Chapter 1
Upon the cobblestones, there seemed to remain suspended... certain white plates of enamel, as though the grandmothers (all of them, my grandmothers!) had torn them, yet burning, from the oven to hang them upon the highest cord (an invisible thread?), so that they might scorch the night. But there were also lower threads... and from them there was wont to distil, ever, something... there, in the distance, behind the houses, unto the hidden gardens, veiled from alien glances, where the domestic feline queens, with their broods of ignote sires, slumbered... and slept. And that one... that one ran along the highest path, from rooftop to rooftop, from an electrical fork amidst the antennae, resembling those that look upon the sea (of the cities)... only that here there was less wind (silence) and less humidity.
...it was the public illumination... whose sound of lights evoked within me, since ever, the long and cloven letter I-i-i-i-i.
Its asphalt was like droplets of stone... molten stone, yet dried across years... and years, until summing decades.
...that true little archipelago when the rain floods the hair of a child beside the hearth –as if it had always possessed a sound, the sound of that touch which reminded me, eternally, of the profound yet scattered letter O-o-o-o-o.
And winter and summer I always distinguished solely by the aroma:
In winter there was much therein of that which is torn from the forest, burnt. And many a thing of wood grew warm. I even came to behold how they prepared then certain soups of milk-cap mushrooms and every manner of fungi... and vast amounts of bloodied meat were roasted... And still more of the forest scented the air there: still yet murmuring, deep, whispering... and mysterious –without any letter at all... (inconclusive)... and not only because my grandfather (that father of my mother) was a forest warden.
...whilst in summer it smelled of gardens and meadows... and as though no one roasted meat... but rather upon the grills there was fried: tomato, pepper... maize, and apples... and droplets of lemon.
The only thing is that, in winter as in summer, something resembling a whisper floated in the air, like a shred of rose-coloured cloth, from a skirt yet blissful, a scent which then escaped me, a lock of hair never recognized... and that smile united me, and, the summer, the winter...
...and each one of those tones my heart (…that I knew thereafter, but also then, in the sweetest reliance) wove it into a chord, the most beloved: A-a-a a-a (not the H, no... not yet!) but which, after all, had to be.
And all the other four senses remained under the ward of the grandmother (she of the father, the mother of iron) who ever rocked herself in her grand armchair when I, a prey to the fever, fell asleep...
...and somewhere toward the first tierce, at the first ramification: to the left,
for to the right it remained –, there arose a v(aaaaa)st house, constructed in a square, all of wood, with a roof resembling a campaign tent:
The alien grandfathers of some: in solid coats, of deep furs and brilliant black boots, long –for the most part– and all with cravats, and all with striped trousers– amidst the smoke that detached itself (for smoke after all) from good cigars, would say: ooo, why, that was a hotel of high category in its time, and see if it was not!... not just anyone could enter there –it was the first hotel of this place!
The alien grandfathers of others: in garish shirts, and without coats, yet sporting such beautiful jackets, yes, of an athletic disposition, and with shoes, to me so sweet, strangely beautiful, highly coloured... only with small chains in place of a cravat, of noble metals from which pended symbols ignote to me, and independent but sufficiently narrow trousers, would say: and... that was also the first cinema of this place, fine, reduced to salons, but of sufficient luxury, of scarce armchairs and famous!
The alien grandfathers of others, likewise: with shirts open at the chest, and only with a waistcoat, often of minute labor, of knit, and with boots but also with certain clogs, and with –entirely– wide trousers girded by a grand belt, would speak: there was here also (and in confidence –wherefore confidence?, the other would cry) a good tavern, for a brief time (ah, what boredom and what a state, with disdain), only for chosen silk handkerchiefs,... (something shall peer from their pockets, without doubt)...
Ah... Then within it there dwelt only, as though gazing at the hearth, an ancient man, they say: “A certain Monsieur...” –my father tells me, his comrades say also: “The sole heir...” ...and instead, certain new maidens –when everything turned green– (today they are already the first young ladies) would have wished to say: “Oh, what horror,... imagine, so grand... that old house... and he is there alone.” –in place of their grandmothers.
Yes,
...the most silent street, like a bourgeois silk in a (profound, inspiring) evening, just before.
(The nights!) Ah, the nights... They were magical, warped all of a sweet and niveous shiver... tepid and fragrant as the first tea of the dawn.
...and for that reason I remember them so little, because I loved them with all the strength of the infantile soul (the soul of a child!) and I beheld them such... exactly such as they were, in their most pure and dazzling truth.
