"She is standing there, on the stone step, and she is watching the raindrops falling in what is the same image always of a winter landscape, which vanishes taking with it his face. Countless times this same feeling of lost happiness. It' s me, she says, still me, time an absence standing between the wound and the wilderness that has become my life.
She is called Erofili. Ero. He called her Ro. “You are the Ro of Eros”, he said.
She tries to understand her relation to what she is living, to the sensation each moment awakes in her, she needs to understand how she got here. A sense of dissolution. And it hurts.
Certainly, when you are thirty five plus, you see things from a distance, she thinks, they don' t touch you, feeling has gone, Youth. Your face becomes hard. Mine is. I feel it. This harshness.
In her thoughts the aristocratic lover of her youth. The myth of the place. His face had fused with all the winter mornings she experienced, as though born of the mist in that place.
I love you, Ro, but I must leave. Our roads are different”.
How many years have passed? It frightens her. I am not interested in time. I have stopped counting.
Raincoat, umbrella, boots. And a wool dress. New.
She bought it for this voyage. She had always dreamed of a warm dress she could hide in. And her hair dyed. Chestnut.
The suitcase she is holding is almost empty. There is nothing she needs now. She took it with her so as not to travel with her hands empty. And it's raining. Slow ceaseless rain since the moment she arrived. Everything is sodden. And the garden is empty too. Like the setting of a performance abandoned halfway through. She looks at the windows of her house. Unopened now for years.
But I, why have I come? She wonders.
The stone step worn down. Eaten away by the years. By the wilderness perhaps.
Perhaps that's what I come for. To live the wilderness."
Partly translated into English
A best selling novel
Perhaps that's what I came for. To live the wilderness.
Or perhaps I came as a reporter.
Her hand upraA contour of absence. She watches it shake in its loneliness. She tries to make time stop. To live to its utmost the sweetness of this feeling of fragmentation as though suddenly life had become a theatrical performance and she was to play the most gripping scene. The most unexpected perhaps. The last.
Yes, I came as a reporter, she says alone as if for it to be heard by the empty setting of the garden, where she is still standing, with her suitcase in her hand and her dyed hair.
It's strange. From the moment she set foot there she had lost control of what happened to her. She tries to understand. Old houses are kind she thinks. And I need something exciting to write about to keep my job.
Motionless. She becomes lost in memories flooding back uncontrollaby. He is there. The lover of her youth. His face in the mist, behind the winter morning, a sensation gliding through, shattered like banished happiness.
She puts her suitcase on a step. Time eludes her. She tries to estimate the interval but time slips through her thoughts like dark invisible water. "I 'm getting old. I 'm not interested in in reporting. I 'm empty".
She looks at the empty house in front of her. It 's her house. Passionately tied to her youth. She is struck by the word "passionately". Only time is passionately tied to our lives, the time we live through, like the fragments of a paradise that touched our days, touched our lives perhaps before us.
A best selling novel