Three i - ViceVersaMag

Terîa infirma
William Ame/mi is an old spirit from the hills of Umbria
transplanted on Ottawa's Hill. He is spreading his creativity on generations of students in an Italian
Department, writing and surfing the Net.
On the reason for leaving things
untouched
Suitcases do not necessarily belong
to an owner. They exist on their
own, with their fill of letters and
magazines and suits and dresses,
found or again lost cases of identity. It's the
spoils of travel, of having to live in a world
enamoured by motion, false movements,
speed. Perhaps, the exact moves we fake to
spell history on our past so as to proclaim
an absolute moment, this moment, this
present.
A suitcase stranded by the side of a
train. It's early spring, drizzle and fog by
eleven thirty-seven pm. That brown rectangle
in the distance is a message, enigmatic
however, unquantifiable as of yet.
Take it, make it yours as you descend the
stairs, not a soul around since you fell
asleep. Carry it with you to your destination
and you will take with you another, a
possible companion, a mate in a game of
chance.
This is how it starts, with a curious
theft, perhaps a gesture of good will. After
all, in the great hall where heads are nodding
and words are orders of a pleasant
future, an office might be waiting. The officer
seated behind the desk, with a book of
model trains in his hands and blood-shot
eyes knows your name.
Hey you, where you going with such a
bitter load?
Nah, not so heavy, just a couple of
suits and some magazines. That's not quite
right. You should have said,
I found these vestiges of life. To whom
do they belong?
But, it is late. The taxi awaits. You
whistle and smell exhaust from structures
of survival. Hop in, where are you going?
I am going here. The map you unfold
smells of tobacco, the red X is drawn quite
resolutely.
Photographs: Giovanni Facchin
On the reasons for touching
someone
Just came back?
No.
Long trip?
No.
Tired?
Yes!
Most definitely you could have said
without drawing blood. But, your right
hand twitches. The suitcase was bitter after
all. Yet, you cannot wait in this, your holy
silence.
Smoking is permitted. Inhale and
exhale, so as to add a certain taste to this
trip. Somewhere else, quite far from here,
another seventy-three children are dying of
hunger, two hundred and four are killed in
traffic accidents, a thousand and one are
blasted into bits from land-mines, and one
dies while gurgling water and tooth-paste;
this will pass off as a suicide. Had you had
a chance to know these facts, you would
have stopped in that bathroom and interviewed
the killer.
"Why did you kill yourself this way?"
you would have said in a tone reminiscent
of this little death, this english farce. The
answer would have numbed your wrists,
because I was never quite co-ordinated. I
happened to swallow die pasty water, and
coughed and coughed. I live alone. 1 suffocate.
1 die.
No. You are tired. And you imagine
god knows what treasure in the suitcase.
Perhaps, another life. It would be quite
simple. Fit into the clothes, move on,
check mate. Forevermore.
It sounds so cocksure, such an impossible
adverb. It sounds like a preying bird,
swooping down from the cliff, nipping
away at the liver every hour, on the hour.
You are half-asleep. Be quiet! Be quiet all
of you! you tell the world, be quiet hunger!
and be quiet diirst! be quiet moon behind
the pale! be quiet! be quiet! be quiet!
You are asleep by the time you fall into
die door. Be quiet! someone yells from
down below.
On discovering that you are free
Waking up is hard to do. This
sounds like a song from the
sixties. No matter, breakfast
awaits. Cereals and milk,
the morning news. You have kept count of
all the people killed so far, in movies and in
plays, in cities and in countries. You add up
the score, the favourite passing time.
Finally, voilà.
VICE VERSA 52 37