Fifty-seven

Fifty-seven days. Paolo Borsellino lived so long without Giovanni Falcone. Not even two months after the Capaci massacre, May 23, 1992. July 19 was his turn. Via D'Amelio, bomb, columns of black smoke, dismembered bodies, gutted buildings, blood and more blood, on a Palermo still stunned, on an Italy distracted by summer rituals.

Fifty-seven days. Fifty-seven nights. Who knows how Paolo Borsellino experienced them. Fear. Anguish. Solitude. Suffering. Sadness. Disappointment. Prayer. Despair. Feeling of defeat. Anxious questions. Is it worth it? Torments. Run away? To remain? be silent? To scream?

How does the magistrate who brought down a beautiful piece of mafia history in Sicily spend those interminable, yet counted hours? Memories. Regrets. Pride. Surrender. Vendetta. Projects. Agnese and the boys. Manfredi, Lucia, Fiammetta. Widow. Orphans. Absence. Empty. Sense of duty. Sense of uselessness. The mafia always kills. Politics? Far away. Indifferent. Afraid. Sick.

Fifty-seven nights. Between sleep and wakefulness. Tears and prayers. Dark. Darkness. How do you sleep, knowing you have little time? Months? Days? It's up to Paolo Borsellino, now. The Cosa Nostra list. Somewhere, in that Palermo of all time, the butchers are getting ready. TIC Tac. The countdown has started. Tritolo for Paolo Borsellino. It's his turn. We mustn't afford to send the mafia to jail and be able to tell about it.

Why is nobody doing anything? Why will no one save Paolo Borsellino? Remove it, hide it, defend it. A faithful servant of the state, he cannot be left in the hands of the executioners. Alone, with his escort, boys sent to slaughter with him.

Flee, Paolo, flee. Don't stay in Palermo. Save your life and our summer tranquility. Giovanni is no more, and he will not return. Time passes, runs, flies away. Tick ​​tock, tick tock.

No, Borsellino works and works, even in the name of Giovanni. Borsellino is a magistrate, the best, the most honest, the most serious, he is Giovanni's heir. Borsellino is a Christian, he knows that Jesus Christ did not flee from the cross. He knows there is a death, he knows there is a resurrection. But how much bitter pain in the hours of the cross. How little time. Tick ​​tock, tick tock.

Fifty-seven days, very slow, very fast. Paul's time is up. Paul's time is over. Now comes the night. The sky of Palermo is black. John and Paul together again.

Renzo Agasso
NP August / September 2022