Selinunte. For the first time, at nineteen, I was in my homeland, the land of my fathers and of myth, far away from the northern positivism. I had lost everything of those roots, even my accent: it took a school trip to reveal myself to myself. I wandered among the ghosts of those sublime remains, I heard their stones speak to me in a forgotten language; I was as dreamy and incredulous as Ulysses in Ithaca in the thirteenth book of the Odyssey, when he finally recognizes his land. Accustomed to the Padan mists, I no longer remembered the sharp colors of nature. On the enamel of the sky, the corpulent mass of a cloud painted with precise shadows stood out. The clarity of the air was that of windy days: still, absolute, without haze in the distance. The Mediterranean spring was exploding: on the strong green of the grass, bloody wounded by the first poppies, the large yellow spots of broom lit up; all around, the silver of the olive trees shimmered. A bush of rosemary spread a bitter aroma from the small blue flowers on which the bees settled. In the subdued buzzing, merged with the chirping of cicadas, the calls of birds were repeated at intervals. Everything had the arcane truth of the eternal: the presence of man appeared unpleasant and incongruous, in some house built without love, in the obsessive barking of an electric saw, in the mechanical and hopeless wail of a dog on a chain. Among those warm stones, which imprisoned the gold of the sun, the gods could still be felt walking. One of them was walking by my side, with downcast eyes in blue jeans and sneakers, his blonde hair tied in a ponytail that accentuated his androgynous appearance. - Spring here is truly breathtaking - I said to him. - Spring makes me feel cowardly and guilty. - he replied without looking up. - It's as if a great love has been broken. - I see it, you're not even looking at the landscape. - There's too much beauty around. I feel excluded. - Excluded from what? - From everything that matters. The beauty of nature has locked me out the door. It no longer speaks to me, it no longer tells me why it exists. - Studying also helps to understand such things. He shook his head. - No, it doesn't. Almost everything we study is neither true nor beautiful. But it's an old story, I had already talked about it with one of my teachers a century ago. I laughed: - You wear your age well for being over a hundred. - Seriously, I'm not kidding: I'm decrepit. - At this point, you owe me some explanations. - There's not much to explain. Maybe it's a limitation of mine. - he replied, pretending not to have understood what my request was about. - Studying doesn't tell me what I have to do with everything else. Maybe I should directly interview the shellfish, don't you think? I burst out laughing. - Why the shellfish? - I'd like to ask the nautilus who the designer is." - You mean the one who designed its shell? - Exactly. School tells me it's a perfect golden spiral, but it doesn't explain how this was possible. The Darwinian theory has never fully convinced me, but it's in cases like this that it leaks everywhere: can you tell me how a simple mollusc could build a shell in the perfect shape of a golden spiral by itself?" - Through trial and error. - Trial and error? It would be like thinking that by throwing a few handfuls of lime and bricks into the air, sooner or later they would fall back forming the Milan Cathedral. It's ridiculous, come on. That poor beast would have gone extinct long before achieving it." I smiled. My strange companion continued: - And then, for what purpose? He certainly didn't need such a perfect geometric shape to live. - He? - Well, it. It just needed a good, solid shell, don't you think? A warm, comfortable, and sturdy house. I laughed again: his nautilus was comic-bookish; he was picturing it as a little old man with a cold feeling in a cloth coat and a woolen cap, a sort of Geppetto when he goes out in the middle of winter to buy the spelling book. - Warm maybe not, at the bottom of the sea: - I said - but I get the idea. - As you can see, studying doesn't explain essential things. - Then why do you keep studying if you think it's all useless? - Not everything: I said almost everything. - What would you save? He pulled a book out of his backpack and showed it to me. A light flickered in his dark blue eyes for a moment. - This, for example. I shook my head: - You won't get very far if you look for the answer there. If you want to understand something, read Marx, Engels, Feuerbach. Or, if you want to get into fiction, read Orwell: he opens your eyes to pretty much everything. He grew dark. - So you don't like Plato? - You cannot fail to like Plato, he writes very well and is an extraordinary thinker, but I think he misleads in many ways. Think, for example, of his political model: it's chillingly totalitarian. - Plato is not just his political model, and then it's not like Marx's is much better. - You're joking, I hope. He shook his head, serious. - Not too much. In any case, even Marx's perspective is short-sighted. - Short-sighted? I was about to burst out "what the hell are you saying?", but I corrected myself in time: - In what sense? - In the sense that the class struggle and the dictatorship of the proletariat could at best solve the problems of the Western world, but it remains a struggle between the privileged. I laughed. - You're fantastic. I understand that you are definitely upper class, but how can you define privileged the workers exploited by their bosses? - We are all privileged in this part of the world. The real desperate ones are the others, those who don't even have water. And then it's not just us on the planet, there are all the other living creatures as well. You and your friends are late on everything, you focus on a false target: the real problem is that we humans continue to grow exponentially. I sighed. - Your generation is going in a wrong and dangerous direction. You know that all of this is a distraction, right? - Sorry, what do you mean? - I mean that shifting our focus to problems we can't solve only serves as an excuse for not solving the problems that are within our reach. This way, nobody does anything, because everything is thrown into one pot and it all seems useless and impossible. It's like when someone says "I give up playing because I'll never be like Mozart." Bullshit, come on. - This is a problem that must be solved, Antonio. - The problem of overpopulation? And how? With mass extermination? - That's exactly what we'll get to, if we don't find a solution quickly. - And do you find the solution in Plato? - No, what does that have to do with it? Or rather, I haven't found it yet. - Personally, if I have to stick to the ancient, I prefer Aristotle. How can you trust someone who mixes rational argumentation with a brothel-like sensuality? Think of the end of the Symposium or the beginning of the Charmides, when Socrates peeks into the boy's tunic. - I find them beautiful. - You must be someone who believes in divine madness. - Yes, exactly. I shrugged and sighed. - Give me that. I asked him for the book, opened it and read in a declamatory tone: - So the soul, in doing this, ferments altogether and quivers, and that irritation of the gums which comes to children who are teething, as soon as they begin to erupt, that itch and annoyance, this precise sensation feels the soul of the one who begins to sprout wings: it ferments and becomes irritated and feels a tickling while he sprouts wings. I closed the book and returned it to him without commenting. - For someone who doesn't like Plato - he said - you know him almost by heart: you found the passage at the first shot. I didn't pick up the provocation and replied with a question: - Vertiginous speculative height or delirium from psychotropic drugs? - Vertiginous height, no doubt. I shook my head. The sun was dazzling me, so I put on my sunglasses. - The sunglasses suit you well - he said with a bit of shyness. - Thank you. You should wear them too, with those light blue eyes. - They're not light blue, they're dark blue. - Lighter than mine, anyway. I have another pair if you want, they're Persols. He accepted them gratefully and put them on. They seemed made for him, they fit him perfectly. - However, - I continued - to get back to Plato, it's difficult to judge when moving in this borderline zone. - I have Thomas Mann on my side - he replied. - What a great example you've chosen: Von Aschenbach, by dint of believing in the Phaedrus, meets a bad end. Trust me, Plato's philosophy is borderline; at times, it resembles more the brilliant invention of an artist than the rational speculation of a philosopher: Aristotle said it too. And the height of the irony is that Plato kicks artists out of his ideal state, when he himself is a great artist." - Somebody said that the history of philosophy is just a big commentary on Plato. There must be a reason. - That's just an opinion like any other: to stay on your ground, it's dòxa, not alètheia. He put the book back in his backpack without replying. We continued walking in silence for a while. We had arrived at Temple C and were skirting the peristyle, walking through the majestic corridors made of blocks of blond sandstone. I couldn't help but notice how well they matched his hair and the light color of his skin, as if a bas-relief had emerged from the stone and come to life. - And that girl? - I asked him suddenly. - Is she also part of your project of divine madness? He blushed suddenly. - Who are you referring to? - That washed-out blonde, what's her name? - Ah, you mean Elettra. He took his time. Then he lowered his head and replied: - No, she has nothing to do with the divine madness. She's more of a matter of the dark horse, I think. - A nasty beast. - Yes, a nasty beast. In fact, I've cut it off. I couldn't stand her anymore. I grunted my approval, nodding my head. That relationship bothered me, it degraded his image. Seeing him drive away with her every night to have sex on the banks of the Po River irritated and nauseated me, not to mention that I feared that some passing police officer would catch and arrest them for obscene in a public place. In any case, it was a grotesque pastime, since there was nothing serious between them. I hate being sexist, but I couldn't help but comment: - Women can be squalid. - Yes - he confirmed, and didn't say anything else. The air was saturated with a light warmth. We stopped in the shade of a ruin, on blocks of golden stone, while our companions took their place on the lawn and pulled out sandwiches; I nodded a greeting to the chaperones, the young gym professor and the beautiful art history teacher, among whom there was clearly something going on; I sat down with him behind a crumbling wall. Wrapped in my parka, I felt overheated; I took it off and started picking up stones, trying to hit an empty tomato can left by some idiot. He, with his back against a column, stared into space with his arms folded. After a few minutes, I broke the silence: - Sometimes I wonder how we can be friends, you and I: if you think about it, we have nothing in common. You remind me of Konradin. - The newfound friend of Reunion? That's not a good comparison. - I know. - Anyway, it's not true that we have nothing in common: we have many things, including music. - The music I like is not the same as you like. - That's not true and you know it: I listen to a lot of stuff from the sixties and seventies. It's you, rather, who don't bother to listen to my music. And then, there's no need to be similar to be friends. - Do you think so? I think we need. - I'm sorry. I'm doing everything I can to... - "To" what? I had the distinct impression that he was about to say "to please you," but he fell silent and didn't finish the sentence. I continued: - There's something about you that escapes me, something you're hiding from me. - What I'm hiding belongs to the past and is something only mine: digging it up would serve no purpose, except to make me feel bad. There's nothing I'm hiding from you, among the things that concern you. - That's not true either and you know it: your black horse belongs to the present. It's an important component of your character and you had hidden it from me. I'm a rational person, I don't like shadows: you never know what might come out of them. Those who live in the shadows can stab you in the back. I would like to understand who I'm dealing with, if I'm to be your friend. - I didn't hide it from you. - he said a little dejected - It was in the sunlight and I've already told you that I myself don't understand what happened to me. - Anyway, that's not what I was referring to. You're also hiding something else from me, something that concerns me. He was silent for a moment, then said: - Can I be honest? - You must. I continued throwing stones into the can, waiting for the rest of the speech. - There's actually something I've never dared to tell you. - Dare now. He cleared his throat. - I really admire you, Antonio, but there are things about you that I don't appreciate. - Like what? - Like when we're all sitting on the floor passing around a joint and you sing a song while playing the guitar. It's childish and beneath you. It's meant to make us all feel good, but man is not good. You are very intelligent and you cannot fail to understand this. It bothers me that you get involved in these... - Bullshit - I concluded, throwing a rock at the can. - Bullshit, exactly. But it serves a purpose: it appeals to the kids. You did it to me too. You're a politician and you think like a politician, right? You do some bullshit to please the people. - Man is a political animal. - Don't answer me with clichés, please: it's not fair. I resumed methodically throwing pebbles in silence. - Did I offend you? - he asked me, a little alarmed. - No. - I absolutely didn't mean to offend you. I like being with you, seriously. I've been very lonely lately. I've been pretty down, even though I've never talked to you about it. - Maybe someday you'll tell me what you've had. - It doesn't matter: what's important is that now I feel much better. I sighed, waking up from that kind of torpor. I got up, took the can of tomatoes, emptied it of the stones and put it in a bag, ready to throw it in the first bin I could find. - Alright, we'll talk about it another time. - I said to him, playfully ruffling his hair - Now let's eat something, come on: it's past one o'clock. He smiled, feeling better. I took a sandwich and a beer out of my backpack. He did the same with his veggie sandwich and his fruit juice. We ate sitting in the shade, then lay down in peaceful silence to watch the clouds. Then the sky clouded over, the light grew dim, and a beam of opaque rays, filtering through the roughness of the ruin, fell on my companion's somewhat muddy left shoe. He rummaged through his backpack for his k-way and put it on, undid his ponytail by shaking his head, and gathered his hair again on the nape of his neck. A smell of hay and thunderstorms wafted through the air. Unexpectedly, we were submerged by the violent downpour: we watched the stampede of our companions who ran to the bus, while an intense smell of wet dust rose from the ground and a dense curtain of rain surrounded our ruin, transforming it into a warm, muffled protective hood. We were alone. He shivered: - I'm cold. - It's not cold at all, indeed it's very hot. - I objected, laughing - Maybe you're not feeling well. - You're right, I'm not feeling so well. He was chattering his teeth. - Here, - I said to him - take my parka. I wrapped it around his shoulders; he clung to it with his fingers and clenched his jaw in an unnatural contraction. Then he turned to look at me in an absurd, almost pleading way, and let himself fall onto my chest with the abandon of a child. Of what happened next, I keep a memory made up of fragments, a sense not of shame but of astonishment: the glassy silence, the sound of the rain, the sand in my clenched jaw, a musky smell of withered butterflies, dreamlike gestures without depth, without echo, my hands too rough for the silk of his hair. In the end, he stood up first and looked outside: - Let's go, - he said - the rain has stopped. I stood up too, unsteady on my legs, hunching my shoulders as if under a leaden cloak. - There's something strange - he said as we walked towards the bus. - What? - I asked him. He shook his head and burst into a short laugh that stabbed me in the back. Then, suddenly serious again, he replied: - I don't know. We're flying downwards. ... The return flight by plane was a madman's sick dream. I sat by the window; he sat next to me and leaned his arm against mine. I looked outside, gasping for air in the thick heat. Someone came to ask me something about the strike planned for next week: he answered in my place, saying seriously that it was not the time, that it was better to resolve the matter at the table. My eyes wavered, I had an incurable grimace on my face: my companions looked at me in amazement and left without replying. Emmanuel was afraid of flying and during takeoff he clung to me. He closed his eyes and bent a leg against his chest, resting his sneaker on the seat to hide the gesture of his left hand seeking mine. It was raining, the plane was going through continuous turbulence: I saw lightning strike around us, illuminating the blackness of the clouds as day. His fear turned into excitement: with every air pocket, his hand pressed mine, his chest rose in slow breaths, he had feverishly shining eyes. He spread the k-way on his lap to cover our movements. Then he got up without saying anything and went to the bathroom. After a few minutes, I followed him. At the threshold, he turned to look at me: I was sucked into the vortex of his eyes. I waited a few minutes between his return and mine. When I sat back down, he was lying with his eyelids closed and the ineffable expression of an archaic statue on his face. As I straddled his legs to sit down, I caught the looks of my companions and professors: there was no reproach or irony in their eyes, only a mute, inexpressible dismay. ... Our story only lasted a few weeks. I loved every moment spent with him, but his gentle, cold passivity mortally wounded me: Emmanuel let me do as I pleased, but it was evident that he didn't desire me. I remember distinctly our last time together. We were in my attic; suddenly he got up from the sofa and put on This Is The Day by Captain Beefheart, a song on which we had a serious difference of opinion a few days before: I considered the entire album unworthy of the Captain, while Emmanuel appreciated it; I had pointed out that his tastes were a bit too commercial for a connoisseur which he boasted of being, and this had offended him, but I had not realized how deeply. I still remember my speech: "Well, I don't expect you to appreciate an experiment in deconstructing all musical stereotypes like Trout Mask Replica, that brilliant anthology of chaos in Scaruffi's words, but you can't even reduce yourself to easy listening, my boy. Listen to Kandy Korn, if you really want something easier: at least it doesn't take itself seriously." He had simply replied: "It seems to me that you haven't grasped the irony of the lyrics." He had emptied a glass of tequila in one breath and had collapsed onto my bed, reaching out an arm towards me. I had been surprised by his passivity in the face of my provocation: I believe he was waiting for the right moment to give me an exemplary lesson, and that moment had arrived. He lay down on the sofa with his face resting on his forearm and remained silent, watching me for the entire duration of the song. For four minutes and fifty-six seconds, while the poignant phrasing of that suddenly sublime guitar embroidered indelible scars on my heart, I was forced to endure the torture of his beautiful face in the clear frame of his hair scattered on the black pillow, the stagnant blue of his steady and absent eyes, a hint of a smile on his lips, his mind elsewhere, elsewhere. The message was clear: he knew he was desired, but this time he wouldn't let himself fall onto my bed. In the end, he got up without a word, turned off the stereo, and slung the jacket over his shoulder. On the threshold, he turned around: "See you at school" he said coldly, and left. I collapsed onto the sofa and downed the bottle of tequila; my heart rate was racing as if I had run up the five flights of stairs to my attic. In that moment, I understood that to love Emmanuel, one had to have a heart of asbestos. He was killing me: I stopped looking for him, he did nothing to see me again. I Soon returned to my place of combat, the usual champion of reason against the rampant irrationalism of the most extreme fringe of the struggle, but I had become verbose and professorial, and sometimes someone would whistle at me, because through the cracks of the ancient adamant charisma, broken glass and bottle bottoms could be seen glinting. Sometimes I would find him sitting on the floor of the assembly hall during the assemblies, like that first time: he would wave to me with a smile. If I met him along the corridors, we exchanged casual talk about the weather and school; he always answered politely, without the slightest allusion to what had been, until a gesture, an involuntary look brought that smell of withered butterflies back to my nostrils, and then I would walk away with an imbecile smile. Now I'm in my second year of law school and I'm engaged. I don't really think I'll become a politician.