It was as he remembered it. It nestled, a small, forgotten town, between the Apennine slopes. The church tower rose and like a grey finger pointed out the cloudless sky. “When I was ten,” Trotti said, leaning forward to turn off the radio, “I came here with my cousin Anna Maria. I cycled on a bicycle lent to me by her brother Sandro—he’s an important doctor now at the hospital in Brescia. In those days—it was just at the outbreak of war—the roads weren’t surfaced and you had to be careful of getting a puncture.” Magagna drove, an arm resting against the door frame. Without taking the cigarette from his mouth, he said, “These hills—I wouldn’t like to climb up them on an old bike. A strong girl, your cousin.” “To own a bike of my own.” Trotti shook his head. “That was my dream. The freedom to be able to escape.” He paused. “Later, after the war, I bought a Vespa. I had it for ten years and it was with it that I courted my wife—she was a student at the university.
What do You think about Converging Parallels (2014)?
