Man of glass - the story of Silvano Baracco A small gift, a fairy-tale charm of the great Silvano. Good reading to those who frequent this blog.
L 'UOMODEIVE TRI
Silvano Baracco (Walk)
Man of the glass had a name. No one knew, but was called Zeno, because his father had read a book once as a young man he had not understood much, and too little if it was soon forgotten, but he had impressed the name of the protagonist, and the title of the book, so he decided that, if its first and only child also had to be a man of conscience, as indeed would have liked, already in its name had to be represented a wish, and with an introduction to that effect . Zeno, the man of glass, was still a boy when he began working at Palazzone in the center shopping area, as a cleaner of its large windows. In Palazzone there were only offices, many offices, full of busy men and women, it is not clear in which tasks and for what purpose, but the common opinion was that in that building, just the Palazzone, forty-eight floors high and long a full two hundred yards away, the Way of Palazzone, you did things very important, even decisive for the City, and perhaps also for the nation, so much so that every four or five years, was visiting the President in person : always arrived around eleven in the morning, with a row of dark cars, surrounded by about seventy people extremely noisy, and the whole procession was sucked into the Palazzone in the space of ten frantic minutes. The people on that occasion, clapped and smiled behind the barriers, the men raised children and adults say, "Look, that's the President." Over time, these children grew up, became adults, and in turn raised new children saying, "Look, that's the President," and he, the President was no longer the same as before. Then even the new children become adults, and so on. Equally, over time, there remained only the scene, the barriers and Palazzone. And the man of the glass. Zeno was born there, in Via del Palazzone but when he was born was still called the Street of flower meadows, and there were only the foundations Palazzone. At the age of one year, when he began to write an outline and a meaning to things around him, the Palazzone was already in one piece, complete with its large windows that light turned into apparent mirrors, and all around the streets, sidewalks, asphalt. His world was there, in front of his house Palazzone, the school side. At fourteen, after the compulsory education of all children and forgotten, had entered for the first, and only, time just inside the Palazzone, accompanied by his father on the occasion that this proves very authoritarian, but rather, in front of the kind in suit, shirt, tie and glasses sitting behind a desk, stood with his head bowed and a permanent smile on his face, holding his hat in one hand and kept the other resting the head of the child, sometimes sketching a kind of caress. On the same day Zeno had climbed on the scaffold wheel, hung a board with two lateral ropes, pulley system, which was pulling up to the forty-eighth floor and go down to the first, as desired. He had become so, the boy of the glasses, armed with a bucket, mop and rags, who worked until evening and then returned home. This is for a certain period, perhaps few years. Then, ritrovatosi alone in the world, has become the man of glass, began to no longer be covered at night. On the top floor there was the outside tap to fill the bucket and the cab of the change of towels, at night where someone came to pick up dirty ones and replace them with clean rags that the man was of glass every morning, when he began work. Besides, there was the self-service cafeteria, where it was enough to push another button to get the food supply. So Zeno began to live on the scaffold wheel: you worked from dawn to dusk, with skill and precision, we ate, we slept. I do not back down, for all the years to come, ma non si può dire che fosse per una scelta precisa: capitò così, senza nemmeno che se ne rendesse conto, come una cosa normale, insieme a tutte le altre cose circostanti, il cielo, la nebbia, il fumo, la pioggia, la notte, il giorno, il Palazzone e, laggiù in fondo, la strada. Cioè a dire: il mondo.
L’uomo dei vetri prestava il suo servizio con molta coscienza, ogni giorno dell’anno, senza sosta per ferie o feste di cui neppure ricordava l’esistenza. Nemmeno un millimetro di vetro restava immune da una passata del suo strofinaccio, neppure un granello di polvere veniva trascurato dal suo spazzolone. Sul suo ponteggio lungo come tutto il palazzo, l’uomo dei vetri started from the top floor, where he had stopped to sleep, and fell to the first, soaping and washing the windows, the ground floor did not compete, because it was all concrete, and the front door was an iron gate. On the first floor stopped for lunch, not even for a moment to support the view below, the pavement of the road, which at that time were always empty. A short nap and then off, began to rise, a plan at a time, until the last, dusting the windows. The road was filled again, slowly, but nobody ever noticed the man hanging on the scaffold wheel. Even people who worked inside the Palazzone did not notice not him, and perhaps unaware of its existence.
Nor, incidentally, the man of glass cared about them, knew they were there, beyond those windows, and they were doing important things, because those who worked in Palazzone was only important things, but did not know which were, not interested at all, and had never seen his face or heard his voice, just one of those people. They hear the roar indistinct, scattered sounds of voices without words, and teletype printers, footsteps, ticking of buttons, bells, and nothing else. After all, the man of glass is not even made accountable for his loneliness, because this was also a plain fact, granted as everything else. But sometimes, the loneliness taken to extremes, results in fact quite inexplicable, perhaps miraculous. Thus, a summer day, finished the work that was not clear enough to not get to sleep now, man of glass began to walk up and down its two hundred meters of scaffolding steering wheel, and returning to the starting point saw apparent human figure, a young man sitting on the scaffolding, his legs dangling in the air and a pair of wings behind his back, as if they were closed. It surprised a lot of that vision, and wanted to ask him some questions now that he was doing there, As was to come, but did not speak for so many years that his voice was slow to emerge. The young man looked surprised, as if surprised that the man of glass coming towards him, staring in his direction, so that, at some point, he turned, as if looking for what might have attracted the attention of Zeno just behind him, over him. The man of glass, meanwhile, was laboriously managed to clear his throat, with a little 'operation and swallowing his saliva, and when he was in front of the young, not even greet him, because he was not accustomed to the habits of life in society, gave him the first question that managed to articulate:
- Who are you? The young man seemed startled
.
- I??
- Yes, you. There is no one else.
- Ma .. I see?
- And why should not I see you?
- Ma .. because ... because ... I'm invisible.
Man of the glass was struck by this statement, from his point of view, of course, completely inexplicable and therefore absurd. But it was not the kind of man that does not permit the next opportunity to explain himself, although to be honest, until then, had no recollection of ever having had the opportunity to relate to any neighbor of any species.
- But then, if you're invisible as you say, why do you see?
- It 's just what I can not explain, because at this point there is no doubt that you're seeing me, to listen, because it responds to tone and logical consequence to the words that you turn.
- Although this should not be possible?
- Exactly. I do not understand ...
- There will be a fault somewhere?
- A failure?
- Yes, your failure mechanism of invisibility and inascoltabilità.
The young man replied, and was clearly puzzled, and the fact of it, just visibly increased its de facto state of perplexity, as one can easily understand. Suddenly, as if he had a communication from the outside, as close to the inside, which had provided a detailed and plausible explanation, the young man lit his face.
- Ah, so! Then everything is clear.
- What?
- That is, you can see me and you can hear me because of you live in solitude, long time. Only when a man is extremely and permanently only with himself, as is the case, and anyway, even in cases like this quite exceptionally, to the man that can happen to materialize in front, so to speak, in flesh and bones, and voice, his guardian angel.
This time it was the man of glass to be perplexed.
- Why did you say "so to speak in the flesh"?
- Why does not actually have flesh or bones: mine is only a materialisation visual and sound.
- That'd be just an image?
- In a way, yes, but a concrete image, autonomous, independent. In a nutshell: I am not a figment of your imagination. Exist. Although I can not touch you, neither you touch me, because they are ethereal and intangible.
- How can there be something intangible? Or is there something, or is not there.
- The music is intangible, yet when you're not imagining the feeling, but there seriously. Oh yes, you've never heard music. Play.
and air, mysteriously, as if someone had turned on a radio, materialized the notes of a concerto for harp and organ. Man of the windows had never heard anything like it.
- It 's beautiful this thing! But basically it is a sound, such as those that feel beyond the glass. Even if you can not touch, it's real, caused by something material, a sizzle of strings, tapping on a keyboard.
Angel slapped his forehead, or so thought.
- It 's true. It is an example of a success.
The music stopped abruptly. It was useless to talk about feelings and sensations, because the man had no experience of the windows, and it would be too lengthy and cumbersome to try to explain it in words. In the end, Angelo decided not to investigate further discussion.
- The only possible explanation is this: I exist, it is not you that you're dreaming, are not the result of a thought, but pure reality, as ethereal and intangible. And every thing has its own specific nature, and mine is this.
The man seemed satisfied with the glass of the latter explanation, but had not exhausted his curiosity.
- But tell me, if you Guardian Angels are intangible, can not be touched, but even touching.
- Yes, indeed.
- But then, if I now slipped and fallen from scaffolding, you do not you grab me in any way.
- Exactly.
- So what is your case?
The Angel stood dumbfounded for a moment. He recovered immediately.
- But it is obvious that we can not physically intervene, otherwise there would be no incidents of any kind, except to admit that every once in a Guardian Angel can also be distracting, which is definitely not.
- So you are invisible, unheard, intangible. Do not be offended, but you serve?
Angel could also have started to shoot, but being an Angel, went peacefully to his speech.
- We assist people with our presence, our advice whispered into the heart, it being understood that the men remain free not to listen. And sometimes we bring God to the demands and needs that arise from the hearts of men. Nothing more than that.
Man of the glasses was a real person, and certain things not understood, or at least not entirely. Even the existence of this God had some doubts: He could not see well and could not be touched, it was not clear what was your role and its usefulness, but he would not disrespect or even grieve his guardian angel, who appeared as a person, or something like that, absolutely right, and certainly a good heart. But wanted to say something the same subject.
- I believe in the things I see, including you, because otherwise I would not be here talking to you. All in all I'd rather not ask me too many questions, and be content with what is, for example those glasses, solid and clean as a mirror, because I am that I keep them clean. Everyone is good at something, and I to this. Maybe one day I will understand the usefulness of God may God's essence is contained in this great building, the Palazzone, where you agree and do important things for everyone. Yes, it must be true.
- No, Zeno, do not confuse the essence of God, if anything, can be found on the small stuff ... and you can not measure everything, least of God, with the utility meter. Also useful things, and even the important ones, if you are studying in depth ... sometimes are not really a big deal. For example: you consider very important and useful to your work. Yet, there is one person she knew, not even those who work in Palazzone.
This time it was the man of glass to remain banned. Reacted.
- not true! I, with my cleaning job, allows light to penetrate into those offices, beyond the windows so that people who work there can do so under the best conditions, even if they do not know or do not realize how.
- But you did not notice the curtains impenetrable, always closed, you are behind every window? Do not you ever noticed that all offices are lit by neon bar, always on? In Palazzone do not know what to make of sunlight, which would come from the windows. Have you ever seen someone looking out a window? If instead of windows there was only a concrete wall, as the ground floor, would be the same. Have you noticed that the windows are gray? This is because you do not see the dirt, the dust that you get up one grain at a time, without forgetting any of them. If you did not, themselves a year or ten, doing nothing, no one would notice, however, because the windows would remain always the same, gray, like everything else: the street, the sidewalk, the walls, the sky , which is always gray smoke rising from the city, and because the sea is too far from here, so the sky reflects only the asphalt.
The man thought that the speeches of the glasses of that being vain, very clearly reflected by its very nature: the lost Angel sight of the concrete things, those of every day, worldwide, to follow his thoughts ethereal and impalpable. All the time elapsed since that day, the man of the glasses did not pay more attention to the Angel, who was always there on the scaffold beside him without speaking. Only every now and then screamed "watch out" when he leaned a bit 'too much. But the man of glass shrugged his shoulders: he had some need of his suggestions and his warnings. One day, years before, who had filed too much, and a gust of wind had moved the scaffold wheel, he was stuck to the windows and nail with your fingertips, as if he the suckers, and another time had risen to some plans, without realizing it, do not pull the pulley, remaining attached to the glass with his towel, and continuing his work as if nothing had happened. It was impossible that he could fall, he was used to distract, to think, and thought much over time more and more. Working and thinking, attached to his glasses and could not fall.
Yet another clear summer evening, after work, man of glass he found himself suddenly to fall on deaf ears, the forty-eighth floor, upside down, waving his arms in the air such as swimming . The angel opened his wings, and joined him, came. The man of glass continued to fall in swimming, as if in this way would increase friction and slow its relentless fall. The man of glass fell and swam, impassive, as if something was going on perfectly normal and predictable, like everything else. The Angel and man of the glasses were no longer entered into a discourse, from the day they had met. It was the Angel to break the silence.
- Zeno! What happened? How did you fall?
- I lost my balance.
- Ma .. how is it possible? Just you?
- Just me. I thought a lot in that time, so I do not speak. I wanted to first complete the thought.
- And now you can not complete more ...
- I completed instead. So I'm rushing. I searched for a sense of it all, the Palazzone, to what I was doing, what I was experiencing, the whole of things, and I have not found everything here. So I lost my balance.
- I'm sorry.
- Why? Now I see approaching the road, but this is gray, like everything else. If you reverse the point of view, putting the huge building in the way the horizontal and vertical, would not change anything. Gray.
- I'm sorry.
- You've already said. And I've already said, and why? Me to stay there, clinging to the gray glass, or plunge into the gray street, then it does not change much. I was up there, useless, useless to rest now. Nobody noticed anything when I was there, and even now is the same. I was just up there and are just now. The only thing I regret is that while the road is approaching, and with the way the crash, still can not find a right way, suitable to replace the lost sense, and perhaps it is too late.
- I'm sorry.
- Ma .. what's that stain a different color, there in the middle of the sidewalk?
- A small flower bed, green. All that remained of the old street of Minesweeper.
- And what is that little thing, standing in the middle?
- A flower. A small flower.
When he was little more than a meter from the asphalt, the man saw more clearly that the glass cramped bed, a few square inches of green grass, half buried in the asphalt, and a small flower at the center, even that meager , but alive, with its fragile stem, its small corolla, and its tiny colorful petals. A flower. It was the first time he saw a flower.
- You were right you know, Angel! E 'in the little things that you feel the essence of God
- The way ... The man smiled
of glasses for the first time in his life.
