Bologna Short Story - 28
The winter is setting in. It is a late autumn eve. A real nasty one, the first this year. The rain chases the last bits of heat out the brick walls, there is a time for everything. I walk under the arcades, it is astonishing how handy those antique stones can turn out to be. It is a bit over eight, I am definitely late. Not too much though.
It is a rare local pub we found, just about a month ago. It was quite a hunt to be honest. Something to be proud of, something to be undisturbed in. We insisted on it resembling something like a traditional Parisian pub: dark wood, candle light, heavy wooden tables, excellent wines (that was me), and a corner, a bit hidden corner with leather fauteuils. That is the corner where we sit. It is our sunday eve corner.
Louisa and the others already sit, randomly rambling rambles, as I arrive, a glass of red wine in their hands. The ward, and his happy belly, greet me as I join them. A warm nod is all he needs and my glass is added amongst the mess of papers on the immense table. I smile, everyone smiles, little things make us so happy. Happiness is truly stupid, thoughtless, I like that.
We are a random bunch, posted here in those overly comfortable fauteuils. Only one I would dare to call a poet, the others are writers, mostly novelists, others more the journalist type. We had to select a bit, Lousia and I, everyone likes to pretend to write, only few really do. We realized that. I smile. I remember how we came up with those crazy selection rules sitting on top of a random hill at the Como lake. It was indian summer then.
It was just an idea a month or two ago, it evolved over time a bit, but here we are. We, writers of some kind. We, a collection of personal missions, hopelessly funny by whiles, happily ridiculous most of the times. We all have it, this burning ink in our veins, we all feel there is something in us that needs to be written, the way we absorb the world, the way we fantasize it, the way we crave it... and this, this is the visualization of our inner dreams, sitting and drinking, talking and laughing over flards of pieces of texts, words that somehow are part of something intensively meaningful to at least one of us. We read and comment, speculate, construct and destroy, we are committed. It makes the whole experience almost spiritual, just the way I imagined writing could be. I take another sip of my wine as Louisa reads a chapter of mine. I can see her smile, that is the immediate reward, her smile, when she likes it. I tease her, I trust her, we all enjoy each other. We are writers, writing, and we still can hardly believe it is actually happening, here in the corner, of a rare pub with leather fauteils in Bologna.
As Louisa finally finishes the piece, her head up, her blue eyes so straight-cut clear as always, and we see her struggle with what would be a smile on her lips while she tries to find a serious tone, she says: “but it is not true.”
“I know”, I reply her. She looks at me. Silence.
“Just a dream”, I add. Silence
“Just a dreamy story.” she adds.
“Why not?...” I smile. She smiles.
And in that smile we exchange, just there, we know... we know it could very well happen.
Sylvain
The winter is setting in. It is a late autumn eve. A real nasty one, the first this year. The rain chases the last bits of heat out the brick walls, there is a time for everything. I walk under the arcades, it is astonishing how handy those antique stones can turn out to be. It is a bit over eight, I am definitely late. Not too much though.
It is a rare local pub we found, just about a month ago. It was quite a hunt to be honest. Something to be proud of, something to be undisturbed in. We insisted on it resembling something like a traditional Parisian pub: dark wood, candle light, heavy wooden tables, excellent wines (that was me), and a corner, a bit hidden corner with leather fauteuils. That is the corner where we sit. It is our sunday eve corner.
Louisa and the others already sit, randomly rambling rambles, as I arrive, a glass of red wine in their hands. The ward, and his happy belly, greet me as I join them. A warm nod is all he needs and my glass is added amongst the mess of papers on the immense table. I smile, everyone smiles, little things make us so happy. Happiness is truly stupid, thoughtless, I like that.
We are a random bunch, posted here in those overly comfortable fauteuils. Only one I would dare to call a poet, the others are writers, mostly novelists, others more the journalist type. We had to select a bit, Lousia and I, everyone likes to pretend to write, only few really do. We realized that. I smile. I remember how we came up with those crazy selection rules sitting on top of a random hill at the Como lake. It was indian summer then.
It was just an idea a month or two ago, it evolved over time a bit, but here we are. We, writers of some kind. We, a collection of personal missions, hopelessly funny by whiles, happily ridiculous most of the times. We all have it, this burning ink in our veins, we all feel there is something in us that needs to be written, the way we absorb the world, the way we fantasize it, the way we crave it... and this, this is the visualization of our inner dreams, sitting and drinking, talking and laughing over flards of pieces of texts, words that somehow are part of something intensively meaningful to at least one of us. We read and comment, speculate, construct and destroy, we are committed. It makes the whole experience almost spiritual, just the way I imagined writing could be. I take another sip of my wine as Louisa reads a chapter of mine. I can see her smile, that is the immediate reward, her smile, when she likes it. I tease her, I trust her, we all enjoy each other. We are writers, writing, and we still can hardly believe it is actually happening, here in the corner, of a rare pub with leather fauteils in Bologna.
As Louisa finally finishes the piece, her head up, her blue eyes so straight-cut clear as always, and we see her struggle with what would be a smile on her lips while she tries to find a serious tone, she says: “but it is not true.”
“I know”, I reply her. She looks at me. Silence.
“Just a dream”, I add. Silence
“Just a dreamy story.” she adds.
“Why not?...” I smile. She smiles.
And in that smile we exchange, just there, we know... we know it could very well happen.
Sylvain
