them no attention. She was sleepy too;
since she was barely out of childhood herself, she still needed quite a lot of
sleep. She felt she had wasted time, but, on the other hand, it was time that
was good for nothing except being wasted. That was in the nature of
siesta-time. The mysterious men were watching her from a certain
distance, but she couldn’t really be bothered returning their gaze. The
laughter, at least, had dissipated. There was something aloof and severe about
those insubstantial gangs. They were simply there.
Elisa was waiting for them at the top of the stairs. What about the
others? was the first thing she asked. Ernesto started to explain, but Patri
shrugged her shoulders. I couldn’t catch them, she said. They got away. Mother
and daughter were silently resigned. Elisa took the children inside. It’s so
hot! said the boy, yielding to the truth. She put them in the bedroom, where
their father was snoring. She didn’t even wash their feet; in a few seconds they
were perfectly quiet. In the dining room, Patri saw the bags left out, and
remembered that there was shopping to do. When Elisa came out of the bedroom,
she offered to go and do it, with a list. No, said her mother, I have to do it
myself this time, because I still haven’t worked out exactly what I’m going to
buy; it’ll depend what’s there. No one made a fuss about meals in that family,
as long as they were nutritious and tasty. On the way, Elisa added, I’ll look
for the other two and take them along. That was a good idea. But then she said:
Since they’re not going to sleep, I’ll take them for ice cream. Patri frowned as
if to say: Well that’s a great way to punish them for misbehaving. She didn’t get any ice cream, even
though she loved it. You lie down too, said her mother. I guess that’s what I’ll
be doing, she replied. Elisa put on her shoes and picked up the bags. Back in a
bit. See you, said Patri.
Off she went. Patri removed the crochet rug with which she covered the
sofa that was her bed. She pushed the chairs up against the table. She took off
her dress and got under the sheet. It was uncomfortable, because of the heat,
but it was the prudent thing to do, because that room was the entrance to the
little apartment, and anyone could have come along. It was boiling hot. The
silence had deepened and was almost complete, with a just a vague echo of
cackling, which made her even sleepier. She shut her eyes straight away. And
fell asleep.
She dreamed of the building on top of which she was sleeping, not as
it would be later on, not seeing it finished and inhabited, but as it was now,
that is, under construction. It was a calm vision, devoid of troubling portents
or inventions, almost a verification of the facts. But there is always a
difference between dreams and reality, which becomes clearer as the superficial
contrast diminishes. The difference in this case was reflected in the
architecture, which is, in itself, a reciprocal mirroring of what has already
been built and what will be built eventually. The all-important bridge
between the two reflections was provided by a third term: the unbuilt.
The unbuilt is characteristic of those arts whose realization requires
the remunerated work of many people, the purchase of materials, the use of
expensive equipment, etc. Cinema is the paradigmatic case: anyone can have an
idea for a film, but then you need expertise, finance, personnel, and these
obstacles mean that ninety-nine times out of a hundred the film
doesn’t get made. Which might make you wonder if the prodigious bother of it
all—which technological advances have exacerbated if
anything—isn’t actually an essential part of cinema’s charm, since,
paradoxically, it gives everyone access to movie-making, in the form
of pure daydreaming. It’s the same in the other arts, to a greater or lesser
extent. And yet it is possible to imagine an art in which the limitations of
reality would be minimized, in which the
since she was barely out of childhood herself, she still needed quite a lot of
sleep. She felt she had wasted time, but, on the other hand, it was time that
was good for nothing except being wasted. That was in the nature of
siesta-time. The mysterious men were watching her from a certain
distance, but she couldn’t really be bothered returning their gaze. The
laughter, at least, had dissipated. There was something aloof and severe about
those insubstantial gangs. They were simply there.
Elisa was waiting for them at the top of the stairs. What about the
others? was the first thing she asked. Ernesto started to explain, but Patri
shrugged her shoulders. I couldn’t catch them, she said. They got away. Mother
and daughter were silently resigned. Elisa took the children inside. It’s so
hot! said the boy, yielding to the truth. She put them in the bedroom, where
their father was snoring. She didn’t even wash their feet; in a few seconds they
were perfectly quiet. In the dining room, Patri saw the bags left out, and
remembered that there was shopping to do. When Elisa came out of the bedroom,
she offered to go and do it, with a list. No, said her mother, I have to do it
myself this time, because I still haven’t worked out exactly what I’m going to
buy; it’ll depend what’s there. No one made a fuss about meals in that family,
as long as they were nutritious and tasty. On the way, Elisa added, I’ll look
for the other two and take them along. That was a good idea. But then she said:
Since they’re not going to sleep, I’ll take them for ice cream. Patri frowned as
if to say: Well that’s a great way to punish them for misbehaving. She didn’t get any ice cream, even
though she loved it. You lie down too, said her mother. I guess that’s what I’ll
be doing, she replied. Elisa put on her shoes and picked up the bags. Back in a
bit. See you, said Patri.
Off she went. Patri removed the crochet rug with which she covered the
sofa that was her bed. She pushed the chairs up against the table. She took off
her dress and got under the sheet. It was uncomfortable, because of the heat,
but it was the prudent thing to do, because that room was the entrance to the
little apartment, and anyone could have come along. It was boiling hot. The
silence had deepened and was almost complete, with a just a vague echo of
cackling, which made her even sleepier. She shut her eyes straight away. And
fell asleep.
She dreamed of the building on top of which she was sleeping, not as
it would be later on, not seeing it finished and inhabited, but as it was now,
that is, under construction. It was a calm vision, devoid of troubling portents
or inventions, almost a verification of the facts. But there is always a
difference between dreams and reality, which becomes clearer as the superficial
contrast diminishes. The difference in this case was reflected in the
architecture, which is, in itself, a reciprocal mirroring of what has already
been built and what will be built eventually. The all-important bridge
between the two reflections was provided by a third term: the unbuilt.
The unbuilt is characteristic of those arts whose realization requires
the remunerated work of many people, the purchase of materials, the use of
expensive equipment, etc. Cinema is the paradigmatic case: anyone can have an
idea for a film, but then you need expertise, finance, personnel, and these
obstacles mean that ninety-nine times out of a hundred the film
doesn’t get made. Which might make you wonder if the prodigious bother of it
all—which technological advances have exacerbated if
anything—isn’t actually an essential part of cinema’s charm, since,
paradoxically, it gives everyone access to movie-making, in the form
of pure daydreaming. It’s the same in the other arts, to a greater or lesser
extent. And yet it is possible to imagine an art in which the limitations of
reality would be minimized, in which the
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