Of the Patent for the Method to Walk on Water

Really would have been difficult for whoever, also for the neighbors that were always those since years, to believe that the residence was not uninhibited. Difficult for those neighbors to understand that she was not going between those wall just to see them, year after year, to go more to hell. Certainty, the structure was still solid, a drastic intervention but not radical agree with, it would have sufficed to make it return like a time, or if at least the inhabitant was having granted to open the windows when she was going to attend to him, it would have sufficed to save all of the fittings from the mold.

And she was hating, not only for that, the abominable being than was living there. When she was having accepted from the proprietors; under of whom she was working like governing since two decades; the villa as next inheritance, never would have imagined, nor it their sudden departure, nor the slip-knot to the neck that the clause would have been. She could have inhabited in the house only at the death of their one 'adopted son' and would have, in the meanwhile, to continue to take care of him. For her, that was having ever possessed nothing, was the occasion of the life, for those two elderly, rich dealers of exotic goods, a manner in order to not see dispersed in unknown hands that house and not to leave alone that poor unhappy.

That being was having always givened her some shudders. She knowed him as a child and at the moment of the death of her owners, he was seeming already older of her, like if he was living in a time that was running to a different speed respect of ours. She thought about some rare illness, and experienced a serious sense of disgrace, she, so nun and charitable, enjoy of the thought to free herself of him and to become one proprietor of the luxurious residence: a true one erred of selfishness.

But he was still living person, a divine punishment for that erred. The trial of ageing was not slowed down, at the opposite one was constantly speading up, but the death was seeming always a step back, respect to it. Also now, that he was not putting the nose outside of the house since years, or rather was living in the darkness, saying that he was studying and making searches in the immense library of the villa, not any mark of illness was obvious, but not that disgusting appearance of living mummy. Certainty, she was having understood, at first, the sense of fault that griped him: he was the driver of the car when there was the accident that made of her an heiress. He, that was found within a bale of silk coming from the extreme East, inventing every time that was coming interrrogator, a different story to explain his escape, that was held in the family by those two capitalists without sons and cuddled, spoiled, maintained and revered as a mandarin, was having caused their death.

But that sense of fault was become chronic, or, more simply, now that he should have maintained himself alone, was not able to do it. Understanding the actual nullity he was nomore come out from his shelter, persisting in those ravings that he was calling his 'search', that was carrying him since his childhood to spend hours and hours, in company of his dog, in the cistern of the water of the district, the 'Pink Tower', where he was claim to have intuited the 'secret'. After the accident his search has been transferred on the books and she was paying for these results.

She leaned the bicycle; with in hand the bag of the food, opened the door and the smell of excrements hit her immediately. Oh no! She was here just three days ago, plainly he was not having used the bath. How he was doing in the last times, he was not treated of what was entering and was going out from his body; he was eating, urinating and evacuating the bowls wherever he was, without to treat himself of the filthy one, nor on his own person, nor on the floor. "There is to clean the stable again" was saying at herself. She sought a candle to light it; since some times she had cancelled the contract for the supplying of the electric light. She found it and was being about to lit it up, when a smell that was overhanging also that stench of shit hit her nostrils. The fear made fall the candle from her hands, she kneeled, hoping of not to end up on something of slimy and organic; felt with the hand, while the smell was growing and growing. She found the candle-end and with trembling hand lit it, She felt that the smell was just at her shoulders and in the faint light it materialized, finding herself face to face with the terrible one molossian that was cause of it, Beta, a tibetan mastiff. It was such big that often who saw, was exchanging it for two children. Just its head was as large as her thorax, and now it was close little centimeters from her nose. The expression in its eyes was weird sweet, "You stink as a wet dog." was the first thought in her mind, and what could have done poor animal, always shut away between those seem damp.

Frightened, she never had thought about its new condition. Until the accident it was been the inseparable companion of the Eastern, was accompanying him wherever, also at the University where he is brought sometimes to find his only friend; a psychologist researcher; that he was saying, was having explained him the 'secret'. But then also this committed suicide, in the terrible one night, when also the Eastern was back home visibly experienced from a heart crisis and they feared for his life. But now also for the dog, the villa was become a prison, and thinking well it was agree with in health and sprightly too much, with its thick hair and combed, everything was all right, except for the persistent smell from wet. Perhaps, at least that he was occupying of it. But she tought it was too weird, since lately even the old one was seemed a traveling restroom below the waist. However, surely they were dividing the food, 'cause all the petfood that she had bought, the animal had refused it. Now she was thinking it for the first time, that big beast of almost 100 kilos cannot live with that little food and shut away, surely was going out to try to it, but outside like inside there was nothing that made to suspect it, not remainders of food, not excrements, nor in house, nor in the garden: She thought for the first time, but that dog was at least 25 years old!

And now was there, before her, with the suppliant look and a sheet of card in its mouth. It was offering her sheet, evidently ripped. Was a gift, a signal. There was something written above and she recognized the writing: it was of the elderly-child. His writing was unequivocal, his voice was at least become like a whisper, faint more of the candle in her hands; his writing, like his speech was remained that of the eastern, that stress every syllable. She would not have wanted to touch it, like would not have wanted to touch since years nor him, nor his things.

This was not depending from the inheritance, from the obligation of it, from the sense of fault of have desiring his end. Once upon a time, when was she working there, arrived to reorganize his things: dusting she arrived to find two tiny cylinders of splendid workmanship, covered up of black silk, with gilded decorations. At white heat she opened them, without to think than she was profaning the privacy of someone, them was doing part of the house, like also her considered herself part of the house. Within those containers there were other two of glass, containing everyone the withered genital of two children. The more horrible thing that was ever arrived to her. She was knowing the habit of the ancient China to castrate the children to offer them in gift to the Emperor, having read the 'Millione' of Marco Polo, so as she was knowing, when was eating the ham that the pigs was becoming castrated. And yet she cried and vomited there, on the place.

With the heart in uproar asking to herself if it was thinking about the torture for those poor children; but why to think just at those two and not at all of the millions of eunuchs produced in the antiquity?

Or if she was not returning with the memory to the horror of the cistern of the water, what was having make it the popular name of 'Pink Tower'? Her mother and her grandmother were having always told it so: A winter vanished two blind adolescents from the city orphanage. Not they be about an escape, nor of the request of a ransom, it is thought immediately to an abduction to sexual background. The next day was not distributed water in that district; the two twins had been found drowned into the cistern. But the most horrifying details did not ever end on the newspapers, it moved about door to door. The keeper of the cistern is been shrewd than something was not right because was having seen, just begun the shift, under the ice that was covering the water, an intense pink color. The two bodies were found nude and horridly mutilated of the genital, under the ice-cold layer, carcked to the center of the bath. Two strips of blood was staining the ice leaving from the edge, like if the two victims were having sought to meet theirself where the ice was thinner. Years of inquiries carried to nothing. Nor the assassin, nor the amputated parts were found. All of this happened a lot of time before the clandestine was found coiled in the silk, certainly his were personal memories about and from the east, but for all those hours that he was passing to the 'Pink Tower', his 'secret'; she connected forever that child to the crime and she did not touch nevermore his things.

But now she should do it. With uncertain hand,winning the fear of the dog and of her firm believe, she taken the leaflet that the dog yielded easily. While it lay down, she read it. There was writen just: "Thank you", but certainly it was part of a longer message. She lifted and with the candle in hand she directed towards the library, where normally the host it is found. Not run into dirt, nor excrements, maybe all of it was in the library; ascending the sumptuous staircase in cipolin marble she did not hear not even his favourite music, of what, running no more electrician, she did not ever understand the origin. She always wondered to herself how, an eastern, could prefer Janacek at Debussy, The 'Glagolitic Miss' at 'La mér'. She called, in the silence, just the steps of Beta that were following her, answered. When she saw him into the library she was understanding: dead.

He was stretched on the large reading table. Tidy and in order like for a burial: the smell was surely that of the last evacuation and of the decomposition. She approached in silence, like in order to not trouble; he was imperturbable, like always. If he was having sleeper would have been the same, but she was knowing it for certainty: unequivocally dead. In his right hand was the other part of the message. It was with large anxiety and with the first tears, that they were wetting the eyes, that she ripped it. The 'rigor mortis' was already advanced and his fingers remained closed, detaining a part not written of the sheet. What she could read it replenished her of amazement and emotion.

Since the moment of the accident and of the depression in which he was hurled, she sought to help him to find a comfort in the religion, but being him essentially taoist and animist, he had always considered every ancient written like a be about philosophy or of magic. She was not having supported like he was having spoken her of the great Jeshuha el-Yousseph Nozri, so was having called our Lord Jesus Christ, like if His marvels phenomena have been by the Barnum circus. But now it was writing in the leaflet that what for years he felt, he sought in all the more educated written, was in that booklet written with simplicity. Not in all those versions of the same story, however just into one; plainly because he was having the patent of it, in fact just one was talking in this way. Mathew... then the sheet was ripped. The part being lacking was the one with the thanks.

She was touched by the fact that her pushing him towards the religion was having elevated that soul, always so wicked before her very eyes, what did matter if of the whole written of the New Testament, that she was considering all saints, he was preferring of it just one. Wasn't so for a lot of peoples?

She carried her hands at the face, like for praying, and saw that the sheet was written also on the other side. With large letters it was written: 'For there are some eunuchs, wich were I know born from their mother' s womb: and there are some eunuchs, wich were made eunuchs of men: and there drinks eunuchs, wich have made themselves eunuchs for the kingdom of heaven' s sake. He that is able to receive it, let him receive it. Mt 19/12.'

It was like if she was having, between her hands, that old horror. She left to fall the sheet and retched, she was needing for air, she run to the window that, after all that time, was opened with toil emitting a moan. How if the house was emitting a wail. She appeared at the window under the surprised looking of the neighbor, like if she was seeing a phantom; she breathed so deep that smell of acacias and wistarias. Eased, she turned towards the room: the first look surprised her, all was tidy, ordered, and that new smell of wistarias and acacias was penetrated to cover all the preceding nasties. The second terrorized her: where once was the dog now were the two twins of the cistern into their pajamas spotted of blood on the groin; they were helding hand in hand and were fixing her, even if with their white eyes, she was secure of this, they were just fixing her. She leaned the back at the wall, the legs gave and so she slid to sit, continuing to look at the two boys, between the tears.

She was trembling, and yet was lucid enough to understand. What was happening?

The air was calm, the boys were motionless, the dust was not fluctuating into the sun rays, also the flies they were motionless in the air. It was like to be into a stopped frame, a tridimensional intruder in a two-dimensional page. She opened the mouth to yell, but what she hinaled was just that smell of death and excrements. She closed her mouth suddenly, coughing.

"What do you belive will happen to you, if I make restart the story?"

"Who is it?" the woman was saying turning the head to see who was spokening.

"You cannot see me, just sniff me."

More frightened, she was not understanding. "But who are you?"

"I'm the writer, the author. I have wondered, are you imagining what could do that mastiff of you?" Reacting instinctively:" It's not a dog, they are those two poor twins!" "Oh, no..." I say her "... it is always the old dog. It's just because you are seeing it with the eyes of the fault. You believe to have deceased them." "Me! No, they're dead because the ice it was too thin!" she says.

And I: "No! They dead because someone has killed them: one of us three, or both. The old one with his misunderstanding, you with your hypocritical mercy and me with my doubt. Whom of us three have broken the ice?" "Now, I'm confused." she says.

"And yet it's up to us, cannot ask it to a dog or to a dead one."

She:"But you could make them speaking, let them explain it."

I:"Oh, yes. I could also make you to say 'joiehtuiphujag', and you would say 'joiehtuiphujag', but you'd not be pleased to do so; as so I would not be pleased if the story was losing of sense making them speaking, it would not be serious."

She knows of being alone against of me, but she not in fear. I would be able also to kill it, to forget it, but now she knows to exist and that she will continue to exist, then she takes courage: "You have killed them, you have always thought them dead, but why make to suffer the people this way?"

I reply:" Because I should experience if the the absolute chastity is the right way, and then they don't have suffered; as you that are believing to suffer since years, but you're existing just since a few of strings; they never have been alive here."

And she: "Phantoms."

I:"The phantoms do not break the ice; a body can break the ice, their body has lost a little one of mass, but the pain has given back it more weighting. The renunciation to the body should pass across an amputation? What value has a renunciation that, too difficult and pondered, liberates you forever by the need; or has more worth a daily struggle, to resist the need?"

She:"Count what gives back you saint, sometimes the pain approaches to the perfection."

I:"Don't be wise, I made you a bigot. Now you should cite Paul: to the Corinthians 5/9,10 then 6/9,10 therefore 7/7,8e 28" "If I should do alone just everything, was being worth that was writing an essay!"

She:"An essay? And who do you want that reads an essay of you?"

I, opposed:"Then, let's go on; this definitive choice could be not cautious a weakness rather than a trial of courage? A sterile one anachoretical intellectualism?"

She:"A shape of selfishness."

I:"Naturally a philanthropical selfishness, in the eastern way. Whoever arrive to feel good with itself, hardly will want the badly for the other peoples or their death."

She:"Everybody should learn to do it."

I:"But for this there must be gymnasiums that instead to attend of the mechanics of the bodies, the chemistry of the bodies they would taken care of."

She:"I don't understand."

I:"It is not blundered to occupy of the actual body: the fitness, the contest, if one can't live without it, also the sex; seen that you should cite Paul to the Corinthians 7/7,8; but just in the measure in which change the chemistry of our body: the chatisty is a way of change very strong."

She:"But if everyone put into practice it so radical, the man would have destined to the extinction, the religions do not have this purpose!"

I:"Already, the purpose of the religions. The happiness of the individual or the happiness of the humanity?" She:"If everyone was happy not to give back unhappy the others, it has been perfect."

I:"If everybody aspired to the hollyness it should be perfect; if instead Mathew was asking to one the sacrifice for the salvation of everybody, how it is in the Christian teaching?"

She:"If he was happy of his own sacrifice, the others, they would be happy to provide for his social damage: double would be his pride."

I, horrified:" I believe that six billions individuals, of whom voucher leaves die for hunger, it is a greatest 'social damage'. Since is dead Jaques Cousteau, I never heard to speak about overpopulation. Today there are not tooer individuals, there are little customers and little taxpayers. But this is not of what we are talking about!"

I have evidently touched a sore key: she begins to cry and to melting herself in the tears.

"No! Please stop, I've not said to you to do so." Just in time.

Sobbing the tears are dried, continuing the slaughter of the actual image; disfigured, with all the colors outside of her surround, out of focus. If she was not a creature of mine, I would be disgusted. She:"You see? You want to make die three billions persons. You are against life."

I, indicating a smile:"I want actual make to die none. But all the ancient writings, say us that should be safe to life as if we were dead. I'm wondering if to kill Eros is a way to die without to die."

She:"It should be a way to become a new person remining oneself ."

I:"Of course, but this new person is really me or have I to kill the really me to find my way? As so as Attis has to die castrating himself to be father and son of himself? Is it wise this wish to remain immortal children?"

She:"You cannot oppose at the Eternal Recurrance; being passing."

I:"Well then so as Farinelli says: 'Smettila di cantare, c'è la morte nella tua voce! (Stop to sing, there's the death in your voice)'. To find the peace of the heart is as to life into a fictional story."

She:"And don't you think that I am suffering? Look at how I have become!" She's raised on feet, she takes a stroll on herself. I look at her and really she is unwatchable. She's turned towards the window seeking to put in order herself; in the closer house, the neighbors, dressed in tuxedo, are harvesting:" Good morning, do you know? The moment of the fruit has arrived!"

She tries to cover her face, but seeing herself reflected in the window glass, she found her looking normal. She would want to reciprocate the greeting, but the neighbor continuous:"It is since some days that we don't hear the music, the mister is badly?"

She is turned to look at him another time, bone and dried up skin above that heap of books.

"He is dead." She says. The husband of the lady is offering a bunch of grapes to the mastiff: "Oh, it displeases me. I hope you want to occupy of these boys now." She is turned towards the room, where first there were the boys, the page is ripped, the remaining part is in my hands. The smell of evacuation and decomposition is more strong than ever, she would want to yell but does not succeed to inhale.

She looks at me with a hatefull sight.

"I know it, I know what you're feeling. Because if you can be me, I can be the whole of you: I can be victim and executioner, medical and sick, son and parent. .." She is not listening to me, the air is lacking to her, she is terrorized, she would want to scream help, but outside the window does not exist anything "... but what I will never be able to be are the pain, the care, the love. Just the readers can be it."