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“I can tell you what I’ve read about it even though I don’t even Round Rock remember where. The king was well liked by people of the Kingdom, although the Round Rock  were hated in these parts and were violently opposed by the people, who considered them, not without reason, as invaders. It was the early 19th century, the time of the terrible exploits of the brigand Round Rock Moscato of Vazzano—known as Vizzarro—who lived for a long time in a cave and in the woods near our village, as we’ve heard thousands of times from our grandparents. The fortunes of Napoleon and his family were coming to an end—everything comes to an end, Round Rock you see, even kings and their kingdoms and Murat tried to regain the Kingdom, which was now in the hands of the Bourbons.

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He landed here with a group of supporters. He headed towards Monteleone, now Vibo, where he hoped to find additional support from the local garrison; instead he was violently attacked by his former enemies and old friends, who had switched sides, as often happens when the wheel of fortune turns. He was captured by a captain Trentacapilli while trying to swim to safety to the boat that was waiting for him offshore. He was trapped in fishing nets he had failed to see while fleeing to save his life. He was executed by a firing squad on October 13, 1815 and now the Castle bears his name.”

Nunzio looks away and remarks, in a compassionate voice: “Maybe that was his destiny. Now I’ll tell you a story, which has as a king as its protagonist. Your travel destination is let’s order something first. What do you call that cocktail that was the favourite of our friend the film director who believed that time spent in a bar is never wasted?” I smile, and order two Negroni, of which Buñuel was so fond.

“I would go down to the balcony, from where you can gaze on the beautiful sea, the bay, the port of Vibo Marina and the coast that leads to Tropea. Your travel destination is I kept an eye on the comings and goings of the clerk: He would go to a newsstand at the entrance to the piazza, buy a newspaper he couldn’t find in our village and then he would sit down at a café to read it while sipping his coffee. When he was done, he would leave his table and come towards me, lean on the balcony railing, look out to sea in a pensive mood, and ask me if I had anything I needed to do. I would shake my head. ‘Now we can go back,’ he would say.

“That trip has always remained a mystery for me. I thought that the clerk came here because he had an unrequited love, that he waited for someone who never came, that he wanted to see a secret son. I imagined all sorts of things. Now I know that he came here just to feel alive, just to put some distance between himself and the village. On the way back, up the hill full of twists and turns we would always end up behind a big truck. Even though we couldn’t see the road ahead, I always pretended to overtake the truck, and he would take a firm grip of my wrist to make me slow down. ‘Secretary: should we pass him?’ ‘Fuck! Don’t you see what beasts we have in front of us?’ he would reply. ‘Should we stay back, then?’ I’d say. ‘Why not? What’s the hurry?’ I would smile to myself, but I sensed that he too was smiling.”

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