Multiplying Report 11

The twelfth day The road continued for a few kilometres in the broken state in which I had found it; here the lorries loaded with stone torn from the mountain had travelled for many years. The rock of "Pan di Zucchero" could still be admired. From afar dense smoke darkened the sky; once again hectares of scrub were being taken from nature. I drew closer, with fear, ever closer to that greyish cloud; strange noises from my gears worried my advance toward the finish. I no longer had much desire to put that journey's experience to the test; it was as if I wanted to turn back. A parallel road running alongside the route I was following tickled my desire to take it, but I believe that if I had been on that one, the question would have been just the same. The question — yes, the question is the usual problem: knowing how to ask, allowing oneself to ask, knowing how to welcome the question.

As yesterday, today too the question is essential; sometimes you do not notice it, or do not want to notice it. When I posed my question I was not sure that that would be my experience; I sheltered behind insecurity, beyond the acceptance of it. Because to the question there is no answer, but either you welcome it or you do not; to the question one does not answer. For those last kilometres I let myself be accompanied by the music of Francesco De Gregori. Around me everything was scorched by the sun; I began to glimpse the city of Cagliari. A driver of an urban bus line took pleasure in my clothing, necessary to protect myself from the sun, made of a head covering fashioned from a kitchen cloth, which was my tablecloth, and my glacier glasses, which I remember buying in order to reconcile my mountain needs with my motorcycling ambitions.

I remember that when I decided to buy my motorbike, a "Lambretta 150", I was very proud of the choice, because with her I could also ride on the motorway; to tell the truth I never did. Today that cherished spot remains of which I cannot deprive myself of possession; I do not know why, in any case I still manage to keep her under a shelter protected from the weather; the wish is to be able to get her running again and manage to take a ride on her. I realised I was entering the city because the traffic increased and the roads became complicated; it was difficult to enter into that logic which, after days and days of walking, I had forgotten. I managed to reach the port, to get information for boarding toward the mainland.

The little girl in the waiting room must have been less than two years old; she was playing with the waiting room, looking for some accomplice, and she found me willing for her purpose. We played for a few minutes; she showed me her affection, I my astonishment at being loved after weeks of solitude. It was the first relationship I had with society; I spent a long time photographing her happy seduction. When we parted I was already heading toward "Quarto Sant'Elena"; before reaching the campsite I crossed a long stretch of seaside resorts. I liked passing through their names, from "Miramare" to "Carabinieri"; I thought of my friend Oreste, who I know would have approved of this feat of mine.

The campsite that hosted that last night of mine was very welcoming, but not for me, who felt it constricting — for no other reason than that the nights spent until now had been free in spirit: no tent, no sleeping bag — "...and for a roof a sky of stars...", said the title of I don't know what. The first impact with that reality was very telling, but necessary. Could I have gone on fleeing? The following morning was leaden, and the atmosphere around me was muffled; I think I had more difficulty facing those few kilometres that separated me from the city than all the ones I had covered until then. After a few hours I found myself a tourist in a place I had not chosen to visit; I let myself be led through the streets in search of some feeling — it was lovely to furtively follow a girl as she walked.

I found myself in front of the Cathedral; I do not remember what treasures it held, but my attention was captured for some time, before I went out and continued my useless stay. The time of departure arrived; I boarded that ferry that carried me back to the imagined real. The journey carried with it the memory of an adventure by then past; I believe I wept before the last land toward the horizon. That foreign friend of mine who shared the crossing with me let me talk, in my French, about Logos and Metis, and I think he was convinced. The night spent on the ship's deck was very damp, but more suited to my crossing.