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… Let’s forget time exists and not count the days we have left; if we weren’t stupid enough to do that before, then let’s not start now, Mavri, it feels like I was dreaming and then I awoke and asked myself where I was, was it I, was I the same, and why?… but there are no reasons why, things happen on their own, without reasons, even if in dreams begins responsibility, that old line is right, tell me about your childhood, Mavri, and your friends, those who never reawakened like I did and are now in unmarked graves up in the mountains, they belong to the people of dreams, I don’t know how to talk with them … I’d like you to play that piece you played for me that night, but there’s no piano here, and I’m ashamed to ask you anyway, I hear it playing in the cypresses, let’s go to Cape Suonio, I want a view of the Aegean Sea from the Temple of Poseidon, your friends can’t see anymore, they have empty eye sockets, they lie among the thorn bushes and nourish the roots of the chestnut trees, they called out to me a long while, but I didn’t listen; Mavri, we belonged to each other though we didn’t know it, these are my stones, thanks to them, I understood, stones teach us many things, maybe someday you’ll come with me, but for now, let me stay, take me to Crete, I want to see the house where you were born, don’t let it lie abandoned, it would almost be like your mother and father were twice dead, I’ll be the one to open that door again, you’ll step inside with me, I’ve imagined it so often, I feel I’ve lived there: the key’s hanging from a nail on the porch behind a dry laurel branch, it’s a large, heavy key to the inside wooden bolt, the first room you enter is spacious, that’s where they had the oil press, there are straw-bottom chairs, but by the window is a stone bench covered in Cretan-cloth cushions, and in the middle of the room is the table where your family ate, an enormous round stone used at one time for pressing olives, set on top of another stone … this will be our workshop, we’ll design our world there, put our books together on that stone … Mavri, I don’t want to spend my life in university lecture halls or my nights in an observatory searching the sky, because this world isn’t enough to discover other worlds, besides, look what we’ve done to it … I know you’ll leave me often, but when you return from giving your concerts, you’ll find me sitting there, on that stone … I hear a player piano, do you hear it, too?… writer, I’m talking to you … sorry, I was dreaming and a player piano woke me, but maybe I was dreaming about the player piano, too, and now it’s continuing outside my dream, it’s a waltz — you hear it?… Don’t tell me I’m just hallucinating, indulge me, it’s a waltz in A major, far away, but if you want to, you can easily hear it … it’s not a player piano, though, it’s a street organ, what the gypsies played at fairs when I was a boy … During the fireworks for the San Giovanni Festival, a gypsy played a barrel organ in piazza San Nicolò, he’d turn the crank and people would start to dance … No one cares about these old stories anymore, but praised be the poor song from the past that brings back long-dead days … that tireless pendulum clock on the bureau always has its eyes wide open, never even closes them at night, is spying every second, like a spider spies on flies, and the universe is there, galaxies and light-years, of course, one second after another, tick-tock, and the hour’s done … the gypsy heads off to another fair, always playing the same music, does another couple want to dance?… I know those two over there, she’s wearing white shoes and a blue pleated skirt, he’s left his jacket hanging on a chair and rolled up his shirtsleeves; ask her to dance … make her laugh, boy, can’t you see how her eyes sparkle, the lights of the square flicker inside them, Chinese paper lanterns, a bouzouki player’s just arrived, an old man who understands lovers, he’s seen so many of them dancing in his lifetime, this old man understands everything, he’s started to play “Tha Xanarthis” … of course you’ll come back, the woman says, you’re already back, and she laughs, she curls her hand around his neck and draws him close, people are clapping, they’ve made a circle around them, she runs her fingers through his hair and then she kisses him, other musicians have arrived, a lively scene now, everyone starts dancing, an old man is dancing by himself, hands raised, as though he’s clutching the air, and only his feet in leather boots are dancing, these two are frozen in the crush of dancers, they’re like a statue of two bodies the sculptor’s extracted from one stone, they keep their eyes closed, their foreheads drawn together as though they’re exchanging thoughts, thinking the same thing, that the boat for Crete departs tomorrow morning at seven and there’s a festival in Piraeus, so why bother going back to the city to sleep … I know a boarding house down by the harbor, Daphne says, when my grandfather came to study in Athens he stayed there, now it’s owned by Stratis, who’s from my town, I’d like to go and say hello, he knew me as a girl, I think he’d be happy to see me with you, Tristano.

You never did get that big fly out of here, you’re a liar just like Frau, can’t you hear it — or do you think my own ears are buzzing? — maybe they are, but what I’m hearing is a big fly, I know I’m right, get it out of here, open the shutters a little, you’ll see, it’ll find its way out, that much light won’t bother me, I’ll close my eyes, what time is it, is it already past noon? It’s afternoon, must be three, mmm, it feels like afternoon … strange, even from this bed, I can tell it’s afternoon — I can hear it — the afternoon has its own way of breathing, its own fragrance, a sound and a sniff, and there’s also a rooster that starts crowing in the afternoon, stupid rooster, what’s he got to crow about? — thinks he’s so brave, but he’s not brave at all, just puffed up and stupid, there were two men up in those mountains once, both brave men, fighting the same battle, but they were divided about the future of their country, he was one of them, behind that boulder, staring at a flower, the three western brigades would pass to his command, but he had to become a hero first, it’s not remotely easy to become a hero: a millimeter to the right and you’re a hero, a millimeter to the left and you’re a coward, it’s a matter of millimeters, he was there, staring at a flower, and the countryside before him was his arena, would he win the fight or shit his pants?… that can happen, you’re about to be a hero and everything turns to shit … Please, open the shutters, it must be evening already, I know, I was wrong before … are you getting all this down?… get it down word for word, you’re free to write other things the way you want, but not this part, no, write down my every word … Open the shutters a little, let the breeze in … heroism often — no — nearly always turns to shit — but you can’t say this, you can’t bring children up on this, how would you put your hand over your heart, because after heroism you have to put your hand over your heart, when you stand before the flag, you stand there, waiting for that cross on your chest, the authorities all lined up in front of you … war cross … not just any fucking medal … there’s the president of the Republic with his wife, Christ, what a pair, Tristano is watching them, luckily it’s just an Incom Weekly newsreel in black and white, and the lack of color makes the scene less awful, all the other authorities are there on the stand for the occasion: the Minister of the Interior, the Defense Minister, a general weighed down by all the medals on his chest, the cardinal, maybe even two cardinals, the band with their plumes; next Sunday this solemn ceremony of homeland heroism will be shown in all the movie theaters in Italy, or at least in the big cities, before that gripping American movie where she says that after all, tomorrow is another day, with that blood-red sunset in the background … and that Incom Weekly newsreel is historical, because younger generations have to know that what we have here is a national hero being decorated, yes, and he was really the one who performed this act of heroism, but that isn’t him, he’s like the unknown soldier, he represents all Italians, even we presidents and generals who weren’t in the Resistance, he represents us all, because the Italians were never fascists, and we recognize ourselves in him, the Italians always fought against fascism, always, they never dreamed of being fascists, not the Italians … I was the one dreaming, Tristano thinks, I wasn’t fighting against anyone, the fascists never existed, they were all in my imagination … the crooked president comes straight toward him accompanied by a high official who carries the war cross on a silver platter, they’re all banded together, Tristano; there’s no escape, Tristano thinks, now I’ll run away, that dawn back then I didn’t run away, I stayed behind that boulder and held on to my submachine gun, but now I’ll run away, it’s now or never, run, Tristano, run, or in a little while you’ll be a hero to these people, their equal, and it will all be over, irreversible … Writer, open the window, throw it wide open, I want to feel the cool of the evening, because the evening is dear to me when it comes, did they teach you that poem in school? you must have had some nobody teacher who taught you that one, Tristano could have used some cool himself; instead he was sweating, the heat was unbearable, open my window, writer, let the cool night in, ah, night, it’s night that should be praised, far more than evening, but it takes guts to praise the night, because the night brings dreams, and often nightmares, and it’s hard to face your nightmares, harder than facing the Nazis, that’s when you really see if you’re a hero; now, please let me be, I want to see if I can sleep.