been talked about for some time Fazio (part) ago. Giorgio Bocca told of Isernia, the inn (which?), The two prostitutes: the cat woman and the woman bitch . (Emphasis added up deep south are mine). "I knew the deep south many years ago, in the late fifties when I worked to the 'European'. There had been a riot in a town in Molise in for the first time I heard the name, Isernia: he wanted to be provincial capital of a province stony and poor, the government of Rome did not understand why. Neither do I understand when I got there on a rickety bus that went to charcoal, up a dirt road toward the city to fend for themselves, forgotten by God and Providence, who wanted to become a province. A bombing of the American Flying Fortresses had destroyed it, it seems they had mistaken for Monte Cassino, extreme defense of the Germans, who was born with bad luck on not thrown them away or at peace or at war. On each of the province denied and want, a dream that makes the poor poorer Forgot between mountains, there was little to understand those with whom I spoke in offices or on the street they lived their exaltation, now I remember vaguely. But I remember the shock of that first encounter with the Deep South, the only inn, guests of respect, the two prostitutes.
To enter the inn is five steps down as trophies of onions and peppers and it was in the room the fireplace and the dining room, separate from the kitchen by a red curtain. The cat woman with gray eyes in a pale face, sharp, he was squatting in his place by the fire but not a guest of the inn the inn, such as chairs, tables, blue and white checkered tablecloths, glasses of glass often, the red curtain on the kitchen door, the smell of grease and spices. It was just past noon and guests were already at their tables over, a quick greeting and then every man to his melancholy: the deputy prosecutor of the republic that came and went from Naples, a school teacher, two civil engineers, a Salesman, the reporter came to the northern rebellion. You and us as a strong garrison of the haggard stood in ruins. She was part of the inn was clear, we could take the jug of wine and strong resin, the soup of chickpeas, oil, bread could serve as her, without speaking, without asking, Just one look and knew that she the rooms on the first floor went up slightly and wait like a cat that does not make noise, knows all of the house, passes unnoticed among the groan of a table, the creaking of a door, door slamming and the breath of the wind chill that winter and in the ruins rabbridiva me right into the bones. So pale, so resigned, which is among the things a poor inn, but it seemed that swells the hair, sparks bursting from his gray eyes on the evening that the woman entered the tavern bitch, the other prostitute Isernia, olive, not bad, but not old feral who had taken home as a half-ruined houses a bit 'out of town, with no doors or glass windows, a lattice of pipes such as doors, windows and sheet metal parts for cracks you could see the brazier at the center of the room and the mattress laid on the cold ground. But in the cold and windy nights she poked the fire, did raise the heat that saw the city, those who hated and mocked, he was always there, was not dead yet, still liked to visitors at night. He entered the woman with his bitch moan threatening, stood pale and she seemed the cat had swollen rump and tail, and we respect our guests, we realized that the woman could claim something bitch innkeeper, just came out from the kitchen , sent in his place by the fire the woman put her cat and the other behind the red curtain for a bowl of soup, then went out as a successful raid, with a look of triumph, still alive in his life lost. "
(Giorgio Bocca, Hell - Deep South, dark evil, Milano 1993, p. 3.)
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