Pont des Arts, Saturday
Extended, supine, I opened the eyes and I saw that there was some mold on the ceiling of my room. It was as if I/you had not slept at all. I was not tired, simply I didn't have the classical rincoglionimento of when he is as soon as awake. The eyelids opened once almost automatically stopped the need of sleep. I had a cadaverous aspect in that position, they only missed the hands come on the breast and a rosary among the fingers.
The first image that bossily eclipsed the reality around me was of Antoine, extended in the bathtub with still the revolver fumante in the right hand, without anymore any sign of life. It had the blocked eyes. Holy Christ. You/he/she was shot, the stupid.
A hit, bang. And away.
I had the fixed look really on that stain of mold that a smile remembered me.
A hit. BANG. And away.
Antoine was killed because it was a coward.
Antoine was killed because it was a brave man.
It had at that time little importance, so much Antoine would have stayed an extended pale body on the cold table of a morgue however.
I studied to the mirror the deep livid occhiaies that marked me the face. I also seemed a corpse me. Those were the only tests that my night had decidedly been troubled. I threw downward her to me until so much that I could see the red of the skin inside the eye and I rubbed me for well the face. I still had the jeans I set and the horse painfully squeezed me the balls. I looked through me the pockets.
A lighter. A ticket used of the meter. A business card of a some Alvy Singer of which I didn't absolutely remember anything. Some cents and a fanfold ticket.
I opened him/it with the same curiosity with which it opens a slip of the one month-old expense before.
Caspita, was the ticket of the girl. Of that blonde girl. I had not let him drown in the few drops of coffee that you/they had remained me, I had picked him up and I was inserted him to me in pocket as soon as before going out of the café on the long Seine.
«Tomorrow to the sunset to the Pont des Arts» I whispered turning me him among hands.
I remained some deprived second of thoughts, then I looked for the time on the wrist clock that I didn't have. I turned on the tv. They were from little trails you are her of the afternoon.
I looked for in suitcase the newest and clean suits that I had and I gone down down, rapid, for the staircases. As if attends him some elevator you/he/she could be the only cause of a possible delay.
Because I was going?
I still remember him/it to me: when I had seen for the first time that ticket I was me said that never and then I would be never fallen in a similar temptation.
But something was changed.
Antoine.
The image of its suicide still wandered about among my neurons without finding the correct position to be forgotten. That blocked eyes. In a last, fatal final gesture.
The plan was changed.
I stopped the taxi in front of the Theatre de the Villas and I told the driver to hold him the rest. It didn't do in time to thank me for the conspicuous tip that I was already crossing the road. My quick footstep was stopped by the hysterical and baritone sound of a truck of the garbage collect that nailed to few meters from me, while some curses came from the box of the vehicle. I apologized with a rapid gesture of the hand, without not even taking care of to look me at him in the eyes and I continued in direction of the Louvre. I crossed the avenue planted with trees that it brings to the museum while the sun began to infuocarsi at the end of it. I found me in few minutes, gasping, really in front of the Café du Pont Neuf. I tried a strange feeling, it was not new, I would have sworn only that I would not have heard again anymore her. The stands on the long Seine he was populating of people to the search of some second-hand book; by now it was the sunset and the sun it was so low that it almost touched the Pont des Art.
The heart had begun to beat, after so much time, for something of truth. I tried to put me in the middle of the Pont Neuf and I squeezed the eyes against the dazzling light of the sunset to see if you/he/she had already arrived. It was at that time that me granted, for the first time in that day, to light up me a cigarette. I greedily inhaled a pair of mouthfuls and I pushed out the smoke from the nostrils causing me a brief fit of dizziness, clear signal that my physicist required more than oxygen that of nicotine. I leaned on me of back to the muretto of the bridge, giving the shoulders to the unexpected deviation that the destiny was reserving me. Sees my avarice of smoke the cigarette it lasted really little. I taken a big breath as to have to face a long apnea and I turned me. I tightened again the eyes and I fathomed the whole bridge to her search.
No, there was not. I bewared to the right of left and vice versa a couple of times but nothing. You/he/she would not perhaps have come. Even you/he/she had changed mind. Who did him him to do to meet a stranger on a wood bridge to Paris. I seemed to tell me a lot of excuses, almost anymore to justify me that her. I threw out the air that I had inhaled in abundance, as to want to go out of a long and weary immersion.
Here it is. Cazzo was her. It was really in front of me, sat on one of the so many benches prepared along the bridge. Despite the distance it was notable as also my myopia, there was no doubt: that heap of blonde hair owed for strength being her. It was there and it waited for me. I could not believe us. I threw downward with strength the angles of the mouth that he was lifting, almost not to want to display too happiness suppressing the first true sincere smile after so much time.
I taken another abundant mouthful of air and street. I crossed the whole avenue without breathing, holding the eyes anchored to that blonde hair in the case you/he/she had ever wanted to consider us.
The bridge stretched out him in front of me, the sun it marked the shades, long under to the feet of the people: she was there. I climbed, with the heart in throat and the fast breath, the three steps that separated me from the wood aces of the Pont des Art. Without there pits a particular motive, captured my attention the to wave proud of the French flag hoisted above to the eardrum of the façade of the Institut de France that I had before.
Allons enfantes de the Countries, the jours de east gloire arrivé.
Before children of the Country, the day of glory has arrived.
I inflated the breast of patriotism and I went verse of her. More I drew near me, more I recognized the same girl that I had seen in front of the hotel and in subway. There were no more doubts.
It had the same jacket of when I had seen her and his/her eyes, covered by the same white Wayfarer that had countersigned her, they looked timid and resigned downward, over the slender crossed legs.
I reduced my footstep and I took a seat me really of side to her, trying to make to notice me the less possible. He/she didn't see me.
«It is marvelous Paris, it is not true?» I said looking at the Ile de the Cité that stood out me before illuminated of orange.
The girl turned him and an earphone removed from him from the ear.
«How, do you excuse?»
He/she remained without breath not a word. I kept on looking before, but I could see with the tail of the eye that the sunglasses raised him and remained surprised.
«Ah, has come then.» it sentenced, while it was rolling up the cuffiettes around the reader mp3 and it inserted him/it in the purse.
«You had some doubts?»
«Someone, didn't know for how many sunsets I would have waited you.»
«One day you will explain me because really I, am not true?»
«Yes, if for you it is so important, one day I will explain you him.»
And we looked at there astute in the eyes.
«But mistake or me I have already seen you?» I asked her while I was looking at her lips without reservedness.
«Oh no, you are not wrong you. I have followed you.»
«Mr. judge, this girl has admitted his/her guilt» The lifteds the voice gesticulating, as to lawyer in court.
I tore her
a smile that became flushed some same tones of the sunset. Its eyes were blue. I believe that nobody can say to have ever seen the blue, if first you/he/she has not seen his/her eyes.
«Certain, I am not ashamed to admit him/it. When I want a thing anybody it doesn't stop me. My name is Enrica.»
«To like, Francis.»
Its hand was in mine and I was at home. That hand in my hand, its skin on my skin, transmitted the whole heat and the protection that I had not felt for a long time.
«Now however you have to tell me if you are to the game, Francis» it told me slightly folding up the head of side, as to want to see me from another point of view.
«To the game?»
«Yes, for me already the fact that you have come here is a yes. However I ask you him, he/she is never known.»
«But in thing it consists?»
«No no no. Are you in or six out?»
«Ok, are in your hands» I said widening the braccias in sign of surrender.
Smiled Enrica and a bigliettino lengthened me very similar to what had left me in pocket.
«Very well you hold.»
«Thing is?»
«Oh, how much questions, as soon as I will go away you will open him/it and you will understand. You/he/she has been a pleasure to know you Francis. We see us tomorrow.»
«The pleasure is mine, mademoiselle.»
You supported again the glasses on the nose, as if that pits the mask of a supereroe and he/she greeted me with a gesture of the hand while it was getting further behind my shoulders. I reciprocated with a smile while the sun was lowered behind by now of me and the lamp-posts above to the bridge they magically ignited.
TOMORROW. 10 AMs. PYRAMID.
E.
It was another invitation. That girl wanted to play and anything had in mind I wanted to do of it you/he/she departs.
The sunset extinguished him and left space in the sky to the lights of small and timid stars. I remained on that bench to still think some.
The war is over Page 9
