Michelle was a Parisian girl. The two had met in London and had always been together. Her charm was not the ordinary allurement that usually circles on long-limbed French girls, a bit diaphanous, with the features of their faces eternally ingenuous and gentle.
It derived instead from her rather cheerful and carefree air, symptomatic of those who can live day by day, with no particular moods linked to sentimental events, work issues, or perhaps existential complications. Much more than her attitude of disenchanted non-chalance, if not of deliberately informal and countercurrent behavior, it was astonishing the contrast with the almost serious and formal behavior that Giampiero was going through even more than the hated bourgeois he declared to be still in fight with.
Michelle, on the other hand, was a painter and earned her living by selling her paintings and making portraits in Portobello and the other large London-based large markets; Her attendance allowed Giampiero not to lose all contact with a certain kind of culture and alternative minds, to which, though not in the depths of his being, he had been tied.
– “Whoever does not die, comes alive, soon or later!” Giampiero said to the phone, returning my greeting, “What have you done all this time?”
– “I found a pub that resembles an amphitheater!” I said laughing- “and tonight performs a Rock band with square balls. What do you say?”
– “I say we were thinking about going down the corner to have a drink; But the idea of a bit of good music would be even better. But where are you? “He asked then translating from English, as he sometimes did speaking Italian.
– “I’m here in Paddington Station, in a newspaper store”.
-” I get it. From Notting Hill is a step away. Wait for me to come. Maybe even with Michelle and a Parish friend who comes to visit us. I’ll see you right away!”
29. to be continued…
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