Notre Dame, Monday
During the night the rain washed from the roofs in Paris all the sins of which you/he/she was dirtied. But, out of the stop of the meter St. Michel, the sun shone among some clouds of passage. The traffic of Monday morning smelled of smog.
I crossed the road and on the other side of the Seine, fresh of restauration, Notre Dame was risen.
In the square in front of it tourists' about ten with the nose to the insù challenged the elasticity of his/her own neck to try to see besides the bell tower, where once was said a maladjusted Quasimodo he/she lived.
The twenty-eight statues of the kings of Israel and the Kingdom of Giuda, set above the three arcades, they looked me and they followed anxiously me to each footstep that I did.
I recognized the long blonde curls of Enrica among the pigeons that flew away as to want the free road to leave her.
I drew near me and when I was her before I made her a sort of bow, throwing out, from behind the back, a rose that I had escaped from the bistrot in which I had had breakfast.
«Mademoiselle, a small floral homage for her.»
«Thanks, monsieur» it said sniffing the rose, and he/she kissed me on the lips.
This way.
As it was the simplest thing that could do.
We remained one in front of the other, to avoid to already say all those said words. There was no motive to fill that empty space. And the space and the time were suspended.
That instants filled me the heart and they devastated him/it in the same moment. I don't know for what motive the love and the death were fighting in my mind.
«You come with me» I said, taking by the hand Enrica.
We sat there on one of the benches hidden among the hedges in front of Notre Dame.
Enrica, seeing me the lost look over the normal horizons, did he/she ask me: «there is something that doesn't go?»
I supported the elbows on the knees and I covered me the face with the hands; I could feel the odor of mine long and you lavish breaths.
«I am not understanding, Enrica. I was here in Paris, then me and you you have arrived now I don't know thing anymore to do.»
On his/her face it ignited a pale smile, taken a long breath and he/she perhaps thought to what words were at that time the most suitable.
«I read your blog.»
«How?» I said, with more than a question mark, suddenly turning me toward of her.
«I read your blog. I don't remember as I have found you. I didn't succeed in stopping reading him/it, I forded your photos and I didn't see the time that I/you adjourned him/it to have a wedge in more than you. Then, when you have stopped, the excuse that me are given for going away from a life have become that it was not able to give me nothing anymore.»
The only words that went out us of the mouth, that day, it seemed they had need to be followed by the silence. Almost to want to give them more weight of that that you/they didn't already have.
It is really in that instant it went out the sun, stronger than never, without nobody warned us. And the atmosphere took the thickness of a song of love, that the past ripesca to make to move you. Writing to hurt you star from the so much that he is well. A good that veers to the evil when the last notes dissolve him in a broken heart. And he/she returns every moment in the most wrong moment. In the sweat and in the perfume, among the sheets. In the loneliness of a Sunday in winter.
And the sun illuminated the eyes of Enrica, that mine that you/they cried timid tears of liberation looked, or of an alone sadness.
It drew near to us a little boy down with an old Polaroid to the neck. It folded up to the left the head, then to the right, and it put on a finger in mouth for the embarrassment.
«Hi» Enrica told him.
He served back a footstep as the embarrassment and he/she greeted her/it with the hand. Then takings the Polaroid and if it put her/it next to the eye. The click made a mechanical noise and the car it spit from before the photo. It gave her/it for me in hand and, with a satisfied smile, meeting escaped to the calls of his/her/their mother that you/he/she was looking for him/it.
The photo defined my contours and of Enrica in some second. We were really her and I. Sat on that bench in the same identical position in which we were looking at the photo.
It is so that a sense is given to the things, I thought. It is so that it stops the present and him/it to him it makes him immortal.
I didn't know more than what feeling to die, even if to die would already have been a good result.
«Me. The have to go» The tolds Enrica, while anxiety was insinuating himself/herself/itself in every pore of my dirty skin.
«It waits, I pray you, I leave you a.»
«No, Enrica. No bigliettinis this time. No bigliettinis.»
I turned her the shoulders and I went.
I never turned me. The fixed look for earth, kept low from a boulder of negative vibrations and confusion. I took to spallate every person that I was me before. Fast and without destination.
I arrived in front of the hotel de Villas without not even realizing me of it. It is in the confusion of my thoughts I jammed me and a sort of invaded lucidity me the brain.
Love and death.
Death.
I turned me and I raced ripercorrendo my footsteps, in the vain attempt to reach Enrica. The second name of the angels.
Because she had come for saving me there and it was not a case. I don't know him/it if has been the strength of the life, the divine intervention or a simple mental confusion, but I returned back of run. So fast to make the breath lose me and to make the heart go out me of the breast.
Enrica was still where I had left her.
Panting, I looked far her from, with the out expression of whom seems to have lost the war most important the whole life.
«I have been wrong» they were the only words that I succeeded in making to go out of my damned mouth.
And I believe that the all the words of the world extinguished him, that anybody of it accompanied us to them in the journey that brought us in its room of hotel. That they timidly relighted him in the form of sighs and kind moans to like. All the vowels would not have been enough for to complete our pleasure. I believe that they detached the flight, illuminated by the incumbent sunset, you set on fire, emitting the perfume of Enrica. Of his/her sweat. Of those droplets that went to form him on his/her skin.
Then the instincts appeased him. Its breath changed frequency on my belly.
Its sleep marked the it waked up again of my nightmares.
Never so so much confusion had taken possession of my body. They were the ghosts of the drug, of my preceding life, of the success, of the desire to possess everything. It was the desire to do ended her/it. It was the desire to give everything to the eternity.
«I have already given.» they pronounced my lips without sending forth to breath not to wake up the sleep of the angel.
Few cares if it were evening or late night; I slowly slipped out of his/her embrace, I taken back my suits and I gone down for the road.
«Bon nuit monsieur» it said at night the doorman of the hotel. It had to have you approve more than one of it, of desperate men, in his/her life; it was even perhaps one of them.
I got up me the collar of the trench, I passed me a hand among the hair and then, with the hands in pocket, I did the possible one to be in front of the other. I passed in front of the Café du Floras, I turned to the left and I devoted a look to the church of Saint-German-de-Prés. I crossed the hold Rue Bonaparte and, some footstep later, the long Seine. The Ponts des Arts.
I leaned on me to the handrail; the clouds had left the place to the clear one of moon: it reflected him pale on the Seine, that flowed placid under to my feet. I lifted the look to the sky and the stars they filled the celestial time. Distant and unattainable, splendid and shining of the light of a past that for us it is present. And I wondered me if on another planet, to million of years light from us, someo
ne would ever have seen my present.
Present of once in which I moved my baricentro and the handrail seemed not to be able to hold up anymore, the hands ached under the weight of my body.
Nothing. My body returned back. There was no explanation, any reason, the living beings are made for preserving their life and my lucidity it was not enough for" a footstep and down."
Fottuti human beings.
Fottuta the intelligence that we bring inside.
We are the only animals aware of to die. We know him/it to us that there won't be anymore one day. The dogs, the cats and all the animals don't know that they have to die. They lives, every fottuto moment. Happy.
Then one day, in summer, in winter, they cares few, they extinguish him. Without the least worry than makes evil. Without any regret.
And I was there, in unstable balance, literally, on the life. Undecided if it were more painful to continue or to do ends her/it.
I again drowned the hands in my trench, giving a sonorous kick to that too moment next to the end.
The bells of the Sacred Coeur tolled insistent in the heart of the night. I didn't succeed in sleeping, the bed seemed sprinkled of painful nails by so much that was me impossible to be extended. I looked out of the window the effect that made March, that the sky of yellow painted in Paris.
In my small room too much to contain all that ghosts, I was alone, as I had always been. A loneliness accompanied by the stupendous fresh memory of Enrica the angel that had disarranged the rest of my life. I ignited me a regardless cigarette of the prohibition, sat to the table. Paper and pen in front of me.
I began to write without thinking, leaving that the pen transcribed the deafening whisper of an enviable destiny:
I woke up with the closed eyes.
An enormous pain to the head prevented me from opening them. The only thing that I succeeded in feeling they were the mucous ones of the mouth shoals, the lips that threw and the language that curled up for the lack of saliva. I tried to swallow more times, only hearing an acute pain to the throat. I became me account that I was extended on a soft surface, perhaps a bed or a couch. I tried to start my body: the feet, the calves, the gluteis, the right arm. The left arm seemed not to answer to the stimuli that the brain was sending him. I felt under it to the breast. I turned a couple of times me on myself and I realized me that the arm was totally deprived of sensibility. It seemed an extraneous arm the arm of a corpse. I had to pick him/it up and to lift him/it with the other hand. Blood started to flow back, I felt him/it to flow impetuous from the shoulder up to the point of the fingers and I let me escape a cry of pain confused by a hysterical laughter. I kept on not succeeding in opening the eyes. Eyelids give it didn't filter light. I didn't know what time it was, in that place I was me and the memoirs were piled up in my mind. I cleared up me the throat, swallowing. The mucous ones of the mouth began to soften, the muscles to have a certain mobility.
I opened the eyes...
And the hand wrote the whole night, confused in the smoke of too, so many cigarettes. Cigarettes in out truth never. I smoke that went to add him to the fog that already towered in my head and to the tiredness of my body, that still perfumed of Enrica. The first lights of the dawn entered from the heavy curtains and, by now reached the fund of a cheap bottle of rum, I lost the senses.
The war is over Page 11
