Miozzi – The Quarantozzis have a dog, Miozzi. There’s a path that leads to the woods, a hundred metres from their front door. Miozzi can smell Springtime and interested love. The path belongs to the boundless green area of Abruzzo, and it’s not overly popular.
Abruzzo in Spring is a relatively uncontaminated haven, not overwhelmed by the hospital emergency triggered by the pandemic, which proved devastating elsewhere.
But you can’t go out, other than for necessity.
Miozzi is the reason to cross the threshold, both necessarily and pretextually, the woods are the natural call to avoid meeting anybody and rest your eyes, trapped in all kinds of screens all day long.
They’re lucky, the Quarantozzis, now; not so much twenty years ago, when they decided to move here, to one of the areas in the progressively depopulating Apennines, hardly served by public transport and without any service, unless you have a car and a driving license, not to mention internet connection.
Work – After years spent chasing all sorts of “17/” buses* the word remote working breaks into the Quarantozzi home, like a futuristic reality. During quarantine, working from home, for those who can, is to measure oneself with one’s responsibilities and a well-stocked fridge; for those who can’t, it’s waiting for social welfare, or figuring a way to rethink your job and try to fill your larder.
* “Diciassette barrato” (17/ number bus) is a traditionally inefficient and uncomfortable commuter bus in Italian fiction.
The discovery of time to be used in a new way is the other Unknow that visit Quarantozzi House.