Here, my first short story inspired by a song Baustelle, "The fashion of the slow." ---
Sitting in a smoky room, sipping a gin and tonic while my tired eyes looked around while not setting anywhere.
black My hands were still strong, although the wrinkles began to ply the waves as they do with the ocean. Having
sixty years and have nothing. They were not houses, money, work, worry. Not even a clock, that time did not matter. I only had to wake up when the light enveloped the city, sleeping on the benches when I had nothing else to ask. With heated
stomach tired steps and I brought out under the light of that fake neon.
invention the electric light, However, we never managed to illuminate better than does the sun for billions of years for half the world.
Now I found myself in the other half, that dark. Earth, and my life.
It was not always so. When I left my wife thought it was the only thing to do for the good of both. Follow my artistic passion. And she could not follow me. Too much, the fear of crossing the Atlantic, leaving Europe to meet the unknown more sublime. I might come back, I did not ever. When I realized that my letters could not be answered, also stopped writing them, I thought that other women would be the same but never was. At the time, not me I care too much, I moved from town to town, I wandered in the States as a mine crazy absorbing the air and the passion that is breathed in those years. From light to light
fake fake, I could find myself at the entrance to another room, another, this time a disco pub. Yes, it was 1989, it was more like when I did as a young man, and that passion that air had vanished, even in people's eyes. From that album came
pub music incomprehensible. Sometimes the dancing, to do something in desperation. Following the other music that flowed from my head.
In rare cases, however, happened to go to feel alive. That day was one of those. Left disco pub I walked again, for neon in neon. I found a small local custom, friendly owner, blacks in America at the tables. I went to a table and asked him to drink.
I put the only thing I had left. I had nothing, but I had my sax.
They asked me who I was because I took him around. I explained that I was in the forties and fifties. I called the Charlie Parker of France. When the Jazz ran for the first time in the veins of my body and as a swollen river in the arteries of the United States.
I loved jazz more than myself, the strength and the underlying melancholy, especially in its slower parts.
A shiver ran through the soul and leave you more. At least he had left me. A great truth is that if everything can change, the real music is eternal.
took my breath and I played with the passion of a time, letting the sound was not me and guide me to drive him. Eyes closed. I opened them from time to time just to not totally forget where I was. The audience applauded and the whole time I was regarded with respect, but do not know how I managed to convey the thrill. I wondered if she would return sooner or later the trend of slow.
I'm still waiting. Both.
Fabio Mele Tale of 26/07/2010.
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