WIND OF AUTUMN

WIND OF AUTUMN

Den Haag / The Hague, autumn of many years ago.

   I knew that sooner or later it would be over, I knew that with the bad season something would change.

I could feel it in the air, in the things that surrounded me, in the shadows of the evening here in the north, they arrived earlier than in my country, Italy.

I had left R. at home while reading a book in front of the already lit fireplace, slipped on my red anorak and took the road to the beach.

I had turned for a moment to look at our house a few hundred meters from the sea, on the outskirts of Den Haag, almost two years had passed since the beginning of our history and only one from living together.

The first times we went back and forth between each other between our countries, with the joy of seeing each other, of embracing, of making love. Then my stroke of luck: a job in an Italian restaurant near home and go to live permanently together.

Arrived at the beach, the white sand rose to that cold wind coming from the Atlantic, the sky was gray but still did not threaten rain, few were the people on the sand to walk or sit and watch that green sea with foamy waves.

I had sat on a small rise near the wooden structure, where lifeguards in the summer controlled people in the water and the shoreline visible.

A hand had waved to me, the two nice old ladies, neighbors with their dogs were walking not far away.

I smiled at them, returning the gesture, but then my gaze turned again to the sea and to the memories.

They were beautiful in the early days, we were often in Amsterdam at the home of friends, who lived in boats on the canals of the center, how wonderful it seemed to me to live a dream, almost an ancient fable.

In the summer we went hiking on the canals traveling on barges or floating barges, stopping to sleep in small hotels surrounded by flowers and perfumes.

Rotterdam, so modern and terrible with its port, then the largest in the world, then the flower festivals in the various towns that looked like little treasure chests from what they were in order and beautiful, our bicycle rides through the narrow streets between green fields and mills to wind.

Often the inhabitants mistook me for a Dutch like them, like R., I had grown long hair, dressed badly or haphazardly, a hint of red beard, just to give, together with my freckles, an idea of ​​the Nordic boy (idea that I always liked), but I never managed to learn that strange language, mixed between German, English and something Flemish.

But the whole year, lived fully in that beautiful land, had marked me in the soul, I would never have wanted to leave there again.

A ray of sunshine had peeked through the clouds of the sunset, I hadn't noticed the passing of time, I stood up quickly and returned home, in that white house with green shutters and from the now barren garden for the autumn season.

The wind was still blowing and it had become colder, when I had the door behind me, R. was in front of me with his slightly sad smile, my suitcases were under the stairs that went up to the first floor, while the other my stuff, it had been sent a few days before to Italy, at that moment we had looked at both of them.

Our eyes had met for a moment longer, I had seen on his face a range of expressions, I had the illusion of having read: I was wrong, let's get back together and stay here ... But in fact, it was just my illusion.

"Paul, het spijt me zo te zijn, zodat meer dan voor ons" I had looked seriously at his firm face.

"Oh sorry me, Paul, I'm so sorry to be so over for us."

What was there to apologize for now? By now it was all over, I didn't care about his displeasure, I just had my heart broken but I still smiled.

"R. does not have to worry. Everything will be fine ..." I had said as I moved into the kitchen and then I was pouring tea into a cup, dimi had said:

"I'll take you to the airport tomorrow morning, Jim will not like, do not have time ..."

I had answered with a strange smile and with a thank you, by now there was nothing else to say, finished, everything.

The day after I took off from the plane, I started reading a book, when we were already in Germany, I was reminded that I had left there a photo that I really wanted, the two of us on the beach in the previous autumn, sitting on the rise with the wind in your hair.

With a gesture of anger I had closed the book suddenly, suddenly a corner of an envelope appeared between the last page and the back cover, an envelope that I had opened as soon as I realized that there was a photo inside, my photo , our photo, the one I thought I had left in the white house with green shutters and the barren garden, near the sea.

An inscription behind the photo.

"To never forget our love, a copy is in my memories. R."

To never forget our love, a copy is among my memories. R.

I tried to hold back the crying that was coming, only a few drops of tears had fallen on my face, while I was holding the photo on my heart.

The plane was lowering in altitude and the announcement of the next landing at Linate had distracted me from the thought, I looked out the window, a large lake and snowy mountains had taken the place of the expanse of flowered fields, of the North Sea and of my two years lived in a magical country.

Now a new chapter was about to begin.

Giamapolo Daccò Dos Lerèn (J.P.)