The eternal return

The street was empty a minute ago. Now a purple van is driving on it. The van’s motor is making an acute noise. The van honks. Again nothing.
Thomas opens his eyes instantly. His deep green eyes with brown outlines stare straight forward to the brown shelf full of books.
The sun is shining in Thomas’s room. From the ceiling the early cold light comes down on him, it warms his body; the deep sun does not illuminate his right cheek, it is covered by a shadow.
He turns and looks up. Near the skylight there is a mockingbird that blocks the rays. Thomas is peering at the animal with crazy eyes. A whisper is coming out from his mouth, it is saying “I am going to kill that bird” and in the instant he finishes the sentence soft-packed snow falls off the tree branch on the bird. The bird flies away.
He woke up suddenly, but he still has a turbid remembrance of what he dreamed.
It was a strange dog that had a woman’s face and it was walking in a green forest.
Like a sphinx it was telling him the secrets of his life, the secret to what he wanted. To thank the dog-woman, Thomas recited a poem in a clear manner, a fresh French poem, elegant, flagrant and significant. In that dream his mouth was like a fountain that poured fine wine. From his mouth beautiful words were flowing. The harmonic sound was stirring a sudden feeling of saudade in the dog’s soul and echoed an image of the place where she was born, an old port where the sea was gray all year around.
Mais, de toute façons, maitenant il oublie.
Thomas can’t get up, he feels numb, like if he is stuck in a hole he is not able to get out of. He decides just to fall out of the bed slamming his face on the floor. Oh!
He is drowsy. Standing up he feels a headache.
There are clothes all around the room, on the floor. Draws aren’t shut and dirty plates are leaning dangerously on the night table.
The door is ajar. He walks through the apartment to the bathroom. Light bulb burns. His sack is full. He releases his piss. The steam evaporates from the stool. The smell of ammoniac slams in his face. It is morning.
Another day is starting. In the kitchen he toasts his bread and prepares everything for breakfast. It is time to wake up Philip, he thinks. Then he decides to call Philip.
“God you sleep as much as a newborn. Get up!”
But wait. Shhh….Not late he realizes that outside there is an impossible noise. He hears trumpets, drums, flutes and violins playing. It is a mess. Contorting melodies are colliding with willing tones and together they are making Carnival. He can’t still believe that it is finally arrived. The preoccupation and the wrinkles were gone from his face.
He sits in front of Philip. He senses that his friend is grumpy, he didn’t sleep well at all and for this reason he is going to get mad.
He never likes Philip during the mornings because he is too naturalistic; he represents raw reality, uncivilized behavior, the clear showcase of emotions and therefore a dramatic insignificance. All this revolts him. But it is only in the first hour of the morning. Surprisingly he notices with pleasure that Philip is constraining himself to hide his crude soul.
To underline his effort, Philip smiles and starts talking.
“How did you sleep?”.
“Bad people always sleep perfectly”.
“I think you pretend that you are worse”
“We all have our vanities”.
“Just beautiful people or people that deal with beauty can afford vanity, because beauty is the only virtue for which one should be proud of. As a matter of fact if vanity is the daughter of pride and pride should be the daughter of beauty, I can’t understand why Jews and gays are so proud of being what they are. I don’t think that minorities are beautiful, on the contrary!” Philip storms.
“Well considering your biography, I reckon that if vanity isn’t for everyone than hypocrisy certainly is”.
Philip thinks a moment about it and then understands that it is better to change the subject: “Sacrebleu, thank god we aren’t drinking milk. I hate milk. Can you imagine putting in one’s mouth that liquid? Milk is like pee. I don’t understand people who drink it and don’t drink piss as well.”
“People drink so many things…if they don’t care of most of the things that happen in their life, do you think they care of what they put in their body?
Anyway that is why We eat toast and drink coffee!”
“People some time care of what they put in their body…”
Thomas still hears the music outside and then looks at Philip, wondering if he is also conscious about it: “Do you know what day is today? Guess…can’t you hear the uproar? The sound of happiness and of frenzy?
“Oh yeah, I forgot that today is carnival. Finally every body is normal for some days. I am so happy that I will have the chance to be respected today, together with my dyed hair. Now I can feel the carnival, it is coming to my head like Gin.”
While Philip is saying this he is approaching the fridge. He puts his hands and then his head in it and comes out with a bottle of liquor. He unscrews the tap and pores the alcohol in his coffee.
“I would like to see it this year. I mean, I would like to watch the parade with all the allegorical trucks, all the masks and all the people walking up and down the street trying desperately to get some candy from the caravans. People these days would do anything for absolutely nothing.”
Thomas listens and sighs “Haven’t they always. Just think of the men that would do anything for a woman”.
“Yes that is what I mean. And for a woman who is worth something, they ignore her because they think she isn’t respectable. Poor women, they have to be dull to be considered…the world was done for boredom and not for fun”, Philip bitterly giggles while saying this.
“Well because those kind of women are never jealous of their husbands, and a man feels like a loser if nobody is jealous about him. But at the end those are the women who love the most”.
“What can I say…love is never fair”.
“Speaking of love. I love the carnival, because during this period it is evident that when people are foolish they believe in something serious and important whereas when they are serious, that is almost always, they adore the obsolete. So please, won’t we go see it? I want to have fun.” Thomas is seriously almost on his knees, he means it, he wants to go eagerly.
Philip simply replies: “We will see!
The weather is not bad at all, it seems it’s going to be a nice day. We could dress up and for once be like the other.”
Thomas is so exited his voice is high pitched, “This is certain. I will at last satisfy my passion for dress up, for make up and most of all my passion for the artificial”.
Philip answers: “I thought that those passions were well gratified every day of the year!” and then walks towards his bedroom.
It is Thomas’s turn to clear the table and wash the dishes. He touches the glasses, he drinks what remains of the gin and then he puts everything in the dishwasher.
He is distracted for a moment by a thick empty glass, but to him that moment seems much longer than what objectively it is, to him it seems like a little eternity in which he doesn’t think of anything, he is just completely detached, almost in another world. Then when he turns back to his task wondering if he reached the nirvana in that moment of nothing.
He puts away the marmalade and the butter in the fridge. It is chilly in the apartment. We should have turned on the heaters, he thinks. He goes to the sofa and takes in his hand a sweater, puts it on.
He recollects that he is supposed to be preparing himself for the celebration. While strolling along the walls of the hall he reflects on where he put his costume, and all the gadgets that go with it. How delightful it was going to be to have once more the costume on, to blow once more the horn.
He reaches his room and slides in. Looks around. He gazes at the closet. The costume is on the left side of the first drawer.
Yes, it is exactly there, beautiful, radiant, the white still vivid, it looks like it’s as new as the first time he wore it, actually as if he never wore it. New.
With his fingers he caresses the fabric, after every touch he is more and more frolic. His shoulders are trying to escape the t-shirt sending his arms up pointing at the ceiling; now it is the turn of the pants, which button by button go loose on the floor.
He then zips the one-piece white outfit carefully, laces the large white collar, sticks on his head the little black hat and puts on his shoes.
He trots to Philip’s room to see if he is ready.
“Are you dressed up?”
“Well I am not certainly naked.”
“I mean are you prepared for the carnival?”
“No, not still. I was watching a movie.”
“A movie?! What movie?”
“It’s the biography of an artist.”
“I hate these stories. They never have anything to say. It is better to remember them for what we think they may have done, if they have done something. Artist are always good in the making believe and if they are not then they aren’t artists…it’s their only job.”
“Well I personally love to catch a glimpse of mediocrity.”
“If you like mediocrity than it is easy in your eyes to be a work of art.”
“Yes. Everybody strives to be improbable. And who is incredible tries to be normal. That’s why I like probable things. They are more original”.
“They try, but they can’t be normal. But anyway what none sense! I don’t agree with what you say, and what is worse, I am positive that you are sure of what you have just said”
“You wouldn’t want us to fight, Thomas, would you? You don’t want me to have fun at all. I love fights because they are always vulgar.”
“If you love vulgar things I shall buy you a mirror for Christmas”.
“That would be a change. It would be the first time you ever bought me something for the holidays!”
So they booth sit on the bed and Philip reassumes the movie.
It is late afternoon and the movie just finished. There is still the weak bright light outside, but the sun is reaching its nadir while the party is at its zenith.
Philip reminds that there is a party to go to.
Thomas irks listening to his friend’s words and then states with a snort: “I am already ready. It’s you! Look at you!”
“Ok, ok you are right, I’ll be ready in a jiff. In the meantime you can talk a little.”
“Well what should I talk about? “
“Just turn around that wheel I have beside my desk. Don’t you see all the topics it has? I usually use it when I am supposed to write something and I don’t have the slightest idea of what to write about.”
“Such a smart escamotage. At least your stories are really based of the fate and not on your taste.”
“Yes, lets say that I have a religious vision of writing.”
Thomas spins the wheel. The wheel stops on a blank space.
Thomas doesn’t understand. “What does this mean?”
“Oh, it’s suggesting to leave the story and starting another one.”
“Or maybe the wheel has a brain of its own and knows that they are so rubbish that you should give up entirely in the first place. Have you ever thought of that?”
“Yes I have, machines are always more intelligent than humans. We will probably be at their service one day.”
“So if you think it’s right why did you start writing in the first place, weren’t you conscious of your situation?”
“Nay, I always was convinced that since I didn’t like books I should have wrote some myself.”
“You should have thought from the beginning that what ever you would have achieved it surely wouldn’t be a book or anything of that sort.”
Philip is all set; he has his black masque on and his club. He towers over Thomas by two hands and his Harlequin costume makes him look even taller.
Before they could leave the house Thomas suggests to read loud a “Commedia dell’arte” so they would be in the mood. Philip nods.
The darkness tiptoeing in the apartment encourages the lateness of the two friends. But they don’t pay attention and after the comedy, they inform themselves about the weather. Another hour is passing and they are still in front of the TV.
Thomas isn’t in the mood. Philip says that they would go tomorrow.
“It’s going to be for at least three days anyway.”
“Yes, and it’s always fashionable to be late. It will teach those people to long for us with all their dedication”.
Philip wants to watch the news on the television. Thomas on the other hand advances to his bedroom. He wants to read, maybe, he thought, that would help him sleep.
He can never rest in peace, because his sleep is too light. He wants to stop thinking, he wants to fall asleep as fast as possible, but his mind is his enemy. He feels tired of not being able to satisfy his exhaustion.

On bikes they are riding around. The ground is wet, gray and brow. The sky is livid, high and presses them; it makes it impossible to ride because of its weight. The sun isn’t shining, it can’t be seen at all, there is a strange light, like between twilight and dawn, everything is tarnish.
As a matter of fact it is difficult to move and a boy falls into the gelid water of the artic sea. He stops. He gets of his bicycle and runs toward the spot where the boy has fallen. He digs his arm in the cold water, but he can’t reach for the boy. His arms are full of spikes. He looks down and notices that there is no boy anymore. Now there is a hedgehog that is drowning. Again he tries to rescue it and although he is once more pierced, he gets the animal out of the water.
The hedgehog is dying, closed into a ball. He tries to warm it putting against his chest, but nothing happens. Golgotha!
Philip awakens. He is not sure if he has yelled that word or the word was just banging against his mind; engraved.
A flivver passes fast in the street. Fast without a stop.
Philip looks out of the window and he sees an old purple Volkswagen rushing to get somewhere. How impudent he thinks.
The birds are singing outside, on the cherry branches that are full of new pink blossoms. As Philip lifts his window open, a fresh spring breeze comes in. The smell of it makes him feel dirty.
A part from the wind there is no other sound, just silence. A long deep loud silence. He can’t bear it. He is breathing once more. It’s a day like any other and as any other it starts.
He goes to the bathroom washes his face and neck. Today he didn’t hear Thomas yell. “Maybe I woke up before him”.
As usual the table is prepared for breakfast and as usual Thomas has waken up before Philip. They both sit down without saying a word.
Philip pores cereal in his bowel and then milk.
“I love cereal, it makes me feel like a kid again”.
“Yes, and the milk reminds you of a idealistic golden age in which milk and honey come from a fount”.
“Precisely!”
Thomas observes him with a sneer on his face. Philip doesn’t notice this and continues talking, while thinking of other things. His head is empty. He his thinking what he is supposed to do today. He feels like a colander, everything he studies comes away from him and nothing remains. He is left behind and thinks he has to do it again and again. Nothing will ever deposit itself in his mind, he is just fried air, he always feels as light as a feather. He isn’t like Thomas, Thomas is completely the opposite everything would deposit in his mind everything that he wants to learn but nothing would come out. It would just remain there in a hermetic manner. But still Philip prefers Thomas’s situation to his. His lightness is very very heavy. That’s why most of the time he feels like nothing and he has to do many things to compensate for what he doesn’t have, his mind is his enemy.
Then after a short silence Philip decides he has to say something, he has to stuff the time or it will pass with nothing in it. Time is like a container and he has to fill it up. It comes to him:
“Are we going to go to the carnival today?”
“You really want to go?”
“Yes”.
“Well then we have to dress up.”
“Will you be helpful? Could you help me with the make up today I want to make my face completely white.” Said Philip.
“I have to be useful?”
“Well for a change, yes.”
“Why don’t you help me with my bedroom?! I haven’t cleaned it since ages.”
“I am too much useless to give the good example.”
“Well I could confess to you anything, a part from may usefulness.”
“Than what are we going to do?!”
“I don’t know anyway…what ever, who cares!
“You couldn’t care less, huh?!”
“No, I am superficial”.
“Then you are a saint!”
They are laughing, but underneath it all Philip really believes what he just said, he is kind of superficial but not in a standard way, no.
First of all he always feels numb he never feels clearly emotions.
He is simply disgusted by the seriousness of everything, how can you be serious when everything doesn’t make sense? And Thomas is of the same opinion.
Thomas thinks that picturing oneself as superficial means much more than trying to be something else.
“Let’s just prepare ourselves and we will see.”
Totally baffled they start drifting to their respective rooms and after awhile they come out.
“Let’s look at each other in the big mirror.” Thomas suggests.
As they do the reflections of a Pirrot and of a Harlequin come back to them.
One looks sad, the other one looks cheeky, but you can’t really tell who is sad and who is cheeky even though the symbols of their masks are clear.
“Lets play musical chair.” Philip is hyper.
“How?”
“Wait and see…”
Thomas puts one chair in the middle of the room and he plays music, loud music. Wagner.
They are twirling around like idiots. And they do it another and another time.
They eat again.
It is night again. Another day has passed.
Thomas seems worried. He turns his contorted face toward Philip and he asks:
“It’s to late to go to the carnival today. It’s late. Do you think we will make it tomorrow?”
“I hope”.
“I don’t want to be a slave, I don’t want to hope”.
“Don’t be ridiculous”.
“I am always, but not when I say I don’t want to hope. Hope makes me more ridiculous than what I already am”.
In Philip’s mind a stone falls. “Don’t think about it. We will go tomorrow”.
“I think we don’t have any will”, with this Thomas closes the conversation.
They go to bed.
Philip is craving for sleep. He isn’t tired, but he needs oblivion and when he sleeps he achieves it. Every time he goes to bed it’s like dying a little. All his senses are dead.
Finally peace.


Her clock was ringing. It was six in the morning. She got up.
She made herself a coffee to start the day.
She took her daily shower.
She picked up her keys and she left the apartment.
Elevator to the garage. She walked slowly to her car, she wasn’t in a hurry. She opened the door of her car and hopped in.
Outside it was cloudy. Nobody was out. It was quite a warm day.
Her violet Volkswagen was making a terrible noise, maybe she should have went to repair it. The car drove passing all houses. It was going to be a big day today. It was the day of her party.
She wanted to arrive to her shop, open it, make business, close it early and return home to prepare the dinner for all her guests.
And that was what she did.
In here flower store many people came in that day. Some wanted roses for their loved ones some wanted chrysanthemums for the dead.
In the meanwhile, between clients, she would do flower compositions, very ascetic and stiff, without any passion.
The day was over, at least that day ended at four o clock in the afternoon.
She rushed home in her purple van. She wanted everything to be perfect.
She went upstairs. Her husband still wasn’t home, even though she warned him to come back earlier. She would start by herself.
She went to the kitchen and started her meals. Fresh ravioli with panna and with flakes of truffle. Veal stakes down on her little grill. Delicious. And her masterpiece the Schwarzwalder cake, directly from Bavaria.
She could hear a key turning. It was her husband.
He was supposed to be preparing the dining room for her party much earlier before, so she scolded him. Her birthday party. Her forty-second birthday party.
How wonderful it was all going to be, above all because she made an accurate list of the guests. Just 15 close friends, the ones she really liked. This year she wasn’t in the mood to play any part in her own house, therefore she wanted to be a comfortable as possible.
While she was moving through the apartment, she took a glimpse out of the window.
“Again!!”
Her husband, frightened, turned around and he saw her wife pointing out of the window.
“Look they are always there”!
“Who?”
“Those two crazy men that always wear the carnival costumes and stay all day in the their house. I don’t want that my guest sees them”.
The husband was perfectly calm and reasonable: “ Just close the drapes!”
“Yes, but its such a lovely night”
“Well what do you prefer: fright or night?”
“Why do you think they always do such strange things?”
“I don’t think there is much difference between what they do and what we do.”
“Yes there is.”
“Maybe you are right, they do it in a surreal manner.”
“None sense.”
“Yes, that is precisely what I mean.”
She was perplexed.
He was continuing: “Or maybe they just can get out of that house. They are in their own prison…like everybody else.”
They didn’t speak much more about those two.
The preparation was finished and the guests were already arriving.
It turned out to be a fabulous party.