Tocco i libri con le mani. Ne leggo le parole con le dita.
Li annuso. Li osservo. Li vizio. Li corteggio.
Qui, il tempo si ferma. Il moto perpetuo della vita si interrompe. Così. Sospeso. Tra ciò che era un attimo prima, e ciò che adesso non è più. E con lui mi fermo io. Metto sotto chiave i cattivi pensieri, e le inutili ansie. Il cuore si schiarisce. Comincia a pompare sangue con nuova forza, ritrovata energia. Mi pare quasi di vederlo, that little punch that is my heart. There, under the breast. Contracts. Relax. It ricontrae. It has the purple color of the wine. Red wine. Sweet. Aged. Slightly spicy. Aftertaste of vanilla and cinnamon. My heart knows of vanilla and cinnamon. How strange that I have heart.
starts like this, a little 'for fun, a bit' by chance, to wander, undisturbed, little used in the double bottom of the soul. I get lost. I find myself. I identify with. Another meeting me. And then another. It faces different faces away, lend noses, eyes, ears, mouths. I look at them dancing in a parody of memories.
wandering through the shelves. Unknown colored backs of books trace the paths of a ghost town fatta di carta e d'inchiostro.
Dall'angolo infondo arriva l'odore del pane appena sfornato. Lì, proprio lì, deve esserci il chiosco del fornaio. Chissà se fanno anche le focaccine che mi piacciono tanto.
Più a destra, una piccola cappella bianca. E, in alto, il campanile. Una giovane sposa, vestita di sogni, procede fiduciosa verso l'altare. Nel grembo, già culla il seme di quel suo amore bambino.
Mi pare di scorgere anche il porto, in lontananza. Groviglio di anime e braccia. Di navi e lamiere. Di pesce e di terra. Ano del mondo, direbbe qualcuno. Ferita aperta nella carne lacera. Gente che parte, gente che torna, gente che scappa. Da sé stessa. Da ciò che era. Da ciò che non has managed to become.
And I am reminded of an old song that says, "Having eyes want to go, and instead stay. Prisoners of a world that leaves us only dream of. .. Only dream ...
A subdued chatter brings me back to reality. The city of paper and ink fades. Like this In a whisper. And with it, the baker's stall. The investigation. The sea.
I'm back in the library. My refuge. My nest. My roof.
distracted, I look up. And I meet another. A snap.
- "Looking for a particular book?" - Ask me.
- "Are the books to look for me" - I answer. He continues: "Found something interesting?"
- "Yes, I think so" - he tells me. But I am certainly not alluding to the book.
We study in silence. Muti duelists of a sudden skirmish.
- "Would you like a hot chocolate?"
That question, apparently out of context, I tear a smile. The ritual of hot chocolate I've always liked. Sa comfort. Tenderness. Delicate intimacy. End voluptuousness.
- "I want to - answer. Simply.
We go out together by the library. Neither took the book I was looking for. Yet we both know you have found something.
It's cold outside. Neapolitans Winters are never too hard. The sun seems to have subscribed to our slice of heaven now from time immemorial. Yet, this morning, a thousand needles of ice raping the flesh and bones. I turn up the collar of his coat and, rummaging in the bag, I find the gloves blacks, purchased a few days earlier in an off-hand shop on the outskirts of the village. Are soft. And hot. I wear them with care.
I see him looking at me furtively. He does not talk. Not a word to the little bar across the road.
I gave way, and we enter. The restaurant is semi desert. A few souls scattered here and there, without a precise logic. They look like extras. Of passage. Or even trinkets, unlikely to make this characteristic cavern of earth.
environment. A little 'vintage. A bit 'naive. Maybe retro. Certainly suggestive.
choose a table under the window. We head instinctively in that direction, though neither of them has made the slightest sound.
- "Are you deaf?" - The wonder - as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
- "No" - she smiles - "I was just observing."
- "And what do you think you see?"
- "Everything and its opposite" - responding.
- "already heard. Retrying" - say - with the contemptuous look that makes me dislike to many.
- "To define is to limit".
- "Read Oscar Wilde?"
- "I should not have?" - Ask me in turn.
- "Do not answer a question with another question" - the retort, puzzled.
- "already heard. Retrying"
- "Touch"
The notes of a jazz floating in the air. Suspended. Merciful. A sax makes love with music. Her courtesan of the past, you let rip his clothes. And, gentle, welcomed him in her womb. Infiniti enthusiasts to have stolen my heart. And the flesh. Countless stories have consumed his bones.
I see him tapping his fingers on the table. It has beautiful hands. I think back to a verse by Baricco, which reads: "There is nothing more beautiful than the legs of a man, when they are nice legs." I would say that there is nothing more beautiful hands of a man, when hands are beautiful. And his are gorgeous.
- "A penny for your thoughts" - he tells me.
- "My thoughts are not worth much "- I say - and I wonder why I ever got to play with myself fall.
-" Let me decide "- he insists.
just lift up your shoulders, feigning a lack of interest that are far from proving .
- "I thought the two of us. Here. Sitting in a bar. Unknown to each other. Strangers to ourselves. "
coughs up. How to clear his voice. Ideas.
-" Are you afraid of what you do not know? "- He asks.
-" I fear what they do not understand. "
I have the impression of having been catapulted into a movie. Of those black and white. Where there is always a beautiful woman waiting for a train at the station. And a man who, in despair, the chases.
It happens that you go up there, on that train. Convinced that he may have already forgotten. Deleted from life. And from his days.
other times, however, remains on the ground. Pinned in the same place. Nailed to itself. The nerves. The soul as well. And can be achieved. It is left to embrace. And then you let even love.
The hot chocolate comes to break the tension of the moment. He started to rain. I hear the water drumming on the glass floor. The angels are the faces, and wash the dust of this accursed land. Cleaning time, I think. And the lips bend into a smile, which tastes bitter resignation.
The smell of wet earth is the most real and seductive, the land perfumes. Intoxicate me. It confuses me.
The voice of the sax timpani hits. Imperishable and strong. In an impromptu moment of sincerity, he abandons the traditional confidentiality, and begins to tell his story. His wounds. The things he saw. Those who would rather not see. The ports of the world where it leads, without dropping anchor. Unable to bind to something, or someone too much and too long. The faces printed in force in memory. Indelible. And true. I have smoked cigars. And drained their glasses of whiskey in one gulp. So my throat burn. And burning strong. As if the physical pain I could wash the blood from the sins of the flesh.
time cleaning, I think.
- "Want to dance?" - Ask me.
not answer. I start to get up. And his hands have already grabbed mine. I drag in the middle of the makeshift dance hall, while I pretend a decent resistance.
wraps my skin in a firm embrace, which also tastes like fear. And wait. Broken dreams. Hopes intact. Rediscover the joys.
And even nutella. That's funny. And brioche French. And strawberries with cream. Hot coffee. Bread, butter and jam. A banquet of emotions.
- "I'll see you?" - Ask me in a whisper.
- 'E' in the hope that I myself - say.
I see him turn and, still, stand and watch. After a while, I go by the local plan. Studied movements, and slow. They are the remake of myself. It seems though the body has to adjust to a new rhythm. Vaguely known. Paroxysmal. Disturbing. And the mind to study a different script than the one played so far. Change the script. Some actors leave the stage. The music becomes the metallic noise of cars. My poor ears.
The road is a swamp. A pool metropolitan. I went off on a reckless ride through the puddles, and smile. In these ponds, very unlikely, the light is reflected, creating a whirlwind of changing colors.
As a child I believed that the water was a sort of space-time portal. One passage, unknown to many, 'going into uncharted territory.
So, I imagined goblins neurotic living fungi giants. Glittery fairy wings, worthy of our national glamorous. Gnomes funny, belly, working in mines, armed with shovel and ax. Cultural heritage of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, probably. Except that I was rooting for the witch.
the prince, I never really believed. The history of the glass slipper then ... Cinderella would not have found, but it would be consoled with a Gucci dress, with a thousand euro, raised at a meeting of high finance. A sexy career woman. Very nice. And independent.
people paraded me near silent. It seems almost not to see me. Dodge my shape like the most annoying of space. I do not care.
cold, put his hands in his pockets, and I notice a piece of paper that was not there before, and now. I gather, curious, and read it quietly, "you'll find me tomorrow, in the Greek myths and the books that tell the oldest stories of love. Do not even know your name. But, instill, what a name? That which we call a rose by another name would keep intact its scent .. "...
smile. It 's true. I did not even ask her name.
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