ACQUARIUS StoryTeller TOUR - THE FOURTH STOP BREDA and Cinisello Balsamo: FLOWERS ON THE GRAVE OF FAMILY Bus stop 728 meeting John Peter. E 'tan. That brown-biscuit, healthy. The dark skin of those at sea throughout the year. He is waiting with me in the middle of the turmoil of a continuous flow of people, in search of his vehicle. All buses were diverted to alternative routes. The Seveso river burst its banks and flooded the subway is. The central station, continues to issue from his big mouth in waves, groups of people hurried and frantic, darting from the eyes and nervous. Even John Peter and I are anxious for the delay of our bus. I speak first and ask hopefully if you are waiting for the 728. He nods. Then his phone rings and answers. R Has the fly and suddenly attacks to speak with his partner, in an unlikely Milanese dialect. It 's strange to hear him speak French with this r, who bursts into the guttural dialect. It 's like to place on a table set with wine, gorgonzola, polenta and tell workers to a frenzied stage version dialect, who is not accustomed to this language. His hands are adorned with colorful rings and very large Indian, Moroccan slippers at the foot and a plain brown suede jacket with the collar of shirt. A strange mix of styles, not random. But it is elegant in its own way. I think an artist. A painter.
you expect from him, every one of Liguria, which seems a song and a rhyme. But John Peter is Cinisello Balsamo and introduces himself. She explains that it is up to Milan for a few hours, the minimum necessary, before you run away. Just enough time to visit the family grave and meet with a relative with whom he has an appointment. The person with whom he has just spoken on the phone. E 'retirement and begins to tell me they have lost their parents and being left alone. Parents buried in Andover. The grandparents in the old Cinisello in the family mausoleum that relatives who care for and filled with flowers. We climb on the bus and provides information about my leg and run-down hospital that forced me to this route every day through the city. I'm glad to travel with him on the big bus with two wagons. I feel protected by her relentless desire to tell. I discovered at that exact moment, as a human being can fill the void of an entire city, heaving, angry and hostile. The icy palaces and seeming affordable housing district, Bicocca, large red arches that overlook courtyards deserts. A neighborhood that looks like a model for architects, people with ghost. Shortly before, I had felt a deep sense of fear and pain, for a city that does not admit weakness. I am comforted by sharing this kind of hate to Milan with John Peter, who looks around annoyed by car exhaust and desolate chaos and tells me there are many flowers on the graves of his parents in Liguria and in the family mausoleum in Cinisello . Geraniums. Many species. Those scarlet, blacks, burgundy, light in color and not washed out because they do not like. Not even white. Gerberas, irises and daisies as big as bombs, potted plants in Liguria are cheap and last a while. He paints the sky clear the air of Andora, even when it rains and the bike to get around Imperia. Maybe too many people of Milan, arrived there before the sea, which over time has bought a second home. Accompanying descriptions of the flowers with his hands curled, the little finger, index, and the medium. Big shiny stones like confetti, with flavors of strawberry and mint. The relative and refers to the John Peter starts talking in Milan: now take the train to go home 14. It's late because of traffic. E 'was invited to lunch but will not stop to sample the meatballs, "the mundeghili" prepared for the occasion. Never return to Milan. He has held the promise sworn to his mother, to settle the matter for a family tomb, once and for all. And from now on there will be people who will always flowers. In any event. It is agreed with the cousins. He gave them two seats on the family mausoleum, in exchange for a devoted care of flowers. Never to return to Cinisello. Do not travel in November to the day of the dead with the steel gray sky and cold sticky in the Po Valley.
The story is broken, as you stop reading, when your attention is stretched all the way to the final. I arrived. I get off uncertain, at the gates of the Breda: large, opening the avenue leading to the factory. Around houses, apartments and houses under construction Class A Environmentally sustainable energy policies. Loft, who eat the earth of the building, devouring the old buildings and the home of the future promise. A kind of happiness announced bricks and tiles, and long rows of metal balconies. Piles of rubble as the Black Hills, stones and humming cranes. Greeting the avenue each morning as a tribute, a silent prayer before the ruins of a temple. Ago 'that the city will rise again. That is not submerged by the mud of Seveso. That are not deleted by the complete absence of an 'identity. From the lack of thought, imagination and work. Do you rediscover the desire to share something. Who I ask every morning, I do not know. But I need to recite my personal mantra, like a handful of dreams, and get to the hospital limping hidden by high walls.
not'll never see John Peter, in a few hours, while Star returning home, leave Milan. I suffer for it. Why we meet by chance and then we do not and will never see that anymore is a little 'how to die.
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