My First Seven Years (Plus a Few More) Read Online Free PDF Page A

with full-throated gusto. I even imitated the words, pretending I had them at my fingertips: ‘ Antzen ut Schivel mit nem lauben troi wirt …’ God knows what sort of fantastic tale I was recounting.
    *   *   *
    A few days later, Uncle Trombone presented himself on horseback in the open space in front of the house. Noemi heaved me up on the animal’s back or, more precisely, onto its neck. I was beside myself with joy. ‘Come on, let’s go and visit Bruno in Lugano. He’s expecting us.’ A hour’s journey on horseback with a gendarme uncle! A super-luxury marvel!
    We did not go down the usual roads, but cut along the byways, beside the fields, through the woods. At one stage we were almost attacked by a swarm of bees. My uncle put his gendarme’s hat over my head and took off his jacket to cover my legs. ‘Put your hands in here too. Unfortunately, with your delicate skin, the bees will eat you alive,’ he said.
    â€˜Who said Switzerland was an Earthly Paradise? It’s a terrifying place.’
    To make matters worse, the horse was stung by those ravenous bees, got excited, neighed as though preparing for a lance-at-the-ready charge, pawed the ground twice and set off at full gallop! Uncle did his best to restrain him, but who could restrain the bees? They came after us as far as they could but after a time had to give up, allowing our champion to slow down, even if he still kept his neck arched and trotted like a great victor.
    I would never have expected such warmth of greeting from my cousin who was standing waiting in the front of the church with some friends and … Bedelià and several other girls. Almost all splendid girls but – needless to say – none who could stand comparison with her!
    â€˜Why are we going to church?’ I asked.
    â€˜It is a very special church, where they give concerts, and there are some Italian musicians there. Come and I’ll introduce you. They are all exiles.’
    â€˜Exiles. What does that mean?’
    â€˜It means they all had to flee Italy to escape imprisonment.’
    â€˜Ah, just like the men who hide in the carriages at Pino. Refugees, in other words.’
    â€˜Exactly. The very same. These particular ones are all anarchists.’
    Obviously I had no idea what ‘anarchist’ meant, and that was not the time to ask for explanations. We were late, and the concert was about to get underway. I took my seat in the best place in the world – Bedelià’s lap, where the chair back and headrest were her breasts!
    The musicians were warming up, and Bruno was seated at the piano. There were guitars as big as a man (called double-basses), great twisted trumpets (the saxophones), drums with plates and metal tambourines (percussion), and then trumpets more or less identical to those in the gendarme band. The musicians also included two black men with a curious guitar and a woman with a violin. Bedelià explained to me that that the violin was called ‘hot’ and that the round guitar was a ukulele.
    â€˜When are you coming back to see me on the other side of the lake?’ I asked her.
    â€˜I’m afraid it’s going to be a bit difficult. The Fascist government has made our government withdraw Bruno from the embassy because of his somewhat subversive ideas.’
    I was on the point of asking her what ‘subversive’ meant, but the concert was beginning, so silence and attention.
    I had never heard music like that before. At first, it seemed to me like an off-key racket, or like the high-pitched trumpet sounds that clowns make, but then I found myself beating my hands to keep time. A ramshackle harmony was emerging from it all, and I was enjoying it.
    â€˜What do you call this music?’ I asked Bedelià.
    â€˜Jazz, and the one they’re starting is the blues. They’ll start singing in a minute.’
    The two black men got to their