I was in the middle of a translation; and, as it was a particularly tricky one, my brain was starting to fog with quibbles, so I stepped out onto the balcony and stretched. From my balcony, I should point out, if one looked left, one could make out the blue of the sea. It was a delightful view, but I knew that I had to press on with the cursed quibbles when something caught my eye.
There, down in the street, was an old man, with a stooped gait and still wearing his winter coat.
To the railings, on the other side of the road, was attached an old bicycle. As the old man passed the bicycle, he stopped and bent down by the front wheel and proceeded to let down the tyre.
I could not believe my eyes. Before going on his way, he made a particular gesture: placing his left hand in the crease of his elbow and raising his right as if to say…. I will leave to you to imagine what he said to the presumed owner of the said bicycle.
A few hours later, I was still puzzling over this incident when one of my “privates” arrived.
“Can you believe it?” I said, as he walked in through the door, and I began to describe what I had witnessed but a few hours before.
My student, Dario, who had been straining, for the last six months, to conquer an exam way beyond his elementary capability, looked at me and grimaced. “Noi siamo un popolo maligno,” he said.
“What do you mean by that?” I asked.
He shrugged as he struggled for the words. “Do you say invidious?”
“You mean envious,” I returned. “That’s right,” he said. “Il nostro invidio è molto profondo. Our envy runs deep.”