A flick of the lighter to his mouth. A short flame, smoke and embers. The cigarette was hanging by a mouth surrounded by cheeks already a thread on which to grow back his beard. Castanoverdi two eyes, throwing glances around a little soured by the expectation but be careful, always, to the many small details, such as hard-boiled legs But from the safe visible light through the skirt with a play of reflections on the windows and floors illuminated by Sunset in Sao Paulo. A typical Brazilian beauty, he thought the man with the cigarette, and was absorbed to imagine what city, brothel, study television or universities were leaving that woman. With careless gesture, stubbed out his cigarette on the ashtray consumed half of the booth glass smoking area inside the giant airport. Released, he breathed the cool air conditioners, brain and consciousness and died with a sigh, he immersed himself in trafficking cases and people leaving for the world.
he woke up about eight hours later, when, tired of the taxi that had risen to Fiumicino airport, decided to return to breathe a bit 'more freely and then go down to the Tiber Sangallo to continue on foot to his home in Via dei Banchi Vecchi, Campo de 'Fiori or so. It was already nine in the morning. Rather confused thought back to when he left early in the morning the day before from Belo Horizonte, in Minas Gerais. And to say that was heavier and frustrating forward meter by meter, bottled him and the taxi driver, in the GRA. Not even the transcontinental trip or the long wait at the airport. Efficient, the airport of San Paolo, very efficient, while at Fiumicino ... he left in mid-thought as he walked under the plane trees in the direction of the Tiber to Castel S. Angelo. Did not reach the ancient papal fortress but passes by Acciaioli to reach Via Giulia. Despite the fatigue of habit began to think about his business trip. Was or was not always the best Sales Manager dell'Agrichem? Was it not been really good to beat even the offer of the idiots of Americans and to confirm the exclusive supply contract with major producers of coffee planters of Minas Gerais? It will also be to her that some Italian company will keep the price of its products of caffeine reduced by 50 or 70 euro cents. It will also be to her that the great leaders continue to take up in Milan rather than close and lay off as most of their competitors infinitesimally small. He did not understand much of the story of the crisis. Basically I with numbers and anything else I've never found it, he thought. In fact, he was interested, and even too, only those numbers it needed to sell the new tutticida dell'Agrichem. The real value added was him, all right, he and his qualities of professional storyteller. And while dodging a car and a crazy old woman who dragged a shopping trolley for he remembered that pussy of the daughter of Hernando Ignacio Silva and his beautiful ass rubbing against him as they danced at the party organized to celebrate the agreement of sale ... That night was also a personal thanks to the fat landowner to have fixed the mess created by those pain in the ass of landless peasants and local environmentalists-defend-the-nature. With the right contacts he had circulated the usual bribes and barrel, and all had resolved. It was not the case to be impressed by the deformed children who had tried to drive them in his hand. He knew that people knew very well that often males and females of the same family fucked together: those children were merely the result of their horrific incest idiots, not the fault of the products he sold and used by the owners of the crops. Driven out, too. Hernando and was really pleased with him, much to put her daughter in bed. Those were fucking sound! Fantasizing on the body of a young girl if the man went to the alley Horse mackerel, perpendicular to the street where he lived. But come the end of the alley was awakened from his thoughts and looked at his eroticonomici look in the window corner. But here there was an old and rusty door is closed?, He asked himself in front of the polished glass. Entire surface emblazoned the words "Historia Magistra Vitae - photographic exhibition". Besides the inscription could be glimpsed a large dark room, lit only by a few lamps pointed at the boxes on the walls. On the left, beside the window, a door opened onto the street. The man was stopped for a while stroking her cheeks now bristling. How strange, he reflected. I was not expecting this. He stood still a bit 'to decide whether to win the curiosity or fatigue. Hell, you said, I'm away from home for three weeks, half an hour longer, nothing changes. And he entered the room arm in arm with his curiosity.
Upon entering he noticed on the right a table illuminated by a lamp on the office occupied by a PC screen by antiquated and cumbersome and the plan dimensions and volumes of sheets of photo marked "For Sale". Behind the desk sat a woman of indeterminable age - from 19 to 30 - fat, light makeup on the eyes and with a bun perched on the skull. Entry man wore a pair of light-rimmed glasses with attached disinterested gaze towards the visitor away if they raised almost incomprehensible mumbling a "Welcome".
Man not dealt with the rudeness of the woman and devoted himself to the pictures on the walls. Most had to be black and white, and there is every author, date and place of capture. Walking close to the wall examined all the works of the first room. We noticed, now behind the desk occupied by the woman with the bun that the show went into another room. Driven solely by curiosity, but less and less concerned by the works on display until then. Always walked close to the wall, stopping at each photo. On its face, however, remained strong expression of disappointment. He arrived at the seventh picture of the room. Author: Anonymous. Year: 1989. Location: Bhopal, India. On a gray background surrounded of chimneys and cabins was represented on the first floor from an old skull covered with a turban and olive skin sagging stained in thousands of lines so that the face was like a piece of wood hit countless times by an ax. The old man was holding a baby from head horribly deformed and swollen, lifeless eyes as if to put the case on the face obese and unnatural on the body and rickety crooked like a rotten apple impaled on a pin. The baby was in his hand, clearly visible, a strange, absurd flower, that man had never seen before: it was composed of four petals, each of which seemed to come second, in the abnormal growth and revolting.
He stood not know how long before in that photograph. At one point he turned around, walked to the desk where he picked up a brochure of the exhibition without the woman sitting him worthy of a look and take the exit. Outside the room, turned the corner and was on Via dei Banchi Vecchi. With cold and indecipherable expression on his face he passed the door of his house and walked to the center of the city. Turned another corner and disappeared from view.
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