A beautiful room. Italian minimalist style. An essence of incense. Half Light. There was he, writing a letter. Handwritten of course, it was so personal and so out of fashion, and so him. It was not too extensive. He had just bought this elegant-recycled, refined- paper at Camden Market. He is concluding it now. Actually he is just writing the postal address. 141-A Portobello Road. London, UK. WS346. This letter was to Carla, the beautiful girl that he had met at Pescara at the Mare Tirreno. Both of them (he and his friend) were invited to a Settimana Spiaggia by Lehman Brothers. He just knew there was something pointing at his head. He could remember that old gypsy who was introduced by her mother- reading the Tarot. Definitely she could be the one she was told about, naïve as herself, all alone, all herself and a look of uncertainty. This girl that had blue eyes, long straight hair, angel face, and inner security.
He was there, writing so excitedly that he didn’t realise that time was passing by. That he was writing his destiny-history, that his Johny Walker Blue Label in his Bavarian glass had just finished and he had to stand up to serve himself some more. He was waiting for him, his friend to come back from the Waitrose. They were going to have dinner with Astrid and Marlette, two brokers from the City that they had just met during a conference at Stockholm.
The beautiful department at the middle of Nottin Hill, had been bought after their two successful years. They decided it was a bohemian-posh place where they could afford a peaceful and tranquil life in Central London. They furnished and unfurnished it several times, they tried to sell it, to rent it, to loan it for a movie. This apartment was stunning, this apartment was witness of the laces tied up with his partner, friend. There he comes his friend, unlocks, and finds his friends’ fifth hampster at the door. He came so excited because he just found J Stone at Harrods. He had bought duck, sun dried tomatoes, small quails, and vegetables ready to roast with a minty sauce. He was just thinking he was just in time to finish it by nine. –Two hours-, he thought and thought . His mind as always a mistery of claps and grasps, and in his mind the song Spaccacuore from Bersani.
He saw him there, writing. He gave him a hug, a small slap at the back. He always knew his friend was over-charismatic. He knew it from the moment they were together at the Mexican Caribbean. Mon amie how was your day… Excellent just spoke with Jacob from M&S, we will sign tomorrow. Excellent. I’ll hurry up ‘cause these ladies have to be impressed with my Cordon Bleu’s abilities. Yeah sure, your crap skills. Very Funny.
He started cooking. Some jazz. A candle. A delight to cook. A beautiful kitchen, with every single instrument there had to be in a Cooks kitchen. Of course a Cordon Blue one. And he was thinking in the girl his friend had met, he knew that letter was for her. A small sigh, and a slow whisper: This is the time. He knew soon it would change. Almost five years could change. He was happy, some months still to enjoy a same type of life. Jazz at the Trouvadour in Kensington, others time at Camden, the Fat Duck, weekends at diverse European Capitals, Favourite Milan, Paris with the Aunt, Elegant Boston, Crazy Amsterdam, his city Barcelona, St Tropez…and so Hong Kong, Qatar, Miami, skiing at Alberta, Shanghai, Melbourne, the Safari at Botswana, the emergency at Liverpool John Lennon Airport, the dream of visiting Reikjavik at Iceland, Lamas at Peru, the experience at Siberia-including this beautiful girl he accidentally slept with, -that great cruise at Pascua, Oaxacan Mixtec cultures, the semi kidnapped at Palermo with handsome Fabo. Those nights out looking to find a different flirt for both of them. Ladies and Gentlemen, life had to smile as we had been good. Thank god. But the life had been thresholds and milestones…
And milestones, good ones… they were. It was time to be happy.
Astrid and Marlette got late. It was Lord major’s parade. They had some different excuses. They looked great. Conversations about Marlette’s uncle vineyard festival at Rioja, about his mom’s latest Argentinian soap opera, the house at Playa, the high taxes, the new method to avoid becoming old, the prime minister, the life as singles (Where he had a pause-maybe thinking on her), and all those sort of topics you have with trendy wealthy educated beautiful girls.
The girls took a city cab. Actually both of them had enjoyed the night. Good company. And then… with a small JW Blue bottle he said. Lets go and have a walk at Hyde Park. Four o’clock, it would sunrise, only shadows. Two guys walk around Kensington, South Kensington, Kensington Palace, and then Hyde Park. Silence, only a tickling of clocks, sirens so far. There I was serene, the best friend. We were enjoying it, we had it all. We started to accumulate dreams and stories. I enjoyed the silence and was lulling random songs, only mumbling around.
It was getting nippy. No words. We knew exactly what was happening. And he was scared. That guy, admired and envied by many more. We sat on a bench, and listened to the bitter morning. After a while, covered his face with his hand and layed his head on my lap. So I know. I said. Breaking the ice. I don’t. He said. It is time. I don’t know. And then? What else? So the future? It smiles. Shall I break it? No. Continue it. You know what you were looking for. All those conversations remember? I do. Solitude. A little. Thinking. As always. Who is who? Yourself. The Gipsy. Fuck her. Try it. I will. Silence. And if it is not? I will be happier, but it will. Go. And you? You know me. Time. Slender Time. Indeed. Don’t think. We remained there for two hours.
Next day I bloody did not work. I woke up and fixed spicy breakfast for two. It was another normal day, except that I felt a flavour of doldrums. Nothing serious. We were going to savour our last days living together. And so we did.
He was there, writing so excitedly that he didn’t realise that time was passing by. That he was writing his destiny-history, that his Johny Walker Blue Label in his Bavarian glass had just finished and he had to stand up to serve himself some more. He was waiting for him, his friend to come back from the Waitrose. They were going to have dinner with Astrid and Marlette, two brokers from the City that they had just met during a conference at Stockholm.
The beautiful department at the middle of Nottin Hill, had been bought after their two successful years. They decided it was a bohemian-posh place where they could afford a peaceful and tranquil life in Central London. They furnished and unfurnished it several times, they tried to sell it, to rent it, to loan it for a movie. This apartment was stunning, this apartment was witness of the laces tied up with his partner, friend. There he comes his friend, unlocks, and finds his friends’ fifth hampster at the door. He came so excited because he just found J Stone at Harrods. He had bought duck, sun dried tomatoes, small quails, and vegetables ready to roast with a minty sauce. He was just thinking he was just in time to finish it by nine. –Two hours-, he thought and thought . His mind as always a mistery of claps and grasps, and in his mind the song Spaccacuore from Bersani.
He saw him there, writing. He gave him a hug, a small slap at the back. He always knew his friend was over-charismatic. He knew it from the moment they were together at the Mexican Caribbean. Mon amie how was your day… Excellent just spoke with Jacob from M&S, we will sign tomorrow. Excellent. I’ll hurry up ‘cause these ladies have to be impressed with my Cordon Bleu’s abilities. Yeah sure, your crap skills. Very Funny.
He started cooking. Some jazz. A candle. A delight to cook. A beautiful kitchen, with every single instrument there had to be in a Cooks kitchen. Of course a Cordon Blue one. And he was thinking in the girl his friend had met, he knew that letter was for her. A small sigh, and a slow whisper: This is the time. He knew soon it would change. Almost five years could change. He was happy, some months still to enjoy a same type of life. Jazz at the Trouvadour in Kensington, others time at Camden, the Fat Duck, weekends at diverse European Capitals, Favourite Milan, Paris with the Aunt, Elegant Boston, Crazy Amsterdam, his city Barcelona, St Tropez…and so Hong Kong, Qatar, Miami, skiing at Alberta, Shanghai, Melbourne, the Safari at Botswana, the emergency at Liverpool John Lennon Airport, the dream of visiting Reikjavik at Iceland, Lamas at Peru, the experience at Siberia-including this beautiful girl he accidentally slept with, -that great cruise at Pascua, Oaxacan Mixtec cultures, the semi kidnapped at Palermo with handsome Fabo. Those nights out looking to find a different flirt for both of them. Ladies and Gentlemen, life had to smile as we had been good. Thank god. But the life had been thresholds and milestones…
And milestones, good ones… they were. It was time to be happy.
Astrid and Marlette got late. It was Lord major’s parade. They had some different excuses. They looked great. Conversations about Marlette’s uncle vineyard festival at Rioja, about his mom’s latest Argentinian soap opera, the house at Playa, the high taxes, the new method to avoid becoming old, the prime minister, the life as singles (Where he had a pause-maybe thinking on her), and all those sort of topics you have with trendy wealthy educated beautiful girls.
The girls took a city cab. Actually both of them had enjoyed the night. Good company. And then… with a small JW Blue bottle he said. Lets go and have a walk at Hyde Park. Four o’clock, it would sunrise, only shadows. Two guys walk around Kensington, South Kensington, Kensington Palace, and then Hyde Park. Silence, only a tickling of clocks, sirens so far. There I was serene, the best friend. We were enjoying it, we had it all. We started to accumulate dreams and stories. I enjoyed the silence and was lulling random songs, only mumbling around.
It was getting nippy. No words. We knew exactly what was happening. And he was scared. That guy, admired and envied by many more. We sat on a bench, and listened to the bitter morning. After a while, covered his face with his hand and layed his head on my lap. So I know. I said. Breaking the ice. I don’t. He said. It is time. I don’t know. And then? What else? So the future? It smiles. Shall I break it? No. Continue it. You know what you were looking for. All those conversations remember? I do. Solitude. A little. Thinking. As always. Who is who? Yourself. The Gipsy. Fuck her. Try it. I will. Silence. And if it is not? I will be happier, but it will. Go. And you? You know me. Time. Slender Time. Indeed. Don’t think. We remained there for two hours.
Next day I bloody did not work. I woke up and fixed spicy breakfast for two. It was another normal day, except that I felt a flavour of doldrums. Nothing serious. We were going to savour our last days living together. And so we did.
