But from his dream there was nothing left except the bustle. And the pain planted in the heart, as a snake borrowed in his still-alive pray. He had forgotten what was before him and what was about to happen he couldn’t fathom. The calamity had hit him like a spear and he was thinking what he had to do from now onwards. To go ahead, towards the land untouched by waters or to take his tiredness towards north, knowing the fact he was going to burrow his life in another deserted village, with some houses and a bodega, like in an impossible and abstract space.
Then he started north, heavily dragging his woolly boots. And he came to the village that he knew so well, alongside the family house, now disserted. The heavy dirty door was fixed in the rusty hinge, creaking and ugly. He pushed it and entered. The heavy smell, of old salty fish, mixed with sour milk, again overwhelmed his brain, fixing him to the ground and reminding him of the childhood times. When his father was setting up the table in the small kitchen. He remembered him perfectly: tall, strong, with a tangled and spiky blond beard, slightly stooped over each plate, in which he was putting two-three potatoes and a big piece of dry fish. He champed lightly and it was as if he felt the salty, slightly fumed and peppered taste. And he saw also mother. In the furthest corner, wrapped tightly in great shawls, of an almost greenish black, rousing the fire, the only one in the house. She was leisurely picking up the piece of dry dung and she was sorting out better, in both hands, before deciding in what direction to throw it. And when she did it, she groaned. She was watching round contently, and the lightly fire was cheering up her face. And he didn’t know why, but this memory was making him to shed also a tear. Painfully alone, he was looking the big spiders, dry from so much death and frozen in their thick webs, at the rusted slab which called itself the cooking machine, at the dilapidated chimney and so sorrowful from so much quietness. And it was then that it the perfume of the memories pricked him again. He fell lightly on the stumpy cold bed, trying to remember the moment. The last time, when was it that he had been happy for the last time. Dizzy, dreaming late and heavy by so much yearning, he left his head to fall in the layer of lichens and on the dusty pillow. And the moment enveloped him easily, with feelings stuck in the oven, with all the life caught up in the scorch, Aleodor, the dreamer from the pole.
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