I've been dreaming of doing that trip for a long time. Yes, a long journey in search of her, yes indeed her. I had glimpsed her as a boy – I think I was nineteen – wrapped in a tight black dress that highlighted the sinuosity of her seductive forms. Undecided, I hadn't had the courage to grab it, to make it mine. My insecurities and fear had blocked me then. But some trace of her, the need for her, the aroma that emanated from her had always remained deep inside me, hidden yes, but never completely erased.
To distract myself from her I had successfully immersed myself in university studies, I had also had multiple affairs with female peers who were dull and colorless in comparison with her. In fact, none, not even remotely, could embody her charisma or possess her impartiality. In her moments of crisis, however, the memory of her resurfaced overwhelmingly. Then the degree in political science and work in the embassy. There I had met Eleonora. At first only physical attraction, which later turned into an overwhelming passion to the point of making me forget about her. After six months we had settled down planning our future together, but, shortly after, a cursed disaster had put an end to our story. The helicopter on board which Eleonora was on during a mission in Indonesia had crashed, leaving no escape for any of her occupants. At first I refused to believe it was true, then gradually I resigned myself to accepting the reality, and I resumed work showing a fortitude that amazed my colleagues. But little by little the need for her, for my first love, had surfaced within me once again, as if only through meeting her could I overcome the pain of losing Eleonora and give a purpose to my existence.
I had thought about it for a long time and now I had decided to go and see her, whatever the cost. More than ever I longed to rush to her, fly to her, abandon myself in her. That now I considered the only purpose of my life.
In my city I had repeatedly visited the monumental villa where she often returned to bring some of her guests. Three large gates set in a superb Gothic architecture delimited it and, when it was possible to access them, I was always seized by the strange, arcane sensation of almost coming into contact with her through the marble sculptures and the pointed conifers that dominated the large park.
Aboard my elegant black metallic car, I set off at first dawn on a Monday in November. The weather wasn't the best, a sparse mist fought, helped by a howling wind, against the first rays of a pale sun that was struggling to rise.
I traveled kilometers and more kilometers, hundreds of kilometers. Crossing a large viaduct on the road that leads from Rome to L'Aquila, I thought I saw his tracks. I was wrong and continued to devour the icy asphalt of the Adriatic coast. Once in Venice, I swerved left to arrive first in Liguria, then on the Côte d'Azur and finally in Spain.
Tired and hungry, I continued to drive undaunted. Finally, exhausted, I was suddenly seized by the notes of a bolero echoing in the distance. Yes, yes, she must have been nearby and, after turning, I saw her at the end of that panoramic road overlooking the sea.
I had finally found it!
A nice crumbling wall right there, in the stretch where the road bent to the right, let me admire it in all its splendour.
I had finally traced that stupendous curve from which to rush my car! There were no obnoxious guardrails to protect it from those, like me, who longed to reach it.
I walked down the street slowly savoring the few moments that remained to me before meeting her. That encounter that I had been feeding obsessively for years with stupendous fantasies.
I could already see myself going straight towards her, hovering like a multicolored butterfly in the air, in that flight, in that pike dive that would bring me to her.
I had deactivated the airbag, but I had the belt tightly around my chest, I didn't want to crash completely. There is only one chance in life to pass into her and therefore the idea of being in agony for a few moments or more excited me. I would have more savored the fusion of her with her.
One last hit on the accelerator and off to that leap into the enveloping darkness that was already beginning to pervade me.
Hmm… Hell! What happens?
The petrol is out, the front wheels are teetering, the car sways but does not fall over.
I think of getting out of the car, giving a little push and then, once I get back, fidgeting on the seat as if I were copulating with her, to unbalance the car and finally fall down.
I go down, I push, but then I feel like looking underneath. It's a sunny day, the sea is a velvety emerald color. A splendid blonde woman walks on the beach, I see her smile at me, she says to me: «Stay! fight! Why do you want to leave me?», while a delicate perfume that inebriates me spreads from her.
Suddenly that other she, desired in agony for years, turns into a loathsome witch. I perceive that I am trapped in a perfidious spell that has deprived me of that sweet girl whose vital call I only now feel.
I see black rags on the beach, a putrescent stench invades me as that filthy whore takes shape who, sparing no one, goes with everyone.
"No, you won't have me cursed death!" I scream about her about her and finally I can cry and with her tears even that insane desire for her goes away.
Hope resurfaces as I taste the warm embrace of that blonde. Yes, while she wraps me I experience the joy of existence.
The author
Gianfranco Sorge was born in Catania, is a surgeon, psychiatrist manager of the Catania health company and professor of Psychopathology at the specialization school of the Italian Institute of Group Psychoanalysis (IIPG). His stories have received important mentions in various national literary awards. With goWare he published the collection It's just in your mind and it's real (2015) and two novels: Squatters! (2018) and Uncanny conjunctions (2019)
