Nowhere People

It was a very big house. The light coming in through the open windows made the walls even whiter, emptier. The forty-four-year-old man who introduced himself as Spectre was carrying a tray of sweets he said he’d bought in the German patisserie on the street where he lives. He was there to talk. There was this growing hatred, this antagonism between the two of them. There was no point having prolonged arguments, no point in acts of chivalry, in diatribes, in rebellion. Spectre was finally beginning to understand that there was no way of predicting what was going on in the head of this guy: the Guy. The Guy, who was either some kind of lunatic or in possession of the most colossal naivety. Spectre was determined to defeat him through exhaustion. The card he had hidden up his sleeve was the city, the city that inspired revenge: revenge was perhaps the only way to make it listen to them. There were clothes scattered around the room and wooden masks on the mattress. In a white t-shirt and jeans, Spectre was unable to contain his excitement. The Guy explained that he did not have a plan, that it was merely a personal, painful process and that he still didn’t know how long he would keep it up. Spectre listened. The brightness of the day abated and then the temperature dropped, too; Spectre opened the parcel of sweets and asked the Guy to fetch them something to drink. It could be anything. The Guy got up, went to the kitchen, brought a bottle of whisky and another of mineral water. He put the glasses down on the wrapping paper from the patisserie. Spectre smiled awkwardly, forcing an innocence that did not come naturally to him. They drank, they ate. Spectre waited (even while waiting he could make progress). It got completely dark and then the Guy turned on the light, Spectre poured out another two whiskies, almost twice the size of the two previous rounds, and ventured that this escapade needed some record kept and that they could start right away. We will only exist if we accept each other, said Spectre, drunk now, having downed what remained in his glass. ‘It’s time for you to go,’ the Guy informed him. Spectre stood up suddenly, took off his trainers, took off his jacket (the two of them are in identical outfits) leapt onto The Guy and tore off his face. ‘I knew it was a beautiful face,’ said Spectre with a twisted tongue, ‘very, very, very beautiful,’ already moving away from the Guy with his face in his hand. ‘Give that back,’ said the Guy, quite without aggression. ‘No, I shan’t give it back … Here it is, yoo-hoo … come and get it … ’ The two of them were the same height; Spectre was not all that strong but he was sure that wouldn’t make any difference. The Guy did not attack him (he would have been well within his rights to do so by the rules of chivalry). ‘You’re a spoilsport,’ Spectre grumbled. Then the Guy, who was the owner of the house, the very big house, walked over to the door and opened it. ‘Bye,’ he said. ‘I’ll behave,’ Spectre promised, and gave him back the face. The Guy closed the door and there the two of them were, two ghosts in a house with white walls, neither of them knowing what was going through the other’s head.

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parabola before the rain

Donato took the bus to the city centre, and from there to the outskirts of Partenon.