The Typewriter E-Book

Andrea Lepri

• Herausgeber: Tektime
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 341

Beschreibung

A cursed typewriter. A man sitting on the railing of a balcony. The protagonist of his novel. Two lives that weave together similar experiences, two paths in precarious equilibrium.
Franco is sitting comfortably on the railing of the balcony of his house, on the third floor of the building where he lives. As if it were nothing unusual, he is reading the pages of the novel he has just finished writing and then lets them fall below, among the crowd of onlookers who have gathered to watch him. Believing that he is about to jump off, someone has called for help, and now a firefighter is coming up towards him with the mechanical ladder while in the distance you can hear the sirens of the police and ambulance. Regardless of all this, Franco keeps reading, incredulous. He did not believe that he could write a novel, and it seems impossible that he was able to finish it before the punishment arrived. Writing it, in fact, has cost him a lot: to succeed he has followed a path that led him to commit unspeakable acts. His wife is running to him to try to save him, in fact talking to him on the phone she has guessed that Franco has found her typewriter in the cellar, that machine that is said to be cursed. Meanwhile, he reads and remembers... Franco is convinced that love is the force that makes the world go round. Due to an accident at work, he is forced to spend the summer holidays alone, at home, convalescing. When they deliver the results of the tests, he will be able to leave and join his family on vacation, his wife and two children. After a long time, he finds himself having to spend an extended period in complete solitude, but he is no longer used to it and becomes very bored. While rummaging in the basement he finds an old typewriter and decides that he will write a novel to pass the time. It is the story of Mr. Carpetti, a lonely man who, having lost his love for life, is dying of a non-existent illness. When the doctor reveals that he has only a few months to live, he embarks on a journey that will lead him to change profoundly. During this journey he will meet a person who will take him with him on an incredible adventure that will lead him back to believing in the values of love. This person is Walter, a missionary doctor who is the victim of an international plot that has as its object the sale of expired medicines to third world countries. It is he who will teach Carpetti the love for life, for people and for things. But the machine that Franco is using to write this story has something strange about it: it is believed to have belonged to a crazy writer, a man who after writing a single masterpiece committed suicide, leaving an accusatory letter against the machine itself where he calls it cursed. As Carpetti goes through experiences of various kinds and completes his own journey towards salvation, Franco identifies himself more and more with Carpetti so as to tell the story it in the best way possible. Meanwhile, he establishes a very special relationship with The Typewriter, he does not recognize some pages of the novel as his own and thinks that the machine wrote them. Although he fears that this will drive him crazy definitively, he feels he must write at all costs because when he leaves The Typewriter he is seized by strange sensations, anguish, physical pain. Some recurring illnesses make him believe that he is seriously ill, that he has a disease that progresses day by day and that will soon lead him to die. As a result, he carries out in his mind the same experiences as Carpetti in a reverse journey and arrives at discovering the dark part of himself and questioning everything he believes in.

Leseprobe

Andrea Lepri

The Typewriter

Translation byBarbara Maher

Original Title: La macchina per scrivere

First edition: August 2023

Tektime Publisher – www.tektime.it

This novel is a work of fiction. Any reference to real events, or to living persons, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

INDEX OF CHAPTERS

CHAPTER I

FRANCO ON THE BALCONY

CHAPTER II

THE ACCIDENT AT WORK

CHAPTER III

THE FIRST PAGE

CHAPTER IV

FRANCO'S TESTS

CHAPTER V

A RUDE AWAKENING

CHAPTER VI

THE CAT

CHAPTER VII

THE PHONE CALL TO SISSI

CHAPTER VIII

THE SEARCH FOR SPIRITUAL GUIDANCE

CHAPTER IX

FRANCO AND CHICA

CHAPTER X

"NO, DON'T DO IT!"

CHAPTER XI

THE DEATH OF THE CAT

CHAPTER XII

FRANCO'S DOUBTS

CHAPTER XIII

THE FIRST BOLT

CHAPTER XIV

THE SECOND BOLT

CHAPTER XV

THE THIRD BOLT

CHAPTER I

FRANCO ON THE BALCONY

Franco takes his eyes off the sheet of paper and absentmindedly raises his head, perplexed. He extends his arm and moves the page he has just read a little further away, to better look at that muddle of ink marks. It's as if he's looking for a vision among all those commas and periods, uppercase and lowercase, corporals and quotation marks. And then the words, a flood of words. He has always liked reading, but he has always been convinced that writing is something else entirely. He chooses a page at random and starts reading again.

CHAPTER XXII (WALTER'S STORY)

Despite the stifling humid heat, Walter went a little closer to the bonfire that was keeping the mosquitoes, the size of airplanes, at bay. To survive in that Godforsaken place he’d had to learn to live with much more terrifying and lethal animals, from piranhas to leeches and Black Widows to snakes. Yet he continued to harbor a deep hatred for mosquitoes, and was certain that this would be the case as long as he lived.

How strange, after spending so much time here in the heart of the tropical forest, that I’ve managed to get used to everything but these useless insects. Mother Nature has established a very specific role and function for all other living beings, even for the most repulsive and dangerous. But not mosquitoes, not them! They just buzz in your ears and destroy your peace when you’re resting and suck your blood, maybe even infect it at times. Maybe God created them to spite man, he pondered, in fact they had represented the only reality constantly unchanged during his long stay in that place; they had kept him unpleasant company at every hour of the day and night like the Chinese torture of dripping water. Goodness knows if I will miss them, he wondered at last, then returned to reflect disconsolately on the absurdity of the situation in which he found himself.

Being forced to sneak away like a thief, without even having understood why, just wasn’t right! He sighed disheartened and let himself be lulled by the somber and familiar grumbling of the river, which for so long he had made his own, just like the intense smell of humus. Having to abandon everything in that way burned inside him, he felt the dull pain of those who feel defeated without even having fought, without even having had the opportunity to understand who the opponent was that they were fighting.

The bonfire was about to go out, but Walter decided to wait a little longer, cherishing the hope that Sarah would show up. He wished she would tell him "I'm coming with you" or even just "I'm sorry". But Sarah didn't come. He thought back to her long black hair, straight and shiny, her deep, dark eyes, and the scent of her skin that reminded him of honey. Only a few hours earlier, perhaps because they had sensed that things were falling apart, they had made love for the first time.

They were walking along the river, near the small waterfall, when all of a sudden they had started arguing furiously. After a few moments, though, they had stopped, just as suddenly as they had begun, and had stared at each other angrily. With nerves worn down by the tension of recent days, they had moved slowly towards each other, challenging each other with their gaze, ready to hit each other mercilessly and hurt each other by any means possible.

But instead something incomprehensible had clicked in them, and they had let themselves be overwhelmed by their instinct. Neither of them had ever done it in such a wild manner: panting, they had exchanged bites and scratches, screaming and holding onto the slippery stones of the river. Walter had felt as if every little part of him exploded in her, with her. Afterwards they had stayed there on the muddy bank, clinging to each other for a long time, in silence, her nails still stuck in his back.

For the first time since they had met, Walter had felt she really was his, but when he returned to the village he had found those papers on the desk in his clinic. It was an official invitation to appear before the Court of the Capital, to shed some light on the sudden and mysterious death of many inhabitants of the village where he had worked for many years. After that, the papers stated, they would transfer him to an unspecified hospital located in Europe.

But that was just waste paper for him, he knew he could not trust the word of the bureaucrats. He was not stupid, he had known immediately that he had been chosen as a scapegoat and knew that his own life was at stake.

The fat sweaty representatives of the local police would come to pick him up at dawn with their Jeep and their arrogant ways. They would politely invite him to follow them and then throw him into a cell where they would let him rot for the rest of his days, so that news of the corruption in which he had become embroiled would not leak out.

Walter knew that a copy of those papers had certainly been delivered to Sarah, so he knew that, just moments after finding her, he would lose that wonderful girl forever. He knew that she would not come because there was nothing to add, seeing each other again would only serve to make everything much more difficult. He realized that he was already missing her.

He looked once more at the documents he was clutching in his hand; without realizing it he had crumpled them in anger. He slipped them into his leather bag and sighed again, then got up and walked sadly towards the dock.

He paused for just a moment, to take one last painful look at the small L-shaped building. That untidy pile of freshly hewn mud bricks served as a school, hospital, canteen, warehouse, and meeting room. Just as he had been a teacher and cook, doctor and storekeeper over time, at least until Sarah's arrival.

That small building was only one of the many visible results of the commitment with which he had fought day after day, in spite of the political and economic clashes between nations, to be able to give something to those poor people.

When he arrived at the meeting place, he ran his eyes over the dark tense faces lined up in a semicircle around him, pausing for a moment on every single pair of glittering eyes that stared at him in the semi-darkness of the evening.

Beyond the row of heads, in the distance, he glimpsed Sarah’s figure behind the curtain of a window. For a moment he was tempted to retrace his steps to embrace her one last time, but knowing that it would be too painful he abandoned the idea.

Walter scrutinized the nearby clearing that housed the small cemetery, illuminated by the uncertain moonlight. The white crosses, which had multiplied in recent weeks, stood out in the dark. He shook his head and resumed his journey along the short path that separated him from the river, followed by the others.

He walked slowly, accompanied by the faint noises of the night, machete in hand and khaki pants rustling against the high lush grass. He stopped on the marshy shore, in front of the small jetty where the pirogues were moored. The others continued to stare at him in silence, timidly respectful, and he hoped once again that it was just a bad dream. In the light of the torch the premature sprinkling of gray on his temples could be seen, along with some small wrinkles around the eyes and the corners of the mouth.

He heard a sudden sound of running footsteps and for a moment hoped it was her, but instead a small aboriginal man emerged from the thick vegetation. He was eight years old at most, his face painted in the colors of his tribe and he had the attitude of a warrior. He was holding a bow ready to shoot towards him, while the others quickly put their hands to their blowpipes and pointed them at the child. A few seconds became an eternity. Walter motioned to his companions to lower their weapons, then half closed his eyes and once again saw the child's father die in his arms.

"I'm sorry," Walter was barely able to murmur in his language; his throat was parched and he knew it wasn't because of fear. A tremor ran through the little warrior, but his eyes seemed to betray no emotion.

"You killed my father," he accused Walter in his shrill childish voice. He didn't answer.

"Say something," insisted the little man, but the other continued to stare at him and said no more. He dropped the machete, slipped the strap of the bag off his shoulder and laid it on the ground. Then he waited, a drop of cold sweat running from his temple. The child let out an angry roar and as he shot the arrow he moved the bow a few degrees to the right. The poisoned dart hissed a few millimeters from Walter's head and was lost in the darkness. Then the little warrior dropped the bow and ran to hug him, crying.

"Don't go," he whispered in his ear, and he felt like dying.

"Don't go Doctor, how are we going to manage without you? Who will take care of us?" echoed Sam.

Walter responded with a long, silent and sad look, clenching his fists in anger. He gathered his things, put his straw hat on his head and settled down on the canoe as best he could. Sam took his seat opposite him, Walter nodded his head, and the strokes of the paddle began to resound in the night, sharp and regular, accompanied by a plaintive farewell song.

Every dip of the oar in the water lashed his heart; against his will he was abandoning everything to which he had dedicated most of his life, never sparing himself. He wondered what he would do next, but soon discovered that he didn't care. It was as if his life had ended there, deep in the Congo River, in the heart of the tropical forest.

CHAPTER XXIII (WALTER AND SARA)

Watching Walter disappear into the thick of the forest, Sarah realized that she had never experienced a state of mind like this. The only thing she was sure of was that she felt like a worm, for not even having had the courage to go and say goodbye to him.

Once more she looked at the papers scattered on the ground, the copy of what he had received. "For information" was written on them in large letters in the beautiful penmanship of some employee who loved bureaucracy and his work. She leaned over to pick them up but changed her mind, shrugged, and went to sit on the woven bamboo couch, seeking unlikely relief in the artificial stream of air from the fan. She was still aware of his smell on her and it kept moving it around her, exasperating her inner struggle.

She thought back to how good things had been in recent weeks, how the situation had unexpectedly collapsed, overwhelming them and leaving them no choice. Things had started to go wrong just when they had begun to know each other better and understand each other, when they had finally felt ready to let themselves go.

Making love to him had been beautiful, but now only a huge sad disappointment remained. She hated herself because she had not been selfish enough, or perhaps courageous enough, to betray the poor people of the mission where she worked as a trainee, while waiting to become a doctor of medicine. She was sure that in any case, in some way, she could continue to be useful out there. Yet, giving up in that way what seemed must become the most important love story of her entire life pained her greatly.

Thinking back to the few intense moments she had lived with him, from the clashes they’d had at the beginning to the discovery of a deep feeling, she dozed off. A light noise suddenly woke her and she gasped in fright: Sam was standing in front of her and was studying her, undecided whether to wake her or not. He was sweaty, the muscles of his mighty arms were turgid from the effort of having rowed continuously for almost three hours.

"Has he gone?" she asked. He nodded. Sarah told herself that she had really lost him, covered her face with her hands and forced herself not to cry.

"Did you do what I asked you?"

"I slipped it into his bag as I embraced him."

"Thank you," she murmured, then said no more. The giant black man realized she wanted to be alone and went away.

***

Franco raises his head, he feels dazed. It seems impossible that he is the author of those pages, yet he has just finished writing an entire novel.

Absentmindedly he looks at his feet, which are dangling in the void as if it were the most normal thing in the world. He uses one foot as a lever on the other to take off the tennis shoes which are already unfastened, and kicks so they fall into the void. One of them gets stuck in the clothes lines two floors down, the other lands on the ground after a flight of fifteen meters and almost falls right on top of the small crowd gathered in the courtyard.

Franco looks down and is amazed at how small the heads of the onlookers are, seen from up there, even smaller than the nail of his little toe.

A loud rattling noise, mixed with sharp creaking suddenly attracts his attention. Shielding his eyes with his forearm to protect them from the light of the dying sun which is still intense, he looks in front of him. Silhouetted against the red ball, the fire truck ladder has climbed up high and is now descending straight towards him, in no hurry, shaking the branches of the pines.

For a moment Franco finds it inviting, he starts to think that maybe he is getting everything wrong. He tells himself that perhaps it would be enough to let himself be helped and wait until his wife arrives. Perhaps the monsters in his head will disappear as suddenly as they had arrived, and he could hug his children again. It’s only a few days since he saw them but he already misses them terribly.

The man on the ladder is wearing an orange jumpsuit bordered with fluorescent stripes; he is still some way off but is already extending an arm towards him. Franco shakes his head, determined, feeling as if he is wrapped in an invisible cocoon of gray cotton wool that keeps him separate from the rest of the world and prevents him from seeing things clearly.

"Go away, leave me alone! Leave, all of you, it's too late!" he shouts, waving his arms. He loses his balance and slides forward. A dizzy spell makes him lean over too far, but a moment before falling into the void he manages to grab the railing, and remains suspended in the void while the sheets of paper he has just read are carried away by a light wind.

"Stay calm!" shouts the man on the ladder after thanking Heaven: he had already envisioned him crashing to the ground. "Hold on tight and don’t move, I'll be there in a moment!"

An anxious murmur rises from the road and reaches him. For a moment Franco is tempted to let go and fall on top of those damn onlookers and squash as many as he can. They have been gathered down there for a long time, immobile, waiting like vultures for him to plummet to the ground or for the fireman to save him, and then applaud like so many idiots at the circus.

Franco envies them, he knows that however things go, any solution will be a good one for them. Everyone will have something to talk about when they get home and a video to show on their smartphone.

Sneaking a look towards the living room, he sees the typewriter, sitting on the table. Beautiful. Still. Shiny. It's cursed, he tells himself for the umpteenth time, then he begins to remember.

CHAPTER II

THE ACCIDENT AT WORK

The end of July. It was hot on the construction site. Too hot. Sparkling drops of sweat gathered in rivulets and then ran down the bronzed backs of the workers, and on their foreheads. From there they slid into the eyes, and burned, and blurred the sight.

The lunch break had just ended: a sandwich and a beer eaten in the shade of the prefabricated concrete pipes that conveyed a faint and illusory sense of freshness. The air was still, although there were busy men everywhere, and the occasional sputter of the jackhammer broke an almost unnatural silence.

Franco Amore was the technical consultant of a company that installed fixtures and his life flowed along the tracks of tranquility, without too many hills or easy descents. He had a young wife with whom he could still make plans and two children to play with; he believed in goodness and love, in the power of dreams and fantasy. For him they were something special, he was convinced that love is the only thing that makes a man truly free, that allows him to be himself and live his passions. And he had one passion above all: running. He loved running barefoot on sand and grass, because the contact with the soft ground gave him the feeling of being part of that world, sometimes incomprehensible, that revolved around him. The scent of salty air or wet grass, breathed in the early morning, were at least as intoxicating for him as a good glass of wine in the company of friends.

As happened every day Franco was on the scaffolding, checking that the work was proceeding according to the directives they’d been given, but that afternoon he perceived something strange in the air: the scorching sun seemed to have overly dried out the boards that were dirty with concrete; the rusty steel pipes of the scaffolding, held together by shiny brass bolts, were much hotter than usual.

Just a few more days, and I'll be at the seaside at last. I feel a little different than usual, but it must be because of this terrible heat. I have to keep going a little longer, he was thinking to encourage himself, but a moment after he had made this reflection he had a dizzy spell. He misplaced a foot and fell off the scaffolding.

***

"Did you get everything?" Franco asked the eldest of his children as he helped them load their suitcases into the car.

"Don't worry," his wife Silvia intervened, pre-empting the little boy, "we’ve checked everything at least ten times. Everything’s fine, we can start the count-down..."

"So why do you keep wasting time? I don't want you to be still on the road when it gets dark!" Franco scolded her. She looked away and sighed.

"We’re dragging it out because we don't like leaving you here alone, we’re convinced that you will be bored to death," she explained a little worried as the children nodded.

"What do you mean bored, you can be sure that I’ll think of something to do! And besides, I intend to take advantage of these days to rest, it has been really hard at work lately," he replied, but noticed that his answer had not convinced them at all. Then he pulled a fishing net out of the trunk and mimed the walk of an old man with a stick. "Somehow I'll get by, even if I'm resting, I’m not ready for a retirement home yet," he concluded, and finally his children laughed. "Come on now, get in the car and go!"

"Look after yourself, and don't overdo it, remember what the doctor told you," Sissi told him for the umpteenth time.

"Don't worry. As soon as they give me the results of the tests I’ll jump on the first train and join you."

"Are you really going to come?" asked Giorgio, the youngest son.

"Of course I’ll come! Try to have fun and don't make mom angry, and above all don't worry about me," Franco replied. Then he said to his wife. "You be good too, try not to make too many conquests at the seaside. Drive carefully and call me as soon as you arrive."

A kiss through the car window, a wink and off they went. After watching them to the bend in the road, Franco went inside.

So, let's see: there’s food and drink, books and newspapers as well. The fridge is well stocked and the batteries in the remote control are brand new... I should be fine for a while. After all, being alone every now and then does you good, and heaven knows when it will happen to me again, Franco told himself convinced, striving to find the positive aspect of the situation.

But despite all his good intentions, he no longer remembered what it was like to spend an entire day without exchanging a single word with someone. And even though he didn't dare confess it, it scared him a little.

In fact, just as he had feared, after only two days he began to feel bored. He was tired of reading magazines and had had his fill of television, he was an active man and was not used to sitting still, especially if someone or something had forced him to.

More than once he was tempted to put on a tank top and shorts and go for a jog, but the doctors had definitely advised him against it and he decided against it, albeit reluctantly.

He tried a series of phone calls to friends, but these all failed because in the middle of summer the city had turned into a large desert, and as a result loneliness began to get him down.

One evening, after another whole day spent dozing in front of the TV, he went down to the cellar and turned it upside down, looking for something to help him pass some time.

Suddenly he noticed a typewriter half-hidden in a corner of a low shelf behind a pile of useless things, and covered with a purple velvet cloth. It was all dusty and was so old that the letters on the keys were now almost completely worn away.

Ancient as it is, it must have some value. Who knows how it ended up in this cellar, maybe it was already here when we bought the house ... I wonder if it still works.

Happy to have finally found something almost interesting to keep him busy, the following day Franco dismantled the machine and spent the day cleaning, polishing and oiling it. When he had finished reassembling it, he took two steps back to better admire the result of his work. It's really beautiful, it has the feel of ancient things, he thought satisfied.

He imagined a writer sitting at his desk in a house high on the cliff overlooking the sea, or perhaps a lonely lighthouse planted on a rock in the middle of the sea, cormorants and the light of a candle, the sound of the undertow.

Goodness knows what amazing stories they wrote with this thing. Now that it’s like new again all I have to do is try it out, and luckily I’ve also found the ink ribbons in good condition. He slipped a blank sheet of paper into it and checked that all the keys worked. Satisfied with the result, he lit a cigarette and took a can of beer from the fridge, then went to lie down on the balcony on a camp bed.

I did a really good job, but unfortunately that’s the end of the fun. I'll have to come up with something else quickly to pass the time, otherwise I run the risk of going moldy, he pondered, almost worried, as he enjoyed the cool of the evening.

Through the rust-dotted bars of the railing he watched the children down in the gardens, running around in a competition to catch fireflies. He let his gaze run over the buildings, on the dark windows, on the fleeting shadow of some bat. Finally he stared at the starry sky as the song of the crickets rose to him, along with the scent of freshly blossomed roses.

What can I do? I don’t sleep much now, and the days are becoming more and more interminable. I'll think about it tomorrow, now it's time to sleep.

In the wake of his reflections he went back inside, headed for the bedroom, and as he went through the living room he passed the desk where he had put the typewriter on display. He stopped.

***

"Damn, what the hell is happening now?" the fireman shouted into the two-way radio, leaning over to look at his colleagues down below. The ladder had stopped suddenly and had swayed violently; if he hadn’t been wearing his safety harness he would have been bounced down by the recoil.

"We have a problem... the safety belt is spinning around in circles because a pulley has come loose, so I need a few minutes to pull it in and tighten a couple of nuts," a garbled voice replied in the crackling of the radio.

"A few minutes? I don't have a few minutes, damn it! If I don't get to him right away, that man will let himself fall. He has a crazed look and has just screamed like a madman to send me away, I don’t think he gives a damn if he falls. Get a move on, and in the meantime get the tarpaulin ready!"

"The tarpaulin isn’t here! You sent it for maintenance yesterday, remember?" replies the voice from the radio a few moments later.

"And no one thought of putting the spare one on the vehicle?" the crew leader asks incredulously, leaning even further from the ladder, so he could see into the compartment that usually housed the tarpaulin.

"Apparently not. You know, there is always some confusion during the holiday period," the voice murmurs embarrassed into the radio, on the receiving end of another expletive from the firefighter. He looks back at the man who is sliding inexorably downwards along the bars of the railing; his hands are sweating in contact with the metal and he is struggling to maintain his grip.

"Hey," he shouts, and Franco turns distractedly to look at him.

"Hey, man! Don't let go. Do you understand? Don’t give up, please. I'll be with you soon, you just have to hold on a little longer. Hold on a little longer!" he repeats, but Franco doesn't even listen to him. He replies with a vague and incomprehensible smile, then goes back to staring at the typewriter and the pile of typewritten papers stacked beside it, the overflowing ashtray and the chair turned with the back towards the desk.

It all started that evening, when I sat down at that damn desk, he starts remembering again, as he unwittingly clasps his hands tightly around the slippery railing so as not to fall.

Yes, there is no other explanation: the machine is cursed.... and it's too late now... the punishment....

CHAPTER III

THE FIRST PAGE

Almost unconsciously, as if driven by a mysterious force, Franco removed the soiled sheet of paper he had used to test the machine and inserted a clean one. He centered it well and awkwardly started to hit the keys, thinking back to the sight he had been so pleased with just before.

CHAPTER I (CARPETTI’S HOUSE)

The evening sky was so limpid that that you could almost count the stars one by one, while a crescent moon, sharp and shining, seemed to hang from an invisible thread which became lost in infinity.

From the window on the third floor of a suburban building there were flickering images of a television,reflected on the curtains. It was a small one, in black and white,the white plastic kind with the classic circular antenna attached to the top of it in a lopsided way. It was sitting on a massive dark brown piece of furniture where time had left its mark. Next to it, an ugly terracotta statuette depicted who knows what African deity.

***

Well, as a start it’s not too bad. Maybe I've finally found a way to cheat time, Franco said to himself, rereading what he had just written. But after throwing several sheets into the bin, and a couple more beers, he pushed the typewriter away and rubbed his eyes, then stood up with an angry movement. He looked at his watch and decided to go to bed because he was already short of ideas, and just as happened every night he fell asleep with his thoughts turned to his wife and children.

The first rays of light filtering through the shutters surprised him staring at the ceiling. He had a slightly worried expression on his face and his beard was already a little too long. Damn the good habits, I can't keep waking up so early! If I get up now, what do I do? he said to himself worried.

He reached out to the bedside table, took the last cigarette from the pack. He crumpled it, threw it on the ground and looked at the small mountain of garbage that had formed at the foot of the bed, asking himself if he wanted to pick it up and go all the way to the kitchen to throw it in the trash.

Shrugging his shoulders, he told himself no and put the cigarette in his mouth, fell back heavily on the bed and once he was lying down he tried to resist the temptation to light it.

I'm smoking too much, it's because I’m bored. I’d like to go out for a while, but with this heat I have to be careful. Even if it was just a minor illness, I don’t want to risk having to prolong this convalescence.

The sparrows perched on the eaves were greeting the arrival of the new day with a beautiful melody and were watching the movements down in the courtyard, knowing that in a few minutes the old lady would throw their breakfast from the window.

It's useless, I'll never be able to get back to sleep... It's better if I get up, he resigned himself after hoping for a while that he could get back to sleep.

Meanwhile, a sense of uneasiness was slowly but surely taking hold of him. He had the feeling that he had left something half done but couldn’t remember what.

Shortly afterwards he was sitting in front of the typewriter again with the cigarette still unlit in his mouth. He looked at the machine for a long time, uncertain, wondering if he was really capable of writing a story. The phone rang and that sudden sound interrupting his attempt to concentrate disturbed him. For a few moments he thought he wouldn't answer.

"Hi, how are you all? ... sorry, I was in the bathroom," he lied, twisting his mouth, his eyes turned to the ceiling. "Yes, I'm fine, how are you? Are you having fun? Wonderful... put Mom on... So how how’s it going?... And the kids? Yes, I'm bored to death and I'm anxious to see you again... oh, I have a surprise for you... No, I won't tell you what it is, otherwise what surprise would it be? Okay we’ll talk again soon... say hello to your parents..." he cut short, then hung up and hurried to sit down, still snorting annoyed at the unexpected interruption. I’ve decided: I will write the story of a man who lives alone, he said to himself.

***

The phone rang, and with a sigh the man emerged from the old leather armchair and reluctantly dragged himself towards it.

"Hello? John! I’m well, how are you? I'm glad to hear from you... tomorrow night? No, tomorrow night I really can't. I tell you it's not an excuse, you know that I would never feel I’m a burden with you two... Okay, I’ll be there next time, I promise. Give Martha a kiss from me," the man finished, then replaced the receiver and glanced anxiously into the living room at the television. The credits were already rolling. Damn, I missed the ending, he said annoyed, but it will definitely have ended well. Movies almost always end well.

After turning off the TV, he carefully put the chairs under the table of green formica, so that the legs were standing exactly on the corners of the tiles. He cleared the table and went to close the front door with two turns of the lock, and after checking twice that the gas was turned off, he went to the bedroom.

Like every evening, as he passed in front of the large mirror in the corridor, he stopped dragging his feet along the ground and straightened his shoulders to check the size of his belly. Constitution, he thought resigning himself once again, shaking his head. More than once he had tried to get rid of the roll of fat around his abdomen and hips, which meant that shirts didn’t fit him properly. They were the item of clothing he loved the most, but he had never had enough willpower to follow a diet seriously all the way. And just like this, there were many other things he had begun over the years and had finished almost none.

With the usual ritual he got ready for bed: he folded his clothes carefully and placed them on the rocking chair under the window, then put on his favorite pajamas, the gray ones with the blue diamond pattern that were worn at the elbows and knees now. He put his slippers at the foot of the bed so that they were perfectly parallel and lay down.

***

Awake so early once again.

His eyes turned to the ceiling and the now crumpled cigarette in his mouth, but that morning he felt worse than the previous one. He had slept little and badly and had been disturbed by a bad nightmare: a man in a white coat and glasses told him not to be afraid, that he had a bad illness but that he could beat it.

And he felt helpless, even though he had a great desire to live. It’s because of the mosquitoes and this damn heat, he played it down, but the loneliness and silence seemed to have magnified those bad feelings. Despite his attempts to think of something else, he continued to feel an almost physical anguish, which enveloped him like the coils of a snake.

At least I’ve managed to stay a day without smoking... We'll see how long I last. He took that one piece of paper he had written the day before from the dresser and reread it, hoping that some idea would come to him so he could continue the story.

That lonely man discovers that he is ill... he became ill because he has lost the sense of things... the meaning of love... Yes, there we go: he has lost the meaning of love and has let himself go, he said to himself, thinking of the protagonist of his novel.

He has no desire to live any more, but perhaps, if someone teaches him how to, he can heal. Who knows, maybe he will meet some kind of spiritual guide, a guru or something. In any case, he will be a rather strange type, a man who carries a great disappointment or a great secret with him. I’ll call him Walter, while the protagonist must have an everyday name, very normal. I'll call him... damn, it's hard to even find the names for the characters.

Well, for now I'll call him by his surname, then we'll see: I'll call him Carpetti, it seems like a fairly anonymous surname. And I'll set the novel, or short story, or whatever it turns out to be, in the fall, hoping that this helps me feel cooler.

After this flash of inspiration he jumped out of bed to go and write, without even thinking about breakfast, but he staggered and fell. He got up looking around perplexed and was amazed to find that there was nothing at his feet, so he had not fallen because he had tripped on something.

He worried for just a moment then didn’t think about it any more: his new need was overwhelming him, he had to start writing immediately otherwise the idea would fly away.

***

CHAPTER II (CARPETTI GOES TO THE DOCTOR)

The clock radio came on at half past six, just in time for the appointment with the horoscope of the new day.

As he listened to it without believing in it too much, Carpetti made the bed carefully so that not even the smallest wrinkle remained on the blanket. Then he went to the kitchen and cut open two oranges, and as he did every day he squeezed some juice as a prevention for colds.

He took what would become his lunch out of the freezer and put it in the sink, then got ready to go out. That morning he had to collect the results of the tests which he had undergone a few days earlier to verify the origin of some disorders. The doctor had reassured him that it must certainly be something trivial, but in any case he had insisted that he undergo a complete check-up.

Since he was never eager to converse much in the morning, especially about banalities such as the weather, Carpetti avoided taking the elevator so he didn’t run the risk of meeting someone.

At the front door, he took a deep breath and opened it to dive into the World. As he headed towards the bus stop, with his hands in his pockets and his head bowed, he realized that it was one of those days which were characteristic of the change of season from autumn to winter, cool and bright.

His breath was forming those little clouds that look like they’re made of cigarette smoke, the grass of the condominium lawn was covered with frost and some rare gusts of wind abruptly stopped the chirping of birds.

When he arrived downtown, he got off the bus, and looking at the clock in the bell tower, he realized that he had arrived too early. He wondered how he could take advantage of that half hour but coudn’t think of anything, so he shrugged his shoulders and began browsing the shop windows.

Mothers were taking the children to school, a good aroma coming from the bakeries seemed to warm the air and the garbage truck was noisily emptying the bins. The city was alive but he didn’t notice it, all he could see was his own distorted image reflected in the large windows.

At one point he felt a slight sense of envy, or perhaps embarrassment towards himself, when he saw two kids going into school, backpack on their shoulders and holding hands. But that feeling didn’t last long, and he immediately went through the door of the doctor's office.

The waiting room was well furnished, with comfortable sofas in shades of light colors; various specialist magazines were on display on a beautiful wrought iron table with a very thick glass top. Hanging on the white walls were copies of a few works by Picasso side by side with certificates confirming participation in refresher courses on special new therapies for the treatment of asthma. It was all topped off by a beautiful arrangement of succulents in a corner.

Carpetti hated going there, he found that place too cold and silent. Even though he was a maniac for order and cleanliness, that environment too white and cold gave him a sense of being lost.