The roar of a creature as scary as a threat from the Calabrian mafia

The roar of a child rises above the din of a mid-afternoon shopping mall. The screams and desperation are so intense that the four or five of us queuing to pay for parking tickets at the machines turn around, startled, to see if anyone needs help. We quickly pinpoint the conflict above our heads, on the escalator leading down to the car. It's a boy of about seven or eight years old who's gotten angry with his father and is booing him from behind. The sounds of indecipherable scratches make it hard to understand the problem. In front of him, with his back to him, the man is holding the hand of another, younger boy, about three or four years old. They try to appear indifferent to the drama. Rather, they seem to be seasoned with the strategy. The little one stands out better than the father. The father has both of the children's school bags slung over his shoulder and looks weary, exhausted. The scene drags on because they're letting themselves be carried away by the slow pace of the ramp's descent. Despite the obvious family tension, they're in no hurry. Or Dad doesn't want to show it. Perhaps it's part of a hidden plan to show the indignant child that this crisis won't change the afternoon's plans, or that he won't get his way. However, that child's ability to sustain this high level of hysteria is shocking. He doesn't let up. It's unsettling because it sounds like the screams of extreme suffering, of superlative rage. When the father and the child reach the end of the automatic walkway, they walk along the parking lot landing and pass us. The desperate child, who until now had been trailing behind them, starts to run and overtakes them. Then he turns and confronts them. He tries to block their path, screaming and crying. His face is red, his voice cracks, and it's hard to understand. But he delivers an excited speech, waving his arms and brandishing his anorak. The scene evokes a certain fascination around him. It's as if it's happening in slow motion. It's inevitable to watch, to speculate about the trigger for what they used to call "throwing a tantrum." There's also the morbid effect of seeing how it will end or if the parent will handle it in some way that will surprise us. And then, the scare occurs. The child, unhinged, increases the volume of his screams, as if he were about to issue an ultimatum to his parent. In the midst of an excited speech, he makes the drastic gesture of a threat. Aggressively, he crosses his fist with his thumb raised in front of his neck. As if he were a leader of the Calabrian mafia, he makes the movement that, in the movies, they use to announce that heads will roll. The stupor caused by this reaction makes us look for knowing glances at the parents. voyeurs of the spectacle. We must confirm that what we saw really happened. Despite that violent and unusual reaction, the father remains impassive. Surely the procession is going on inside. The man continues walking, dragging the other child in the direction of the parked cars, as if he hadn't seen him. Father and sons disappear into the darkness of the parking lot, with the echoes of their bellows growing ever more distant.

At night, at home, cooking dinner, you can't get the scene out of your head and wish that at that hour, sitting at the table, that family had been able to calmly talk about what happened and sort out their emotions. And that it had just been a bad day.