Post by account_disabled on Dec 13, 2023 23:28:24 GMT -7
The old man struggled out of bed, reached the dresser and looked at his face reflected in the mirror. No longer clear images projected the shadow of a man who had reached the end of his time. The room where he slept smelled of piss and stuffiness, but he never opened the window, he no longer had the strength. And not even the desire. It was dirty on the floor and no one ever came to clean it. The only son he had called him at Christmas and on his birthday, but the old man knew that he would only come to the funeral. There would have been a lot of people that day. Because of that hidden treasure thing. The old man laughed at the memory, a hoarse, phlegmy laugh.
She coughed, he spat on the ground and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked back at the mirror. Those distant days now flashed before his bleary eyes, through the mirror as if inside a film. The days of war, of hunger. The bombs falling from the sky and the hastily consummated sex behind a house, under the shade of an oak tree. The German convoy crossing the Phone Number Data country, two trucks, a jeep. Words shouted in a hard and cold language like the nights spent in the open. The SS captain giving orders to a sergeant of the Italian Army, his hand hitting the soldier, then twenty years old. On his unshaven and wrinkled cheek he felt that blow again. Then the sound of a gun being fired. He saw the German captain jump back and blood spill out like sparkling wine from a shaken bottle. His hand putting the gun back in its holster. Yell out. Shooting.
Someone throwing him to the ground. A grenade exploding and a jeep blowing up. On the ground the bodies of killed German soldiers. Get in that truck! Quick! And off we go, on the road. Far from the country, from other enemies – or were they still friends? – away, over the hill. All this his half-blind eyes saw again through the glass of the mirror. He opened a drawer, took out a pair of clean underwear, two mended socks and a worn wool sweater yellowed by sweat. She stripped naked in front of that mirror as old as death. A muffled sigh died on his lips as he saw how he was reduced to, his pink skin and white hair, his pubis a lifeless mass dangling between malnourished legs. He put on his underwear, socks, shirt and looked again through the mirror.
She coughed, he spat on the ground and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked back at the mirror. Those distant days now flashed before his bleary eyes, through the mirror as if inside a film. The days of war, of hunger. The bombs falling from the sky and the hastily consummated sex behind a house, under the shade of an oak tree. The German convoy crossing the Phone Number Data country, two trucks, a jeep. Words shouted in a hard and cold language like the nights spent in the open. The SS captain giving orders to a sergeant of the Italian Army, his hand hitting the soldier, then twenty years old. On his unshaven and wrinkled cheek he felt that blow again. Then the sound of a gun being fired. He saw the German captain jump back and blood spill out like sparkling wine from a shaken bottle. His hand putting the gun back in its holster. Yell out. Shooting.
Someone throwing him to the ground. A grenade exploding and a jeep blowing up. On the ground the bodies of killed German soldiers. Get in that truck! Quick! And off we go, on the road. Far from the country, from other enemies – or were they still friends? – away, over the hill. All this his half-blind eyes saw again through the glass of the mirror. He opened a drawer, took out a pair of clean underwear, two mended socks and a worn wool sweater yellowed by sweat. She stripped naked in front of that mirror as old as death. A muffled sigh died on his lips as he saw how he was reduced to, his pink skin and white hair, his pubis a lifeless mass dangling between malnourished legs. He put on his underwear, socks, shirt and looked again through the mirror.