It was December 9th, 6:20 in the morning, and a rainy, windy storm was lashing the countryside. A black GTI turbo Fiat Uno (a relic from an era in which, for a few liras above the price of the standard model, one could buy a coffin on wheels which drove like a Porsche, guzzled gasoline like a Cadillac, and crumpled like a can of Coca-Cola) had just taken the exit ramp that led from the Aurelia road to Ischiano Scalo. And it kept going on a two-lane road that cut through fields of mud. It went by the Sports Complex and the building of the Agro-Consortium, and then into the town.

The short main street, corso Italia, was covered with clods of earth the wind and the rain had swept in. The ad poster for "Ivana Zampetti’s Beauty Salon" had been blown off and was now in the middle of the road.

Not a soul was around, except for a lame dog, which had more breeds in its blood than teeth in its mouth, that was rummaging around in the garbage of an overturned dumpster.

The Uno went right by him, raced past the shuttered Mar-coni butcher shop, the tobacco-cosmetics shop, and the Rural Credit Union, and continued on to the piazza XXV aprile, the town’s centre.

Bits of paper, plastic bags, newspapers, and rain swirled around the open space in front of the train station. The yellowed leaves of the old palm tree, in the centre of the little garden, were all blown to one side. The door of the small station – a grey, square building – was closed, but the red sign of the Station Bar was lit up, an indication that it was still open.

It stopped in front of the Monument to the War Dead of Ischiano Scalo, and stayed there with the engine running. The exhaust pipe was spewing out thick black smoke. The smoked-glass windows didn’t allow you to see in.

Then, at last, the door on the driver’s side opened wide, making a kind of metallic groaning sound.

First, you could hear "Volare," the version by the Gypsy Kings, and then right afterwards a large, heavy-set man got out. He had a big head of long blond hair, beady little glasses, and a brown leather jacket with an Apache eagle made of beads embroidered on its back.

His name was Graziano Biglia.

The guy stretched his arms out. He yawned. He stretched his legs. He pulled out a pack of Camels and lit one.

He was back home again.

The Seagull and the Disco-dancer

To understand why Graziano Biglia decided to go back to Ischi-ano Scalo, his birthplace, on that December 9th, after having been away for two years, we have to go back a little in time.

Not a lot. Seven months earlier. And we have to jump over to the other side of Italy, to the east coast – more precisely, to that area known as the riviera romagnola.

Summer has begun.

It’s Friday evening and we’re at the Marina Starfish (also known as Mario’s Stinkfish on account of the stink produced by the cook from Caserta), a little, inexpensive restaurant on the beach just a few kilometers from Riccione, specializing in seafood and gastroenteritis.

It’s hot, but there’s a light wind coming off the sea which makes everything more bearable.

The place is jammed. Mostly foreigners, German and Dutch couples, northern European types.

And here’s Graziano Biglia. Leaning on the bar, he’s downing his third Margarita.

Pablo Gutierrez, a dark-complexioned kid with bangs and a carp tattooed on his back, enters the place and goes up to him.

"Ya want to start?" the Spaniard asks him.

"Let’s do it." With a knowing look from Graziano, the barman crouches behind the bar, pulls out a guitar, and hands it over to him.

This evening, for the first time in a while, he feels again like playing. He feels inspired.

Maybe it’s the two Margaritas he just knocked back, maybe it’s the soft breeze, maybe it’s the friendly, intimate atmosphere of that rotunda on the sea – who knows?

He sits down on a stool in the centre of the small dance floor lit up with hot red lights. He opens the leather case and takes out his guitar, the same way a samurai would unsheathe his katana.

It’s a Spanish guitar made just for Graziano by Xavier Mar-tinez, the famous Barcelona guitar maker. He tunes it, and it seems to him as though there’s a magical flow between his instrument and himself, making them partners capable of producing fantastic chords together. Then he looks at Pablo. He’s standing up, behind a couple of congas.

A spark lights up their eyes.

And without wasting any more time, they start off with a piece by Paco de Lucia, followed by one by Santana, a couple of pieces by John McLaughlin, and finish up with the ever-popular Gypsy Kings.

Graziano’s hands scurry over the fingerboard of his guitar as if he were possessed by the spirit of the great Andrés Segovia.

The audience loves it. Applause. Shouting and whistling their approval.

He has them in the palm of his hand. Especially the female contingent. He can sense them turned on like rabbits in heat.

Some of it’s because of the magic of Spanish music, but most of it’s on account of the way he looks.

It’s difficult not to go crazy for someone like Graziano.

The head of blond hair, like a lion’s mane, that goes all the way to his shoulders. The huge chest, covered with a soft, light-brown carpet. His Arab eyes, like Omar Sharif’s. The faded blue jeans torn at the knees. The necklace with turquoise stones. The tribal tattoos on his bulging biceps. The naked feet. All of it part of a scheme to melt the hearts of his female listeners.

When the concert is over, after yet another encore of "Samba pa ti," after yet another kiss to the sunburnt German girl, Grazi-ano gestures to Pablo and goes off to the toilet to take a leak and to get recharged by puffing on some Bolivian pick-me-up.

He’s about to exit when an oversized brunette, sun-tanned like a chocolate cookie and getting up there in age, but with two tits that look like aerostatic soccer balls, comes into the bathroom.

"It’s the Men’s Room," Graziano lets her know, pointing at the door.

The woman puts up her hand to stop him. "I’d like to give you a blowjob, do you mind?"

Ever since the world has existed, every man has known better than to ever turn down a blowjob.

"Be my guest," Graziano tells her, pointing towards the stall.

"First, though, I want to show you something," says the brunette. "Look over there, in the middle of the place. You see that guy in the Hawaiian shirt? He’s my husband. We’re here from Milan . . ."

The husband is a thin dude, his hair slicked down with brilliantine. He’s gulping down peppered mussels.

"Say hi to him."

Graziano gestures with his hand. The dude raises his cup of champagne and then gives Graziano a round of applause.

"He thinks you’re great. He says you play like a god, that you’ve got a gift."

The woman pushes him towards the stall. She closes the door. She sits on the toilet seat. She unbuttons his jeans and says: "But now we’re gonna put some horns on him."

Graziano leans on the wall and closes his eyes.

And time just fades.