Читать книгу Clouds Of Smoke… The Story - Gianluigi Ciaramellari - Страница 21

Giovanni, in addition to being an excellent cook, knew how to shop. “There was no doubt about that!” Damien seemed to confirm, while savouring the appetizer with grilled vegetables and white grape risotto. Giovanni was seventy years old, ten of which he spent at the service of an upper class Florentine family and ten in Damien’s home. The lengthy cohabitation of the two had consolidated a relationship of respect and mutual trust, and the knowledge of each other’s taste. If Giovanni hadn’t met Damien, maybe he would have lived in solitude. When he was fifty years old, he lost his wife, who was the only love of his life, in a car accident in which he also lost his right foot. He wore a prosthesis and walked with a considerable claudication, but he found a tangible help in Damien. However, Damien could only help him in the form of a job offer. Damien’s power had no effect on Giovanni.

Between the two of them there was a great conspiracy, sometimes all they needed was a gesture, even the slightest, to communicate something. Their friendship turned into brotherhood. It was as if the thoughts of one were always intercepted by the other. They couldn’t hide anything from each other. There were no secrets between them. Not even if they tried. And neither of them would have wanted to keep a secret from the other.

While Damien dined, Giovanni was in a corner of the kitchen which he had equipped with a bench dedicated to the preparation of the VAPE liquids. In a small cupboard were crammed several bottles of bases containing glycerine and glycol with or without nicotine and little bottles of various concentrations of aromas to be diluted.

Giovanni often experienced new tastes, by mixing aromas together and he always created excellent products ready to be vaporized, which invariably met the taste of his friend or that of some “special” customer.

Once prepared, he bottled them, each with its own hand written label. That night he created a special bottle and named it “Ainòs”. While closing the cabinet, he saw the label’s reflection on the door and smiled.

Damien looked up from his plate and looked out the window door in front of him, the one that led into the garden. What he saw would have scared another person to death.

He rested his elbows on the table, folded his hands, rested his chin on them and he kept his serene and steady gaze on the eyes of Chopin, his black cat, who was sitting on a stool on the other side of the window, stretching his front paws, with eyes that asked: “Please open up and give me a some kibbles!”.

They looked at each other for a minute. Damien tilted his head to one side and Chopin imitated him, then he waved him “hello” and Chopin imitated him, then he raised his paw as if to knock on the glass. Finally Damien got up and opened the window to let him in.

“Chopin! All day long you stray away, and then you slowly come back at the end of the day! Come in and have yourself a comfortable stay!”

The cat didn’t need to be told twice, he appreciated the rhymes, he jumped in and sat under Damien’s chair, who sat back down at the table, and handed him a bowl of kibbles.

Every evening Chopin came back home at that hour. For the whole day he was out in the company of his stray friends with whom he grew up. Giovanni found him wheezing on the ground, with a strong rhinotracheitis, so he brought him to Damien, who healed him with his power.

Giovanni showed up at the house with the cat, a few years ago and all his friend had to do was to touch him to heal him.

Every time it happened to him he felt that same sensation. Giovanni called it a “tinglingstab”. A tingling in his right or left hand, depending on which of the two touched the other person, and it almost began to vibrate.

Damien felt as if he had a nest of ants under the skin of his hand which woke up from a long sleep and began to move frantically, trying to get out of his body. Then felt a stabbing of sharp needles. And the stronger his receptiveness of the other person was, the stronger those stabs became. It was a feeling that would have made others scream in pain. Not Damien. He was used to it, since he was a boy.

Although the “tinglingstab” anticipated the effectiveness of his power in connection to those whom he touched, it was still a sad verdict. The pain he felt was strong, although he hid it very well, but he felt it, and how!

Therefore every time he touched a receptive being, he always felt the same pain. Damien never caressed Chopin. Nor did he ever pick him up. If anything, at times, Giovanni placed him on his legs, when he was sitting on the armchair in front of the television. The same thing also happened with people. For this reason, Damien could never have an intimate relationship with a woman (or a man). It was a weird spell. The individuals, with whom he could fall in love with, were always receptive to his power.

When he was twelve years old, among the girls who attended his school in an upscale neighbourhood of Tunis, Karima was his favourite. He fell in love with her and was glad to hear from her girlfriends that she also liked him. He had to tell her, and for a few days he pondered on how to do it, where and when to reveal his feelings for her. One afternoon, he collected his courage and went to the place where Karima and her friends usually played.When he arrived, he saw the most painful scene of his entire life. Karima’s mother was bending over her; she was lying lifelessly on the ground. Her friends were all around her, astonished, and couldn’t understand what had happened; they couldn’t bring themselves to cry nor scream. The girl was dead. An aneurysm had taken her away without notice. That condition had declared itself before Damien could, it proved to be quicker and less shy.

Damien sank to the floor near Karima and stroke her hair. In that moment he could no longer hear her mother’s cries of pain, he didn’t even hear the ambulance siren that had stopped next to him, he felt nothing but a strong pain in the hand that he rested on the girl’s head and in his head instead, he heard a persistent and deafening sound, he felt as though he had wasps inside his ears.

He got up, and saw that everything around him seemed to freeze. He ran away, far away, desperately, with his fingers in his ears, turning back to see if he was being chased by the lion that had bitten his hands, for they ached so much, but it was all in his mind. He ran far away and since then, he learned to live with those wasps in his ears and that lion’s bite on his hands. Forever.

The night that followed Karima’s death, she appeared to Damien in a dream. She was dressed in a white tunic and was luminous. Even her face radiated an unreal light. She wasn’t in a physical or recognizable space. Rather she was within a beam of sunlight and all around her, in the clear blue sky, the air shimmered, like the flickering on a hot tarmac in August, or in the desert with the sun at its zenith. Karima was speaking to him; her voice was a chorus of voices of different qualities, every word she said, seemed to be sculpted into his hands, as if they were indelible notes to be stored for the rest of his life. Karima brought him a gift and she left with Damien’s solemn promise not to tell anyone.