My shoes were lying disordered at the foot of the bed, the sheets almost touched the ground, still on the table my cup of coffee and cigarettes on her chair close to the mirror, along with his notebook. He had been in that chair for hours to watch me as I sipped my coffee and listening to listening again to the same song **. Then we made love in the white pages of a notebook. Now almost could not see it curled under the sheets, sleep with the sleep of a quiet child who is still pure, he to whom life was very still and always. Curious shadows on the mirror moves to the rhythm of the outside light. He felt the usual buzz of a metropolis in the late afternoon, the typical autumn evening, gray button with a fine mist that is timid refuge on rooftops or on roads with little traffic. I wear barefoot with arms crossed near the window of the balcony to observe the course, dripping with life. All that movement out there was like a centrifuge that awakened and increased my excitement. I can not tell what is so special in the entry of coffee with an old wooden display case, and teaches schwabaher characters. And I can not even tell you why a wall with pilasters and capitals of the leaves suggests almost ruined so many emotions. Maybe it's just the idea that once you lean back in love or just because the employee turned the streetlights years ago I was leaning with the scale. But in addition to memory, there music in the present, even there in the shop where the gentlemen in suits hurrying from canned foods mingle with old ladies who read all labels and teenagers who buy peanuts, razors, gum and cigarettes to the homeless and that Heaven grant before the miserable dinner. Everything in great turmoil, but in perfect harmony, while he sleeps in its purity careless and I wonder "but what they say over there?". I look a little ', a reflection of the lamp in his hair. Another tram passes the orange masses of people downloading and uploading. I have to go out there! I put on my shoes, I take my jacket and scarf. The next hat is Paul. With that look fluffy that children have when they steal the candy I stop a moment approaching the forefinger to his lips, then I take my hat off and run. You know that excitement that has no motivation, which has not been generated by a particular event, that enthusiasm that makes you instantly become the best writer in the world, that makes you believe to be the Cleopatra of the metropolis, which makes you able a self Humphey Bogart in Casablanca to your sadness? and you just a jazz tune, then everything is perfect, even your hair always hideous, even hump your back, even your self-conscious air. Going down the stairs, something catches my attention first floor, the apartment door was open no.3. I always wondered Paul who lived there, but every time I had replied "Dunno," apparently because he did not know and would never have bothered to be interested in something. I walked slowly to the door, the apartment, from what I could see from that position, he was sober and full of lights. At the entrance I could see a coat rack, a table, further on a sofa. On the opposite wall on the left, there was a mahogany table with chairs covered in black leather. On the right hand there was a magnificent grand piano. Between the table and the piano, a large window with white curtains and blu.Di front of the window a boy of no more than 22 years, is still watching out as I had done a little while ago .. It was one of those images in which inevitably I lose, then they are no longer the master of my muscles. I realize everything that happens around, but they are not able to react. They say that people listen to everything in a coma? There ... Even if the man had been shot and asked who I was and that I was doing there, I would not be able to say a word but I would go there by the window to look out with him. But he turned, took two steps and sat down at the piano. Then I stood motionless outside the door.
There are no events in our lives, there are feelings for which there will never be words for which there will be no pre-orders, for which there will never be an explanation. They are like clouds that form suddenly, sometimes low, sometimes disperse in the wind. You just have to decide if you want to get wet, and sooner or later fade away forever ...
the first touch of the piano dropped a tear, so, without notice, as if it were always there, ready to fall for him, for me at that moment, as if conscious of the disappearance of everything. But I did not think then, I had become the slave of the hand that lingered on that one key, such as wanting to get out until the last sound imperceptible to Clear the soul. The other fingers hovered majestically to an inch from the keyboard and god, god, god, I was in the throes of an uncontrollable desire, I wanted to hear about me. Suddenly I was a keyboard? Oh I was all those hands wanted. An hour before the boy even knew of existence and now, I was now his. I whispered it to him, trembling at the thought that he had heard, but deep down he knew it, yes, he had to know because the next moment he started playing "A Prelude To A Kiss." Celebrating the prelude to a dream, the dissolution of a cloud over the city enlightened, celebrating the excitement of who falls in love with some ways violent, who falls in love with a profile of the window, praised the long dance forever, every night jazz musicians from around the world nurture a sacred fire, celebrated the way in which the poet-child exchange vows, their lies so innocent.
He played for me and for himself, played with heart, as he would never have done in my life, I knew. Some things just believe it without trying to justify why we do will be true only in their absurdity. Reached the final note, I support the head in his hands flapping her elbows on the keyboard. A long silence followed. I had to say something ... but instead he suddenly raised his head, looking straight at him, as if projected on the wall of the monsters he had been frightened and said
"Now you can leave"
I was frightened, his heart in throat and cheeks red ran down the stairs. I wanted to see the truth instead of living it. It was mine. But how do you expect ... a word? Oh delirious. Once in the street I looked up to her window. It was there, motionless. A sparkle in her big eyes blacks shouted to me an oath that only babies can understand. Another tear slid plan. I put on my hat in my hands to close all the time and went on with his hands in his pockets.
"Tomorrow I talk to him. No, they just come back, I, I, I need to do it."
But now I was in the street on a gloomy October evening. The lady with the shopping cart I stamped his feet, blocking his way the newspaper reporting the news unsold in the cabin, outside the tobacconist people bought the last hopes of the day and test more than ever, the old table top the bar, sipped his orange drink. In fast food there was always that air of one who is pleased with himself for getting hurt because they spend little with taste, instead of dying hungry meals of haute cuisine. The fountain in Piazza Cairoli was the perfect backdrop to two American Indian street performers. And there I came from Peppino, my paninari trust. I met him when I began to attend the central library until late at night. Whistle cut the cheese while two German boys are still in front of the van waiting for their sandwich.
"Hey judge, how are you? Says as soon as I see it. With this history that I studied law classified in its own way, and I even took me to the contrary, was holding the game.
"At the moment very good lawyer. But even if this time does not fill well the dossier sauce, I can not win!"
"Yes, sir, a lot of sauce. At your orders!"
"But Peppino, we're not in the Navy. We are in a courtroom, you should say, yes your honor"
"Oh my girl, I'm confused. Peppino But it does not understand these things. Peppino can only get a mouth-watering sandwiches, here's what can be done. " Once
gave the sandwiches to the two boys, Peppino began whistling to work.
"Peppino, that you would for a sandwich after you made love to tell you," now you can go? " Peppino
loved his work, he was almost become a philosophy for him, because first of all philosophy is pure in the raw elements. Breath, water, food, in bare feet, in tears and shaking hands. Then there are the art and books, but here more than to rise, it becomes itself an empty revision or a simple mixture of content. Peppino in his long experience had developed this theory of "tell me your favorite sandwich and I'll tell you who you are." To him I was a stubborn fool, always the same combination for my wurtel, tomato sauce and onions. Pual, however, was the perfect score for Peppino, as he took the loaf of whole wheat flour, cheese, tomato and chicken. It was pure, elegant, tending to be simple. God, that night after Sting concert, when he began to do the analysis of the choices of Paul could not contain his laughter while still serious Peppino: Bread wheat-purity. Cheese, tomato, chicken-combining or removing a module, create the new without disruption, only a research natural balance.
"At this I would refuse to give the food court, because it is such a fool who deludes himself that he is sufficient just after making love. I'd be there watching it perceives to mind one point that his life was a mistake. "
"This tragic but how could you! You are cruel Peppino"
"Listen to me, stay close to the" perfect sandwich " I know these things. Here, I have put everything in a bag, even your favorite potato chips, on the house. "
" Thank you are very kind, "the stretched-money.
" Say hello to the crowds head of Paul "
" I will "say-as I have already started the way back.
As I approach the palace eyes stop at the first floor window. The lights are off. I climb the stairs quickly but the door is closed. The strange thing bothers me less than expected The view of the locked door was accompanied by a full sigh of resignation. It 's like a dream to think that was very close to reality. Sometimes that is "very close" that makes the difference. After closing the door of' apartment behind it was like to forget the death in a vacuum.
knocks down his jacket and I take off my shoes as I walk toward the bedroom. Paul is still in the dark, sitting on the bed.
"Do not do it anymore"
turn on the light and go to the kitchen to get two meals, water and two glasses.
"Did you hear me?" I missed you terribly. When I woke up I was about to cry. "
"Exaggerated"
"And you have my hat!"
"Oh and this got to do that?"
"Never go alone anymore. We'll go together. Do not ever leave me alone on a night like this for a whole hour!"
"On a night like?"
"Hmmm ..."
"Magic" - say in unison. Have prepared the bed.
"I finally found out who lives at No. 3."
"A ghost?"-Calls. Never before that night I realized the light of Paul clairvoyance, never before I realized that evening lights of his instinct. I tell him what had happened adding my every mood, without the slightest fear. Paul has always made me understand that I should never hide anything ... After he finished eating he got up and began to prelude to a kiss, and I could not contain her tears. There were no words or thoughts to describe the emptiness, the immensity of the moment lost while holding her face in her hands. It was just another evening when I learned to live or digest the perfect sandwich. He did it on purpose to put that song. We danced in the middle of the room for hours.
the morning as I ran up the stairs to the doorman stopped me.
"Miss, there's a letter for her"
"For me? And by whom?
" I do not know. There is only written to Eveline. I found this morning in the lodge. "-Handed me the letter. I went out into the street. Sunday morning. Gray skies and deserted city. A strong wind tousled my hair. I opened the letter:
" I forgive, I can not play very well . But I do with the heart. Your. Goodbye "
never saw the guy in the apartment no. 3. Not even a name. The prelude to a moment or even a unique name. What a noise makes a person's heart when it falls forever?
Drawings by Marco Andrea Biglieri
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