Antonio Che Guevara is nineteen years old and one of those people who think one cannot live without politics. His real name is Antonio Scicchitano, but everyone calls him Che Guevara for obvious reasons: he also physically resembles Che, although to me, to be honest, he reminds me more of the TV Ulysses. An Ulysses with long hair and an eskimo. 
I already knew him by sight, and I couldn't help by noticing him, because someone like him, tall, with very black hair and beard, with a typically southern Greek and severe beauty, certainly does not go unnoticed in the corridors of a high school. He always struck me as a very interesting guy, more for the expression in his eyes, serious and intelligent, than for his physical appearance, but I had never spoken to him and I did not know his name. When I did, I was able to appreciate once again the irony of the Demiurge.
He is originally from Cassaro, a small village in the province of Syracuse, and is to all intents and purposes the last of the children of Sixty-eight: an orphan of PC and FGC, nostalgic for Lotta Continua and Potop, he feels uncomfortable in the minimalist culture of my generation, as if he were twenty years older. It is no coincidence that the professors treat him as an equal.
He is an excellent student: he has won several scholarships and participated in some national competition of some sort, always placing in the top ten, something of which the headmaster has boasted on several occasions. But his real passion, as I said, is politics: he is the leader of Gioberti's left-wing group; ours is an old-fashioned high school, there are those who still believe in these things of the past. Recently he has also made a name for himself at Palazzo Nuovo: when he speaks in the assembly, everyone listens to him in religious silence, even the older students, avoiding racist jokes about his strange Italian, with too many doubles and all those closed e's. I too listen to him, and not because I give a damn about politics, especially that politics. But Antonio is different: Antonio has what is called charisma. His gospel is old stuff, missionary merchandise: but while he scatters beads, broken glass, mirrors and bottle bottoms on the table, he is truly convinced that they are diamonds, and people believe it because he believes it.
He is a good speaker and an excellent listener, a rare gift in a politician; one day he told me that he owes it to Plutarch: I don't know what he meant by that, but I assented wholeheartedly to disguise my ignorance and promised to ask him about it later. He listens to the other speakers with interest and respect, with his back against the wall and his arms folded; when his turn comes, he approaches the microphone with his head down, with the slightly waddling gait of a large Newfoundland, and almost always begins with a good-natured joke to ease tensions. Not that he is particularly witty, but he is likeable: he likes to joke about his opponents, to dismantle those who take themselves too seriously. Once, a guy from CL said to him: 'And remember that I speak before God'; and Antonio, who was standing in front of him: 'Thank you, I didn't think you held me in such high regard'. Another one said to him about abortion: 'And you call yourself a believer? I would really like to know how you behave in front of communion!" And he, seraphic: "I open my mouth and swallow the host". Since one cannot simultaneously laugh and believe, the other usually gives up. This allows him to win practically without a fight, by forfeit of the opponent.
Everyone at my school loves him, because he is never offensive and is in obvious good faith. Antonio is what you call a nice person, so it is out of the question that he could make a career in politics.
It is a morning at the end of January and there is the usual self-management, a waste of time that we all pretend to believe in; and here I open a small parenthesis: it is not strange that we teenagers pretend to believe in it, but it is worrying that the adults, including the headmaster, do too. I am not a model student like Antonio, but in certain things I am more uncompromising than him: we have endless opportunities to fuck around, without having to occupy the school to do it. School offers important opportunities, but they are all connected with studying. If we decide that studying is not useful, which is certainly possible, then school should be abolished: but this mediocre mess is of no use to anyone, except perhaps to the teachers to pick up their salaries at the end of the month.
Anyway, here I am, in the lecture hall, sitting on the floor in the front row with my legs crossed. It's ten o'clock in the morning and a guy on the stage is making an objectively unlistenable speech, a distillation of reactionary molasses; two or three students behind me are protesting, a broadside of whistles and fuck-you starts up. The one who was speaking exclaims "here's your democracy!", one at the back of the classroom yells "fuck you!", another shouts "fucking collaborationist!", the situation degenerates. Antonio immediately intervenes: he grabs the microphone and shouts "stop, what are you doing? There are gymnasium kids!" Definitely not blowing a good air: I get up to leave, but while I'm trying to deflect I get bumped by a stray elbow and my nose starts bleeding profusely. I run out to go to the bathroom.
I can still see Antonio jumping off the stage and separating two jostling. Then nothing more, because I go into the bathroom. I open the tap and put my nose under the cold water.
I have been sitting for about ten minutes on the window sill, with my handkerchief pressed to my nose, when I see Antonio enter. Tall, imposing, determined, he approaches me.
How are you doing? he asks worriedly.
It's nothing, it's already stopping. I just hope I don't get a bruise.
Let me see.
He tips my head back and examines my nose.
You won't get a bruise, it's just an internal vein. It's still bleeding, though.
What's going on over there?
I said if they didn't stop I would call the carabinieri, they stopped immediately. Bunch of pricks. Don't get up, you need to keep your head back. I'm sorry.
It's not your fault.
Yes it is my fault: I organised the self-management.
But what does that matter? Besides, I feel fine, don't worry.
She leans against the washbasin in front of me casting wary glances at my hair, the earring on my left earlobe, the tight T-shirt, the strategically ripped jeans, the gold bracelet on my wrist, my hand holding my handkerchief, the silver band around my ring finger. For some time now I have been dressing like this; it is a form of misdirection: the others focus on my physical appearance, which the males in my family criticise unreservedly and my mother observes with the smug interest with which one observes a painting whose details are being defined, and they do not look beyond appearances; so they leave me alone. Antonia of course understands, but all communication between us has been broken for a long time: we maintain cold and polite relations, good morning good evening how are you, how's school, a senseless pantomime to which the formalities of everyday life force us. I don't know which of us is more disgusted: we both try to avoid each other and spend as little time as possible in that house, but she is my brother's girlfriend and I live in that house. In any case, I can see with what eyes she looks at me when she meets me in the corridors: there is everything in those eyes, reproach, blame, longing, regret. And the regret is well justified, because she will never see her little boy again: he is dead now.
Antonio comments with a smile:
Well, what can we say? At least we managed to eliminate the gender bias: it is difficult to distinguish you from the girls.
I appreciate his attempt to strike up a conversation and go along with it.
Don't be fooled, it's nothing serious. It is not a symbol of anything, there is no claim, we are not even gay. It's just a matter of trend.
He shakes his head, waving his hair, black and glossy like the feathers of a crow:
What a fucking generation.
You are part of it too: you are only a year older than me.
Two, that is one thousand. And the next trend will be what, shaving your head? Then it won't do you any good to have blonde hair.
I am a natural blond. I thought it was obvious.
He bursts out laughing. He has a good laugh. He could leave, since he has seen that I am fine, but he stays beside me. To pass the time he looks at the green ceramic tiles in the bathroom, full of obscene drawings and marker writing. This gives him a cue to carry on the conversation.
Even the inscriptions have become stupid; it goes without saying that one cannot expect high literature from toilet inscriptions.
The position I am in prevents me from seeing the wall beside me.
What does it say? I ask.
"Marco loves Silvia": banal. "Barbara gives it to everyone": eh, get to know her, this Barbara. This one is hermetic: 'Davide is there'; then the usual crap: 'Paolo faggot'; 'In this loo I did Cristina'; 'In this loo I did me'.
The answer to the previous one.
'Debiasi douchebag': here we are in an area of archaeological finds, Debiasi retired five years ago; he was a good professor, but he could not keep discipline. Listen to this one: 'Let's self-manage our lives'.
A feminist, an antique. 
Yeah. Let's see what we have here: 'The only difference between our violence and yours is that we are right'. A fine example of wishful thinking for its own sake. And here: 'The best have lost every...' can't you tell, foot?
Faith I venture without seeing.
Yes. Well, that's deep, come on.
How so?
You can't explain it like that, in a school toilet. What's wrong with you? Your arm's shaking.
I am a bit tired of being in this position.
Give it here.
He takes the handkerchief and presses it gently against my nose. He looks around.
For a change, the floor is dirty, there is no soap on the washbasins and there is no toilet paper in the toilets. They treat us like pigs.
Indeed, a typical ammonia stench leaks through the handkerchief.
What class are you in?
Second high school.
Which section?
They are in C.
Ah, so with Marinetti and Sanmarco. You're lucky, they're two great teachers. Strange though, I've never noticed you in the corridors.
He means, of course, that I don't go unnoticed either. I answer in an evasive tone:
I don't show myself around much; I prefer to stay in class, also because the girls have been taking strange liberties with me lately.
Meaning?
What do I know, one put her hand on my bottom yesterday while I was at the soda machine. Even in class, however, my classmates sit on my lap and put their hands on me.
He bursts out laughing, shaking his head.
Change your look, boy, if you don't want them to take these confidences. With me they don't, who knows why.
He means that he is also attractive, but no one would ever dream of taking such liberties with him. I am annoyed to admit that I have made a fool of myself: it is obvious that it is up to me and that I am the one who provokes it. Actually, I don't even know why I do it: I'm not interested in any of those girls, yet I try to draw their attention to my physical appearance. Maybe it's some kind of revenge for my humiliated and offended self-love, maybe I'm simply trying to distract myself from my sickness with something to act as a float. Some nights I drown in a barrel of ink, I wish I were dead. But this he cannot know.
Antonio looks at his watch: about twenty minutes have passed. I doubt that he is lingering there unwillingly, although I honestly don't think so: I think he likes me. In any case I tell him:
I'm wasting your time. You can go if you want.
I immediately bite my tongue: that 'you may go' sounds like a prince's concession to his subject, and I don't want to appear to him as the spoilt rich boy that I am. I blush violently, catching his unexpressed thought: despite my grunge disguise, I give off an unmistakable scent of a chosen race.
Have you ever been to the Murazzi? he asks me, looking away and pretending not to notice my embarrassment. Grateful for his discretion, I answer him:
Of course: I pass by there every day on my way home.
I say in clubs, at night. There are some interesting ones, if you like music.
Being the fine strategist that he is, he is leading me on my own ground: he is creating the conditions for it not to end up in that bathroom once my nose has stopped bleeding. I feel my heart widen.
I love music, I tell them firmly, but it depends on what they play.
More like rock.
Ancient? Progressive or something?
What do you mean ancient? The best music is that of the sixties-seventies.
I shake my head with a half-smile:
It is a cliché. In my opinion, the best music starts in the late seventies.
I think you are wrong.
Don't get me wrong: I know there have been greats before too, but in general there is too much rhetoric. 
Explain yourself better.
It's just their concept of music that I don't like, all those solos that don't serve any fucking purpose, the choruses and stuff like that. Or the opposite, they're experimental and cerebral, cold, like King Crimson and Soft Machine. 
Laughs:
Cold Soft Machine? What about Moon in June?
I admit, it is a masterpiece, but it is an exception. 
Wyatt is great.
Yes, you are right about that: his singing kills me, he puts his soul into that almost sultry voice. When he sings he seems possessed by a demon.
All real musicians are possessed by a demon.
It is completely Dionysian, very sexy.
Mah, sexy... Let's say that in music I look for something else.
Have you ever seen him play drums shirtless?
He hasn't played it since the accident in '73.
I know, unfortunately.
However, Las Vegas Tango alone is enough to consecrate him to genius.
The End of an Ear you say? Yes, it's brilliant, but there's too much avant-garde for my taste. You see, that's exactly what I was trying to say: in my opinion in that period there is a lack of a sense of measure, it goes from one excess to another. Let's not even talk about metal, terribly kitch. 
On this I agree. 
The music I really like starts in the eighties.
Madonna? Michael Jackson? Prince?
I look up at him: we really don't understand each other.
Joy Division, Sonic Youth, Pixies, Fugazi, Slint, R.E.M., Nirvana... it's a long discourse, maybe we'll talk about it again later, if you feel like it. Besides, I told you, something in the sixties-seventies I save.
He laughs again:
Thank you for the concession. Keep your head down. Like what are you saving?
For example, the brilliant precursors: Talking Heads, Television...
Speaking of Television, did you know that Tom Verlaine was born a poet?
No, but you can tell by everything, including his chosen stage name. But more than anything else I find his guitar playing brilliant. Plus he's bloody charming.
There must be a reason why Patti Smith fell head over heels for him.
His music is a mix of the intellectual and the sensual. Horny.
More intellectual than sensual, I would say, like most East Coast music. A track like Venus de Milo is pure Dadaism.
I prefer the earlier version, the demo tapes from '74: it drips schizophrenia from every pore.
He looks at me sincerely amazed:
How do you know that version?
I have my own channels. In general I like the rough versions more than the finished work: in a way the finished product is dead, whereas in the rehearsals you feel the life pulsating. Their greatest for me is The Blow-Up, I much prefer it to Marquee Moon. Think of a track like Little Johnny Jewel: an absolute masterpiece.
You have a point, studio albums fail to capture that raw edge of on-stage improvisations. But among the previous music, is there really nothing you like?
Yes, of course, there is something. For example Father's Shout, the intro to Atom Heart Mother: it is unquestionably brilliant. There are also individual tracks that are perfect in their genre, like The Musical Box. But in general there is too much emphasis, it is a congenital defect of that kind of music: think of Queen. I'm interested in substance, not rhetoric. As a concept of music, I like the Stones in their early days, before they started to make fun of themselves; until the death of Brian Jones in short. In the beginning they were perfect: short, intense songs, no frills.
For example?
Gimme Shelter, but without Lisa Fischer and her vocals. The raw, raw one, only with Mick Jagger's voice.
No Beatles?
Yes, I like the Beatles, even though they are the progenitors of a somewhat ruffian style of music that is typically British. Personally, I prefer the Americans.
And then what do you listen to?
Other things, some of them quite complicated.
Such as?
I pull the handkerchief away from my nose, just to realise that it is still bleeding, but less so, and continue the conversation by dabbing it from time to time.
Pere Ubu, Neil Young, Frank Zappa, Tim Buckley, Itsuro Shimoda...
Tim Buckley and who?
A kind of Japanese Neil Young. Of course, I also like Don Van Vliet.
Captain Beefheart?
Yes. I see you know him.
He shrugs his shoulders with the expression of someone who says 'what do you take me for?
What kind of connoisseur would I be if I didn't know him? 
In my opinion, the game is between him and Tim Buckley, especially if you consider that they started back in the sixties. They are very different but equally great: Tim had a soul made of music, the Captain is a genius of desecration.
On this I can agree: they are both remarkable experimenters, although, as I repeat, I would also put Robert Wyatt in the mix.
Let's put him in too. Anyway, speaking of Tim, I particularly like his early period, when he was nineteen and had that neurasthenic angel voice, as in Pleasant Street.
It's a song about drugs, did you know that?
I got it: you wheel, you steal, you feel, you kneel... 
By the way, how do you deal with drugs?
Me?
It's just the two of us in here, I think.
I do not report. 
Meaning?
I don't care. I think it is only to be considered for possible suicide. 
What do you think of Heroin by Lou Reed?
I don't like it.
In its genre, it is a masterpiece.
Maybe, but I hate it. 
Why?
How should I know? I hate it.
Don't shake your head.
Shit, I stained my shirt.
It is too early to remove the handkerchief, you are still bleeding.
He wets a washcloth and gently rubs the bloodstains that have fallen on my chest.
I have a controversial relationship with Velvet, I tell him to justify myself.
It was understood. Anyway, to get back to Tim, I much prefer the Starsailor period.
I smile:
Intellectual tastes.
I am an intellectual, otherwise I could not appreciate Van Vliet, could I? With the Captain, we are far beyond the boundaries of pop-rock.
More than anything, he takes all genres and turns them inside out. 
Did you know that he beats his musicians until he gets exactly the result he has in mind?
Yes, I have heard that. Genius and unruliness.
But don't you listen to classical music?
Little. I need to understand my time and classical does not help me. I feel that I am not ready yet. When my blood calms down, I think I will listen to Bach.
So far it hasn't calmed down: it's still coming out through the nose. 
Oh man, does it never stop?
Why Bach?
For Bach, music is the language of God, like mathematics. 
What about jazz?
I don't listen to jazz. 
That is a flaw, from my point of view. That's why you don't really appreciate Soft Machine.
I can't help it: I don't like jazz.
Well, you said you like Little Johnny Jewel: it's kind of jazzy in the middle part.
Like. But then no, it's not: it's punk, lo-fi and ramshackle. Pure genius.
I guess I'll tear you up on music.
I shake my head with a smirk.
I guess not.
I guess we have to play it on the field.
Which is where?
In some pub in Turin.
Where do you usually go?
At Doctor Sax. They do a bit of all kinds of music. There are also some new groups playing unreleased music.
I think I'll go there tomorrow.
Okay.
He stays next to me without saying anything more. I lean the back of my head against the wall, staring at the ceiling, and as the last drops of blood run warm and sweetish down my throat I realise, with sudden amazement, that for the first time in many months I feel almost well.