This I thought while the pizza was flying toward the window: Americans have no bones. Their bodies are smooth, with no angles, nothing that sticks out from beneath the skin. I’m not talking about being fat. Americans aren’t fatter than Italians. I saw a man in the subway in Rome eating a panino the size of my head. He was so big it seemed that his body was made of unstable molecules trying to invade all the space around him. Nobody was sitting next to him on the bench; it seemed that his body wouldn’t allow it, that it would grow to shove you off. You could not tell his shape. But he had bones. You could imagine his skeleton. His chin was pointy. For some reason I thought that he could hit you with that chin. I wasn’t afraid of his size but of his chin, revealing his weakness and his strength, concentrating all the violence of his being in one spot.

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Eccolo lì Jimmy Lovato. Seduto sullo sgabello che diventa ogni giorno più piccolo. Strizzato nella sua camicia gialla, lucido di sudore come se si fosse tuffato nel burro. Goccioline di sudore si staccano dalle punte dei capelli quando muove la testa. Capelli spessi, che ha ereditato da sua madre. Goccioline di sudore gli scendono nel solco delle natiche. Goccioline di sudore si fermano sulle palbebre. Goccioline di sudore gli scivolano in bocca, sulla lingua, un nutrimento salato che gli basterà fino all’alba, sostenendolo nell’ultimo interminabile assolo. Il rullante cerca di sottrarsi ai colpi ondeggiando in mezzo alle sue ginocchia. Le bacchette cercano di guizzargli via dai palmi sudati.

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