Il primo turno del lunedì mattina arrivò di fronte al cancello 2 di Sbrinafiori e non lo trovò. Non c'era più il cancello, né i tornelli, nor the sentry watch. There was not even the factory.
There was only the lawn in the eye, green, wild, dotted with a few bud early.
Within minutes all of the shift workers were there. They looked in silence. It was a beautiful winter day, the sun looked out from the hill and lit the clear sky.
horizon, without the factory in the middle, now you could see the perfect triangle of Viso.
After some time came the employees. Usually entered through the gate in front of the white stone building of Albenga, they too came in dribs and drabs, looks lost, their coats and ties mingled with jackets and caps. The big factory Sbrinafiori of the industrial city in the industrial city, had disappeared.
Few spoke, everyone followed his thoughts and concerns. Each spell out the secret his equation, where the unknown dark and black was a factory disappeared.
"Call the police ..."
"... the union" suggested someone.
"Better the mayor ..."
"The managing director, is not it?"
No one seemed to really believe.
Concetta were only six months more for retirement. Maybe. Not that I was going to ask all day. He was thirty years of assembly line tattooed on his face and bones. He felt the spring who came. Inside a factory is hard to feel the seasons, feeling cold, hot, but the passage of seasons attacks you suddenly change to a round: 10 pm, at 5 am ... It is an unpleasant thing, not always.
"Why do not we sit on the lawn? Today, the production does not ... "said Concetta and gave it all right.
Alessio, one of the last hired, lay on the grass and said, "Sbrinafiori no more, it is a fact, try to understand what we do with a lawn."
"What do we do?" Said an anguished voice.
"We bring the dog to pee ..." said someone else. Some laughed, others not.
"My grandfather used to say that here there was once an airfield ..."
"Yes, in the Middle Ages ..."
"Coltiviamolo maize."
"Oh young man, I have escaped from the country, go easy on yourself hoe ... "
" Then we put the cows to pasture ... "
" But that we must do as New York, you know how much a house on Central Park ... " Concetta
did not know, but both had fallen asleep. We never get used to waking up at 4am to Sbrinafiori as in New York, say. Maybe slept 20 minutes, maybe an hour. When he awoke the sun warmed his face, just a little ', a breeze stirred the tall grass. They had their flower buds quelli. Qualcuno era andato via scuotendo la testa, altri erano andati al bar a prendere le brioche, si sentiva il profumo, e stavano seduti a gruppi, a fumare e chiacchierare. L'inverno sarebbe tornato, sicuro. Ma quella strana mattina, in quel prato grande come una città, era primavera. Concetta se lo sentiva nelle ossa.
There was only the lawn in the eye, green, wild, dotted with a few bud early.
Within minutes all of the shift workers were there. They looked in silence. It was a beautiful winter day, the sun looked out from the hill and lit the clear sky.
horizon, without the factory in the middle, now you could see the perfect triangle of Viso.
After some time came the employees. Usually entered through the gate in front of the white stone building of Albenga, they too came in dribs and drabs, looks lost, their coats and ties mingled with jackets and caps. The big factory Sbrinafiori of the industrial city in the industrial city, had disappeared.
Few spoke, everyone followed his thoughts and concerns. Each spell out the secret his equation, where the unknown dark and black was a factory disappeared.
"Call the police ..."
"... the union" suggested someone.
"Better the mayor ..."
"The managing director, is not it?"
No one seemed to really believe.
Concetta were only six months more for retirement. Maybe. Not that I was going to ask all day. He was thirty years of assembly line tattooed on his face and bones. He felt the spring who came. Inside a factory is hard to feel the seasons, feeling cold, hot, but the passage of seasons attacks you suddenly change to a round: 10 pm, at 5 am ... It is an unpleasant thing, not always.
"Why do not we sit on the lawn? Today, the production does not ... "said Concetta and gave it all right.
Alessio, one of the last hired, lay on the grass and said, "Sbrinafiori no more, it is a fact, try to understand what we do with a lawn."
"What do we do?" Said an anguished voice.
"We bring the dog to pee ..." said someone else. Some laughed, others not.
"My grandfather used to say that here there was once an airfield ..."
"Yes, in the Middle Ages ..."
"Coltiviamolo maize."
"Oh young man, I have escaped from the country, go easy on yourself hoe ... "
" Then we put the cows to pasture ... "
" But that we must do as New York, you know how much a house on Central Park ... " Concetta
did not know, but both had fallen asleep. We never get used to waking up at 4am to Sbrinafiori as in New York, say. Maybe slept 20 minutes, maybe an hour. When he awoke the sun warmed his face, just a little ', a breeze stirred the tall grass. They had their flower buds quelli. Qualcuno era andato via scuotendo la testa, altri erano andati al bar a prendere le brioche, si sentiva il profumo, e stavano seduti a gruppi, a fumare e chiacchierare. L'inverno sarebbe tornato, sicuro. Ma quella strana mattina, in quel prato grande come una città, era primavera. Concetta se lo sentiva nelle ossa.
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