I had come
back to lovely Italy to spend some time looking for a flat. So far all I can
state only one thing – it had been one of the most heartbreaking experiences in
my life.
I would be
even happy to say that the problem is in all the shitty flats and all the
stubborn, insensible owners – but it’s not. I’ve seen some pretty good ones; I’ve
seen some, which were pretty breathtaking; I had some really good time going
around the city, checking addresses and looking from the inside what we always
judge from the exterior. It was great, really.
Yesterday,
however, early in the morning, I called a man and made an appointment for 2 in
the afternoon. A bit later he called me back and, after asking where was I at
the moment, suggested to go now, so he can give me a lift by his car and save
some of my time.
In the car
we were listening to the new-age music, which was imitating rain. The man was
in his sixties; we were talking about how he was growing up in the flat I was
going to see, about ancient city walls of Pavia, his family and how I can’t
make up sense with past tenses of some Italian verbs. He was holding doors for
me, showing around, describing how the flat looked like 40 years ago.
By then I
knew that I’m not going to take it, but I just couldn’t stop listening.
Before we
parted, he showed me a storage room right beneath the roof at the top of the
building. There was a desk there – something looking pretty old and classy;
kind of a thing you would put in the corridor, with hangs for clothes and a little
shelf for a phone. On the wood a little girl was drawn; she looked quite
nostalgic and was covered in tiny net of cracks on the surface.
I didn’t
ask, but I was told – that was a shelve in the corridor from 40 years before;
when the man was yet a boy, he used to think about the drawn girl as his first
love: she was right at the eyes level for a little boy, to talk to her and
pretend to do the first kissing.
The girl
looked sad when we left, I swear.
The man
gave me a lift back as well; I was shaking hands with him and thinking that my
chances to see him again are close to zero, but god, how touched I felt by his
whole life.
I’ve seen
plenty of such things. I’m not that much of an easy-going type, but I was talking
and listening a plenty for the last days. I met children and grandchildren of
numerous owners; I was attacked by their dogs and learned the name of other
pets; I’ve seen family places with history and some new ones where history was
yet to made; I’ve seen the inside of some families rich beyond the measure and
heard their stories too. I’ve heard stories again, and again, and again, and
just as I was overwhelmed, I was pushed to yet another house and meet some more
people.
I feel
touched by all of them, by something like a wind, which is rushing towards us
as we pass against a person on the street. I always look back when I do so, and
I can’t stop looking now. After all, it’s not just about the houses; it’s also
about how both empty and complete I feel at the same time because of the
necessity to choose.
I will
choose, obviously, but I’m thankful for all the things people shared with me
these days. I wonder if everyone feels the same I do while choosing the place to
live, or meeting new people, or both, but I think they should.
We all are
parts of each other, even when it’s just the wind we share by walking the same
street.
There is a
picture I made in the flat that remarkable morning with that remarkable man; it’s
of the inner yard, where you can see a part of Pavia’s old city wall, which
goes all around the city. You can’t see it from the street; this thing is a
personal treasure for those, who can see it from their flats, while taking a
morning cappuccino.
I’m posting
It here as a form of gratitude and, even more, as a promise to remember every
little story there is on my way; and, particularly, the one about the young boy
and his first love being right on the eye level of each other in a corridor long
gone.
