Translated into English by Maria Antonietta Ricagno

Assisted by Jim Hibbert

Butterflies are spirits. After waiting and mutations, they embody just one morning in their one-day-life and they’re gone. They come out from dew, they colour the world and steal moments from men.

(Caroline Del Rey)

Héctor never knew how that memory came up again, suddenly remembered and impossible to dispel. Then the memories cropped up, one by one, as if he suddenly had decided to recall – who knows why – a forgotten time.

At first it entertained him, then it started to weigh on him, then to obsess him. Finally, he tried to involve Irene, thinking it would be useful, but he  did not manage to.

Every time he broached the subject, he met a brick wall. In the beginning Héctor couldn’t even talk about it, it was so much his own matter, still confused and undefined; then he accepted the fact that it belonged to the past, a past that came back precise and orderly like many photographs, moments and situations, which almost subverted the present and the everyday reality. But Irene seemed completely unwilling, busy with her job, appointments, unpredictable hours. Surely, Irene wasn’t giving the right importance to what was happening.

As for Héctor, he felt some difficulties talking about a distant time, almost unknown, kept buried for what seemed like centuries in the depths of memories.

Bathed in the night, the apartment lost its outline, an undefined entity which Héctor could not connect with the present. He lapsed into memories as if he were telling a fairy tale to an infant before sleeping. The world seemed delimited by a few observable elements in the half-light. Car headlights’ reflections filtered through the roller shutters, some ray of light, leaked from neon signs, traced out a blurry and undefined shape of a few items: the alarm clock, a marked open book, the chromed edge of the bedside table, the uncertain profile of Irene beside him.

– All right, but tell me your stories some other time; now it’s late. – said Irene in a sleepy voice.

'Maybe I’m going too far', thought Héctor, after all Irene is in another world, made of now and tomorrow, with all her programmes and her messes.

He allowed himself to be wrapped by the night, by the sweetness of a kiss, by the companion who hung on to his neck like a little girl, who was scared of the darkness and did not want to fall asleep without a caress or a body near to hers.

A part of him kept thinking obstinately, about thoughts, about the remote past, about that woman so close and so present. Smooth curves, with green eyes and an inscrutable smile, enigma of secrets, loneliness, it was hard to let himself go. Sleepiness always came late; it was liberating for a couple of hours, projecting him into a world of contradictions. Seeing his past emerge, Héctor became prisoner of everyday life and his days, of the things to do. Days were like enemies that stole from him the time for the thoughts, for reflections, for the need to talk. Names and characters of the memory were submerged in sensations of places and things already happened and those yet to be lived, all of them  unforeseeable in the same way. He wanted to have a moment of bliss, throwing everything into the corner of the room. It was just him and Irene embraced in a common desire. Sometimes it happens that two people can become as one

The memory, that came up suddenly by stealing his attention from the present, seemed so real. It was another world, a sense of time past, objects and people already gone. A kind of calm company, that supported him, simplifying his existence. Yesterday, like thirty years ago, had already happened, and neither could change, they did not deceive. Past events were making their way with steady calm, a new predefined and safe present, without hitches, acknowledged.

Endless nights were to come, that lulled him into a troubled and light sleep ready to be ended by the slightest noise. The present reality, the tiny objects creating the usual scenery of his days, pushed him to an escape, to an incommunicable memory, so personal, without any story, except for him.

What Héctor had mistaken for a duplicate of his thoughts entered his mind quickly, taking possession of present gestures, to the point that it was part of that present, without discontinuity. That was his present.

With no explanation, in the tangled maze of his thoughts, Héctor was becoming slowly aware of an imminent and inevitable mutation. He could only wait.

The light of the full moon filtered into the room, extending the shadows endlessly. Héctor could choose any interpretation of the things that were familiar to him, where he found himself, immersed waiting for another sleep. While he was lying in the dark, he felt the time passing, through the intensity of the traffic noise, which came in softened but clearly perceivable. Some nights sleeping was an illusion, that Héctor doubted could be reached again.

He was quietly aware of Irene’s presence. She was unconscious under a linen sheet that highlighted her sinuous shape. In the distance trains were speeding by, sending back the echo of mournful whistles and replying to the barking of restless dogs sensitive to heats and tides. Like an acrobat on his half slumber, Héctor thought the most quickly perceivable objects of his world wanted to indicate, with almost trivial variations, that something unsettling was waiting for him with no haste.

The last hours around dawn gave him short deep sleeps, where Héctor gave himself up to the tiredness with relief.

In its continuous chasing, time pealed another hour; it was the end of spring and that summer would bring to Héctor new memories, from which he would not separate himself any more. It was a new season's dawn. Unique days awaited him, days that Héctor could not imagine belonged to him.

The encounter, a moment that compromises possible futures 

(Argo Stern)

The summer of 1997 did not give rest; heat seemed to increase continuously, with no breath of air to bring some relief. A month was gone in the continuity of days that were always alike. Night presented itself distracted at the end of day, and Héctor couldn’t recognize one from the other. The present became a continuity made by identical tomorrows that didn’t need to be anticipated, lived in the repeated memory of a past beyond endless time.

Héctor and Irene were lying on the bed, reached by the unwelcome metropolitan racket; the kids were shouting down the street as they came back home.

He plumped up the pillow, then he started to talk again. – In those years for me Francesco was just what is imagined by many kids, a helpful friend at any time, present, a tireless playmate. I felt luckier than the others, because that friend really existed, in the flesh. It was not even thinkable that everything could end one day; I thought it would remain, unchangeable, everlasting. –

The flame of the lighter illuminated his face for a moment, then the room fell back into darkness, leaving only the burning purple-red glow of a cigarette being consumed in the night.– We walked hand-in-hand for entire afternoons. Sometimes we reached the wood; for us that was the unpassable limit of the world. Only my father’s car, a rumbling monster of plastic and metal, could reach the actual limit, apparently very far away. That animal with a chrome harness was a tireless steed able to cover huge distances in a moment; in our fantasies it represented a bridge with the far distance; it linked the present of our games' limits, an expanse of lawns swinging under our amazed eyes, with the adults’ world. –

That night Héctor was in love with Irene’s eyes, they reflected weak rays of light in the imperfect dark. He could have kept on talking until the morning, if the load of the past day had not suddenly crumbled down upon him, dragging him into a liberating sleep.

When he opened his eyes he was immediately conscious. With no explanations Héctor understood that a little but insistent spell was broken. The insistent and obsessive memories of the past were gone without a trace, as many years before did Francesco disappear from his life.

On a Sunday, one like many others, Héctor went to wake Francesco. Héctor’s mother never opposed this, because the two houses were near each other and, first of all, it was not necessary to cross the street; but as he entered the house, familiar walls that felt like part of his own house, Héctor felt his blood frozen by an obscure tension. He found Francesco still dressed in pyjamas, sitting on the bed.

– My mom, – he murmured, then he was unable to continue; his big blue eyes had seen too much on that day and they could only reflect an endless sadness. At first Héctor did not understand, then he saw Francesco’s father crying, and Héctor’s parents came and held his hand. Francesco was even sadder.

Shortly afterwards, on an ordinary morning, Francesco came. – Héctor, we’re leaving, – he said inexpressively, as if he were reciting a lesson committed to memory. – Dad says he can’t stay here any more, because everything reminds him of Mom, so he obtained a transfer to a city far away. – 

Héctor could barely hold back his tears; a lump in his throat prevented him from speaking.

– Dad also says, you can understand, because you’re a little boy, whereas I cried before, because you are older than me. –

Héctor forced himself to try, but not even he could understand that much; he could only understand, that they were taking away Francesco. – We won’t see each other any more, – he said, almost turning his back.

 In a second, security disappeared, as if of no importance. Francesco's father would work far away. They were both just kids. Adults could not understand. 

A glance at the clock-radio connected him immediately with reality; still too soon to start a new day, even if the sun confirmed in few minutes the arrival of a new day. Irene was awake. She approached him tenderly, fitting together their naked bodies, refreshed by a gentle and unexpected breeze. The sheet had disappeared somewhere. Héctor put himself in her hands, then he kissed her on the neck and on the lips; he gently bit her body, then they made love, in silence, each seeking their partner’s pleasure, driven until the frustration of its ending, for the forthcoming daily routine, for the inevitable day that was threatening them.

Bodily joy distracted him delightfully; Héctor slowly started to belong to the moment again.

There was no need to talk, nor to give explanations; Irene knew that each companion’s thoughts went far away, searching for a language to explain new sensations. The lived past was back in the dusty yesterdays of years long gone, like forgotten boxes put in an attic. Reality, the fresh-made coffee, the buttoning-up of a shirt, the hour; now everything was in its place.

The day did not begin better than any other. Héctor moved with difficulty in the stagnant air; a few minutes at the bus stop was enough to make him feel sweaty and sticky. The sensation of the love-making just gone remained in him, so that he felt more than ever the mediocrity he was destined to meet, as on every other day, of others who could not even suspect the intriguing pleasure of his secrets.

The bus was almost empty; the heat was unbearable, because the windows were rigorously closed. As someone tried to open a window, an unusual thing for a passenger at that hour, they were acidly rebuked by a decrepit retiree who was disturbed by the draft. Héctor envied the driver, isolated from that microcosm, locked in his compartment, with the wide-open window and his arm outside.

An old woman sat on a last-row seat, sporting a dark-gray winter coat, fastened by big round bone buttons. The old woman seemed to take great interest in the chaotic traffic of 8 o’clock. Héctor knew it well and he found it bewilderingly ordinary.

Some stops after the one where he boarded, a very fat woman in her forties got on, wheezing, and sat beside him. She was wrapped in a very colorful summer dress. She hardly breathed, and she sweated, emanating a piquant scent. For fear of seeming unkind, Héctor didn’t dare change seats, being careful not to meet her gaze. He felt relieved when she got off a few stops later without saying a word. He thought about it no more. He would reach the library soon and regain possession of a world, not his own, that yet somehow belonged to him.

Héctor loved his job. It was suitable for a reflective guy like him. He loved the books he saw passing hand-to-hand; he was always able to give the right information, and he analyzed scrupulously the disposition of the people who asked to borrow a book. Héctor studied his interlocutors as they stood in front of him, going through all the little bureaucratic formalities and waiting for the books from the basement. He wondered what might be the reason for choosing that book, whether the person would return it in time or if the loan would be renewed.

Summer was the best period. Now that school was over there was less work. Sometimes an occasional visitor consulted some fiction volume, particularly to enjoy an easy read away from the racket and the heat. Up to a few days ago, any reference, a title of a book, an occasional phrase, sent him back to the past. He caught himself thinking about the past while he was behind the counter of the main room with very high ceiling. It was like living those days again. Memories projecting lively images which hovered constantly during his everyday life. Thinking about it now, the situation was getting slowly worse. New details were coming up and the past was becoming more obsessive and defined. Without realizing it, maybe he reminded himself of moments he had forgotten too soon.

Sudden as it came, the nightmare was gone and he was master of his time.

A good side of Héctor’s job was the schedule. With no breaks, at 3 p.m. he was a free man, and even in winter he spent entire afternoons wandering downtown. He didn’t envy the ones who left the office when it was already dark, when the shops were almost closed, when women hurriedly went back home to prepare dinner and the day was already over.

On that particular day Héctor walked out of the library and the sun was burning, high in the July sky. It penetrated everywhere: the shop windows, the entrance halls of the old buildings downtown, the shining chrome of parked cars. He walked with no exact destination, without thinking about anyone or anything. Letting himself drift along with  the other pedestrians, distractedly, he almost stumbled on a cat that came out from an alley. The animal stared at him for a second then disappeared again into a yard. On his right there was a deconsecrated church, the interior visible, populated by a bored crowd observing without interest an exhibition of pictures by an unknown painter.

A little farther on there was a group of young people putting on a Latin-American music show for an impromptu audience. Héctor was transported by the melody and joined the crowd, and he could not ignore a boy who asked for offerings persistently, thanking in a dialectal Spanish. In the crowd there was someone dressed in a flawless white linen outfit of fine tailoring and a big white panama. Héctor suddenly noticed him and he was sure he knew the guy, even if it was from behind and with the face slightly turned away and hidden by the hat-brim.

– Francesco! – he shouted, but the other didn’t answer. He couldn’t hear because he was so far away and there was such a crowd. Héctor saw him walk away and disappear.

– Excuse me, excuse me...Sorry. Excuse me...– He didn’t give up and tried to reach the man, accelerating and making his way through the crowd. – Excuse me...Sorry, excuse me... – he said, upset, trying to pass.

He almost crushed an unsteady old lady who was concentrating on finding something in her bag. Lastly he stepped on a little Yorkshire terrier and felt the angry gaze of the owner. The horrible little beast immediately began barking, but he was already far away.

Finally he was close to the man, so that he almost could have touched him. – Francesco! – he said in a tone full of expectations. The guy stopped and turned at the same moment, leaving Héctor speechless.

– I’m sorry...I didn’t know... I mistook you for someone else – he mumbled, embarrassed.

For a moment he exchanged stares with a young woman, who then went away in an elegant and determined way, without saying a word.

He stood motionless, like an idiot, looking at her going away, disappearing into a multicolored crowd.