be away at a conference on Thursday, which meant they would see each other again in a week’s time, next Monday.
Roberto registered the information but did not realize its full significance until he was going out intothe street, where the rain was still coming down unrelentingly.
His movements around the city, his thoughts, his sleep, his meals, the television, the computer, smoking, drinking, exercising, washing, cooking, shopping—everything revolved around those two fixed times: five o’clock on Monday and five o’clock on Thursday.
The doctor’s conference shifted the center of gravity and produced a kind of landslide in Roberto’s consciousness. Walking in the rain, with the umbrella not really protecting him and the water soaking him to the skin, he was hit by a distressing awareness of the indistinct time opening in front of him. A sea as flat as oil, an infinite, deserted expanse, without terra firma on the horizon.
The week passed with gluey slowness, marked by a constant dull headache that was resistant to pills.
Roberto moved laboriously—as if having to drag a weight heavier than that of his own body—through a succession of identical days strung together.
He woke up early in the morning and went to sleep late at night. He walked obsessively throughout the city in the rain, which lasted a long time, most of the week, almost without interruption. Dripping wet, he would stop to eat in rotisseries and shabby restaurants hidden away on the extreme edge of the city, places he wouldn’t have been able to find again an hour later. He smoked damp cigarettes in the precarious shelter of doorwaysor arcades. A couple of times he thought he saw faces he knew, but he had no idea who they were and had no desire to find out. Both times he looked away and moved on quickly, almost furtively.
On Sunday, the headache stopped.
On Monday morning, Roberto emerged from the dark, muddy pool he had been wading through all week.
Giacomo
I made the compilation. It wasn’t easy to choose the songs and it took me several days, partly because I thought there shouldn’t be too many of them, but above all I couldn’t risk putting in stuff she wouldn’t like. In other words, I had to play it safe.
In the end I chose six songs: “Time Is on My Side” by the Rolling Stones, “Everybody Hurts” by REM, “Tunnel of Love” by Dire Straits, “Don’t Stop Me Now” by Queen, “With or Without You” by U2, and “Stairway to Heaven” by Led Zeppelin, which is my favorite song, because it reminds me of something beautiful, even though I can’t remember what.
I also thought of giving the collection a title, but the ones I thought of didn’t seem appropriate. In fact, they made me want to puke. Stuff like:
Songs for Ginevra
or
Giacomo’s Selection
or other sappy things that make me ashamed just to write them in this diary.
In the end I gave up on the title, put the memory stick in my backpack, and carried it back and forthfrom home to school for a week without finding the opportunity or the courage to give it to her. Then she was away, and for two days now she hasn’t been to school. I thought of phoning her, but I don’t have her mobile number, and even if I had it there’s no guarantee I’d find the courage to call her.
Last night, after hesitating for at least an hour, I asked her to be my friend on Facebook. Let’s see what happens.
* * *
I had a nightmare, which hadn’t happened to me for a while.
I was sitting on my bed, sure that I was wide awake, when I heard the rustle of wings. I was about to switch on the light but then, in the semidarkness, I saw a pigeon perched on the lamp, looking at me.
Immediately after that, I saw two more of them on the floor, next to the bed. No, there weren’t just two, there were more. Five, or maybe six or seven, or maybe ten. Or maybe twenty. Now they were all around, on the bedside table, on the desk, on the chair, even on the bed. The room was full of pigeons, and
Roberto registered the information but did not realize its full significance until he was going out intothe street, where the rain was still coming down unrelentingly.
His movements around the city, his thoughts, his sleep, his meals, the television, the computer, smoking, drinking, exercising, washing, cooking, shopping—everything revolved around those two fixed times: five o’clock on Monday and five o’clock on Thursday.
The doctor’s conference shifted the center of gravity and produced a kind of landslide in Roberto’s consciousness. Walking in the rain, with the umbrella not really protecting him and the water soaking him to the skin, he was hit by a distressing awareness of the indistinct time opening in front of him. A sea as flat as oil, an infinite, deserted expanse, without terra firma on the horizon.
The week passed with gluey slowness, marked by a constant dull headache that was resistant to pills.
Roberto moved laboriously—as if having to drag a weight heavier than that of his own body—through a succession of identical days strung together.
He woke up early in the morning and went to sleep late at night. He walked obsessively throughout the city in the rain, which lasted a long time, most of the week, almost without interruption. Dripping wet, he would stop to eat in rotisseries and shabby restaurants hidden away on the extreme edge of the city, places he wouldn’t have been able to find again an hour later. He smoked damp cigarettes in the precarious shelter of doorwaysor arcades. A couple of times he thought he saw faces he knew, but he had no idea who they were and had no desire to find out. Both times he looked away and moved on quickly, almost furtively.
On Sunday, the headache stopped.
On Monday morning, Roberto emerged from the dark, muddy pool he had been wading through all week.
Giacomo
I made the compilation. It wasn’t easy to choose the songs and it took me several days, partly because I thought there shouldn’t be too many of them, but above all I couldn’t risk putting in stuff she wouldn’t like. In other words, I had to play it safe.
In the end I chose six songs: “Time Is on My Side” by the Rolling Stones, “Everybody Hurts” by REM, “Tunnel of Love” by Dire Straits, “Don’t Stop Me Now” by Queen, “With or Without You” by U2, and “Stairway to Heaven” by Led Zeppelin, which is my favorite song, because it reminds me of something beautiful, even though I can’t remember what.
I also thought of giving the collection a title, but the ones I thought of didn’t seem appropriate. In fact, they made me want to puke. Stuff like:
Songs for Ginevra
or
Giacomo’s Selection
or other sappy things that make me ashamed just to write them in this diary.
In the end I gave up on the title, put the memory stick in my backpack, and carried it back and forthfrom home to school for a week without finding the opportunity or the courage to give it to her. Then she was away, and for two days now she hasn’t been to school. I thought of phoning her, but I don’t have her mobile number, and even if I had it there’s no guarantee I’d find the courage to call her.
Last night, after hesitating for at least an hour, I asked her to be my friend on Facebook. Let’s see what happens.
* * *
I had a nightmare, which hadn’t happened to me for a while.
I was sitting on my bed, sure that I was wide awake, when I heard the rustle of wings. I was about to switch on the light but then, in the semidarkness, I saw a pigeon perched on the lamp, looking at me.
Immediately after that, I saw two more of them on the floor, next to the bed. No, there weren’t just two, there were more. Five, or maybe six or seven, or maybe ten. Or maybe twenty. Now they were all around, on the bedside table, on the desk, on the chair, even on the bed. The room was full of pigeons, and
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