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The Province's Verdict: Return to T.
Here we are again, up to our necks in sweat and paperwork at the T. City Hall, because Giuseppe Mongiovì decided he hadn’t tortured us enough yet with the miseries of our province. Having already faced his ruthless X-rays of the human soul in the past, I knew what I was getting into: no redemption, no heroes without blemish. And indeed, at the center of this new tragic farce, we find architect Taboni, the indomitable head of the technical office of the municipality of T. Don’t kid yourselves—Taboni is no champion of justice; he is the embodiment of institutionalized mediocrity, a man whose sleepless nights are not filled with lofty ideals, but with the petty dream of building his long-coveted beachfront villa. He moves through a suffocating family and social ecosystem, between his wife Teresa and his daughter Cettina, in a little theater where every spark of vitality is drowned in cynicism. And when the monotony is broken by the death of a certain Castiglioni, Taboni’s reaction is not pity, but a clumsy attempt to worm his way into the investigation, suggesting to the Carabinieri commander that this is a “mystery” to be solved, and not a convenient fatality to be quickly shelved. It is the boredom of provincial life desperately seeking a thrill at the expense of others.
The Grotesque Triumph of Institutional Absurdity
But Mongiovì achieves his true masterpiece of disillusionment by depicting the social backdrop, starting with the drought that parches the land and the minds. It hasn’t rained in months; people complain with their usual fatalistic resignation (“It hasn’t rained in a long time”), while up north—the ultimate irony—“it’s raining and raining.” And the institutions’ response to this disaster? A rally by the provincial president who, with the brazenness typical of those who govern us, asks citizens to “behave responsibly,” going so far as to suggest that men stop shaving every day. It’s the triumph of idiocy elevated to a political strategy, a mockery that rolls right off the backs of citizens who’ve grown accustomed to everything by now.
Flesh, Hunger, and Horror
In this vacuum of values, the only thing that remains is appetite—the compulsive, bestial satisfaction of primal instincts. Taboni is its physical embodiment: watch him as he walks into Mortizzo’s bar and, for breakfast, stuffs himself with three croissants, two ricotta cannoli, zeppole, and miniature pastries, then tops it all off by taking an entire bottle of Averna amaro with him. It is an atavistic hunger, a desperate need to fill oneself that goes hand in hand with the book’s other major impulse: the carnal, murky, and sick one. Mongiovì spares us nothing, not even the descent into hell that is Adele Bartolo’s story. What might seem like a trivial small-town tale—a simple “sex story”—is openly elevated to “pure horror,” amid wasted glances, animalistic ecstasy, and desires that reek of mud and bestiality.
In the end, as yet another chapter of this human saga by Mongiovì comes to a close, all that remains is a bitter taste in the mouth. A cynical but inescapable confirmation that this is exactly what we are: starving creatures, trapped in our petty bureaucratic squabbles, ready to tear each other apart over a little water or one too many cannoli, waiting for rain to fall on a world that has already given up hope.
SINE GLOSSA
The story unfolds in the town of T., where architect Totò Taboni, head of the technical office, drags out his existence amid bureaucratic tasks and a deeply personal obsession with building a villa by the sea—a dream that fuels his sleepless nights. In a stifling and run-down provincial setting, local authorities—represented by figures such as Mayor Sceccuzza—are grappling with a severe drought that the provincial president attempts to manage through grotesque rallies, urging citizens to adopt responsible behaviors such as avoiding daily shaving to conserve water. Taboni tries to fill the void in his life through compulsive binge-eating at Mortizzo’s bar, where he devours pastries and cannoli washed down with Averna amaro, while the town’s tranquility is shaken by the death of a certain Castiglioni. Although the authorities want to dismiss the death as a natural accident, Taboni presses the Carabinieri commander to treat the case as a mystery, revealing more of a desire to escape boredom than a genuine zeal for justice. Alongside the political and bureaucratic satire, the plot delves into darker territory with the story of Adele Bartolo—a tale that transcends a simple tale of seduction to become, according to the author, pure horror made up of bestial impulses and unspeakable desires. It all concludes in an atmosphere of total disillusionment, where the gatherings of local gossipmongers at the bar reflect a culture in decline, and grand urban projects—such as the new courthouse— turn out to be nothing more than masks to cover up corruption and malfeasance, leaving Taboni and his fellow citizens trapped in a perpetual mediocrity from which there is no escape.
