the day, the month and the year. In Mesopotamia, the day began at sunset and not at sunrise, so it was the interval of time between two successive sunsets.
For this reason, when for me the day begins, I have to accept the idea that for another it ends.
It is an entirely human concept to count time, all the more so if I apply it to my personal dimension of body and spirit.
Jung once said, "Body and spirit are two aspects of the human being, and that's all we know, which is why I prefer to say that the two things happen together in a mysterious way by staying here, because you can't imagine the two things as one.
For my own use, I have conceived a principle that must show this fact of "being together", I affirm that the strange principle of synchronicity acts in the world, when certain things are produced in a more or less simultaneous way, behaving as if they were the same thing, even though they are not so from our point of view.
It was only then that I fully understood its meaning, that continuum of which the professor spoke, had been broken.
He felt the blood dripping on her face and from there it flowed on her left hand.
The acrid smoke from the airbag saturated the air in the car, and went up her nose, pinching her throat. Alessandra's body was leaning forward, towards the steering wheel, held by the seatbelt which had probably jammed in the crash.
A woman with a strange smile was driving the other car, the one that crashed into them, and seemed to have been unharmed.
She also saw a couple of pedestrians on the road, immobile, a man and a girl who were merely observing what had happened and who did not seem to have any intention of providing any kind of assistance.
Then, nothing else.
She realized her time was over.
2. STEFANO
Stefano Mencarini was a man of curious and lively intelligence, short black hair with a tuft that, from a young age, he never managed to keep down.
He had been married for about six years to Anna, his work colleague, and did not disdain good company and beers with friends on Saturday nights.
In short, a very ordinary man, as many can find around the world.
They hadn't had children, despite the thousands of visits made by specialists from all over Italy and all in all, he had never represented a real problem for the couple, taken as they both were by their career priorities in the biomedical engineering sector.
His life proceeded regularly, until the day he was appointed to personally oversee the opening of a new office in Havana.
He discussed it with his wife who advised him to accept the proposal.
After a few months away, the relocation would certainly have benefited their income, they could finally renovate their house, a matter always postponed for economic reasons. Moreover, the promotion that had already been in the air for some time, would almost certainly have materialized.
So after a few weeks, he left.
Upon arrival, he realized how small José Martí International Airport was, and to an inversely proportional extent, how many mustard-colored police uniforms there were.
Obliged to go through the whole process of checking, he noticed the presence of only one detector at gate number two and realized that it would not be quick.
His high enough forehead surmounted a regular, rather handsome, but common face.
What made it special was a scar on the corner of his right eye.
It was that something lived, unique and personal.
The fact that he always wore a suit and tie made a loud squeak with his appearance, to which a leather jacket would be more in tune.
An overwhelming smell of fried food rose up his nostrils, so much so that he felt as if he had gone straight into a fryer, the predominance of red present and the anachronistic structure of the building made it look like an old bus station from the fifties.
After recovering his suitcase, he changed some money into pesos, stopped in the bar near the waiting room, according to the recommendations of friends who had already been there and enjoyed that glass of rum that many found fantastic.
It was so good that it made him forget the bad smell of fried food.
Once outside the airport, he passed under yellow columns and was run over by a host of hands, arms and eyes determined to give him the keys to houses of all prices and all kinds.
Dodging them, he approached a taxi that was not far away.
He asked the sweaty man, in white shirt, to be accompanied to the hotel indicated on a business card that he showed him.
Stephen found himself with his suitcase on the edge of Plaza Vieja, opposite the entrance to a typical Cuban building of colonial architecture.
His attention was drawn to the distraught voice of a waiter on the other side of the square who was railing against some kids who were playing football and had bumped into the chairs and wrought iron table in front of his bar.
Some arches introduced him into a small alleyway paved with red bricks and framed by flowered balconies, then he passed through a very well-kept and ancient courtyard, certainly restored.
He noticed how wonderfully baroque mixed with Spanish influences before entering the lobby of his hotel.
He approached the reception desk, where a young mulatto concierge in a green suit cordially welcomed him.
He put the suitcase on the floor and handed her the papers. She went away to make photocopies, Stefano followed her with his eyes until the girl returned to the counter.
The girl gave him the key to room 28 and the documents.
- Obrigado, senhorita...Azuleya. –
He thanked her, with the few words in Portuguese he knew.
She looked at him with an air of questioning, he pointed to her with his index finger the badge, pinned on the green jacket and from which you could clearly read the name.
- Oh, Claro. Or badge! –
He exclaimed by touching his badge. Then she smiled and shook his hand.
- You are from Italy eu vejo. I speak your language. Nice to meet you. -
He pulled the bangs out of his eyes with his hand.
- Can I help you again? -
-No thanks. In fact, maybe you could set an alarm clock for me by 7:00 tomorrow morning?
- Of course, no problem. I wish you a pleasant stay at the Hotel Diaz. -
When the phone rang, Stefano was awake: he had slept poorly and badly and had attributed the cause to rum, drunk at the airport.
His stomach seemed to be on fire.
The
