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Νοέμβριος τρία χρόνια πριν. Η μοναξιά του τον έσπρωξε στην Ευρώπη, την σοφή γριά, την επί πολλά χρόνια κακή μητέρα, άχρηστη συνεργάτιδα και παρανοϊκά καταθλιπτική συφιλλιδική πόρνη η οποία επι χρόνια γεννοβολά και γεμίζει τον πλανήτη με αγγέλους και τέρατα. Μεσόγειος ο ίδιος έψαχνε την Αμερική του στην άλλη μεριά του Ατλαντικού, στην από εδώ πλευρά. Ένα κράμα του Αλμπινόνι και της Αραπιάς- γέννημα του κατεστραμμένου Ράιχσταγκ- παιδί των δολοφονημένων επαναστατών του 1917 και των προδομένων αναρχικών της Ισπανίας- σφυρηλατημένο φύλλο χαλκού απο τα κανόνια του Ναζισμού και του Φασισμού- λιωμένη ψυχή με όλη την τρέλα του μετεφηβικού ενθουσιασμού -ανέβηκε στο τρένο και με το mp3 στην τσέπη και τ’ αυτιά ατένησε την μηδαμινότητα της ύπαρξης του και της καθημερινότητας του.

Παρακολουθεί τον αφρό που κάνει το φέρυ καθώς αφήνει πίσω του το λιμάνι της Πάτρας προσπαθώντας να ξεχάσει την διαλυμένη απο την αφρισμένη αδιαφορία του κόσμου καθημερινότητα του και καρφώνει τα μάτια του νου του στις ακτές της Ιταλίας. Γυρίζει και γυρίζει, φτάνει απο την Ανκόνα στα μουντά και απογοητευτικά Μεδιόλανα και περνάει στην Γερμανία. Μόναχο- ναζισμός-μπαρ-ησυχία-τάξη-ασφάλεια και Ρέγκενσμπουργκ- Δούναβης-λουκάνικα-μπύρα και ύστερα το γυάλινο Ράιχσταγκ και η πύλη του Βραδεμβούργου. Απέραντες πεδιάδες μοναξιάς και χιονιού και μικρά ποταμάκια που διαταράσσουν το μονόπλανο των γυμνωμένων δέντρων και των εξοχικών κατοικιών με τα μαύρα κεραμίδια. Ο Μέλανας Δρυμός το σύνορο κι έπειτα το Στρασβούργο και το μικρό δωμάτιο της συμμαθήτριας του. Το, τόσο ευρωπαϊκό, κλειστοφοβικό δώμα στην χωρίς μπαλκόνια πολυκατοικία που μοιάζει απο άλλη εποχή, λίγο μίζερη. Ύστερα οι κλοσάρ του Παρισιού τα Χριστούγεννα που περιμένουν στην ουρά του συσιτίου και τα γκέτο των μαύρων, λίγο πιο πέρα απο το παλάτι των Ηλυσίων. Άραγε αυτοί περάσαν απο την Μελίλα και την Σέουτα ή πέρπάτησαν πάνω στο νερό σαν βασανισμένοι με αλυσίδες στα πόδια; Όπως και να ‘χει… Ο δρόμος προς την Ρώμη ανοιχτός για νυχτερινή πορεία με το τρένο. Ξημερώματα στο Τέρμινι και εσπρέσσο ντόπιο. Οι κάλτσες του Χάρη και ο πακιστανός στο νυχτερινό λεωφορείο που μιλάει Ελληνικά.

Εν τάχει μυρωδιές της πολυσύνθετης πραγματικότητας του ταξιδιού. Απλές εντυπώσεις που δεν περιγράφουν την κατάσταση. Κι όλα αυτά τι άφησαν πίσω τους; Τι άφησαν μέσα του; Μια κενότητα. Δεν θεράπευσαν τίποτα. Αυτή είναι η Αμερική; Αυτό είναι το Ελ Ντοράντο; Τρία χρόνια μετά μια αναλαμπή ενός όπλου και ο θάνατος άνοιξαν τον δρόμο για την ζωή. Ο καθημερινός βιασμός όμως σκότωσε την ελπίδα και πάλι. Η ψυχή του θα ταξιδεύει για πάντα.

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He drag his feet on the stairs and opened the wooden door, shivering from the cold outside. It was April but this spring was rather cold for his liking. He closed the door behind him and locked it. The sound was irritating and just like every time he turned this god damn key on that bloody lock he felt his spine quiver a bit. «I must put some oil on that fucking lock» he thought. This was a thought that he had every day the last six months that he lived all alone. He turned around, put his jacket and hat on the coat-hat-rack and went to the bathroom. He washed his hands thoroughly and used the much used-unclean-rather dirty-towel before he turned around and have a leak. Then whistling a moody tune and looking bored as hell he went to the living room where he jumped on the sofa. He stayed there without moving for a while staring from the window at the building across the street where there were the offices of the public tv channel. He watched the guys in the studio and the guys that were working behind the scenes and he thought how miserable they were, how pitiful they all looked like. He saw a big bottle of this great red wine, with that rich and wholesome flavour, dumped on the table of the living room right beside an extremely expensive wineglass, which was from the set that he had bought with his ex-girlfriend from a well known store that is situated near the big square by the river. He remembered how well he felt when he was sitting on this sofa huddled up with a big blanket above him and his ex beside him also huddled up holding one of these wineglasses each, chatting and kissing and making comments about the guys across the street that worked from dusk till dawn and vice versa, like machines that just keep doing the same thing for as long as they function properly. He stood up and walked to the table. He held high the empty glass. «To your health my sweetheart» he said. Then he filled the glass. «To me» he said and drunk it straight away. He made for the kitchen. When he crossed the door of the living room he turned right and taking a left turn he put the small storage room that was between the living room and the kitchen behind him and entered the kitchen. There he went straight for the Venetian door that was at the far end of the room and opened it. A cold breeze hit him on the face and on the rest of his body making every hair on his body to stand up. At the same time he had the feeling that his pubic hair was moving, trying to curl itself as close to his balls as it could, an awkward but strangely relieving feeling that only male human beings can understand. Outside on the balcony there were his flower pots. In one of them he had planted rosemary which he liked a lot. Right next to the rosemary’s pot there was a pot with basil and next to it there was a pot that nowadays it had nothing in it or at least so it seemed. It was a rather big pot and someone would imagine that the flower that it once carried should have been vigorous and beautiful. He looked at it thoughtfully and then reached out and touched the red-brown soil. He pat it and then he put his other hand on it also. He bent over it and brought his nose and mouth and eyes and his whole face near it. His nose was so close that the only thing that he could smell was the smell of the wet from the rain soil mixed with a faint fragrance from the flower that once lived there. As he took a deep breath, all the other things that a human being smells with his brain when he smells a beloved scent touched the memory cells of his nose. He smelled every orgasmic evening he had with that girl- all the sweat and body juices and mixed body odours that made his bedroom ready to explode from the life force that was released followed by this flowery feeling- and then the coffees and the cigarettes and the bad breath of the morning -these sleepy fragrances that blended with the mellow scent of the flower that once existed in the pot- and all the afternoons and all the meals she cooked with his rosemary- that it was still standing there alone untouched nowadays- and then he started feeling how lonely he was. He couldn’t take his nose and his face from there. He wanted to stay bent forever smelling and thinking and remembering, living these things again and again and again, with every detail, with all the strong emotions and wild ecstasy and with all this wet divine feeling that the memories of the coupling of a man and a woman who are not together anymore brings to someone’s eyes. He was crying again. He started whispering something to the soil in the pot. Talking without knowing what he was saying, like making a conversation with a ghost, with a thing of his imagination. He said: «Your flower has withered my princess and your stem is cut. Only the roots are still deep in this red soil but the summer will probably kill them«. Then he stood up at last, he stayed watching at the far hills for a while. They never had a pic nic there like he wanted. He turned around closed the Venetian window behind him and lit up a cigarette. He put the espresso cassolette on the fire to make some coffee while he wiped his eyes with his sleeves. He knew that today if she was alive she would have her birthday and probably they would have been having sex right now. He drank the coffee, smoked that really strong cigarette and went to the living room to drink the rest of the red wine from the wineglass that still had her lipstick on its brim. It was six months now. Six months without her. One hundred and eighty three days alone here in Athens. Sweet melancholic vibrations.

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