He looked around more
carefully. In the limescale-bordered glass there was
only one toothbrush and next to it was a basket filled with jumbled
objects: creams, a red elastic band, a
brush covered with hairs and some nail scissors. There was a razor on the shelf
under the mirror with tiny / miniscule
hairs still stuck underneath the blade. There had been a time when,
sitting on the bed with Alice, he could look around her room, spot something on
a shelf and say that he had bought it for her. Those gifts were there to mark
out a path, like those little flags pinned to a map of a journey. They marked out
the rhythm of the Christmases and the birthdays. He could still remember some
of them: the first Counting Crows record, the Galileo thermometer with its
multi-coloured vessels floating in transparent liquid, and a book on the
history of maths that Alice had scoffed at but had read in the end. She looked
after them with great care and put them on display so that he could see that
she always knew where they were. Mattia realised this as he did everything else/ was aware of
all this
as he was of everything else/ all
the rest / but he couldn’t move/
budge from where he was. It was as if by
giving in to the pull Alice exerted over him, he would find himself trapped or
would drown and lose himself forever. He had shown no reaction and had stayed
silent, waiting for it to be too late. Now there wasn’t a single object around
him that he recognised. He looked at
himself in the mirror, his hair was a mess, his shirt collar askew and that was
when he understood. In that bathroom, in that house, just as in his parents’
house, in all these places there was nothing left of him. He stood still so as to let the decision he
had made sink in until he realised that time was up. He folded the towel carefully
and, with the back of his hand, rubbed off the drops of water he had left on
the sink.
Era tutto a posto? Aveva
ricordato ogni dettaglio? Tutto perfettamente legale? Clive si andava ponendo
queste domande tra gli angusti confini di un Boeing757 bloccato dalla nebbia
sulla pista dell’aeroporto di Manchester. Secondo le previsioni, il tempo
doveva migliorare e il pilota intendeva mantenere la propria posizione
nell’ordine di decollo, perciò i passeggeri sedevano in accigliato silenzio
cercando un po’ di conforto nel carrello delle bevande. Era mezzogiorno e Clive aveva ordinato caffè,
un brandy e una stecca di cioccolato. Occupava il posto accanto al funestino in
una fila vuota e, tra un banco di nebbia e l’altro, scorgeva altri velivoli in
agguerrita attesa. …….
La risposta era sì,
ricerca e organizzazione erano state meticolose. Sarebbe successo e Clive era
emozionatissimo. Sollevò una mano per richiamare l’attenzione della radiosa
ragazza in impudente cappellino azzurro, la quale sembrava deliziata dal fatto
che lui avesse deciso di farsi un secondo brandy e onorata di poter glielo
servire. La banca gli aveva assicurato
che viaggiare con diecimila dollari in contanti era perfettamente legale,
quindi non avrebbe dovuto dare alcuna spiegazione all’aeroporto di Schiphol.
Quanto all’incontro con la polizia di Manchester, lo aveva affrontato
magistralmente, a suo parere, facendosi trattare con rispetto. Gli pareva
addirittura di provare quasi nostalgia per quell’atmosfera vigorosa e quegli
uomini un po’ imbarazzati con i quali aveva lavorato così bene.
Ian McEwan, Amsterdam (1998)
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