Alberto as salt every morning on a commuter train Piossasco of 7.15, the direction of Porta Nuova, Turin. 25 minutes journey time 10 minutes at a brisk pace to get to the Piazza San Carlo 2 branch of the Banca San Paolo. enters the car and with an involuntary movement, and now automatically look for it. the note at the bottom on the right. Today, as agreed, he sits in front of her. does not know what it's called, but they are now months that are found most mornings on the same train, in the same car, the first of the convoy, in order to get in and out more quickly when you arrive at the station. Once he had tried to smile, but she lowered her eyes, as if he had not noticed.
Alberto sits down and crosses his eyes resentful of his neighbor, an elderly man wrapped in a scarf and heavy coat, held close to the dirty, full of dandruff. has a chubby face but crossed by worries of old age, holding a yellow envelope, similar to the post and is absorbed in some kind of cursed the bottom unnecessary concerns. Alberto asks where he is going, certainly not at work. perhaps in hospital or a medical examination, you respond with a little 'cynicism. in the front seat, next to her, there's a young guy, jerk face, haircut pop star, thick glasses as used in an intellectual fashion of the current season, near the lip piercing, jeans a bit ' shooting boots and athletic black guy from the Bronx with his pants tucked in, the acid orange laces out. Play with the i-pod immaccolato a white piece of mail, "club music".
Alberto remembers the first time I went in '92, a techno rave-jungle, completely made of mescaline, when electronic music was basically a niche, an escape from the monotonous nightlife in Turin, were the years of the first European holidays where you experiment with new genres of first ecstasy pills. a reality far removed from today, think, who lost the drive-conformist, dj overpaid, "in" who plan to repeat the nth guests offering bland music, without energy.
already, he thinks, who knows where is the energy of those years . is over, perhaps with the University of Economics, ended with his marriage to Helen and the subsequent divorce after a few years and after many attempts to have a child. once, before I knew spontaneous abortion, were convinced that they resent almost done. who knows, maybe it would have been different.
Alberto pulls out his book, Theorem by Pier Paolo Pasolini, but as the pages the visitor arrives in the house, she obsessively peeking in reality. boots and tight trousers outline the thin legs and proportionate, a sweater and attached the simple model hips and breasts under the jacket open. is shy and sensual, with green eyes turned to the world, bob brown hair and a bit 'of freckles to color the facial features fine and elegant, sometimes leaked a little embarrassed about life. is immersed in a photocopied dossier, probably something the university, is younger than him, will have 26, 27. you'll be graduating, or maybe follow his doctorate. something humanistic, definitely.
Chiara salt every morning on the commuter train Rosta of 7.05, still on the car right behind the engine, so when you arrive at the Porta Nuova railway station is just near the exit, ready to take the bus the door behind Piazza Vittorio letters where he teaches in a private high school while trying to finish his doctoral thesis research on some of semiotics. sits next to a boy. actually has a few years younger than her, but his eyes still reeks of adolescence and now feels Clare woman. smiccio looks at him without much interest, stopping to imagine that, had they been contemporaries, among them two that occurred would still interstellar distances. seems the boy a bit 'shallow, full of friends, beautiful, athletic, always trying to make nice with the girls. the kind of guy that you never had, never even wanted. so even if someone, gender, age when he was just buzzing in the head insistently, but his interest was never returned ...
shortly after she gets a little old sloppy, which was now only the most evil of life, something sboffonchia breathless, perhaps asking for permission to sit or perhaps cursed the cold. straight out of a Dickens novel. makes a great pain in the bottom.
Piossasco salt to that guy, what goes on a journey to pretend to read but that actually sets the time. and she looks at him, even if it does so more discreetly. makes her feel a bit 'uncomfortable, even if there is something that attracts him. always reads interesting books, essays or novels Russians, every once in a while 'literary classic Italian, Pirandello, Calvino ... three four day holds Pasolini. But here, no one aspect serious, intellectual, indeed. dress is always accurate at all points, with a jacket or tie 24 hours type manager that stuff. to look at him then he seemed anything but a white collar, it's weird, maybe even dessert.
Alberto stares while she concentrates on the pages of her file in her womb. if there would be, if he could. or not. indeed its not. experienced a rejection to his own thoughts. Now imagine instead of a walk with her, to be told to cook and eat together quietly, with a good red wine, Nebbiolo. and after, then yes, making love.
would attack button, ask What is reading, but fails. is like petrified on the seat, besieged by the prying eyes of passers-around lackluster. there was the empty train ... is uncomfortable, you feel stupid, surely knows that if he opens his mouth stutter something obvious, trivial. and perhaps lose his time daydreaming, you will surely have a life and over. Alberto lowers his gaze on Theorem.
Chiara stiffens when he realizes that he observed. Shooting would raise his eyes and point straight at me, but do not dare. is the fifth time I read the same paragraph and still did not understand what is written. and continues to read as if it were a shelter, a warm place and protective. What does this here? played nervously with a pen, press the button to eject the tip compulsively repeating. click click click ... you create in her a feeling of expectation, as if waiting for a major response to a question that has never done. is a feeling that continues, placid, spiteful. fantasies take shape in his mind, memories and desires that are mixed promiscuously. simply, clearly wants to end this debilitating lack of communication. But what is there to say after all? should perhaps clarify something? is still looking at the file, some process of the brain automatically reads the words in the background but no intelligence to pay attention.
Clare finally gets up eyes, eyes that never had it, I decided as an inevitable event, to look at him, smiling, to give a sign. at that precise moment, even a micro second before, Alberto plunges back into the revealing story of middle-class house Pasolini.
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