"With a rose you say Find me try ..." p>
It 's my favorite song. It is also the favorite song of Sergio. Sings Vinicio Capossela, author of many twisted melodies, but that go straight to the heart, with their uncertain gait but inevitable, as my steps, now, while bouncing on the pavement, toward his house. The house of Vinicius? No, that of Sergio. Strange coincidence, because even Vinicius lived here long, in Modena, but then, driven by an irrepressible wanderlust, has begun to wander, you will be stopped somewhere else, I do not know where, but who cares? Some people could be anywhere, anywhere find a source where watering their art, in which soften the limbs before getting back on the road again. Unstable, like those lovely rolling bushes Sergio jealously guards lined up in earthenware bowls on the big table in the florist raw beech that years ago he inherited from his father. That's where I met Sergio, that's where I come every week with the excuse to buy flowers. And right there, this morning he spoke with passion of the Rose of Jericho also called Perekotipole, or something, funny Ukrainian word meaning "desert racer." More than a plant is a grass ball rolling, for kilometers, driven by the wind, like a living contradiction, living yes, even if it does not seem so dry as to appear dead. But in reality simply suspended, alive, temporarily idle, ready to be reborn with the first rain, next to the small pool of water, perhaps the one dark cloud is that good, or maybe not, maybe there's an oasis over that dune, over the horizon. A bit 'as a single tempered by loneliness that after hundreds of nights and moons and the desert, finds unexpected love, not tried, not required, but nutritious. Here, I think is what happened to me, meeting with Sergio, and maybe it happened to him. Ah, or maybe not, we'll find out soon, very soon, too soon, at the end of this funny walk that try in vain to stretch, I slow down, almost stopped me, take my time, I pretend to see a showcase of sanitary ware, simulate interest in a pressure meter. Just like a rose of Jericho, roll along the arcades of the Town Hall, delay on the ancient stones of this porch, I move in a zigzag pattern, trampling only the most lucid, following one of my very personal journey in the direction of Sergio house. Every day, the closure of the store jumping riding an old bike with a wand brakes and ride home. By now it should already arrived. And if it were not? What if ... in the distance here is a jingle, the sound that they make of bike bells vibrate when on Piazza Grande stones. And if you passed now? I would remain of salt, as I walk with a red rose in his hand. Bought in his shop, I not easily forget his eyes this morning, perhaps betraying a bit 'jealous. His sketch a discreet comment: "appointment roman ..." the phrase bitten in half, pulling away, embarrassed. While the radio was playing just his favorite song: p>
"With a rose you said, Find me, look, all night I'll stay alone ..." The providential song erased our embarrassment, and he began to hum, "and I for you, die for you, with a rose I came to you ... " p>
It seemed almost a mockery. And he would have had good reason, though I think now I'm going to him with a rose, giving a rose to a man, that strangeness, but to give a rose to someone who you sold it a few hours earlier, it's crazy. Ah, l'amour est fou. "As white as the clouds in the distance, like a bitter night spent in vain" or "yellow like the fever that consumes me," I finally red socket like ... my cheeks as I said it to him. But now that I look good, the pale red seems almost "rose like a novel small thing", like the one some Sundays writer could write on this funny story. But then I touched a giant big man wrapped in a cream-colored duster poised on a small bike, like a bear circus rider Togni, he turns to look at me, our eyes meet in a surprise short, it turns around just in time to avoid a pole signs and disappear behind the curve. p>
I, too, maybe I'm gonna crack. After all, what do I know about Sergio? Only the address and little else, lives behind here, in an old garage renovated, I guess the interior, a refined mix of furniture and objects adapted vintage and simple but well-designed furniture, eco-friendly materials. A sofa on which taking naps providential, safe, or on which to exchange passionate kisses. Maybe. A Sergio like things simple, but tasteful, like the velvet shirts thin ribs that always him. Number 35, must be down there. The old Bianchi with leather saddle is parked right there. Great. I rearrange a little 'hair, obviously doing even more confusion. Here we are. That's the name on the label. Like a sword, the rose is firmly in hand. With the other I caress the old copper bell nipple. I still have time to turn around and take off out of the way while limiting risk. And the possibilities. Instead I lean around weight: driiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiin, The metallic sound is mixed with a soft voice behind me: "You also go to Sergio"? I spun around and I just had time to see a bottle of wine and a young astonished man who supports her. Awaited visits. Or maybe not. And this, while, behind me, opens the door and the voice of Sergio, vibrant by surprise. "Hey, what a surprise! What surprises! "Eh, what should I think about myself. Nothing is as it seems. It promises to be an interesting evening. P>