The Lament
When Giacomo Rosta abandoned sleep, the sound that had invaded his dreamlike illusions of everlasting and never banal loves followed him. A feeble and grave sound, barely perceptible in the nocturnal silence and yet so alive, so intense that nothing could have covered it. A loud and clear sound, a dead bell in the silent night, yet non-existent, if no one had stopped to listen to it.
A lament.
Giacomo Rosta slipped out of the covers and moved to the window, scanning the darkness like a blind man with the sun. He could perceive the anguish and pain enclosed in that lament and decided to make them his own. He had always led a solitary life, bordering on death; he had allowed himself to live pretending not to know that he was nothing but a dead man breathing. But, at that moment, someone needed him, and he had never felt so alive.
The wardrobe, the door, the street. The sound guided Giacomo Rosta as if holding him by the hand. The despair it expressed grew and grew. Giacomo Rosta accelerated his pace, the heart accelerated its beating, and the anxiety of not managing to arrive in time started to take over. For what, then?
As soon as he had turned into a familiar street, Giacomo Rosta realized with certainty where he was headed and further accelerated his pace. He rushed toward the entrance of the Emergency Room of the nearby Maria Vittoria Hospital and managed to get in, unnoticed by anyone; almost as if, at that moment, he hadn’t existed except to listen to that lament, just as the lament would not have existed had Giacomo Rosta not agreed to listen to it.
The stairs, now in a hurry, with the heartbeats matching the crying. The door, the room. While the lament resounded in the soul of Giacomo Rosta with such intensity that it would never leave him again.
On the only bed, the lifeless body of an old man with a sad expression. On a nearby chair, the trembling figure, scarred by time, of a woman with wet eyes who turned her wedding ring over in her fingers like a rosary.
“I only wished for someone to know how much we loved each other,” she murmured without raising his head, bent over her husband.
Giacomo Rosta narrowed his eyes, walking at a slow pace toward the door from which he had entered, while his heart, disconcerted, experienced the existence of such pain, and his soul bent on itself, unable to handle it. Motionless on the threshold, he was not surprised when he heard the wedding ring fall onto the floor.
The lament had ceased.
Translated from the Italian by Sabrina Beretta.
Edited by Sai Leigh.
Never Meet Your Hero
The child has become a boy and the boy has become a man.
Please, meet the man you are.
But you are not pleased at all.
Soft music in the passenger area, cigarette in my mouth, I felt like a modern lone knight riding his steel steed in the night. Luminous signs and flickering streetlamps showed me the way, in a journey without a destination whose only purpose was to make me, at least for a few hours, the sole author and master of my destiny. To hell with the office, to hell with poker games with friends, to hell with schedules and rules: I was the lord of my world. Yes, me. Free, fearless, invincible. And handsome.
A red light, a drag on the cigarette and the commotion on the sidewalk to my right. Three disreputable faces, a girl struggling with terror in her eyes, a gothic atmosphere of violence and wickedness that shocked my universe. The knife of one of the three, my hand lingering on the door lever, the traffic light turning green.
The departure.
#
I stopped playing the lone knight in the night. I stopped complaining about schedules and rules: I deserved nothing else, evidently. There was no night without me waking up, shipwrecked in cold sweat, repeating to myself that I could have done something, that I HAD to do something, but fear had taken over. Therefore, I had no right to make man’s claims, since I hadn’t proved myself.
“If only I had another chance,” I kept repeating to myself. “It would all be different.”
I spent entire nights staring at vials of barbiturates, but I didn’t feel brave enough for that either. Or, maybe, I was a coward but not enough.
“Just another chance…”
#
The child has become a boy and the boy has become a man.
Please, meet the man you are.
But you are not pleased at all.
I hadn’t heard that song since then, just like I hadn’t passed by that area, through that intersection.
The red light, a drag on the cigarette and the commotion on the sidewalk to my right. Three disreputable faces, a girl struggling with terror in her eyes, a gothic atmosphere of violence and wickedness that shocked my universe. The knife of one of the three, my hand lingering on the door lever, the traffic light turning green.
The departure.
Translated from the Italian by Sabrina Beretta.
Edited by Sai Leigh.
When Angels Die
Turin, cemetery of Sassi. Sadness, silence, memories, and me.
To recite a blasphemous prayer, vain in its own solemnity.
An impudent cloud obscured the sun. A thin breath of wind chased the dead leaves. A black cat carried the divine blessing from grave to grave.
What conception do I have of God? Tall, robust, silver wavy hair and a thick white beard. He looks a bit like Charlton Heston.
I shuddered at the thought of the years enclosed in that single place; millennia of dreams and hopes, nightmares and disappointments. But that was not the reason for my visit.
#
Agata Irene Ubaldi: 14 February 1957 – 13 September 1990.
It is not easy to fill the void you have left, sweet Agata. Not easier than extinguishing the sun with tears.
A blurred outline, a name, a couple of dates. Here is all that remained of her: a ruthless metaphor for the transience of life. Plus a shattered husband, and two children who had to understand too much too soon.
It is not possible to do without your love, sweet Agata. Now, as then.
And then nothing but an odorless kitchen and a pool of blood on the living room carpet.
To be or not to be. It is not a problem.
#
Tiziana Antinori: 23 October 1964 – 13 September 1991.
It was nice to talk to you, to listen and be listened to. The complicity that had been established between us was extraordinary, don’t you think, Tiziana? It is so difficult to talk today.
Her smile was enough to dissolve the silence, her gaze was enough to drive away every sadness. She was enough.
Words to laugh, words to cry. Words to feel alive.
And now, nothing but the sound of the heart and a sea of blood on a park bench.
No man is an island. No woman.
#
Monica Iovine: 17 July 1961 – 13 September 1992.
I still feel the taste of your kisses. I can still feel the warmth of your caresses and of your altruism. Where are you now, Monica?
It was wonderful to make love with her, it was like giving the most of yourself and receiving the same gift in return. It was life shouting its name.
Life shouting its pain, demanding answers to damned questions.
Then, just an empty bed and an ocean of blood on a car seat.
‘Odi et amo’. Hate and love. What is the difference?
#
Turin, cemetery of Sassi. Exit.
Once again, she was there, at the bus stop. I saw her often, at the same time in the same place. Even when she was not yet or no longer there. A sweet, complicit and selfless angel.
The kind of angel I’m looking for.
She would be the next one.
Translated from the Italian by Sabrina Beretta.
Edited by Sai Leigh.
Loredano Cafaro lives in the hills of Turin, Italy, with his wife and their two sons. In the little free time left to him by his work as a computer scientist, every now and then he imagines stories. Sometimes he writes them down. You can find him at https://loredanocafaro.com.