I follow the shifting light, the wind;
I wait for whoever may come here,
whether in haste or to sit on these benches.
Mario Luzi, The Osteria, in Collected Poems (Garzanti, 1988)

This photograph shows an Osteria. TRUE or FALSE?! Faites vos jeux… rien ne va plus!

Wrong! Or rather, there are good reasons why both answers are correct. Let’s go back to the image. On its own, it’s nothing remarkable. So what does it represent?
• A botched set for a LA CVCINA ITALIANA photo shoot.
• Essentially, a still life.
• The staged leftovers from an amateur commercial promoting the natural beauty of Eastern Liguria.
• The meal of a tourist who couldn’t be bothered to get fleeced in Portofino’s Piazzetta.
• An NPM – a Nuclear Possibility Multiplier.

Was this seemingly frugal meal put together for a specific purpose? Or is it simply a makeshift spread cobbled together from whatever happened to be in the fridge, the classic let’s see what’s left, I’ll worry about dinner later scenario?

Unlike the previous question, this time there may be many possible answers, but only one is correct. Every still image has a before and an after, invisible, yet necessarily there. Without them, you’d be tempted to think the whole thing was staged. So the winner is the last option. Number Five.

And now the BEFORE

The terrace at Punta Caieca unfolds across two levels: the upper one tucked just below the road, the lower one perched almost directly above the rocks.

September 8th, a Monday. Summer was drawing to a close. I was getting ready for my traditional farewell picnic by the sea, except for the occasional unplanned excursion which almost never actually happens, and I was rather annoyed to find the little terrace below, even more secluded and virtually invisible from above, already occupied by four fifteen-year-olds in swimsuits: three shirtless boys and a girl in a bikini. They had probably just climbed back up from the rocks and looked as though they had every intention of staying put, depriving me of what might have been my final swim of the season, far from the paparazzi and the merciless Olympic judges forever ready to deduct points for the spectacular splash that a dive – performed in the unmistakable style of a 130-kilo silhouette – imply cannot avoid making on impact with the water. They chatted about this and that until the conversation drifted to Michael Jackson, and how awful it must have been to find yourself, as a child, sharing a bed with a controversial pop star like him.

X: At worst, you roll over, bite his dick, and run!
Y: Or you yell, “BEHAVE, MICHAEL! I’M CALLING LIZ TAYLOR, AND SHE’LL COME OVER HERE WITH HER WHIP. THEN YOU’LL SEE!!!”
Z: Come on… there’s no fucking way I’d go to a sleepover at NEVERLAND just because some famous singer with a Chipmunk voice invited me.

Brilliant. This is priceless. In a moment you should go down and ask them if they can give you a puff or, better, if they leave you a joint. Then, out of nowhere, an unexpected move: they pull up stakes. They pack up and leave, and just like that, pole position is finally yours.

O.C. 8+ = As you head back up the steps, they spot you, and one of them deliberately strikes up a conversation.

DS: I’m here with my imaginary girlfriend. [That’s what you tell them.]
A: As long as there’s wine. And from the looks of it, you’re not short of that…
DS: Actually, as you can see, the food is imaginary too. [You gesture towards the empty plate. (Your pasta salad is still in the Tupperware.)]

The kids laugh, wave goodbye, thank you, but pass. Someone’s probably waiting for them, and I’m guessing they’ll be walking home; I didn’t see any scooters parked up the road. Then, just before they vanish from sight, you land the killer blow, deliberately politically “scorrect”:

DS: Whatever you do, don’t run into Michael Jackson in Paraggi!!!

A burst of youthful laughter. Did they realize you’d heard them, or will they just think it was a coincidence?! One thing’s for sure: you caught them off guard. The important thing was to show solidarity and make them understand that, faced with danger, you, too, would have been able to take a good bite out of that guy’s crotch before taking off…

High O.C. = when a joke finds its way into the script like that—completely improvised, stand-up comedy style—the rating goes up, and before you know it, you’re brushing against a perfect score. “Teeeeen!”, as that clown on TV8 would say…

And then comes the AFTER.