Alessandro Robecchi

> He wears old boots, one gaping open at the toe, like a toothless grin. (...) But ultimately nobody sees him, because in Milan, even with the Universal Exposition and its status as the center of the world, a homeless man pushing a cart filled with his life is merely part of the landscape, and thus invisible . With this image of commonplace social indifference, the novel held out the promise of a Noir with a strong social imprint; especially when paired with another hallmark of Milan as "capital of the world": the world of television and major annual trade fairs, such as the Salone del Mobile. The protagonist, Carlo Monterossi, is a famous producer of a television show that even he despises; he lives in a splendid apartment with an efficient, protective housekeeper: it is a fake, superficial life that could go on forever, comfortable amid parties, fleeting affairs, and self-pity. Until everything is upended. At the end of a party, he finds a Japanese man in his home, dazed and terrified. Who is he? What is he doing in his house? And why is he murdered, and Monterossi's fine residence ransacked? It is from this premise that a Noir sets off, bogged down by an entangled and redundant plot featuring everything except the essential ingredient: suspense. Like a grand mélange of Simenon and De Cataldo (see the citation of *Romanzo Criminale* on this site), we have police intrigue, the secret services, an alienated yet sharp inspector, the cynical, wheeling-and-dealing backdrop of the "Milano da bere," marginalization, illegal immigration, and finally—why not?—even love. In short, it is a miscellany, fortunately seasoned with frequent Bob Dylan quotations steeped in a melancholy romanticism, as in these lines: > In the early morning rain with a dollar in hand / An aching in the heart and pockets full of sand / I am far away from home and I miss my only love so much . The narrative style is dynamic, alternating effective descriptions with tight, rapid-fire dialogue; yet narrative fluency is undermined by the constant entrance and exit of various characters—tiresome and confusing in its repetition—and by the recurrent psychological introspection devoted to Carlo, who slowly evolves from a frivolous dandy into a "real" man. It is, perhaps, an attempt to introduce an inner transformation in the character: a shift that remains unresolved because it is never fully explored, reducing it to a mere literary device. The writing is elegantly simple; it deserved a sturdier, better-constructed story. Why not read it? It is prolix—the worst possible flaw for a Noir.