Many years have passed and I can’t remember for sure which of the two happened first, but in any case they belong to a very close period. We’re around ’73.
One day I was coming home from school when, stepping out of the elevator onto the landing of our home — on via Daunia, in San Severo, on the sixth and top floor — I saw Andrea with a friend of ours. This friend had christened our house The Load & Shoot Ltd.. The two were stumbling down the stairs that led up to the terrace, holding the Diana air rifle.
— What happened? — I asked.
— Nothing — was the answer.
The friend immediately slipped into the elevator and left. Andrea went back into the house and put the little rifle away in our room, as if nothing had happened.
Shortly afterwards my parents also came back from school. My mother made lunch and we all sat down at the table. At some point the doorbell rang. I got up and went to open it, while the others stayed at the table in the kitchen.
At the door was a traffic cop, together with two other people. The cop was holding a handkerchief pressed to the side of his neck. They told me they were going from apartment to apartment among those overlooking the crossroads with via Tondi: someone, presumably from there, had fired down into the street, even hitting the cop.
They asked me if there were any weapons in the house.
Dumbfounded, I said yes and, without hesitation, showed them Dad’s hunting rifles and the Flobert, kept in the closet next to the entrance. I knew perfectly well that the incident couldn’t be traced to the weapons I’d shown, and, naturally, I didn’t mention the Diana in our room.
So the three apologized, said goodbye and left, continuing their investigation down the stairs.

Back in the kitchen, Dad asked me:
— Who was it?
— A traffic cop. He was asking if we knew whose car was badly parked down in the street — I answered promptly, flashing a smile at Andrea.
Andrea told me later that from the terrace they had first taken aim at the tub of salt cod soaking in front of the grocery store on the corner, causing curious and inexplicable splashes of water. Then it was the turn of the roof of a couple’s car, parked in front of the store. While the woman had gone in to shop, the owner walked around the car unable to explain the hits and scratches appearing on the roof.
The final target was the traffic cop, who, happening to pass by, had been drawn into investigating the strange phenomena and then picked out as the ultimate trophy.

The second episode took place in summer, in San Menaio, in our old house.
Mom, Dad, Mariella and I had just got back together from the beach. Andrea was already home. Just enough time to cook and we were all at the table.
There’s a knock at the door. Once again, two or three people. They complained that someone had fired pellets, hitting a lady in the leg as she sat on the steps of the old elementary school, about a hundred meters from our balcony.
This time it was our father who stepped in and, not lying, but thanks to his proverbial confusion, declared indignantly that we had all just come back together from the beach and sat down to eat, and nobody had fired anything.
I didn’t need confirmation, but glancing at the balcony I saw that Andrea still hadn’t put back the pot in the row of geraniums along the railing, the one he’d had to move to make room and shoot lying down.

And so two small swastikas carved into the wood appeared on the rifle stock, like the ones pilots painted on their fuselage for each enemy aircraft shot down.”