Multiplying Report 9

The tenth day The sun in those places was already high early in the morning; at a fountain I could restore my body from that dirt, unavoidable. The mild-mannered inhabitant I met underlined the fact that I did not want to share this happiness of mine with anyone; I pretended to be surprised, but in his own way he was right. A shepherd with his flock interrupted my listless walk; I stopped to fraternise with a kitten, we quickly became friends, we tried to set off together, but ghosts assailed my thoughts. So we parted without any promise. My gaze carried me toward a protuberance rising from the plain, shaped like a singular breast: Las Plassas. That day I covered my route breathlessly, as if the plain brought me nothing but disappointment; perhaps now I understand the true meaning of flatness, not to be confused with rubbish.

But all that was not yet completely behind me; it was as if an invisible elastic thread were tied to me, which now and then, however far it could stretch, always brought back what was the unwanted baggage. My way led me toward a sunny height; there I could meet the testimony of a runic past, which lovers of that place discovered after long and tiring research, digging below the present level at which the terrain lies. Historical research lets us relive ourselves in places whose existence we do not know, but an intuition on the plane of knowledge lets us feel we can affirm our existence through our fathers; this transmission is basic to the existence of the individual. We are what others before us have lived; not taking that into account sometimes carries us very far, so far that we no longer understand why we had to set out.

We see so many people living around us without understanding the why of things, seeking to reach their desire, supposing they can meet it in this or that object — but the object is not the desire, it is only a means of further confusion. The road leading me toward the western side of that arid territory began to climb markedly; by then that no longer amazed me, indeed that climb deep down gave me a certain pleasure, almost of challenge — no longer with myself, but with the territory. During the climb banal things came to mind, for example the memory of that house I came across which was all papered with shells — clams, mussels, cockles, fasolari. All delicacies for whoever enjoys them. Sometimes when I buy these fruits of the sea I always keep a tiny amount to savour raw, disbelieving of possible infections.

People by their nature believe that evil lies in the symptom, of which they are terrified, but they do not recognise what can infect the mind without our noticing it. Some boys on motorbikes, whom I picked up as I passed through a small village, accompany me as far as the crossroads that will divide us forever; they ask no questions, they tell me they will spend the night on the beach. From there I see only heights, but I know they are right. The horns of the handlebar have become my only grip on reality; I move swaying more and more, almost a pose that helps me overcome the obstacle of the climb. But I already see not far off the slope of the hill, which will be my bed for the night. A noisy farmhouse does not give me the quiet I would have wanted for myself, but I am a stranger there and cannot claim rights; besides, I would not want that either.

Further on there is plenty of space and perhaps more silence.