Read Online La Superba by Ilja Leonard Pfeijffer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ilja Leonard Pfeijffer
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donât.
Nerviâs station is on the seafront. By now, Iâd really had it up to here with the whole business, so much so that I couldnât summon up the energy to look for a special, secret, well-chosen place and just dumped the bag into the sea from the platform. The waves were on my side. Pure luck. The bag floated away. There were black clouds above the mountains on the other side of the city. Forest fires. A yellow fire-fighting plane maneuvered above the bay. Tomorrow was going to be hot again. I used the same ticket to take the train home.
18.
Sunday had descended upon Genoa. The city lay like a woman with a bad cold whoâd decided to spend the day in bed. The pillows were damp, the bottom sheet damp, the duvet twisted inits cover, but she didnât have the strength to change the sheets or make the bed. Bright sun shone through the window onto her snotty face. She turned over and closed her eyes. Yesterdayâs dirty dishes were still piled up on the counter. Her risky evening dress lay in a corner of the room. She wouldnât be swishing and swirling before the hungry eyes of the night this evening. She reached with a sigh for the half-empty packet of cigarettes on the bedside table and the lighter. After two drags, she extinguished the cigarette on the saucer under the cup of her now-lukewarm tea. Everything tasted funny today. It was hot, unbearably hot. She kicked the duvet half onto the floor and fell asleep. She didnât dream about anything in particular. She dreamed gray, lingering dreams like a boring, tacky film, and would remember nothing of them. When she awoke it was the evening. But she didnât feel better.
I shuffled through the empty streets of my new city. The shutters had been lowered in all the alleyways. The hawkersâ raucous arias were nowhere to be heard, and nowhere to be heard was the fierce barking or scornful throat-clearing of life. Even the beggars had taken the day off. Scattered about were a few bars that were reluctantly a little bit open, yawning behind their façades. The Bar of Mirrors was closed. I felt like a man who had done his best with roses and champagne, had ironed his best suit to the nines and lightly sprinkled his cheeks with his most expensive aftershave, ready for the evening and the rest of his life, and the woman he has a date with fails to show up. She doesnât send a text until late that night. âIn bed with a bad cold. Sorry.â And he replies, âNo worries. Better for me too anyway. Get well soon. Hope to see you.â And he throws a wine glass in anger. Then sighs deeply.He gets to his feet to tidy away the broken glass, cutting his finger in the process. A drop of blood stains his suit.
I was alone. Of course I was alone. Iâd had that feeling for the past couple of days, but on this Sunday, it broke through like a heavy cold, dampening my desire to do anything at all. I tried to reflect on this, but didnât feel like it. Loneliness had nestled in my cavities like a gray lump of snot. It made my face hurt. The heat was unbearable, even in the darkness of the narrow alleyways I knew like the inside of my pocket. I didnât feel like sweating, either, but I was. Maybe I should have stayed in bed. But I didnât feel like that, either.
What have I achieved up to this point? Back home everyone recognizes me and Iâm pestered every day for an autograph or an opinion about something. Not here. I have taken up residence. I carry a key to a real Genoese house. It is a large, real key with a fat bow on a long steel shaft, which has to be forced with conviction into a heavy old door, and you need to use force to turn the key. I didnât intend this as a metaphor, but in retrospect it could be interpreted as such. Go ahead then, my friend. Invent something beautiful about heavy doors and the large, indigenous keys needed, along with conviction and force. Iâm sure you can do it. Think about
Nerviâs station is on the seafront. By now, Iâd really had it up to here with the whole business, so much so that I couldnât summon up the energy to look for a special, secret, well-chosen place and just dumped the bag into the sea from the platform. The waves were on my side. Pure luck. The bag floated away. There were black clouds above the mountains on the other side of the city. Forest fires. A yellow fire-fighting plane maneuvered above the bay. Tomorrow was going to be hot again. I used the same ticket to take the train home.
18.
Sunday had descended upon Genoa. The city lay like a woman with a bad cold whoâd decided to spend the day in bed. The pillows were damp, the bottom sheet damp, the duvet twisted inits cover, but she didnât have the strength to change the sheets or make the bed. Bright sun shone through the window onto her snotty face. She turned over and closed her eyes. Yesterdayâs dirty dishes were still piled up on the counter. Her risky evening dress lay in a corner of the room. She wouldnât be swishing and swirling before the hungry eyes of the night this evening. She reached with a sigh for the half-empty packet of cigarettes on the bedside table and the lighter. After two drags, she extinguished the cigarette on the saucer under the cup of her now-lukewarm tea. Everything tasted funny today. It was hot, unbearably hot. She kicked the duvet half onto the floor and fell asleep. She didnât dream about anything in particular. She dreamed gray, lingering dreams like a boring, tacky film, and would remember nothing of them. When she awoke it was the evening. But she didnât feel better.
I shuffled through the empty streets of my new city. The shutters had been lowered in all the alleyways. The hawkersâ raucous arias were nowhere to be heard, and nowhere to be heard was the fierce barking or scornful throat-clearing of life. Even the beggars had taken the day off. Scattered about were a few bars that were reluctantly a little bit open, yawning behind their façades. The Bar of Mirrors was closed. I felt like a man who had done his best with roses and champagne, had ironed his best suit to the nines and lightly sprinkled his cheeks with his most expensive aftershave, ready for the evening and the rest of his life, and the woman he has a date with fails to show up. She doesnât send a text until late that night. âIn bed with a bad cold. Sorry.â And he replies, âNo worries. Better for me too anyway. Get well soon. Hope to see you.â And he throws a wine glass in anger. Then sighs deeply.He gets to his feet to tidy away the broken glass, cutting his finger in the process. A drop of blood stains his suit.
I was alone. Of course I was alone. Iâd had that feeling for the past couple of days, but on this Sunday, it broke through like a heavy cold, dampening my desire to do anything at all. I tried to reflect on this, but didnât feel like it. Loneliness had nestled in my cavities like a gray lump of snot. It made my face hurt. The heat was unbearable, even in the darkness of the narrow alleyways I knew like the inside of my pocket. I didnât feel like sweating, either, but I was. Maybe I should have stayed in bed. But I didnât feel like that, either.
What have I achieved up to this point? Back home everyone recognizes me and Iâm pestered every day for an autograph or an opinion about something. Not here. I have taken up residence. I carry a key to a real Genoese house. It is a large, real key with a fat bow on a long steel shaft, which has to be forced with conviction into a heavy old door, and you need to use force to turn the key. I didnât intend this as a metaphor, but in retrospect it could be interpreted as such. Go ahead then, my friend. Invent something beautiful about heavy doors and the large, indigenous keys needed, along with conviction and force. Iâm sure you can do it. Think about
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