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 The right atmosphere would have been the one that only a piano could have created. And maybe, why not? A violin, a viola, an electric guitar and drums would have been a perfect addition.
Or, perhaps, it was just that it was the right atmosphere: the lapping of the waves, the gulls in the sky, the footsteps of some solitary visitors.
It was a good place where one could think, could linger a few hours alone, to clarify one's thoughts, and then go on.
The ocean opened before him. It was begging him to talk. To stop waiting. Andrew looked up. Above him, gulls flew in pairs. He scooped up some sand in one hand, clenched his fist and then let those fine threads of time filter between his fingers. He glanced thoughtfully back at the ocean as he carelessly rubbed his hands and shoved them into his pockets.
The wind played with the water, slightly rippling it.
Andrew brushed a lock of hair away from his eyes. He would have liked... What would he have liked? he asked to himself irritably.
He could read in people's thoughts and wishes. He saw beyond the smiles and the longing looks in their eyes. He wanted to shout this knowledge to the heavens. He saw, but would have liked to close his eyes and stop seeing.
Why do you always disappoint me? Why do you worry about unimportant things? Why don’t you ever visit me? Why didn’t you phone me last night? Why did you stop writing to me? Why do you want me to be the person I’m not? Why don’t you trust me? Why didn’t you turn and look at me? Why didn’t you smile at me? Why did you smile at me and then draw back? Why, why, why...
Andrew studied the ocean. It seemed that it, too, in its continued silence, was asking him the same set of questions.
He had to find an answer, he had to. Otherwise he would go crazy.
His parents needed an answer. Another one for those strangers he didn’t want to be friends with. And an answer for that girl he didn’t fall in love with. Yet another for the girl who had wanted too much from him.
Elizabeth focused the lens and shot. It was perfect. It was exactly what she wanted to convey.
She shot again and again. She paused and stared at the man who sat a few meters away from her on the beach. When did you lose your way, she thought, the melancholic crouched profile affecting her deeply.
Elizabeth returned her camera to its case and passed a hand through her hair to subdue its waywardness, for the wind was now rising.
Andrew glanced at his wristwatch. He took a last long look at the ocean, then stood up. He brushed himself down to get rid of the sand that clung on him.
What do they all expect from me? he silently shouted towards the ocean.
He turned, his head bent, hands in his pockets, the collar of his jacket turned up. He passed by a middle-aged woman, not even subconsciously aware of the inquiring look she afforded him.
When the man had gone away, Elizabeth decided to push on as far as the strand. She would have liked to dip her feet, but it was really too cold, she decided with a trace of contrariety.
And so she remained, idly contemplating the horizon. The waves lifted and danced. Her hair curtained her eyes.
'Art is a world, not the world'. She remembered having heard it said once. She agreed. It was perfectly right. But, sometimes, it seems it’s the only accessible one, she concluded with some bitterness.
She thought again of the photograph she had shot of that man a short while ago. 'Someone is waiting for you'. It would be a good title for it.
She'd considered she had already shot all the photographs necessary for her next exhibition, but now she thought there was room for just one more.
"And if you do not arrive at your desired destination, my unknown friend," she murmured towards the ocean, "then nobody else will ever take your place."
Story Info
- Story written by Lara and translated from the Italian by Marta, 2003
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