bear. Maybe not today, he thought to himself. Maybe he should let the father atone for his actions and consume anything he liked? And what would the Drauni family, who had been managing the toy store since 1922, do? And what guilt lay in toys?
As his eyes focused, he saw the girl was smiling at him. Alfredo, thoroughly soaked, nodded at her. Once again, he stroked the wet crest of Rosa’s neck as she stood motionless, and said, “Come on, Rosa, it’s time to take action.” The rain had gotten into Rosa’s ears, and she shook her head wildly, attempting to expel the water from her body just like he, Alfredo, was attempting to expel systematic evil from his world. The intensity of the mare’s shaking was dwarfed by the shivers which took hold of him. He raised his head once more, his gaze meeting that of the girl one more time.
She smiled at him again as if granting him her blessing.
