Your nose never bode anything promising.
Too sharp and straight to be condescending.
It is too delicate to be overwhelmed by the stench of the world.
You have always given me the impression of an incurable snob, perhaps more for self-defense than for authentic choice, but still incurable.
And so, it is almost inevitable that, of you, this is the first thing I see, as soon as you get out of the arrivals.
It is true that, since the last time, you have definitely grown, yet remain unmistakable.
At least for me who, immediately after the nose, I have the opportunity to appreciate the valuable rest that distinguishes your essence on this earth. I never understood what you have to leave me breathless every time, like at sixteen.
Only now I have learned not to ask again and to allow it to act with impunity, without however reducing me to its power.
I admit it, you still continue to bewitch me, despite all these years and despite our distant life and I can't do much about it. As the Poet wants, I feel it happens but, if nothing else, I no longer remain crucified to my pain.
Incidental coincidence - yet nothing happens by chance, an inner voice insinuates me - the first notes of Sea Flavor echo from the ringtone of a cell phone.
Not that it was our song, but since that summer in Aci Trezza I have never been able to hear it again without thinking about your taste of salt.
Bitter as the tears you made me shed, but also irresistible, if it ever rises to the world it has been.
And it is not that, from then on, he has not known or tasted them, both in a proper and translated sense.
From the pink one of the Himalayas, with pure and delicate crystals, to the gray one of the Celtic Sea, sandy with Nordic mists and clay, to the black one, lava and raw from Hawaii, to the Persian one, blue like the silky background of a carpet of Isfahan.
But you were you, and you were the very embodiment of the salt of my life, despite your unbearable nose and your worn-out dandy arias.
Not to mention how I sometimes dragged words, as if to dispense them as counted drops, in the heat of the inadequacy of your interlocutors.
But who did you think you were? And most importantly, what did you expect from yourself?
The maximum, of course, according to the role you have managed to play in your sector which, ironically, coincidentally is what I have chosen too, except that, let alone, I do it on the opposite side of the barricade, in the sense that I am an author and you are the editor to whom, due to an unfathomable conjuncture of the case, this time I have to report.
And of course, I like to think that you took a hit when they communicated it to you and I imagine that funny guy in your nose will have curled at least a couple of times, as he always has in problematic situations.
I would add that it would also have been opportune for you to withdraw from the task, and perhaps you would have even tried. But it didn't work and you had to obey your Savoyard King, like Garibaldi who, at the time of glory of your university protests, you hated it so much.
Of course, to be honest, I could have stolen myself too, encamping who knows what excuses and asking to be put in contact with another colleague of yours. But, to be honest, it would have been madness and the memory of our tumultuous years together was not enough to make me do it.
You are, as you know, the best and only an unfortunate, rancorous and nostalgic loser, as I am trying not to be, could have declined the offer of your infallible nose.
You have always had the taste of letters, as well as designer clothes and I recognize that, with age, your aplomb has become even more elegant than when you wore your famous black turtlenecks that made me freak out. How I loved them. Almost as much as I loved you.
This morning you are not wearing anything so striking or existentialist, but you are definitely up to your role and the situation, and the two hours by plane do not seem to have scratched at all the folds of your cashmere coat, nor those of your hair, still thick and moved as I remember them.
Flavor of salt
taste of sea
A slightly bitter taste
Of lost things
Of things left
Far from us
Where the world is different
Other than here
But what is it, a conspiracy? The words resonate within me, while in the meantime you too have intercepted me with your eyes and nod my head. Kind, affable, professional, I would even say flawless.
Well, the first embarrassment should be over now. I hope more than anything else, since in reality I have no idea what you are really thinking about me or how your little nose is now evaluating and weighing me. I don't think he lost his habit, he was born for this and has always stood in the middle, like an authentic malmostosa mother-in-law.
Here we go? I say with a lightness that seems to have come out of the dubbing of an American 1950s film. Oh my God, I hope to be a little more authentic in the next few bars, a difficult task while I tinker with the keys and I feel my heart go down the weirdest streets. Yet? After a long time and despite everything? What the heck.
And so, in order not to let myself be overwhelmed by emotions, or perhaps to test me or not make you suspect anything, but certainly with a subtle desire to challenge you, I decide on two feet to take you right to Aci Trezza and, as soon as I arrive, I stop the car at the exact point where, that evening, you swore eternal love to me and even your nose, already he too, seemed to hang from my yes.
Never monosyllable, for me, more desired and never more regret.
I also do it to let you understand that it is by now a thing of the past, as if to play cards face up to tell you that, in the past, it would be good to put a stone on top and that in any case I do not care.
The adult part of my being knows this perfectly and has been training for a long time to become aware of it.
It is the other part, the one that started to play bouncing as soon as he saw you, but that worries me and I don't quite understand what his intentions are, if he is not trying to implement a sabotage that he will not be able to do anyway, because I am not more the girl than once and because I don't want to know more about your salt taste and why we are here to work on my new novel and why these stone giants are no longer guardians of any secret or promise.
They remain, however, always magnificent, perennial sentries thrown into the sea by a Cyclops furious with pain and blinded by the deception of Nobody.
How many times, after our definitive break, I went back to see them again, blinded and furious too because of the deception of my Nobody, or yours, now reduced to a scar that only those who know me well can, despite everything, glimpse.
Oh, the Faraglioni ..., you exclaim, and you stop as if suspended, or perhaps just surprised by this unexpected turn of our meeting.
Maybe it seems to you that I am making a move too obvious, too predictable, or maybe you don't remember, possible ?, nothing more and you have simply been subjugated by an extraordinary show, which the whole world envies us.
I've never been able to read you inside, even when we were together. Not, at least, as easily as you did with me, a proverbial open book.
Imagine if I am therefore able to do it now, with all the time spent, nor do you even give me the opportunity to try to understand that you are going through your head, since you immediately sling in the nearest bar and take a seat.
And you turn your back on the windows, as if you don't care about the sea enjoying it, in all the brightness of this shining early spring morning.
As if, in short, the sight of the Faraglioni immersed in the sun left you indifferent.
Or, better yet, as if you wanted to understand that you have abandoned behind you all that represents your past in Sicily.
Or I'm totally wrong, with you it has never been easy to get it right, and maybe you're just acting like a knight and you prefer to give me the view of the panorama that, thank you very much, thank you very much, I am grasping in full, a postcard of lights and vivid and vibrant colors, framed by the room's large plexiglass windows.
Then you get more comfortable and, always perfectly at ease, you cross your legs to the side, with an actor's naturalness that once again breaks my breath in my throat.
But I don't helmet, not today, not like this.
In order not to incur any type of risk, I try in any case to give myself a demeanor too, by calling the waiter to order and soon a couple of glasses of prosecco accompany the appetizers for a hearty aperitif.
Let's also have a quick toast to the success of the book.
I look at you again and it seems impossible to me that a long time has passed since I thought we were one, and together, that there has never been a time different from this, in which a man and a woman find themselves seated on one side and other than a bar table for talking, friendly as far as they go, for work.
In any case, everything seems so fluid, so natural, almost like an agreed lineup.
At the first useful break, finally extract your copy of my manuscript, from the hand-worked leather bag that you are carrying with you as the most diligent of the valuables.
And it begins. I am really curious to know the numbers that you will be able to come up with, nor disappoint me.
Read, underline, discuss the crucial steps, highlight the strengths and highlight the weaknesses that apparently - I was waiting for him at the gate, your nose - are not few.
If you say so, it comes to me at a certain point to comment, but I prefer to keep quiet, so as not to seem stupidly controversial.
And then, seeing you and hearing you talk about these things is still a pleasure and I also use the respect of not shuffling the words once.
What a great deign on your part.
I should be grateful to you, and it is clear that you have me
climbed more than one step in your personal ranking.
But then, all of a sudden a ray of sun goes down to the sea making it a very clear liquid mirror and, like a light shiver, a blue flicker spreads among the waves crossed by a fast current.
The words of the song come to mind again:
Flavor of salt
taste of sea
A slightly bitter taste
Of lost things
Of things left
Far from us
Where the world is different
Other than here ...
... and I don't listen to you anymore.
I fly a thousand miles away and lose the boundaries of things.
I would like to ask you if you ever long for what we could have been and have not been or if my memory has ever shaken you, in these years, like the thrill of the current that has just passed.
I'd like to hold you in my arms once again and maybe kiss you. Cancel a long distance. A madness, of course, but in which life worthy of the name, is it not committed, at least one?
And here, where you talk about flavors, I just hear you say how in a trance, it would perhaps be good to use a similarity, like, how ...
Of salt, I suggest from the lips and I already regret it. I immediately return to myself but I perceive your slight gasp. Hopefully it is not too late to regain control of the situation.
What is wrong with me? The madness of a moment. Damn Faraglioni and damn me ...
In a flash the awareness of the disaster that I was one step away from combining and, in a trembling flicker, my eyes run immediately to your nose.
It does not move or curl.
Well, then, everything is fine.
Let's continue.
So you said ...
(taken from: G.VERGARI, Magie damore 2.0, Giuliano Ladolfi publisher)