from Asbestos: The Story of a Tuscan Welder Alberto Prunetti (bio) Translated by Oonagh Stransky (bio) I carry an image of him wearing green coveralls and a pair of chamois gloves. He kneels down on the gravel at the construction site with the angle grinder in front of him. He picks up his mallet and screwdriver, strikes the well-worn handle of the screwdriver to loosen the ring that holds the wire wheel in the grinder, and inserts a cutting wheel. He flicks the switch on with his gloved thumb. The blade spins at the speed of ten thousand rotations per minute. He brings the disc up to the gray pipe. When they come into contact, there’s a metallic scream, followed by an explosion of sparks and a dry eruption of regularly shaped fibrous particles. Small crystalline darts. Invisible shards that find their way into the esophagus or lungs, that stick to the pleura for twenty, thirty, even forty years, and that cause a wound that the body can’t heal or eradicate, triggering a process of cellular degeneration. A tumor. He stretches an industrial extension cord around the perimeter of a storage tank filled with hydrocarbons. The ground is viscous with slimy oil, black veering towards cobalt. He connects the welding machine to the cord, attaches the clamp to a metal component, inserts an electrode to a second clamp, and then places it on the ground. With his left hand, he picks up a welder’s mask and holds it to his face. Another worker grabs a dirty gray blanket and unfolds it over him, leaving him completely in the dark. With his right hand, he grabs the clamp and brings the electrode to the metal. A violent burst of light, attenuated by the tinted lens of the mask, bursts out: sparks fly off the tip of the quickly disappearing electrode, melting and lumping metal on metal. When the electrode is completely consumed, the man under the cloth grabs the mallet and, in total darkness, infers where the clump of now solid—but still incandescent—metal is located. He strikes the clot with the mallet and breaks apart the crust of slag. Welding only a few inches away from a fuel tank is dangerous. A single spark could trigger an explosion that could blow up an entire refinery. That’s why they tell him to use that dirty gray blanket. It’s heat resistant since it’s made from a lightweight, indestructible material: asbestos. Under the blanket, it’s just him and the sparks and the substances that are freed up by the fusion of the electrode. Just one single fiber of asbestos, and twenty-six years later, he will be dead. [End Page 29] ________ This is the story of a man who has the same surname as me and the same birthday as me, but he’s not me. This is a story that begins with a pop song by Nada and ends with the toxic science of heavy metals. It’s 1969, the Swinging Sixties are coming to an end, and we’re at the Cardellino nightclub in Castiglioncello, near Livorno. Nada Malanima, a singer fresh off the Sanremo musical festival circuit, has become popular for her tune “Ma che freddo fa.” A member of the paparazzi from Livorno, locally known as “Nick Flash” for the blinding halogen light on his camera, takes a picture of her surrounded by waiters and fans. Standing next to her is a tall, thin man who vaguely resembles Jean-Paul Belmondo. Nada is just sixteen, and he’s twenty-four. His name is Renato, and he’s the main character of this story, which begins with an iconic song from the sixties and ends with his slow death. If this were a noir, the name of the killer would be revealed outright, but in this case, it’s a “workplace homicide.” The culprit is surrounded by evidence and by witnesses who deny any and all responsibility. There’s no happy ending and no resolution. The threat is still out there: a silent killer protected by an army of doctors, engineers, consultants, and businessmen. I’m reluctant to begin telling...
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Oct 21, 2024
Daniel Patrick Compora 
