All the way down from where we lived, at the far end of the street, beyond which there were only fallow fields, brush, and untended countryside, stood a white house with blue shutters. I remember the color of the shutters so distinctly because they were always closed. Now that I think of it, I might have seen them open once, my age probably still in the single digits. A black car was parked in the driveway and the one right above the front door was the only illuminated window. Other than that, I have no memories of any sign of life there.Â
We kids were afraid to go play near the white house with blue shutters, so much so that when someone shot the ball so hard that it went all the way to the house, no one wanted to go retrieve it. Whoever kicked the ball had to go, you may think, but no, that was not the rule. The rule was that, whenever the ball went all the way to the house, we would go get it all together. Unity is strength, they say. As if a three-headed monster was expected to come out of the house and eat us all in one bite and we had to fight for our survival to the last drop of blood. Things of that sort.
One day we had to climb over the fence of the white house's garden because the ball had ended up on the other side. Only Francesco and I went in, while the others stayed on the street waiting. The ball was somewhere in there, but we couldn’t find it, the overgrown grass too tall and concealing. As we warily tiptoed around the side of the house to go check if it had gone behind, my heart raced. When we turned the corner, we saw an old lady seated at a white iron table, half rusted, with peeling paint, positioned underneath the back porch. She wore white, and glasses, and was writing in a notebook, hunched over it. I remember that the house was all shut up, just as it had always been, and that the lady appeared as a gray figure, like a black-and-white living photograph. She seemed to have nothing to do with the house, to be sitting there like one sits on a bench in the park.
Francesco and I froze, unsure of what to do. The old lady hadn’t noticed us yet, so we quietly backed away, hoping to leave unnoticed. But just as we turned to go, her head slowly lifted, and she looked straight at us. Francesco ran away. From where I stood, I could hear him frantically climb back over the fence and scramble to safety, while uttering some muffled words to the others. For a few seconds I wanted to follow suit, but I stayed. That black and white figure in a color landscape, for some reason, wasn’t frightening. Without speaking, she raised her hand and gestured for me to come closer. I did.
And she said:
Do you remember that time when you got a toy guitar for Christmas and you were so excited you wouldn’t part with it but sadly, after just a few hours, you sat on the chair where you had laid the guitar, but forgot it was there, and with the weight of your body you broke it in two pieces right across the middle, and you cried all the tears contained in your little being and couldn’t stop and there was nothing your folks could do to comfort you but saying that they would buy you another one but no, you said, that was brought by Santa and you couldn’t find another one like it because whatever Santa brings as a present is unique, cannot be bought anywhere in the world, and your folks were caught in the dilemma of whether revealing to you that Santa was a hoax or making up a procedure whereby, in the event a toy Santa brought was defective or broken or wasn’t up to the specs a child requested or was accidentally damaged the day it was delivered, a letter could be written and a process initiated to get a replacement, and they opted for the latter, obviously, but you continued crying uncontrollably, and said that such a procedure didn’t exist, because Santa, once he’s done with all the presents for this Christmas, stops working and gets his well-deserved rest until the next one and cannot be bothered lest he put you in a sort of blacklist of those who complain too much or create inconveniences and you didn’t want to be on that list, not for all the gold in the world, because in the remote eventuality you ended up on that list, Santa would consider you a second-rate child and your wishes for the subsequent Christmases would only be partially met, or not met at all, and you would never get rid of that stigma for the rest of your life, and your folks didn’t know how to end that tragic moment, until your dad had the brilliant idea to call that friend of his who lived in Finland, close to the Arctic place where Santa lives, who claimed to be friends with him, and assured that he would talk to him so that a new toy guitar could be bought and this whole tragedy resolved?
Yes, I said, I remember that. It was a traumatic event. And the minute these words left my mouth I realized that it was adult-me talking to her; I was no longer a kid. Adult-me in black and white, exactly like her. It was as if talking to her had projected me into a different dimension, to a different point in time. Well, she said, I’m glad you remember, because I’d love to get your permission to include the story in my next novel; I was waiting for you to show up. It took an unusually strong gust of wind to push the ball you kids were playing with here, but we finally made it happen. I’m so happy to see you. So, she continued, can I use that story in my novel? Will you grant me permission to? But it’s a silly little story, I said. How could readers of your novel possibly find it interesting? And besides, what is your novel about?Â
It’s about you, she said. And made a long pause. Or perhaps I only thought she did. About me? I don't understand, I said. Why about me? I’m nobody. I know, she replied. I want to write a novel about a nobody, and of all the nobodys in the world I chose you. You know, I want to narrate this novel in the style of Roberto Bolaño. I find his writing fascinating; don’t you? But who are you?, I finally asked.
My name is Clara, I’m sorry if I didn’t formally introduce myself. I am a writer, but I don’t live here. You mean, you don’t live in this house? I said. I guess you don’t, it’s always been closed; nobody knows whose house this is. No, no, I mean: I don’t live here, in this time-space section, or dimension, if you prefer to call it that, she responded. My place is way into the future. The novel I’m writing is about you, and will narrate your life from beginning to end. It will include events and circumstances that you have yet to live, people you have yet to meet. But you won’t be able to read it, that’s the deal with the publisher: the novel can only be read by anyone who doesn’t know you personally, or else it won’t be published. She said this last bit as if reading a passage from a legal text. Then she went on: See this notebook? I’m already drafting some passages, and taking notes. You have no idea how many nobodys I had to research before settling on you. So, why you? Â
I didn’t want to ask this question, but she read my mind and rhetorically did herself. You won’t believe it, she said. But it’s because of that little story. I skimmed billions of little stories, and yours grabbed my attention. I can’t reveal why, so you have to trust me on this. Suffice it to say that it depicts something about you that I find interesting. But I’ll leave it at that. And I accepted it. Like one always accepts what happens in dreams, without trying to find explanations.
When I heard Francesco and the others call my name, I woke abruptly. My head was resting on the white iron table. I realized I was still in the backyard of the white house with blue shutters, stood, and ran away toward the fence, where they were all waiting for me. The ball? Did you find it? they asked. How long were you here waiting for me? I said, instead of the answer they were expecting. Francesco responded not even a minute, maybe.
Later that afternoon I returned to the house, and climbed the fence. I had no fear. No longer. On the white iron table under the back porch there was a black notebook, its pages flipping to the soft wind that came along as the evening approached. For a split second, I thought that I should take it home and read it cover to cover.
Just for a split second.   Â
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I loved this. Imagination is indeed an under-utilised power. Thank you.
Gorgeous Silvio!