Читать книгу Two - Eva Forte - Страница 6

Tired from the beautiful outdoor trip, I finally decide to come back home and work a little bit in the calmness of my four walls. I’ve got an awful number of emails in arrears and I want to work on the last photos shot for too long. I must also submit the work done a few weeks ago: collecting in a few shots the sea life after summer holydays. I’ve decided to develop all the pictures in black and white, colours that reflect a lot the mood you can be in when you find yourself in the sight of a big expanse of salt water when the good weather has stopped. Yet it gives me a lot of power to go to the seaside in wintertime. I’ve been there alone, leaving at early morning, catching the first lights of the day sneaking up on the sea. Armed with a blanket and a wool hat, I settled on the still wet sand that was creaking under my weight. I was the only one on the whole shore, me and it, in front of me so gigantic with its soft noise and its going back and forth on the shore. Therefore, I waited for the sun to rise, an unbelievable show that I would see more often if only I was leaving closer to the seaside. Sitting on my blanket with glows to avoid the risk of frozen hands at the moment of taking the first pictures, coldness on my cheeks, and red nose. In these moments you feel so little and at the same time the ruler of the world.

Then comes the sun in front of your eyes with all his beauty and the sea starts to colour and shine as ever, and the crispy air slowly goes out on the skin. In these moments me and the camera make a whole and I become eager to take pictures as I freeze every single instant because I know that anything can be repeated in the same way. While I was busy

with the first pictures, a medium-sized dog came forward. It came to the beach with an old man who stopped just at the beginning of the sand focused on the see with a grin that indicated a careless and peaceful mood. In the meantime, the dog ran wildly, always coming back to his feet, for then going back again to an excited run towards the tiny waves that were consuming the sand. In order to break the solitude that must have been his daily situation, the man slowly came closer to check on what I was doing. After the first polite words of welcome, we started to talk about that charming place and about the beauty that can be discerned only during winter. Left alone again, I started to appreciate that spot, a little melancholic but full of hues. The scents of trees started to be more distinct and, if you close your eyes, they can take you back in time in other places and situations. Sand, still cold between my hands, with which it fiddles without leaving any trace. The sea is always there with its constant pace and allows you to see some shells beneath and it seems to invite you to go through it to get in it and swim until the horizon. I am rattled only by the smell of the near restaurant that is starting to prepare lunch well in advance, probably because of some party or special event. All emotions that I rediscover a week later looking at my pictures, hoping that the commissioner of this job could deeply understand their value.

Browsing them on the computer just make me want to go back there and for the first time my desire is to go there with my mysterious coffee partner, without talking, tasting the same emotions together, maybe hand in hand, a contact between the two of us that we have never tried for now. I finish my work and I send it all via e-mail, then I close it quickly before throwing myself in the shower and preparing to

dine with Lucia. As usual, I reach the place of the appointment far in advance, so I step aside and enjoy looking at people passing by and hearing their little stories made of few stolen instants. A family with two little children passes by, everyone in a rush, looking forward to coming back home after a long day that everyone spent doing their own commitments. The mother tenderly embraces the youngest child, tired and sleepy between her arms, while the eldest is telling his father about the afternoon spent practicing who knows which sport. After a while, it comes the lady on a bicycle, all dressed up and with her purse placed behind in order not to lose her balance. No shortage of the boy who goes by totally immersed into his favourite music and the man who talks on the phone about his plans for the evening with fast pace.

Finally, she shows up. My dear friend pops up from behind the corner, always more beautiful and radiant. We haven’t seen each other in months but as soon as I found her in front of me it looks like we didn’t ever said goodbye at the airport, both hiding a tear and then losing ourselves in our daily life in two different countries.

A long embrace brings us back to the present and we immediately start to compete to see who starts first to tell the latest news while we are heading to our favourite restaurant in which you can have only pizza and arrosticini. It’s an informal place, wooden tables with paper tablecloths with white and red squares, typical Roman trattoria chairs, and the warm welcome of the historical owners who know us well by now. Facing a good brick-oven pizza and a pint of beer, Lucia’s face fell in prey of excitement. She longs to be the first to tell her news and I am there ready to celebrate her homecoming. When she starts to speak, I realise that my hopes are completely wrong. She met a man in

France, they fell in love at first sight, and now she is pregnant. So, out of the blue, I see my hope of having my friend back for good falling apart and I see her going away again, this time for good. She is in fact back to Rome to organize the moving out of her stuff and she is going to settle down in his place, a beautiful palace in the centre of Paris. It will be a good chance for me to go back to visit the most romantic capital of the world, but with a different mood, when the baby is born.

We celebrate the good news of the new life that is about to come, and Lucia keeps telling me about her beautiful French months between her rewarding job, her first photographic exhibition, and her edifying love story that galloped fast down to the unexpected but immediately well received pregnancy. All these tells make me realise that my life has stopped, I stand still and this concerns only me and annoys me a little.

I start to get lost in my thoughts and I don’t listen to anything that surrounds me, including Lucia, who is so focused on her life that doesn’t even feel the desire to know what’s happening to mine. I take my mind back to that morning, so peaceful and full of colours, and now I would only like to run away from the chaos of the now crowded restaurant soaked in the noise of people speaking and voraciously eating. Thinking about the fact that in a few hours I’ll be back to my café to reload myself with her smile gives me a way out and the restaurant goes back to the familiar features of when we have arrived, and the noise becomes a normal din made of laughs and chat between friends. Lucia is still talking when she takes out from her massive bag a tablet to show me the pictures of her exposition. This is one of my biggest dreams, to be able to expose in my own way the best picture taken in all these years. Even if it is not even remotely planned, I’ve

already started to choose a topic and to decide which photos are worthier of being printed in large size to catch the eye of the visitors. I already picture them, looking up, caught up in my shots and in my same emotions too, but related to their own lives. Because photography, just like poetry or even songs, can be wear like it was a dress. The same identical words conceal a lot of meanings and everyone can make them his own. In the same way, one photo can convey a lot of different sensations and what can be sad for someone can give strength and energy to someone else. I think back to the sea in winter: so sad and melancholic for the ones who loves it crowded and appreciate it more under the blazing sun; and healing in winter for who like me loves lonely places that show features outside conventional rules. Lucia’s exposition had been organized very well and in great details, in an open space with tall and candidly white walls. No furniture to break the pace of her photos, all exposed at the same height and in the same size along the three walls. A single table welcomed visitors with drinks and appetizers as a refreshment during the visit. The photos were all in black and white, with details in colour and the common thread was the presence of watercourses: angles of rivers, fountains with children who drink, details of different fountains, a lake at twilight… Water in all its dimensions, until it closes with a beautiful picture of a washtub where the women of the village go to do the laundry, showing all the taste of something old that still lasts in the present. Even one of the main Parisian journals wrote about her exposition, reserving her a good blurb that brought her a higher number of visitors after its publication. It seems that Lucia’s new man is a big shot who allowed her to emerge in the right manner and in the

way she deserves. I am happy for her, a lot… A little less for me, who will be back to hole up to send e-mails and messages at long distance with a friend who for me is like an actual sister, the one I’ve never had.

Her house is not far from the restaurant and therefore after dinner I accompany her until her old doorway. Now she shall sell the house and therefore another piece of my past is closing to make room for future news. It always feels a little weird to me when someone is moving, just like when I see shops close, especially if they are the historic ones of my childhood. Grown up always in the same district, I know everyone by now, or at least everyone who has not moved. The unfortunate period almost for everyone led to drastic choices whether the older traders, already tired of fighting against all the changes and the career crisis, whether families that look for cheapest houses and are turning away from the centre. After years spent always surrounded by the same people, I experienced these changes as an abandonment. Starting with my mother who decided to sell her house in the city centre to settle down in the village where she is reborn resuming possession of herself and of what she has always loved to do. As long as my father was alive, he worked in a public office here in Rome, running away from the city in every little occasion to head to their beloved little village where they break free from all the fatigue stored during the week. My mother never really loved the city life, she felt a little bit lost even if, despite herself, she has always been taking care of everything as a perfect housewife of a good neighbourhood. A fine lady, always dressed up and with an unfailing string of pearls on her neck. The same pearls she still wears, even if she prefers more comfortable outfits without caring about brands or fine fabrics. Under the big wooden

doorway, I say goodbye to my dear friend with the promise of seeing each other again before her final departure. I wait for her to enter and I walk towards my house caught up in a thousand thoughts and with the desire to go immediately to bed. I’m in such a great mood for the morning to come that I move the hands of the alarm clock one hour earlier and I run under the blankets. At the first ring I am on my feet, now I want to take a stroll down Villa Borghese before the usual morning ritual at the café, so I dress up quickly and I exit perkily the building heading to the park.

The Villa in the morning is enchanting: few people walking around, mainly old people during their healthy stroll and, given the possible insomnia, take advantage of the first hours of the day, when all is still closed and there is not much to do around the city. I found a message from Lucia on my phone, she is thanking me for the dinner and tells me that if her child is a boy, he will have my name. This way she manages to steal the first smile of the day from me while I am already immersed in trees and in their shadow. In this time, you can come into squirrels too, big and chubby, the only masters of the nature that expands under their stealthy hops almost careless of your presence. I arrive until the Pincio and there is where the city appears in all its majesty. Monuments, buildings, churches… All there, peacefully dozing while everyone is looking at them and both with sun and rain they don’t budge and nothing changes them. I pick up a daisy survived to the coldness and I bring it to the café with me. Today I feel different and I want to break the ritual of our meetings with a little gesture and therefore I lay the flower on the table where in a few minutes she is going to sit to have breakfast, hoping that anyone arrives before and

gets his hands on that gesture directed to her.

I quickly go to the counter and order my usual coffee, reversing the order of arrival and without looking at the entrance. After a few minutes I hear her coming. I recognize her voice by now and I also feel that, realising that I am already there (this is the first time since we ‘know’ each other, given that I always arrive when they have already started their breakfast), she stops for a few instants and then restarts approaching the table. I don’t have the courage to look at her face when she’ll find the flower and on the other side I don’t even want her to be certain that I’ve been the one who put it on her table. So I finish my coffee faster than the usual and going out I give her a look and she promptly looks right back, but this time hiding the doubt about that little flower that now she holds in her hand almost if she was waiting an additional step that I am not doing though. It all must stay this way and I walk away as fast as I can.