Epilogue
The morning of March 18 the agent of police Jean Pierre Gillot of the You arrondissement in Paris found a trench supported des to the handrail of the Pont Arts. The takings, opened him/it and studied him/it before and behind. It checked the pockets and from that right it extracted a Polaroid. It was the photo of a boy and a girl. He was supported with the elbows on the knees, it had the serious look. You lengthened the arm behind his/her back, it smiled. Jean Pierre found on the back of the photo a writing:
HOTEL MONTMARTROIS. CAMBRE 79
Instinctively the agent looked over the handrail the crinkled waters of the Seine. Taken by the surrounded one a walkie-talkie and he/she sent a police squad to check. The blue door of the room 79 were demolished after having knocked and called for different minutes. You/he/she had not been answered there. You/they were dressed shed there anywhere and different bottles of rum are been stacked in an angle of the room. On the bed, four blisters of Xanax from 50mg had been completely emptied. While on the tavolino, tied up with a string, a manuscript. The agent Jean Pierre Gillot the takings in hand and he/she read the first lines:
In front of the hotel he/she always sits a blonde girl, I pray you, you give this manuscript to her.
Francis
The agent looked to the right, then to the left, as to will to be sure not to be looked. Behind his/her shoulders, a colleague was questioning the Indian manager of the hotel. It said that they were days that he/she didn't see him/it, that the maid had knocked more times but you/he/she had never been answered there. Him of however you/he/she was not worried, considering that the first week had paid him all one month of pernottamento.
It put us few to imagine what had to have happened, although it didn't have to the shoulders so many years of career; it came immediately to understand that you/he/she had to be treats him of a suicide. Who knows how much it owed to have suffered that man in that room, he/she thought. You/he/she had to surely have been intoxicated and it owed to have thrown down all in a hit that ansioliticis before throwing himself/herself/themselves from the Pont des Arts, leaving the trench first on the handrail.
Jean Pierre looked again at the manuscript that held among the hands, it then a couple of times if it inserted him/it under arm and it went out of the room.
It opened the heavy input port in beaten iron and not credette to his/her eyes when in front of itself he/she saw a girl blonde session on the muretto. It made some footstep in before, until you/he/she could see his/her red eyes bathed by the tears.
«Mademoiselle, pardon. I believe that this is for her.»
«It is of Francis, true?»
Jean Pierre nodded bewildered and he/she left that the girl removed from his hands the packet of sheets. The girl got further, to definitely disappear behind the angle.
The agent shook the head, it inserted him the hands in pocket and it returned in the hotel to compile the whole documentation for a presumed case of suicide.
The Seine is a green river that goes from the emerald of the days of sun to the color of the dark jade when the sky is leaden. Enrica looked at her/it flow under of itself, sat on the same bench of the day in which it knew Francis. It held the manuscript that had received from the agent of the polices on the knees, it didn't look at him/it, almost for fear that consumed him. It was cold, the wind disarranged her the long blonde curls and its sad eyes they were hidden from the sunglasses.
Enrica didn't want to know neither that day neither anymore what happened to that man. But, after so much time, returned to one life that had learned to love, after being him lost among the words of that manuscript, it sometimes went on internet. You loaded a black page, the heading that pulsated in the eyes, red.
Arkham.
Thanks
A thanks to all the people that have been involved during the layout of this novel, especially to my brother Alexander, to patiently have bed to tall voice this book to understand if it had a sense, for the suggestions and to have borne all of my deliriums. Thanks.
My spiritual brothers Cristian and Michael, to be always us when there is need, for a moment of serenity, for a beer, a ring, for a life passed together. Thanks.
Serene Scandellari, for the precious suggestions. Thanks.
Francis Bianconi to have me permission to use the title of one song of his to give the name to this creation of my mind and for the whole music that creates and that riempie the empty spaces of this book. To the Baustelles and he, thanks.
Ryan Adams, because its songs have allowed me to go on when the road seemed ended. Thanks.
Hunter S. Thompson, because its spirit comes me to find ago every night and me fear. Thanks.
Jack Bellodi, he knows why. Thanks.
Last but not less main point, a thanks to:
Greta, for the love, for the future, to be today and forever my only dream. Thanks.
The author
Marcello P Bellodi was born and alive in the Low Modenese.
He/she believes in the gods and for the time being it survives.
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The war is over Page 13
