MADE IN NIRVANA
Chapter 25
Back to the homeland
Maria began to prepare her backpack, but couldn't make all her things fit. Discouraged and dripping with sweat she went to the restaurant hoping that, on her return, she'd be able to find a better way. Unable to relax, she had something to eat, went to take a shower and then popped into Siggi's dormitory. She saw that his luggage was very big too and that was a consolation. He was making small parcels when she entered; he smiled and covered them with a sarong. "Are you ready?" he asked.
"No, the rucksack is too small!"
He laughed out loud: "But it's the biggest rucksack I've ever seen! It's bigger than you!"
"I know," she laughed. "I'm very anxious about travelling back to Italy; I feel as if two lifetimes have gone by since I left, rather than two and a half months. I'm sorry to leave India, are you?"
"Yes, I feel the same! Here it's too hot, everything is difficult, life is hard, but I don't want to leave. Next year I'll return, though. You'll come back too, won't you?" he asked.
Back to India? The idea kept coming up. There was nothing that prevented her from doing so. Her job gave her three months' paid holiday; life modelling didn't require much use of her brain but, from the point of view of free time, it was perfect. "I'm seriously thinking about it! What's under your sarong?" she asked, curiously.
"Oh... little presents for my friends," said Siggi with nonchalance.
She took her leave and returned to her luggage, repacking once again the content that stubbornly refused to fit. As if her things were not enough, Vale's socks were bulky and weighed a pound. She was extremely anxious and couldn't calm down. She went to the reception office, but Mr. Singh was not there yet; he began his shift in the afternoon. Gianluca had just left for the airport; he was going back to Italy, too. She saw the German boy with the cobra in a basket and stopped to talk to him: "How's the snake?"
"It's a king cobra, actually," he said primly. "Do you want to see it?"
"Yes, sure! Is it poisonous?"
"No, I had his fangs cut out, but after a while they grow back. He's not dangerous, look!" he said, removing the lid. The king cobra's diamond-shaped head moved slightly; it had been sleeping and they'd woken it up. It began to slide out of the basket and onto the grass.
"It's coming out!" cried Maria, alarmed, moving away from the area.
"He needs to eat grass, and there is not much grass in Delhi," said the boy, tenderly. He grabbed it with both hands and managed to put it back in the basket. "Do you want to stroke him?" he asked.
"Stroke it? But it's a snake!"
"Yes, I know. He won't harm you," he assured her. "Look, with me, even if I try to make him go around my neck, he won't. He knows he could hurt me and there's no way to persuade him. He's my friend, he loves me. I'll show you, so you believe me!" He pulled the snake out of the basket; it must have been very heavy by the strength it took to lift it. It was at least six feet long! He put it on his lap and made it climb over his body, all the way to his shoulder, which the snake, with its beautiful flat head, obediently did. It then slid behind the boy's head and over the other shoulder. When the boy tried wrapping it around his neck, like a scarf, the cobra refused. Forcefully it pulled its head back and pushed it toward his master's lap. The boy tried again, but the cobra wouldn't do it and pushed its head back down; it really seemed aware of what it was doing.
'I wonder if it has Buddhahood', Maria thought. She was very impressed: "Okay, I'll stroke it then." She touched it tentatively with a finger. "It feels like touching a snakeskin bag," she said stupidly.
"This is alive," the boy pointed out.
She touched it again, and this time she felt its life pulsing beneath the scaly skin, the force of that long body and the moisture seeping through it. She shivered; after all it was a snake, a king cobra, not the most obvious creature with which to make friends. She was glad she had introduced herself, though. With affection, the boy put it back in the basket and Maria thanked him for the experience.
She spent the afternoon fidgeting between a chai, a nap, a stroll around the Tourist Camp, another chai and, at last, it was finally getting dark. She went to say goodbye to Mr. Singh and thanked him for all the things he had taught her. Would she come back to India? Maria replied that, almost certainly, she would return. The idea of leaving seemed madness; India felt like home.
She went back to the dorm and, after a fight to the death with her backpack, she managed to push the last few things inside. She closed it for the last time, securing straps and buckles. Observing it, she couldn't believe that Franca wanted it; it was really ugly, now she could see that herself. It didn't have any charm at all, no elegance whatsoever, even the colour was over the top, and its shape was rough, there was nothing feminine about it. She would never again travel with this horror. The next time it was going to be a small rucksack, a blue-grey colour, like Franca's. For now, however, it would do its duty for the last time, carrying home all the beautiful things she had bought. The three boxes with the flower essences gave off some of their perfume and Maria could recognize the patchouli in particular, the smell of India 'par excellence'.
She loaded it on her shoulders: it was very heavy, but the weight was evenly distributed. She picked up her camera bag, which was also overly large and complex, and hung it over her shoulder. Next time she'd bring something much smaller. She had one last bag, her hand luggage containing the essential things for the trip and a few precious things she had bought: some rings, some bracelets, a couple of necklaces, a spare pair of pyjama trousers, a shirt and some toiletries.
She went over to Siggi's dormitory. He was nervous too, and had nothing left to do. They decided to leave earlier than scheduled, at least they were doing something; they could no longer sit around waiting.
With a mixture of sadness and anxiety, they walked out of the Tourist Camp's gate, stopped a scooter, settled in with their luggage over their feet and knees, and off they went, at full speed toward the airport. During the ride, the warm September evening air turned into a breeze that caressed them for the last time, impregnated with that mixture of sweet, intense, well known odours. She had to breathe deeply to control the strong emotion that filled her heart. She was about to leave India which she had come to know, appreciate and love, which had brought her friends, experiences, lessons, fears, understanding, love and, more important still, a new awareness of herself.
At the airport, the air was hot and muggy, lacking in oxygen, making it hard to breathe. Hundreds of passengers with huge amounts of luggage moved around nervously. Indian people, who were normally quite pragmatic and laid back, became easily agitated when travelling; they looked around, worried, apprehensive and unable to relax. Maria and Siggi found their flight on the screen: Delhi-Moscow with Aeroflot. They would change in Moscow, where they had a four hour wait before catching the connecting flight to Rome; too little time to go out and explore the city, which was apparently beautiful. They stood in line to deliver their luggage; it was a long and very slow queue. Two hours later they arrived at customs, where a young policeman checked Maria's hand luggage in great detail, slowly, carefully, before letting her through. Siggi was behind her. She waited for him in the lounge, where he reappeared, sighing: "He checked my whole luggage, every tiny corner of every single thing!"
Quite different from the outbound flight with Thai International, where the hostesses in their saris looked like queens and smiled like Miss World, the Aeroflot plane was grey, the hostesses were grey too, and Maria felt uneasy in their presence. She settled beside Siggi. It was comforting to have him near; it was like taking a little piece of India with her. The idea of going back to Italy, arriving within a few hours, was too strange and she decided not to think about it for now; she would focus on the present and postpone as much as possible the impact of her return home! Once in Moscow they didn't have to recover their luggage, it would be loaded automatically onto their next flight, so they spent the time as best they could in the transit hall, lying down on the benches for a while to rest their backs. It was almost dawn and they tried to sleep. Siggi looked ill; he was pale and often went to the bathroom.
"Are you okay?" Maria asked him.
"So-so," he said, smiling faintly.
"How are you feeling?"
"Weak," he replied.
He looked worried; he reminded her a little bit of Franca. Fortunately, in a few hours they'd be in Rome and, shortly after that, Siggi would be home. "Not long to go, you're almost there!" she encouraged him. He smiled with his beautiful green eyes, his oval face framed by blond curls.
They arrived at Rome airport at around eleven in the morning. They waited for their luggage and, while Siggi's came quickly, Maria's red backpack wasn't there. They continued to wait, watching the luggage belt gradually becoming empty. After a couple of rounds without anything on it, it stopped: nothing else was going to come out. Worried and tired, Maria turned to the first policeman she was able to stop.
"My rucksack is not there! It hasn't arrived. What am I to do?" she asked nervously.
The policeman wanted to know where they had come from and if they had changed flights. He advised her to go to the 'Lost Property' office to report the missing luggage. She didn't like the sound of the words 'Lost Property' in the least; they meant 'lost rucksack'! "But what's happened? Has it been stolen?" she asked. No, maybe not, replied the policeman. Sometimes luggage in transit ended up going on the wrong flight. She couldn't believe it! Her rucksack, with all the things she had bought in those two months. Shocked, tired, helpless, she went to the 'lost forever property' office. "What do you want to do?" she asked Siggi. "You can go if you want; I have to do this!" But he wanted to wait for her and she was grateful to him for that.
At the office they took all her details; she was asked to describe her luggage and sign a declaration. "And now? Am I going home without my rucksack?" They told her that it would probably be tracked down and she'd be notified. "And, if they find it, do I have to come back to Rome to fetch it? I live in Venice, it's an eight-hour train journey!" She felt so frustrated, at the mercy of others, confused and angry. No, no, they said, if it was traced, if it arrived in Rome, they would send it to her house. Yeah, sure! 'And pigs might fly!' she thought. She had learnt this expression from someone during her trip. She could just imagine it: her backpack arriving in Rome, all alone, and someone would lovingly welcome it, comfort it, and then they'd bring it home to her, four hundred miles away! And if it wasn't found? They would reimburse her at $5 per kilo. Five dollars a kilo? Ten kilos: fifty dollars! It was lost, stolen, she was never going to see it again, and she began to cry, out of frustration and sorrow. All her memories, all those things she had chosen, one by one, carried on her back, loaded on bus roofs, saved as precious witnesses of such an important journey. Lost! Disappeared, stolen by someone who would open her backpack and pull out, one by one, all her things; what would he do with them? He would sell them, give them away, to his girlfriend, his relatives, maybe keep them in his room, hang them on his walls. She was shocked, and sad: "And now? What do I do?" The clerk told her to go home; they would write to her. Deflated like a burst balloon, Maria walked toward the customs. Siggi tried to console her, but she could see that even he had no confidence they would find her big and full backpack.
His sickly appearance, as well as his extreme thinness, attracted the attention of two plain clothes policemen who asked to search his luggage and that of Maria. She was so depressed she didn't care; they could search all the hell they wanted. She wished she had a backpack to be searched! She looked at Siggi and saw a moment's hesitation; he was very pale. She remembered when she had entered his dormitory and had seen him cover the parcels with his sarong: the little gifts for his friends.
"Do you have anything to declare?" asked the older cop.
"I wish!" replied Maria with force. She was glad they had asked her that question; she hoped they'd say those words; at least she could vent some of her frustration.
The policeman looked at her quizzically: "What do you mean?" he asked.
"I said that I wish I had something to declare! Instead, they stole my rucksack in Moscow, with all my stuff inside and all the gifts I'd bought!"
"Maybe it's just lost in transit," said the older of the two.
"Yeah, of course! I won't see it anymore, I'm sure, I'm really angry and I feel like crying, again!"
The two cops shared an amused glance, trying not to laugh. "And what's in here?" he asked, pointing his finger to her hand luggage.
"Three rings, two bracelets, two necklaces, some clothes, what little I had brought by hand," she whimpered. The policeman took everything out, one thing at a time, while the other one began to empty Siggi's backpack. There was no one else besides the two of them; all the other passengers had already gone through while they were doing the declaration at the lost property office. The young policeman addressed him in Italian and, not understanding a word, Siggi looked back at him with a blank expression. The policeman turned to Maria and, pointing his chin toward her companion, asked: "Do you know him?"
"I met him on the plane," she lied.
"Ask him what else he's got, apart from these nice souvenirs."
Maria translated into English and then translated Siggi's response into Italian: "He asks what you mean."
"He knows perfectly well what I mean. Has he got any drugs? What do you call it... charas?" Addressing the other cop he added: "This one here is a junkie, look how skinny he is!"
"No, he's not a junkie," Maria interjected, surprising herself, as well as Siggi, who had understood the meaning of her sentence.
The cop looked at her, intrigued. "You said you met on the plane! So how do you know he's not a junkie?" he asked, all excited.
"Exactly! I met him on the plane and we talked," Maria replied with confidence. "He's told me that he has been sick for weeks, dysentery, amoeba and he's probably even incubating hepatitis, by the symptoms he has. He's hoping to get home as soon as possible, while he can still make it!"
"No, the rucksack is too small!"
He laughed out loud: "But it's the biggest rucksack I've ever seen! It's bigger than you!"
"I know," she laughed. "I'm very anxious about travelling back to Italy; I feel as if two lifetimes have gone by since I left, rather than two and a half months. I'm sorry to leave India, are you?"
"Yes, I feel the same! Here it's too hot, everything is difficult, life is hard, but I don't want to leave. Next year I'll return, though. You'll come back too, won't you?" he asked.
Back to India? The idea kept coming up. There was nothing that prevented her from doing so. Her job gave her three months' paid holiday; life modelling didn't require much use of her brain but, from the point of view of free time, it was perfect. "I'm seriously thinking about it! What's under your sarong?" she asked, curiously.
"Oh... little presents for my friends," said Siggi with nonchalance.
She took her leave and returned to her luggage, repacking once again the content that stubbornly refused to fit. As if her things were not enough, Vale's socks were bulky and weighed a pound. She was extremely anxious and couldn't calm down. She went to the reception office, but Mr. Singh was not there yet; he began his shift in the afternoon. Gianluca had just left for the airport; he was going back to Italy, too. She saw the German boy with the cobra in a basket and stopped to talk to him: "How's the snake?"
"It's a king cobra, actually," he said primly. "Do you want to see it?"
"Yes, sure! Is it poisonous?"
"No, I had his fangs cut out, but after a while they grow back. He's not dangerous, look!" he said, removing the lid. The king cobra's diamond-shaped head moved slightly; it had been sleeping and they'd woken it up. It began to slide out of the basket and onto the grass.
"It's coming out!" cried Maria, alarmed, moving away from the area.
"He needs to eat grass, and there is not much grass in Delhi," said the boy, tenderly. He grabbed it with both hands and managed to put it back in the basket. "Do you want to stroke him?" he asked.
"Stroke it? But it's a snake!"
"Yes, I know. He won't harm you," he assured her. "Look, with me, even if I try to make him go around my neck, he won't. He knows he could hurt me and there's no way to persuade him. He's my friend, he loves me. I'll show you, so you believe me!" He pulled the snake out of the basket; it must have been very heavy by the strength it took to lift it. It was at least six feet long! He put it on his lap and made it climb over his body, all the way to his shoulder, which the snake, with its beautiful flat head, obediently did. It then slid behind the boy's head and over the other shoulder. When the boy tried wrapping it around his neck, like a scarf, the cobra refused. Forcefully it pulled its head back and pushed it toward his master's lap. The boy tried again, but the cobra wouldn't do it and pushed its head back down; it really seemed aware of what it was doing.
'I wonder if it has Buddhahood', Maria thought. She was very impressed: "Okay, I'll stroke it then." She touched it tentatively with a finger. "It feels like touching a snakeskin bag," she said stupidly.
"This is alive," the boy pointed out.
She touched it again, and this time she felt its life pulsing beneath the scaly skin, the force of that long body and the moisture seeping through it. She shivered; after all it was a snake, a king cobra, not the most obvious creature with which to make friends. She was glad she had introduced herself, though. With affection, the boy put it back in the basket and Maria thanked him for the experience.
She spent the afternoon fidgeting between a chai, a nap, a stroll around the Tourist Camp, another chai and, at last, it was finally getting dark. She went to say goodbye to Mr. Singh and thanked him for all the things he had taught her. Would she come back to India? Maria replied that, almost certainly, she would return. The idea of leaving seemed madness; India felt like home.
She went back to the dorm and, after a fight to the death with her backpack, she managed to push the last few things inside. She closed it for the last time, securing straps and buckles. Observing it, she couldn't believe that Franca wanted it; it was really ugly, now she could see that herself. It didn't have any charm at all, no elegance whatsoever, even the colour was over the top, and its shape was rough, there was nothing feminine about it. She would never again travel with this horror. The next time it was going to be a small rucksack, a blue-grey colour, like Franca's. For now, however, it would do its duty for the last time, carrying home all the beautiful things she had bought. The three boxes with the flower essences gave off some of their perfume and Maria could recognize the patchouli in particular, the smell of India 'par excellence'.
She loaded it on her shoulders: it was very heavy, but the weight was evenly distributed. She picked up her camera bag, which was also overly large and complex, and hung it over her shoulder. Next time she'd bring something much smaller. She had one last bag, her hand luggage containing the essential things for the trip and a few precious things she had bought: some rings, some bracelets, a couple of necklaces, a spare pair of pyjama trousers, a shirt and some toiletries.
She went over to Siggi's dormitory. He was nervous too, and had nothing left to do. They decided to leave earlier than scheduled, at least they were doing something; they could no longer sit around waiting.
With a mixture of sadness and anxiety, they walked out of the Tourist Camp's gate, stopped a scooter, settled in with their luggage over their feet and knees, and off they went, at full speed toward the airport. During the ride, the warm September evening air turned into a breeze that caressed them for the last time, impregnated with that mixture of sweet, intense, well known odours. She had to breathe deeply to control the strong emotion that filled her heart. She was about to leave India which she had come to know, appreciate and love, which had brought her friends, experiences, lessons, fears, understanding, love and, more important still, a new awareness of herself.
At the airport, the air was hot and muggy, lacking in oxygen, making it hard to breathe. Hundreds of passengers with huge amounts of luggage moved around nervously. Indian people, who were normally quite pragmatic and laid back, became easily agitated when travelling; they looked around, worried, apprehensive and unable to relax. Maria and Siggi found their flight on the screen: Delhi-Moscow with Aeroflot. They would change in Moscow, where they had a four hour wait before catching the connecting flight to Rome; too little time to go out and explore the city, which was apparently beautiful. They stood in line to deliver their luggage; it was a long and very slow queue. Two hours later they arrived at customs, where a young policeman checked Maria's hand luggage in great detail, slowly, carefully, before letting her through. Siggi was behind her. She waited for him in the lounge, where he reappeared, sighing: "He checked my whole luggage, every tiny corner of every single thing!"
Quite different from the outbound flight with Thai International, where the hostesses in their saris looked like queens and smiled like Miss World, the Aeroflot plane was grey, the hostesses were grey too, and Maria felt uneasy in their presence. She settled beside Siggi. It was comforting to have him near; it was like taking a little piece of India with her. The idea of going back to Italy, arriving within a few hours, was too strange and she decided not to think about it for now; she would focus on the present and postpone as much as possible the impact of her return home! Once in Moscow they didn't have to recover their luggage, it would be loaded automatically onto their next flight, so they spent the time as best they could in the transit hall, lying down on the benches for a while to rest their backs. It was almost dawn and they tried to sleep. Siggi looked ill; he was pale and often went to the bathroom.
"Are you okay?" Maria asked him.
"So-so," he said, smiling faintly.
"How are you feeling?"
"Weak," he replied.
He looked worried; he reminded her a little bit of Franca. Fortunately, in a few hours they'd be in Rome and, shortly after that, Siggi would be home. "Not long to go, you're almost there!" she encouraged him. He smiled with his beautiful green eyes, his oval face framed by blond curls.
They arrived at Rome airport at around eleven in the morning. They waited for their luggage and, while Siggi's came quickly, Maria's red backpack wasn't there. They continued to wait, watching the luggage belt gradually becoming empty. After a couple of rounds without anything on it, it stopped: nothing else was going to come out. Worried and tired, Maria turned to the first policeman she was able to stop.
"My rucksack is not there! It hasn't arrived. What am I to do?" she asked nervously.
The policeman wanted to know where they had come from and if they had changed flights. He advised her to go to the 'Lost Property' office to report the missing luggage. She didn't like the sound of the words 'Lost Property' in the least; they meant 'lost rucksack'! "But what's happened? Has it been stolen?" she asked. No, maybe not, replied the policeman. Sometimes luggage in transit ended up going on the wrong flight. She couldn't believe it! Her rucksack, with all the things she had bought in those two months. Shocked, tired, helpless, she went to the 'lost forever property' office. "What do you want to do?" she asked Siggi. "You can go if you want; I have to do this!" But he wanted to wait for her and she was grateful to him for that.
At the office they took all her details; she was asked to describe her luggage and sign a declaration. "And now? Am I going home without my rucksack?" They told her that it would probably be tracked down and she'd be notified. "And, if they find it, do I have to come back to Rome to fetch it? I live in Venice, it's an eight-hour train journey!" She felt so frustrated, at the mercy of others, confused and angry. No, no, they said, if it was traced, if it arrived in Rome, they would send it to her house. Yeah, sure! 'And pigs might fly!' she thought. She had learnt this expression from someone during her trip. She could just imagine it: her backpack arriving in Rome, all alone, and someone would lovingly welcome it, comfort it, and then they'd bring it home to her, four hundred miles away! And if it wasn't found? They would reimburse her at $5 per kilo. Five dollars a kilo? Ten kilos: fifty dollars! It was lost, stolen, she was never going to see it again, and she began to cry, out of frustration and sorrow. All her memories, all those things she had chosen, one by one, carried on her back, loaded on bus roofs, saved as precious witnesses of such an important journey. Lost! Disappeared, stolen by someone who would open her backpack and pull out, one by one, all her things; what would he do with them? He would sell them, give them away, to his girlfriend, his relatives, maybe keep them in his room, hang them on his walls. She was shocked, and sad: "And now? What do I do?" The clerk told her to go home; they would write to her. Deflated like a burst balloon, Maria walked toward the customs. Siggi tried to console her, but she could see that even he had no confidence they would find her big and full backpack.
His sickly appearance, as well as his extreme thinness, attracted the attention of two plain clothes policemen who asked to search his luggage and that of Maria. She was so depressed she didn't care; they could search all the hell they wanted. She wished she had a backpack to be searched! She looked at Siggi and saw a moment's hesitation; he was very pale. She remembered when she had entered his dormitory and had seen him cover the parcels with his sarong: the little gifts for his friends.
"Do you have anything to declare?" asked the older cop.
"I wish!" replied Maria with force. She was glad they had asked her that question; she hoped they'd say those words; at least she could vent some of her frustration.
The policeman looked at her quizzically: "What do you mean?" he asked.
"I said that I wish I had something to declare! Instead, they stole my rucksack in Moscow, with all my stuff inside and all the gifts I'd bought!"
"Maybe it's just lost in transit," said the older of the two.
"Yeah, of course! I won't see it anymore, I'm sure, I'm really angry and I feel like crying, again!"
The two cops shared an amused glance, trying not to laugh. "And what's in here?" he asked, pointing his finger to her hand luggage.
"Three rings, two bracelets, two necklaces, some clothes, what little I had brought by hand," she whimpered. The policeman took everything out, one thing at a time, while the other one began to empty Siggi's backpack. There was no one else besides the two of them; all the other passengers had already gone through while they were doing the declaration at the lost property office. The young policeman addressed him in Italian and, not understanding a word, Siggi looked back at him with a blank expression. The policeman turned to Maria and, pointing his chin toward her companion, asked: "Do you know him?"
"I met him on the plane," she lied.
"Ask him what else he's got, apart from these nice souvenirs."
Maria translated into English and then translated Siggi's response into Italian: "He asks what you mean."
"He knows perfectly well what I mean. Has he got any drugs? What do you call it... charas?" Addressing the other cop he added: "This one here is a junkie, look how skinny he is!"
"No, he's not a junkie," Maria interjected, surprising herself, as well as Siggi, who had understood the meaning of her sentence.
The cop looked at her, intrigued. "You said you met on the plane! So how do you know he's not a junkie?" he asked, all excited.
"Exactly! I met him on the plane and we talked," Maria replied with confidence. "He's told me that he has been sick for weeks, dysentery, amoeba and he's probably even incubating hepatitis, by the symptoms he has. He's hoping to get home as soon as possible, while he can still make it!"
To her surprise, the policemen began to put things back into their respective bags. After a while they grew tired and made a gesture as if to say 'you carry on with it', while they prepared to observe the passengers from another flight, who were beginning to filter through. Siggi began to put things inside his backpack, but now they didn't fit any longer and he had little strength. Maria complained loudly that before the search everything was nicely organized, she gave him a hand pushing his things in as well as she could, buckled his backpack up and helped him load it on his shoulders. As they headed toward the airport exit, she was sure she heard him let out a sigh of relief; she was certain he was carrying something. "Don't look so happy!" she hissed through clenched teeth.
Siggi smiled and softly said: "You helped me, didn't you?"
"Without meaning to," she replied.
The doors opened automatically and they walked out of the airport and into Rome's warm and sunny atmosphere. Maria paused to take a deep breath. The air was different from India's; it was cooler and cleaner, although it smelt of fuel, petrol and gas. She was back! Was she glad about it? She wasn't sure, but she was excited, despite her missing rucksack. Siggi had other surprises in store for her: two of his friends had come to pick him up.
"Are you telling me they've come all the way from Austria to fetch you?"
Yes, they had, and he spotted them almost immediately. They hugged tight, happy to see each other. Their original idea was to stop in Rome for the night, but the hotels were very expensive. Maria suggested they went to Venice, where they could all sleep at her house. It was going to take at least seven hours driving, sure, and they had already travelled all night but, in comparison to travelling twenty hours on an Indian bus, this seemed like a short trip: seven hours up the motorway, stopping to eat Italian food at a service station. The boys were tempted by the idea of going to Venice and sleeping there. "If we set off now, by eight o'clock this evening we'd be at home, and then you can sleep as long as you want!" she said with enthusiasm, managing to persuade them. Siggi was in a hurry to get away from the airport. As soon as they settled into the car she questioned him: "Did you take drugs through customs?"
"Yes. I'm sorry," he replied apologetically.
"Were they the 'little parcels for your friends'?"
Siggi nodded, smiling now with satisfaction. He had already told his friends in German and they were overjoyed.
"Where did you hide it?" she probed.
"Inside my body," he replied, with some hesitation.
"Is it charas?"
"Yes, of course!"
She was surprised, but not completely. Something had been bothering her, but she hadn't given it much thought. Well, it was done now and he had got away with it but, once again, she had brushed closely with danger. It would have been very different if the cops had discovered him. They wouldn't have believed her, even if she insisted she didn't know him. However, the concern for herself didn't last long.
They had only been in the car for an hour when Siggi began to feel ill and they had to stop on the hard shoulder because he couldn't control his bowels. One surprise after another! He climbed down the grassy bank and hid behind a bush. It took him quite a long time. His friend brought him plastic bags. Maria preferred not to know and, like the three little monkeys, she couldn't see, couldn't hear and couldn't speak. 'From the frying pan into the fire', she thought. When he got back to the car he looked very pale, emaciated. As they continued their journey, he got worse and they had to stop more and more often. In the end they couldn't drive more than twenty five miles without a break and, every time he came back to the car, he was even paler and weaker. What had she said to the police? Dysentery, a bit of amoeba and possibly hepatitis. Perhaps she was right!
Finally, nine hours after leaving Rome, they reached the outskirts of Venice. She began to recognize the roads, the signs with the names of familiar towns, the countryside, the buildings. It felt as if she were coming back from a trip to the moon, with a mixture of gratitude and detachment. Was she glad to be back? No, it felt strange but, fortunately, she had Siggi with her, a bridge between the past and the present, the witness who confirmed that it hadn't been a dream, that her trip to India had been real and that perhaps the dream was this reality.
The boy who was driving didn't need any help, he simply followed the directions, and she looked out the window. They drove onto the bridge that led straight to Venice, two miles between earth and sea, over the lagoon, with the water stroking the islets sprinkled with grass, and the first boats. At the far end, on her left were the lights of Venice with the sky line drawn by the roofs of houses, of taller churches and bell towers, and on her right were merchant ships, big boats and cranes silhouetted against the dark blue sky. As the daylight faded completely, the lights inside the houses were coming on and, like eyes opening, they looked at her returning, winking at her, unhurriedly waiting for her, while she approached. Strong emotions squeezed her heart until it almost hurt; her city, her beautiful Venice.
They parked near the station depot and got out of the car with stiff legs, sore backs and rigid necks. They took out their luggage, but Maria forbade them to take Siggi's stinky bags to her house. She recognized the smell of Venice, ever changing according to the wind, the tide and the weather. From there they could either take a boat or walk, but she didn't give them any choice: they would go home on foot. One of them shouldered Siggi's backpack so that he could walk lighter. Their eyes wide open, full of wonder, they were all happy to be there.
Maria needed to arrive slowly, one step after another, feeling the stones beneath her feet, touching the walls of houses, crossing the bridges one at a time, looking around, recognizing the eaves, the television antennas, the messy wires strung from one house to another, the doors of the inns, the larger doors of houses and churches, the squares and the shops: the tobacconist, the bakery, the grocer's, the printing house; the bar filled with smoke and people drinking wine as if it were water, talking loudly, commenting, judging, criticizing, planning, hoping, kidding, exaggerating, cursing.
They walked in silence through the deserted streets savouring the peace, listening to the sound of their footsteps and the faded noises that trickled through the houses' closed windows. The evening was cool and, while they walked deeper into the more intimate Venice, the traditional street lights were reflected in the water of the canals, as they had done for centuries: three lights at the top of each post, each one enclosed in its pink glass housing, the centre one tall and straight, the other two elegantly resting on arms of wrought iron, bent in the shape of a wave, a hug, a welcome greeting. She took a deep breath, absorbing the atmosphere of her beloved city, torn between contrasting feelings, strong and intense.
They arrived in the first square, Campo Santa Margherita, the pizza place was open and there were people outside drinking and talking. She didn't look that way, afraid she might see someone she knew. They reached Campo San Barnaba, which was almost deserted, apart from the bar on the right. They continued along the empty 'calle' and crossed the Ponte dei Pugni. It felt as if years had gone by; it was the same town she had left, but her life was no longer the way it used to be. They arrived in Campo of the Academy of Fine Arts, where she worked. She cast a brief glance at the institute's main door, but looked quickly away. And here was the Accademia Bridge; there was something friendly about it, with its wooden stairs which softened the step. And there was Campo Santo Stefano, which had seen the joys and sorrows of her life open like a fan: Niccolò Tommaseo's statue raised by the few steps where she had sat waiting for friends; the elegant buildings resting on classical columns; the white, majestic churches around her, full of beauty. On her right was the sidewalk along the canal which had appeared in the dream with Jean-Claude and Paul; she remembered it perfectly well, as if it had really happened. They took the lane on the right, crossed another bridge, went past the Galleria d'Arte and finally arrived in Campo San Maurizio.
She pulled from her pocket the keys she had ready and, with a confident gesture that hid the uneasiness she felt, she opened the front door to her house. The smell of damp in the entrance hall was exactly as she remembered it. They climbed the old worn out irregular stone steps up to the second floor. She opened her apartment door and turned the light on. Everything was as she had left it. One by one they entered and she closed the door behind them. She looked around; nothing had changed, except for her. She felt indifference, a sort of detachment for the objects that surrounded her and realized that, while her body had already arrived home, her mind and her heart were still in India. She needed more time to get there completely. She gathered some loose cushions and those from the couch, took clean sheets and blankets from the closet and prepared two beds on the floor for Siggi's friends. They were all tired, but they wanted to make a joint. Siggi settled on Maria's double bed, exhausted. They all shared a joint and then a second one, relaxing, joking and laughing. Within a few minutes the two boys were fast asleep.
Maria lay down next to her friend and fell asleep, but it was a light sleep. She was aware of Siggi getting up and going to the bathroom; she knew by the way he walked that, every time he came back, he was weaker. In the dim light, through half-closed eyes, she saw him sit on the edge of the bed and then, slowly, tiredly, lie down. She could make out the outlines of the curls that framed his oval, thin face and felt strong affection for him; in the semi-darkness she smiled at him. Siggi saw her white teeth, with difficulty he propped himself on his elbow and looked at her for a while. She wasn't surprised when he bent down and kissed her, a light kiss on her forehead, not to make her sick with his illness. He was very weak and stretched out again. It was her turn to prop herself up. She stroked his sweaty forehead, his hot temples, his sunken cheeks; she ran her fingers through his hair, trying to smooth away the pain, the tiredness, his illness. She felt him relax under her hands, drifting away into the sleep he needed so much; reluctantly she let him go, full of tenderness. For a while she lay there, staring at the ceiling, half way between wake and sleep, suspended in limbo! She turned to look at Siggi, her little piece of India.
She closed her eyes and her mind went back to the Tourist Camp, the German boy with the king cobra, Luna, Harry, Ted, Mister Singh with the green turban that matched his eyes, and his white beard, neatly held in place by a net. She saw the beggar without hands who touched her feet and thanked her with a smile; the three children riding the bicycle together and waving at her while she sat alone in the mail carriage. She found herself in Varanasi, down the ghats with Jean-Claude taking photos, kissing in the deserted temples on the opposite bank of the Ganges, and her stomach twitched with emotion. Then her mind went back even further and she blushed in the darkness at the memory of Paul embracing her in the temple; she felt the beating of his heart, her head resting on his chest. She saw him writing his address, sitting on his bed in Mandi's Tourist Bungalow, their shoulders touching, breathing in unison. Eventually she fell asleep.
She woke up hearing her name and, when she opened her eyes, saw Siggi's smiling face.
"It's nearly eleven o'clock," he said. "In a minute the bell tower out there will chime eleven times." He looked better than the day before, but had blue rings around his eyes. "We've been awake for quite a while and soon we'll have to leave. It's a long journey all the way to Vienna." Of course, he couldn't stay here forever! Maria got up and wore the same clothes she had been travelling in, because they still smelt of India. They went for breakfast at a café some distance from Campo Santo Stefano, in a 'calle' out of the way, and then they walked to the station depot, where their car was parked. She hugged Siggi, thin and vulnerable, rolling his blond curls around her fingers. He looked into her eyes and kissed her forehead, her closed eyes, her cheeks and the tip of her nose. They didn't know what to say. Would they ever meet again? "Thank you for everything," he said, holding her hands. Maria hugged him for the last time and then stood there, unable to move or think, waving her arm while they manoeuvred and drove away. The last piece of India had gone. She could see the back of the car that disappeared, with the brake lights winking at her.
She didn't do anything for a while, she didn't know where to go, what to do. She sat on a low wall, looking at the road ahead. When she saw a public boat approach she walked to the pier; she had no Italian money and smiled when she found some rupees in her pocket. She boarded without a ticket and sat outside. She had no idea where the 'vaporetto' boat was going and didn't care. She let it take her along the canals, sitting in the sun watching Venice from the water and, little by little, she was returning home.
Siggi smiled and softly said: "You helped me, didn't you?"
"Without meaning to," she replied.
The doors opened automatically and they walked out of the airport and into Rome's warm and sunny atmosphere. Maria paused to take a deep breath. The air was different from India's; it was cooler and cleaner, although it smelt of fuel, petrol and gas. She was back! Was she glad about it? She wasn't sure, but she was excited, despite her missing rucksack. Siggi had other surprises in store for her: two of his friends had come to pick him up.
"Are you telling me they've come all the way from Austria to fetch you?"
Yes, they had, and he spotted them almost immediately. They hugged tight, happy to see each other. Their original idea was to stop in Rome for the night, but the hotels were very expensive. Maria suggested they went to Venice, where they could all sleep at her house. It was going to take at least seven hours driving, sure, and they had already travelled all night but, in comparison to travelling twenty hours on an Indian bus, this seemed like a short trip: seven hours up the motorway, stopping to eat Italian food at a service station. The boys were tempted by the idea of going to Venice and sleeping there. "If we set off now, by eight o'clock this evening we'd be at home, and then you can sleep as long as you want!" she said with enthusiasm, managing to persuade them. Siggi was in a hurry to get away from the airport. As soon as they settled into the car she questioned him: "Did you take drugs through customs?"
"Yes. I'm sorry," he replied apologetically.
"Were they the 'little parcels for your friends'?"
Siggi nodded, smiling now with satisfaction. He had already told his friends in German and they were overjoyed.
"Where did you hide it?" she probed.
"Inside my body," he replied, with some hesitation.
"Is it charas?"
"Yes, of course!"
She was surprised, but not completely. Something had been bothering her, but she hadn't given it much thought. Well, it was done now and he had got away with it but, once again, she had brushed closely with danger. It would have been very different if the cops had discovered him. They wouldn't have believed her, even if she insisted she didn't know him. However, the concern for herself didn't last long.
They had only been in the car for an hour when Siggi began to feel ill and they had to stop on the hard shoulder because he couldn't control his bowels. One surprise after another! He climbed down the grassy bank and hid behind a bush. It took him quite a long time. His friend brought him plastic bags. Maria preferred not to know and, like the three little monkeys, she couldn't see, couldn't hear and couldn't speak. 'From the frying pan into the fire', she thought. When he got back to the car he looked very pale, emaciated. As they continued their journey, he got worse and they had to stop more and more often. In the end they couldn't drive more than twenty five miles without a break and, every time he came back to the car, he was even paler and weaker. What had she said to the police? Dysentery, a bit of amoeba and possibly hepatitis. Perhaps she was right!
Finally, nine hours after leaving Rome, they reached the outskirts of Venice. She began to recognize the roads, the signs with the names of familiar towns, the countryside, the buildings. It felt as if she were coming back from a trip to the moon, with a mixture of gratitude and detachment. Was she glad to be back? No, it felt strange but, fortunately, she had Siggi with her, a bridge between the past and the present, the witness who confirmed that it hadn't been a dream, that her trip to India had been real and that perhaps the dream was this reality.
The boy who was driving didn't need any help, he simply followed the directions, and she looked out the window. They drove onto the bridge that led straight to Venice, two miles between earth and sea, over the lagoon, with the water stroking the islets sprinkled with grass, and the first boats. At the far end, on her left were the lights of Venice with the sky line drawn by the roofs of houses, of taller churches and bell towers, and on her right were merchant ships, big boats and cranes silhouetted against the dark blue sky. As the daylight faded completely, the lights inside the houses were coming on and, like eyes opening, they looked at her returning, winking at her, unhurriedly waiting for her, while she approached. Strong emotions squeezed her heart until it almost hurt; her city, her beautiful Venice.
They parked near the station depot and got out of the car with stiff legs, sore backs and rigid necks. They took out their luggage, but Maria forbade them to take Siggi's stinky bags to her house. She recognized the smell of Venice, ever changing according to the wind, the tide and the weather. From there they could either take a boat or walk, but she didn't give them any choice: they would go home on foot. One of them shouldered Siggi's backpack so that he could walk lighter. Their eyes wide open, full of wonder, they were all happy to be there.
Maria needed to arrive slowly, one step after another, feeling the stones beneath her feet, touching the walls of houses, crossing the bridges one at a time, looking around, recognizing the eaves, the television antennas, the messy wires strung from one house to another, the doors of the inns, the larger doors of houses and churches, the squares and the shops: the tobacconist, the bakery, the grocer's, the printing house; the bar filled with smoke and people drinking wine as if it were water, talking loudly, commenting, judging, criticizing, planning, hoping, kidding, exaggerating, cursing.
They walked in silence through the deserted streets savouring the peace, listening to the sound of their footsteps and the faded noises that trickled through the houses' closed windows. The evening was cool and, while they walked deeper into the more intimate Venice, the traditional street lights were reflected in the water of the canals, as they had done for centuries: three lights at the top of each post, each one enclosed in its pink glass housing, the centre one tall and straight, the other two elegantly resting on arms of wrought iron, bent in the shape of a wave, a hug, a welcome greeting. She took a deep breath, absorbing the atmosphere of her beloved city, torn between contrasting feelings, strong and intense.
They arrived in the first square, Campo Santa Margherita, the pizza place was open and there were people outside drinking and talking. She didn't look that way, afraid she might see someone she knew. They reached Campo San Barnaba, which was almost deserted, apart from the bar on the right. They continued along the empty 'calle' and crossed the Ponte dei Pugni. It felt as if years had gone by; it was the same town she had left, but her life was no longer the way it used to be. They arrived in Campo of the Academy of Fine Arts, where she worked. She cast a brief glance at the institute's main door, but looked quickly away. And here was the Accademia Bridge; there was something friendly about it, with its wooden stairs which softened the step. And there was Campo Santo Stefano, which had seen the joys and sorrows of her life open like a fan: Niccolò Tommaseo's statue raised by the few steps where she had sat waiting for friends; the elegant buildings resting on classical columns; the white, majestic churches around her, full of beauty. On her right was the sidewalk along the canal which had appeared in the dream with Jean-Claude and Paul; she remembered it perfectly well, as if it had really happened. They took the lane on the right, crossed another bridge, went past the Galleria d'Arte and finally arrived in Campo San Maurizio.
She pulled from her pocket the keys she had ready and, with a confident gesture that hid the uneasiness she felt, she opened the front door to her house. The smell of damp in the entrance hall was exactly as she remembered it. They climbed the old worn out irregular stone steps up to the second floor. She opened her apartment door and turned the light on. Everything was as she had left it. One by one they entered and she closed the door behind them. She looked around; nothing had changed, except for her. She felt indifference, a sort of detachment for the objects that surrounded her and realized that, while her body had already arrived home, her mind and her heart were still in India. She needed more time to get there completely. She gathered some loose cushions and those from the couch, took clean sheets and blankets from the closet and prepared two beds on the floor for Siggi's friends. They were all tired, but they wanted to make a joint. Siggi settled on Maria's double bed, exhausted. They all shared a joint and then a second one, relaxing, joking and laughing. Within a few minutes the two boys were fast asleep.
Maria lay down next to her friend and fell asleep, but it was a light sleep. She was aware of Siggi getting up and going to the bathroom; she knew by the way he walked that, every time he came back, he was weaker. In the dim light, through half-closed eyes, she saw him sit on the edge of the bed and then, slowly, tiredly, lie down. She could make out the outlines of the curls that framed his oval, thin face and felt strong affection for him; in the semi-darkness she smiled at him. Siggi saw her white teeth, with difficulty he propped himself on his elbow and looked at her for a while. She wasn't surprised when he bent down and kissed her, a light kiss on her forehead, not to make her sick with his illness. He was very weak and stretched out again. It was her turn to prop herself up. She stroked his sweaty forehead, his hot temples, his sunken cheeks; she ran her fingers through his hair, trying to smooth away the pain, the tiredness, his illness. She felt him relax under her hands, drifting away into the sleep he needed so much; reluctantly she let him go, full of tenderness. For a while she lay there, staring at the ceiling, half way between wake and sleep, suspended in limbo! She turned to look at Siggi, her little piece of India.
She closed her eyes and her mind went back to the Tourist Camp, the German boy with the king cobra, Luna, Harry, Ted, Mister Singh with the green turban that matched his eyes, and his white beard, neatly held in place by a net. She saw the beggar without hands who touched her feet and thanked her with a smile; the three children riding the bicycle together and waving at her while she sat alone in the mail carriage. She found herself in Varanasi, down the ghats with Jean-Claude taking photos, kissing in the deserted temples on the opposite bank of the Ganges, and her stomach twitched with emotion. Then her mind went back even further and she blushed in the darkness at the memory of Paul embracing her in the temple; she felt the beating of his heart, her head resting on his chest. She saw him writing his address, sitting on his bed in Mandi's Tourist Bungalow, their shoulders touching, breathing in unison. Eventually she fell asleep.
She woke up hearing her name and, when she opened her eyes, saw Siggi's smiling face.
"It's nearly eleven o'clock," he said. "In a minute the bell tower out there will chime eleven times." He looked better than the day before, but had blue rings around his eyes. "We've been awake for quite a while and soon we'll have to leave. It's a long journey all the way to Vienna." Of course, he couldn't stay here forever! Maria got up and wore the same clothes she had been travelling in, because they still smelt of India. They went for breakfast at a café some distance from Campo Santo Stefano, in a 'calle' out of the way, and then they walked to the station depot, where their car was parked. She hugged Siggi, thin and vulnerable, rolling his blond curls around her fingers. He looked into her eyes and kissed her forehead, her closed eyes, her cheeks and the tip of her nose. They didn't know what to say. Would they ever meet again? "Thank you for everything," he said, holding her hands. Maria hugged him for the last time and then stood there, unable to move or think, waving her arm while they manoeuvred and drove away. The last piece of India had gone. She could see the back of the car that disappeared, with the brake lights winking at her.
She didn't do anything for a while, she didn't know where to go, what to do. She sat on a low wall, looking at the road ahead. When she saw a public boat approach she walked to the pier; she had no Italian money and smiled when she found some rupees in her pocket. She boarded without a ticket and sat outside. She had no idea where the 'vaporetto' boat was going and didn't care. She let it take her along the canals, sitting in the sun watching Venice from the water and, little by little, she was returning home.
She spent the first few days alone, she hadn't let anyone know she was back. She caught the boat and went to visit the islands of Murano, Burano and Torcello, where she didn't know anybody. She walked the lanes and along the canals, ate a sandwich sitting on the steps leading to the water, looking at Burano's colourful houses, which were different and more cheerful than those in Venice, and its gondolas which were painted in many different colours, while in Venice they were all black. The simplicity and peace of Torcello were a real surprise; there were very few people around and fields of green grass surrounded the church. Murano's shop windows, full of blown glass wares, were a feast for the eyes, and when they invited her to enter a 'fornasa' she was easily persuaded. There, working with a flame, an artist craftsman and his young assistant created a glass vase with dramatic colours and the lightness of a feather. The skill of those men filled her with admiration. As she left, the young assistant ran after her and gave her a small glass cat. She caught a boat across the lagoon and reached the Lido, Venice beach. She walked on the sand, along the sea, letting her thoughts come and go at will, engrossed in the present moment, gradually coming back to her roots.
Ester tracked her down at home and told her that Gabriele, Franca's boyfriend, wanted to see her; he was worried because he hadn't received any mail from Franca for weeks. Ugo had asked about her, too. "There are a lot of people who want to see you," she said. She wanted to know everything and, in the couple of hours they spent together, Maria began to put her memories into words, sharing them with her friend.
"Did you find the man of your life?" Ester asked her. It was something they had joked about before parting; Maria had said she was going to India in search of the man of her life, and had asked Ester if she'd go with her. But her friend had replied that she'd look for him in Venice.
"I don't know," replied Maria. "I found two men that I really liked, but they were already taken, of course. We'll see what happens. And you?"
Ester smirked.
"Are you serious?" Maria asked. "Did you find someone?"
"I did," replied Ester, "but he doesn't know yet!" They laughed loudly, as they always did when they were together. She told her about the lost rucksack and her friend agreed with her that she wasn't going to see it again. They decided to meet in Campo Santo Stefano that evening; Ester promised she would be there, and this gave Maria the support she needed to see everyone again.
She wore white pyjama trousers, her white embroidered kurta shirt and Pokhara's satin waistcoat. She fastened the silver anklets that Jean-Claude had given her, put some light make-up on, slipped on the silver bracelet with turquoise and coral that she had bought in Kathmandu and the turquoise earrings, bought from another jeweller on Freak Street. Her hair had grown and almost reached her waist, it shined with coppery reflections and she was happy with it. With some trepidation, she walked to Campo Santo Stefano. She sat on the statue's steps and lit a cigarette. Ester wasn't there yet.
The first person she saw was Gabriele. She raised her arm to greet him and he quickened his pace, coming to sit next to her and embracing her affectionately. She didn't know him well, but he was kind, pleasant, and worried. Maria explained things starting from the end, telling him how and where she had left Franca. He wasn't happy with the situation, much less about how Franca had thrown herself headlong into drugs. "I'm not like that," he made a point of saying, "and I don't understand this wild passion she has to try everything. Sooner or later she'll pay for it. I don't know if you've seen how she doesn't listen to anyone. She always does whatever she wants!" Maria laughed. Yes, she had noticed Franca's slightly anarchic tendencies. Gabriele spoke about her as if she were a friend rather than his girlfriend; he seemed interested but not involved. Now she understood the distance she had felt in Franca toward him, it was a real distance. Gabriele wanted to know more and after a while they were talking about her own experience of India and Nepal.
While she was telling him about Pokhara, she saw Ugo coming. She expected her heart to skip a beat, but instead she simply acknowledged his presence. She observed him, while he hadn't seen her yet: that way of walking without haste, absorbed in his thoughts, those eyes that, because of the shape, looked sad but weren't so; it was just an impression to make women fall in love. Perhaps feeling he was being watched Ugo looked in her direction. She saw his eyes widen in surprise, changing expression from engrossed to shocked, and then excited. He quickened his pace and then started running toward her. She smiled, but didn't stand up. Ugo knelt in front of her and hugged her. He gave her a kiss on the cheek that Maria offered him, stroking her arms. He seemed really happy to see her. She let him touch her. She knew his hands well, that way of caressing her not only with his fingers, but with the palms of his hands, his wrists, his forearms. She recognized his touch; it was his friendship that seemed alien. Yes, she was fine, yes, a beautiful journey, yes, wonderful people, thank you. Her lack of emotion cooled his enthusiasm. "You look beautiful," he said, seeming surprised.
"Thank you," she replied simply, thinking 'definitely not thanks to you!' She felt beautiful because she had changed inside and the opinion she had of herself didn't depend on him any longer.
"Do you want to come to dinner at my house? I'll cook you something good," he offered.
Two months ago she would have given anything for an invitation like that, to be chosen over the other girls. She would go to his house, hoping it could be a new beginning; trusting herself into his arms until the morning; keeping up the illusion into the afternoon; seeing it shattered around cocktail hour; disappointed and humiliated by dinner time. Now she didn't care. She observed her own reaction, surprised to feel such lack of interest, seeing herself from the outside, free at last, and saw the desire in his eyes. It wasn't the first time, she'd gone through detachment before, and freedom from Ugo's charm, who made her feel like a queen, only to end up being a drudge. She had fallen for it a few times and was aware she had to be careful, because he knew how to persist, woo and wait until he obtained what he wanted; then he'd look away and start a new game, addicted to conquest.
"Thank you, but I can't; I'm going out with friends," she said, using a reply he had given her many times. She knew she had hit the mark. But, apart from the small, petty satisfaction of getting rid of him, she felt a strength inside that she had never felt before.
Her small world had become big; the insecurity and lack of value she had felt inwardly had slipped away, thanks to the people she had met, the things she had learned about her potential, respect for herself and the uniqueness of her life. She was living the present with an eye toward the future and knew that her life was huge, that she had things to do, her unique mission to fulfil, a path that, although she still didn't know where it would lead her, would make her happy. She was going to find out, one step at a time!
Nam-myoho-renge-kyo, Nam-myoho-renge-kyo, Nam-myoho-renge-kyo, she chanted in her head, and it was like the drum of Red Indians who played the sacred ritual dance around the bonfire in preparation for the attack; it was like the notes of a piano weaving the plot of her new life, embroidering her future; it was a flute singing the freedom of a seagull flying high, the flap of his big wings strong and unstoppable. Ugo would no longer stop her, nor confuse her. Indeed, she was grateful for the way he behaved with her, grateful for the suffering that had spurred her to leave, to rebel against the smallness of her life, to go in search of happiness, of which she had found the source, with the help of her friends, inside herself. Never again would she allow herself to go through a relationship without respect.
"But thanks for the offer," she added, smiling with her lips, her eyes distant. She saw Ugo's hurt look. He knew her well and could see her calm anger. 'Why should I bear him a grudge?' she asked herself. He really had helped her, albeit unwittingly. The expression in her eyes changed, and with an honest smile, she said: "Thank you, really… but no thanks!"
Finally she saw Ester, who was accompanied by Enrico, a tall, attractive and cheerful man. They were laughing as they walked. It was clear that he was a man who didn't yet know that he had found the woman of his life. They spent an hour chatting in groups; Maria was the centre of attention, everyone wanted to know how her trip had been, and she patiently repeated the same things a few times. Ugo kept nearby, as he always did when she rejected him, as if a thread was tying him to her and, even when he'd moved away, he never let go of it. Maria observed Ester and Enrico: clearly at ease together, they had no need for words or statements, but were glued by an invisible bond that made their relationship natural and simple, but real and strong. That evening, after pizza and a beer in a pizzeria with the two of them, Maria wrote to Franca. The words flowed easily.
"Dear Franca,
I arrived in Venice three days ago and I'm still in the clouds! I didn't realize that 'landing' would be so hard. My body is here but my heart is still in India. In a sense, I have no desire to 'come back'. The pace of life seems hectic in comparison to India, everybody is in a hurry, they run to and fro, first to work, then shopping, then cooking and then to bed.
People seem superficial, with their talk of designer clothes, their beautiful hair styling, necklaces, make-up, all so pretty and tidy. They have everything but still it's not enough; it's never enough, because they try to fill the void they have inside by hoarding things on the outside.
Then I think of my friend with no legs who walked on wooden blocks tied to his hands, lifting his torso at every step. Do you remember him? Surinder, in Mcleodganj. His eyes shone as if he had a light inside and was always looking around to see if anyone needed his help. Generous and intelligent, he felt rich when he didn't even have his legs! What an extraordinary person; he taught me a lot. And then I remember the people of the village in the mountains. They were queuing to get their bead bracelets made and waited patiently for their turn. The joy and gratitude they showed for such a small thing! Both, children and adults with the same curiosity, the same enthusiasm. I remember them as a deeply happy people and what did they have? Very little! I say very little, because I think with the mentality of a westerner living in a capitalist country, let's face it. For them it is not 'little' because they have this clear sense of gratitude for what they have: a roof over their head, maize and semolina in the fields, apple trees and some cows that give the scarce milk, which is so precious; and the desire to smile, to dance, to sing, to learn everything they can from us who pass briefly through their lives. I miss them and I don't want to 'land', I'm not ready; my heart is still there with them.
I think of the beautiful people we've met, Sanya and Colin and their Ten Worlds, Luna and her friends whom I met in Delhi. I always think of that phrase and I often recite it in my head, or out loud if I am alone, to feel happier and more balanced within. I think of Jean-Claude and his girlfriend waiting for him in Paris, and also of Paul and his girlfriend; men who have shared my life, our lives, for a brief moment, and gave me a lot. Who knows whether I'll see them again? In a way, it's not even important whether I see them again. What people give you becomes yours forever and nobody can take it away, it's part of your life.
Coming to the present moment: tonight I 'faced' the square. I spoke with Gabriele, who wanted to know how you were and why he hasn't received any more letters from you. I told him how things went and he would love to hear from you. I hope that, when you receive this letter, the yellowish-brownish-green will be a thing of the past, that your eyes have gone back to being beautiful, and that your skin is the colour it should be, maybe a little tanned. I saw Ugo and I'm glad of the lack of effect he had on me, but I have to be on guard; I know him well and I'm aware that he has many ways of reattaching himself, slowly but surely! I decided to actively avoid him.
The return trip was interesting, to say the least. I travelled with a young Austrian man who had brought some 'stuff'. We went through customs together, because I hadn't sussed anything, but the cops had understood immediately. Luckily, he got away with it, partly also thanks to my (involuntary) help. Two friends of his came to fetch him at the airport all the way from Vienna, we came to Venice by car and we all slept here. A non-stop trip from Delhi to Venice, twenty four hours.
And now, the worst piece of news: my rucksack was lost during the return journey. You will be glad, with that love-hate relationship you had with my ugly red rucksack. Inside were all the things I had bought and carried on my shoulders with so much effort. They told me that, if they find it, they'll deliver it to me, here at home, but I think I have no hope of ever seeing it again. Can you imagine? Someone in Delhi, Moscow, or even Rome, will be enjoying my stuff. I haven't yet recovered from the shock! If I'm lucky I'll get 5 dollars a kilo, while in it there are things worth at least 500 dollars, which I wanted to sell to get back some of the money I spent on the trip. I'm very upset about this.
Well, now I'll say goodbye because I'm so tired and I'm working tomorrow. Take care of yourself and get completely better. Let me know when you're coming back and we'll come to pick you up at the airport!
Kisses Maria!"
Ester tracked her down at home and told her that Gabriele, Franca's boyfriend, wanted to see her; he was worried because he hadn't received any mail from Franca for weeks. Ugo had asked about her, too. "There are a lot of people who want to see you," she said. She wanted to know everything and, in the couple of hours they spent together, Maria began to put her memories into words, sharing them with her friend.
"Did you find the man of your life?" Ester asked her. It was something they had joked about before parting; Maria had said she was going to India in search of the man of her life, and had asked Ester if she'd go with her. But her friend had replied that she'd look for him in Venice.
"I don't know," replied Maria. "I found two men that I really liked, but they were already taken, of course. We'll see what happens. And you?"
Ester smirked.
"Are you serious?" Maria asked. "Did you find someone?"
"I did," replied Ester, "but he doesn't know yet!" They laughed loudly, as they always did when they were together. She told her about the lost rucksack and her friend agreed with her that she wasn't going to see it again. They decided to meet in Campo Santo Stefano that evening; Ester promised she would be there, and this gave Maria the support she needed to see everyone again.
She wore white pyjama trousers, her white embroidered kurta shirt and Pokhara's satin waistcoat. She fastened the silver anklets that Jean-Claude had given her, put some light make-up on, slipped on the silver bracelet with turquoise and coral that she had bought in Kathmandu and the turquoise earrings, bought from another jeweller on Freak Street. Her hair had grown and almost reached her waist, it shined with coppery reflections and she was happy with it. With some trepidation, she walked to Campo Santo Stefano. She sat on the statue's steps and lit a cigarette. Ester wasn't there yet.
The first person she saw was Gabriele. She raised her arm to greet him and he quickened his pace, coming to sit next to her and embracing her affectionately. She didn't know him well, but he was kind, pleasant, and worried. Maria explained things starting from the end, telling him how and where she had left Franca. He wasn't happy with the situation, much less about how Franca had thrown herself headlong into drugs. "I'm not like that," he made a point of saying, "and I don't understand this wild passion she has to try everything. Sooner or later she'll pay for it. I don't know if you've seen how she doesn't listen to anyone. She always does whatever she wants!" Maria laughed. Yes, she had noticed Franca's slightly anarchic tendencies. Gabriele spoke about her as if she were a friend rather than his girlfriend; he seemed interested but not involved. Now she understood the distance she had felt in Franca toward him, it was a real distance. Gabriele wanted to know more and after a while they were talking about her own experience of India and Nepal.
While she was telling him about Pokhara, she saw Ugo coming. She expected her heart to skip a beat, but instead she simply acknowledged his presence. She observed him, while he hadn't seen her yet: that way of walking without haste, absorbed in his thoughts, those eyes that, because of the shape, looked sad but weren't so; it was just an impression to make women fall in love. Perhaps feeling he was being watched Ugo looked in her direction. She saw his eyes widen in surprise, changing expression from engrossed to shocked, and then excited. He quickened his pace and then started running toward her. She smiled, but didn't stand up. Ugo knelt in front of her and hugged her. He gave her a kiss on the cheek that Maria offered him, stroking her arms. He seemed really happy to see her. She let him touch her. She knew his hands well, that way of caressing her not only with his fingers, but with the palms of his hands, his wrists, his forearms. She recognized his touch; it was his friendship that seemed alien. Yes, she was fine, yes, a beautiful journey, yes, wonderful people, thank you. Her lack of emotion cooled his enthusiasm. "You look beautiful," he said, seeming surprised.
"Thank you," she replied simply, thinking 'definitely not thanks to you!' She felt beautiful because she had changed inside and the opinion she had of herself didn't depend on him any longer.
"Do you want to come to dinner at my house? I'll cook you something good," he offered.
Two months ago she would have given anything for an invitation like that, to be chosen over the other girls. She would go to his house, hoping it could be a new beginning; trusting herself into his arms until the morning; keeping up the illusion into the afternoon; seeing it shattered around cocktail hour; disappointed and humiliated by dinner time. Now she didn't care. She observed her own reaction, surprised to feel such lack of interest, seeing herself from the outside, free at last, and saw the desire in his eyes. It wasn't the first time, she'd gone through detachment before, and freedom from Ugo's charm, who made her feel like a queen, only to end up being a drudge. She had fallen for it a few times and was aware she had to be careful, because he knew how to persist, woo and wait until he obtained what he wanted; then he'd look away and start a new game, addicted to conquest.
"Thank you, but I can't; I'm going out with friends," she said, using a reply he had given her many times. She knew she had hit the mark. But, apart from the small, petty satisfaction of getting rid of him, she felt a strength inside that she had never felt before.
Her small world had become big; the insecurity and lack of value she had felt inwardly had slipped away, thanks to the people she had met, the things she had learned about her potential, respect for herself and the uniqueness of her life. She was living the present with an eye toward the future and knew that her life was huge, that she had things to do, her unique mission to fulfil, a path that, although she still didn't know where it would lead her, would make her happy. She was going to find out, one step at a time!
Nam-myoho-renge-kyo, Nam-myoho-renge-kyo, Nam-myoho-renge-kyo, she chanted in her head, and it was like the drum of Red Indians who played the sacred ritual dance around the bonfire in preparation for the attack; it was like the notes of a piano weaving the plot of her new life, embroidering her future; it was a flute singing the freedom of a seagull flying high, the flap of his big wings strong and unstoppable. Ugo would no longer stop her, nor confuse her. Indeed, she was grateful for the way he behaved with her, grateful for the suffering that had spurred her to leave, to rebel against the smallness of her life, to go in search of happiness, of which she had found the source, with the help of her friends, inside herself. Never again would she allow herself to go through a relationship without respect.
"But thanks for the offer," she added, smiling with her lips, her eyes distant. She saw Ugo's hurt look. He knew her well and could see her calm anger. 'Why should I bear him a grudge?' she asked herself. He really had helped her, albeit unwittingly. The expression in her eyes changed, and with an honest smile, she said: "Thank you, really… but no thanks!"
Finally she saw Ester, who was accompanied by Enrico, a tall, attractive and cheerful man. They were laughing as they walked. It was clear that he was a man who didn't yet know that he had found the woman of his life. They spent an hour chatting in groups; Maria was the centre of attention, everyone wanted to know how her trip had been, and she patiently repeated the same things a few times. Ugo kept nearby, as he always did when she rejected him, as if a thread was tying him to her and, even when he'd moved away, he never let go of it. Maria observed Ester and Enrico: clearly at ease together, they had no need for words or statements, but were glued by an invisible bond that made their relationship natural and simple, but real and strong. That evening, after pizza and a beer in a pizzeria with the two of them, Maria wrote to Franca. The words flowed easily.
"Dear Franca,
I arrived in Venice three days ago and I'm still in the clouds! I didn't realize that 'landing' would be so hard. My body is here but my heart is still in India. In a sense, I have no desire to 'come back'. The pace of life seems hectic in comparison to India, everybody is in a hurry, they run to and fro, first to work, then shopping, then cooking and then to bed.
People seem superficial, with their talk of designer clothes, their beautiful hair styling, necklaces, make-up, all so pretty and tidy. They have everything but still it's not enough; it's never enough, because they try to fill the void they have inside by hoarding things on the outside.
Then I think of my friend with no legs who walked on wooden blocks tied to his hands, lifting his torso at every step. Do you remember him? Surinder, in Mcleodganj. His eyes shone as if he had a light inside and was always looking around to see if anyone needed his help. Generous and intelligent, he felt rich when he didn't even have his legs! What an extraordinary person; he taught me a lot. And then I remember the people of the village in the mountains. They were queuing to get their bead bracelets made and waited patiently for their turn. The joy and gratitude they showed for such a small thing! Both, children and adults with the same curiosity, the same enthusiasm. I remember them as a deeply happy people and what did they have? Very little! I say very little, because I think with the mentality of a westerner living in a capitalist country, let's face it. For them it is not 'little' because they have this clear sense of gratitude for what they have: a roof over their head, maize and semolina in the fields, apple trees and some cows that give the scarce milk, which is so precious; and the desire to smile, to dance, to sing, to learn everything they can from us who pass briefly through their lives. I miss them and I don't want to 'land', I'm not ready; my heart is still there with them.
I think of the beautiful people we've met, Sanya and Colin and their Ten Worlds, Luna and her friends whom I met in Delhi. I always think of that phrase and I often recite it in my head, or out loud if I am alone, to feel happier and more balanced within. I think of Jean-Claude and his girlfriend waiting for him in Paris, and also of Paul and his girlfriend; men who have shared my life, our lives, for a brief moment, and gave me a lot. Who knows whether I'll see them again? In a way, it's not even important whether I see them again. What people give you becomes yours forever and nobody can take it away, it's part of your life.
Coming to the present moment: tonight I 'faced' the square. I spoke with Gabriele, who wanted to know how you were and why he hasn't received any more letters from you. I told him how things went and he would love to hear from you. I hope that, when you receive this letter, the yellowish-brownish-green will be a thing of the past, that your eyes have gone back to being beautiful, and that your skin is the colour it should be, maybe a little tanned. I saw Ugo and I'm glad of the lack of effect he had on me, but I have to be on guard; I know him well and I'm aware that he has many ways of reattaching himself, slowly but surely! I decided to actively avoid him.
The return trip was interesting, to say the least. I travelled with a young Austrian man who had brought some 'stuff'. We went through customs together, because I hadn't sussed anything, but the cops had understood immediately. Luckily, he got away with it, partly also thanks to my (involuntary) help. Two friends of his came to fetch him at the airport all the way from Vienna, we came to Venice by car and we all slept here. A non-stop trip from Delhi to Venice, twenty four hours.
And now, the worst piece of news: my rucksack was lost during the return journey. You will be glad, with that love-hate relationship you had with my ugly red rucksack. Inside were all the things I had bought and carried on my shoulders with so much effort. They told me that, if they find it, they'll deliver it to me, here at home, but I think I have no hope of ever seeing it again. Can you imagine? Someone in Delhi, Moscow, or even Rome, will be enjoying my stuff. I haven't yet recovered from the shock! If I'm lucky I'll get 5 dollars a kilo, while in it there are things worth at least 500 dollars, which I wanted to sell to get back some of the money I spent on the trip. I'm very upset about this.
Well, now I'll say goodbye because I'm so tired and I'm working tomorrow. Take care of yourself and get completely better. Let me know when you're coming back and we'll come to pick you up at the airport!
Kisses Maria!"
To go to chapter 26 click here: Chapter 26
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