Rome smacks of old, stale and stuffy.
She felt as the felt bloated and rancidity of the man who had rented the apartment. He missed the most important attribute: the antiquity.
was just a young stupid, stale and stuffy. A wing of the neighborhood, cleaned a hoodlum, a arraffazzonato scam disguised as a real estate agent, with long spikes on the shoes but square.
And if Rome wore those adjectives in their meaning more good-natured and easygoing, on him, however, fell like a stone of malice, with the same stupid ugliness of her shoes.
Anna came from the North. Fled from her husband who had never had and a daughter who was never born, and the monotonous plains of Ferrara, where the sweetness in my heart, with a mixture of nostalgia and horror.
had accepted a transfer a couple of years ago because he had nothing to lose and nothing to find and why - it was said - the kids make noise in the same way and are always subjects to be taught ones.
Upon arrival, he had thought to arrange at least a bit ', the house dark and ugly, but so comfortable for the price and location, then the gray days and the laziness of the gestures had the upper hand. The boiler was broken for the umpteenth time and the stupid arrogant young procrastinate in sending a technician.
So, Anna was standing in the cold, wrapped in a small pool of paille, legs curled up on the sofa worn and creaky, waiting for even that dreary afternoon on a Sunday in late January is consumed.
The scenario was always the same, Sunday after Sunday after Sunday.
A fourteen-inch CRT were taking shots mute soubrette that some misunderstood the body naked and squirming all around, other characters were little known a lot of talk, a great smile and a big cheer. Everyone seemed to enjoy their time off, but her.
you merely stand there, ingrained in his threadbare sofa, watching through the peeling walls of that apartment and temporary yellowish and dark as he walked the line of cracks in the walls with vacant eyes, whilst suffering with inattentive ears, the only soundtrack arrhythmic dripping faucet in the sink and beat the time clock that interminable, sticky, lopsided, his nail.
the jibe was called by his students, at best cases. Lameness. Anna Wood. Crowbar. They did not like her floral dresses as a woman of the past, nor his gray hair tied back, nor could forgive, minimally, the difference in length of her legs congenital or foreign accent of the north, or even less, the sweetness monotone of his voice that went on forever, to tell of poets, battles, alliances and styles, straight as a die, light as the plains of the Po, unheard as the falling snow on the branches.
But Anna was not old. She was tired.
Between Sunday and the other, the days proceeded all the same: the school in the morning, the afternoon of Italian homework to correct, the lessons of history to prepare and a quick transition to the supermarket for food frugal and insipid to cook.
None to be seen, no one to hear, nothing to be desired. At least someone had listened to his lectures. At least someone had stopped to ignore his voice without reducing it almost every time, the plaintive wail of the ant that tries to emerge, in vain, amidst the din of cicadas harassing in August. At least that stupid arrogant young man had sent the coach of the boiler without being call four times and two others deny. At least it had not been again Sunday.
Anna sensed a change of pace in the soundtrack of his feast day. He turned up the volume on your TV, then lowered. Something had changed, but did not know what yet. For a moment he thought that the tap of the sink had stopped dripping. He rose from the couch to go to examine it but, approaching, he realized that the sound of water was unmistakable.
He threw a glance at the wall and saw that the clock had stopped.
Suddenly he understood. Clock set it, watch lopsided, clock nailed.
He rummaged in the toolbox, he found what he sought, he took it and climbed on the belief, on the high side of the kitchen door. With the gained height reached the goal that separated the fanlight above the door, whose windows had been removed who knows when, if ever there were a few. We tied the rope to the best they could and built a makeshift noose.
undid her hair and thought about his voice. He thought of the fortune, nostalgia and disgust.
He put his head in the noose and jumped into the void. It was so, to dangle.
one leg up and lower down.
0 comments:
Post a Comment