Pupils taste

I thought I was about to become a man at least; but happened something that destabilized my convictions. Like that time that I tasted my mum’s lasagna after long time: between the different layers were hidden questions and ragu, skillfully combined with béchamel, it became the key of that equilibrium that hardly I would reached, me, or anyone else was by my side. When I was a child I was a careful observer, some habits become chronic; this is the reason why I love to travel by train, I believe that it is a good way to think. Wagon 12, the last at the rear end of the train, window seat, toward Palermo air conditioning is so strong that we seem fillets of mackerel lined on the shelves, the lady in front of me, in her foundation seems rolled in breadcrumbs; before we left she asked to me to switch seats, because turn her back to the direction travel makes her sick; I said yes right away, because I wanted to talk to her as little as possible.

And so I see landscapes go away. The sunlight that plough the window remind methe light that escape from the copy machine: I scan every image that passes in front of me. We’ve been traveling for two hours. I’m going to Palermo because this evening the catering that I manage has to work hard for a refreshments at Palazzo dei Normanni although I'd prefer to get a Forst eating stigghiole and get lost through the smells of Ballarò.

This wretched train stops in every station; crossing acres and acres of almond trees it stops whistling, than pulls out hiccupping, running on the tracks like a blunted blade. The sun, while we go around a hill, goes over our heads and reappears on the other side of the wagon, then disappears.

The voice of the woman in front of me corrodes the silence: “we are in the tunnel, this is my stop!”. Penetrating in the heart of the mountain, sunlight is replaced by the flash of the neon that bounce rhythmically in the wagon until they disappear, while the trip slows down.

Just below the ceiling lights, a boy, apparently very agile, jumps the turnstile of the station, than run away- he’ll want to avoid paying the ticket- he keeps running like he had fire in his shoes and all the more reason to fidget so much; his hair come down- she’s a girl- moving her legs to climb a wall: railway seems her habitat, she meticulously determines distances, in suspension on the arms seems just touch a bench, turning on her torso she knew where lean on. She is a lady of the space, she can do everything she wants with it. - If only the woman in front of me had shown the same skill with makeup. - Now she leaves the wagon and she comes close to the girl who still bounces, she seems a crazy spring. She trains into park our, a discipline wide spread in France in the years that I was in the Accademy to become a chef. The French word means path, they say it’s the art to move confidently in every situation showed up by the contest. The path is also a mental path and requires self-control and self-mastery. Now the two women disappear between the rhythm of the neon; the tunnel persists, I’m here, on my train, with my obligations that I would like to avoid, the sickness of the woman with bad make up, hyperactivity and artificial light. I am looking for the smell of my mum’s ragu that claims consciousness, control and enough time to devote.