The war is over

by Quelli di ZEd

Chamber 79, Tuesday

  I succeeded in seeing the disconnected outline of the Sacred Coeur among the dirty white buildings in Paris. The taxi flowed coasting along shops of lower part jail cell price taken of ragazzine assault of color, mountains of suspended purses in the bazaars of the Indians. The ladies with the baguette under arm went out of the boulangerieses giving life to a suggestive metropolitan chaos. Visually it was so, one of the thousand faces in Paris. Between a patisserie and a shop of used books, Rue de Chevalier de the Bars it stretched out him in slope. The taxista returned me the suitcase and was pocketed the conspicuous tip that I left him. I was standing there, almost in photographic laying, while the taxi went up again the traffic among a pair of horns of protest. I remained still some second lock to my place, tasting with every sense my first Parisian touch. The visual picture that I had made up in head in the journey done in taxi was completed by the low perfume and multietnico of that district. Also closing the eyes, the perfumes and the odors they gave physical consistence to that moment.

  «Pardon monsieur» a boy of color with some enormous bonnets to the ears, that you/he/she discarded me giving me a light spallata.

  It woke up me from the enchantment. The hotel Montmartrois was there, a little anymore before on the right. I dragged my suitcase on the steps, over the ciottolato that did her/it jolt, in the door in beaten iron, climbing her steep staircases of the hotel. Everything in slope, as if also that place wanted to make to metaphorically understand me every difficulty that I was passing. Because it was not so discounted that to every slope it corresponded a descent.

  The Indian to the reception welcomed me with a voiceless bonjour, you/he/she lengthened me the electronic key and the remote control and with the low look and totally regardless of me, you/he/she said: «Chambre settantanove, quatrième ètage.»

  The corridors that brought to the room were vaguely of intestinal aspect: small and narrow, they lost him among the curves that the building forced to cross. To a first moment, the abrupt change of ambientazioni that my eyes were suffering it caused me a strong fit of dizziness. I took me some second and I reestablished the contact with the reality. The carpet under to the feet it gave a strange consistence to my footsteps.

  I delayed in front of the room settantanove. That door didn't have anything to whether to see with the hundred hotel that I had had the opportunity of frequenting. Any ample corridor from the lights soffuse, any boy in uniform with my suitcases in hand, any suite, any swimming pool to the last floor with panoramic sight. This was the bad brother of the Ritz. The hotel that had entertained my about ten French travel allowances, the same of the princess Daylight. This was the Montmartrois, under the Sacred Coeur, to few hundred meters from Pigalle. If there had been never some luxury, this place if the era completely forgotten. But if I was running away from something, if the Arab phoenix that was me wanted to die and to revive, had to do departing him/it from the lower part. For riassaporare again every conquest and every profit, every small thing that in the life is be returned me before.

  I shaken the head, I sketched a lukewarm smile being uncertain on the nature buonista of my thoughts.

  I didn't do in time to open the door that the room was already ended. Few meters you square, perhaps as soon as two, maximum three, you/they would have become my habitat for the next days. The first thing that I looked as soon as I usually arrived in room it was the bath. It was as soon as more breadth of a telephone box. I climbed over the bed and I supported the suitcase really under the window. Out, the roofs of the city.

  I was tired, heated up. Mine facing the mirror appeared white and sick, as soon as an indication of color to the cheeks remembered that in my face some blood circulated still.

  I removed the lock from the eyes and I gone down down in the street noisily closing it brings her/it to my shoulders, feeling to go up again from the back a shake of panic.

  Going up again Rue de Chevalier de the Bars, few hundred meters later it sprouted, I improvise the Sacred Coeur.

  You hardly had Paris before turned the angle. The white church looked you at the shoulders while you were looking for with the look what you could recognize among that buildings. There had never been, despite my quite a lot visits in the city: I always had and carefully tried to avoid any type of tourist place. I went to Paris for job and to tow.

  That sight, the tiredness that fell and it flowed along the legs and the cold air that hair disarranged they made me two fermoimmagines to come to mind that you/they represented people to which I would never be waited me to think at that time.

  Julia.

  He/she adored that city, he/she adored her/it over every limit. I had promised her that one day I would have brought her there. I was so in love of her, I was so young. You/he/she had suddenly disappeared from my life, without never causing neither too well neither too badly. Of her you/they had only come me some voices that gave her/it gotten married and with a child in another city. It was true love, the only love that gives really everything without never receiving nothing in change. It was platonic love. More than love was faith as that that a man can have for a goddess.

  It is Giorgia.

  You had been my history more important and more lasting. You/he/she had left me the day of my birthday after two years that we were together. I accused the hit, I grew thin different kilos and lost momentarily every hope of a happy life. With Giorgia you/he/she had been marvelous, brief but marvelous. But it is so, all the marvelously beautiful things last little.

  Do you know something beautiful lasted an eternity?

  A film, a book, a lightning, a storm, a rainbow, a trip, a sentence, a birthday, a look, a first kiss, a fellatio, the orgasm, a song, the goose bumps, a sneeze, the Beatleses. Every beautiful thing has in his/her own Dna the word" end."

  Giorgia had put the word" end" to our relationship and it was completely disappeared. I never succeeded in hating her/it neither to have grudge in his/her comparisons. But I suffered of it terribly in the icy nights of end autumn, caressing in the dark his/her cold pillow. Crying seas of bitter tears. A great tenderness did only me when after so much time me ricontattò to know how I was. You were not well, he/she let him/it transpire among the words tronche of the smses. More he/she worked to his/her more life it went downhill. Continually giving the guilt to the others and without never becoming himself/herself/themselves account that would have had to make the accounts with herself. I would have liked to make at that time the love with her. I would have liked to give her a brief and marvelous moment. In our stories it was ideally Paris the romantic city. If I remember well, once he/she asked me, if never one day I/you had wanted to ask to marry me to her, to do him/it to Paris. You/he/she had shared with me every moment of that around trecentosettanta days that we were together: the scaling toward the success, the to swell himself/herself/themselves of my checking account, some compromising message of some model, our trips to the tropics, the Christmases, the trips out handed. The head had held up me while I was vomiting after the nth drunk and you/he/she had made me reenter from different ugly trip caused by expired acids. Giorgia had loved me, I don't know if it had indeed never me beloved but it tried for me a strong feeling. Me my part of lover I had recited her in very bad way. Sopperivo to my physical lacks riempiendola of gifts, continually caught her/it doing so to become the surprise a recurrent element. You preferred to divide our destinies, realizing himself/herself/itself that perhaps that bond was not never stat or strong as we imagined.

  Julia, Giorgia and all Paris before.

  The wind he was doing more and more insistent. I got up me the collar of the jacket and I started over walking. I gone down the stairways of Montmartre and I avoided with an impolite gesture of the hand the blacks that took advantage of him the first tourist split for attaching a bracelet and, only after having him/it to him narrow well to the wrist, to ask him ten European. I went me toward Pigalle. The showcases were adorned by about ten erotic toys, sexy suits, handcuffs and frus
tini sadomaso.

  My loneliness was aimed at by uncombed old men, odoranti of kebab, with the bristly beard, that you/they invited me in their place shouting without minding half terms:

  «Monsieur! Mister! Sex? Sweep! To sweep!»

  I reached the Moulin Rouge, I crossed the road and I returned back. Every odor was mixed, the sonorous pollution was of the most variegated and I persistently wondered me thing it consumed him in that erotic teatrinis. I entered a sexy shop, where among hundreds of titles of porno film, rubber cazzi and vibrating ovetti, there were after all the boxes for the vision. With so much of chair and fazzolettini.

  The world is an immense porno film and the life it is only the plot not to make only it a raw sweep.

  The most greater part of the people on this earth, looks for today these three things,: money, power, sex. Not precisely in this order, without even giving to each the same importance. But few cares, one is direct cause of the other. The rest is subordinate to these three simple elements. The great ones of the earth the missiles are measured and they do to competition to insert him/it first in the territory of the other. They persistently measures the guns making competition to whom has him greater and to whom shoots more distant. Histories already felt. Multimillionaires display their cars of big capacity for sopperire to their scarce genital dimensions and the debatable amatory dowries. Also the housewife cannot wait to do a pumps to his/her/their husband and there is not anything that I/you/he/she give more power in to see to suffer him/it while, a second before comes, she stops him. Then he grows old, the sexual desire decreases and when the moment to throw the sums draws near, it is understood that it doesn't give any satisfaction to have the richest and most virile grave of the whole cemetery. This way everything extinguishes him, the immense bead of soap bursts and we remains only some carcasses of wandering, hairless and wrinkled organs, without being us aware to never have lived really.

  I was one of them.

  You was doing dark, the Place du Tertre, the piazzetta of the artists of Montmartre, he was slowly emptying. I entered to the Au Clairon des Chasseurs: a duo musical jazz was playing her Girl of Ipanema. I ordered a Croque Monsieur and a beer. They sat next to me a group of girls and with them a boy clearly homosexual. They noisily chatted, they were happy. Despite mine bad French I succeeded in understanding when a girl asked to his/her friend if you/they could exchange place. It looked me and once sat it made a pleased smile. I studied her the neckline. It had a piercing as soon as under to the underlip. It was nice.

  I didn't know what my plans and the panic that I had warned first would have been in the hotel it was always in trap along the acantha. I didn't know if I was afraid or if I was avoiding only certain thoughts. Mr. Chisciotte had to be burnt. I would have liked to drink too much that evening, to faint in the middle of the piazzetta of the artists, to wake up again me and to find again me in the bed of my house.

  But I didn't drink too much that evening, I ended to work my Croque Monsieur and I returned in the hotel.

  It was a first troubled night, perhaps also thanks to the different coffees that I was drunk me the day before. I woke up myself quite a lot times looking for the skylight of my room, to the search of an any point of reference famigliare. Out it delayed to make day. The sheets as those of all the hotels of the world, slipped me under the body. I was cold.