I train and when I left from Padua I looked up the book I'm reading three or four times at most. No more, just enough time to focus out the window the blue signs of the stations, bus stops in town missed a bigot and industrial northeast, cluttered with contradictions. But I do not think, I think the book and to my destination, Verona presentation of a book, which we are squeezed in without fully realize what you're talking about, what is it in reality. But I do not care, I have learned to simply let things pass, taking for themselves the time they deserve. For the rest, I found my way to not think about it, entering in the stories of others, that sometimes it's set aside for an hour and a half. So I train and the train is ten minutes from Porta Nuova and while a former Jewish spy in the pay of the Venetians, treason and sentenced and fled to Constantinople in the middle of 1500, a voice wakes me from my parallel universe, what are you reading? Silently curse, curse silently as always when a concentration exercise lasted whole minutes is broken. Altai, I say. What's it about, China? I close the book, I look at the cover, in fact the name Wu Ming, may be misleading. There is the hand of a falconer and a hawk perched and the Altai race, one of the most ruthless bastards and, in short, yes, the question is not so out of place, look at the man but did not I focus, I dwell on the details. No not about China, comes to Constantinople, in 1500, the year most years less. I open the book and I can not stop your eyes right on the line that the man was already sitting and staring at me and starts talking very quietly. What the hell wants that?
He tells me he and his bad day, of his forty years and his work in the bank. I'm used to talking to people is my job he says. I can not help but play around with your hands and look for a way out. The windows, for example.
He tells me of his pipe that broke and two months to repair it and just today went to check the evolution of the thing and the spare part is yet to come. He says he is pissed. He says the world is like. I measure the words because I do not know what to say, and after careful measurements, I find myself looking at him and sigh. It is not the first time I talk to some stranger on the train, in fact sometimes I think that's becoming a common practice, but in this the impression of a screw loose is a thought hard to change. Still immersed in Byzantine plots and in the narrow streets of Constantinople and steep, I find myself to watch one's hands to find no ring, the coat that has nothing to do with the rest of the dress, the black shoes stained with rain. Meanwhile, tell me where he was born where he lives where he works. I ask myself and shot a generic and a generic Venice student. I could tell you, I do not know, a musician-nothing, human being, but covered the rest, waiting for any developments. I avoid saying what I'm going to do in Verona, because I'm not so sure myself. And 'I give him pleased her, does not care that supports his travels with a few stunted mental word. He says that we are a generation of young people shocked us, that there is respect and that the other day on the train told a boy you have a beautiful look and the boy looked at him and laughed at him and if gone. And God forbid I think we shocked a generation of no respect but I do so because she's taught me to treat people considerably more adult, to be sure that there are different ways to approach anyone and say to a stranger has a beautiful view can not always be the move better. The misunderstanding that the bar is high, very high. Continues to change the subject, mixing confusing phrases in guffaws, falling sharply in tone to whisper. He asks me if I'm an actor, I laugh and say no but I ask him why. Why do you take your time to answer , he said. It does not mean shit, I think. I do not mind the idea of \u200b\u200bknowing a different story from my own, for a few moments you are on a cross-regional, not even an actor and I have to fight against a certain awkwardness, more often, I think. Why are so fact, I say.
Verona Porta Nuova save me, we go down together and in time of a flight of stairs from the track to the subway told me of his forty thousand books of his pipe passion for Sherlock Holmes of his small but tidy home. It 's a compulsive disorder. Single. A bit 'insane. Shakes my hand and disappears. Too many times I happen to find myself in the stations, and ask what's going on around them. And not to be explained.
Hello Max, I arrived at the station, are you there?
Hello Matthias, five minutes and finish.
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