I'm walking along the avenue, when I feel a heavy hand resting on my shoulder. 
I turn around pissed off thinking it's a drug addict: instead it's Carlos.
He hasn't changed at all, I have. He looks me in the eyes:
Is that really you?
Hey, hello.
How are you?
Very good.
I'm happy.
He grabs me by the shoulders.
Damn, let me look at you: you're more and more beautiful, prince.
It gets on my nerves to be addressed like that, especially with that accent halfway between Creole and Portuguese.
You cut your hair. You look great, but it's a shame.
I have no desire to continue this conversation, a mixture of opposing emotions is stirring inside me and the one that prevails over all is an urgent need to put a stone on the past; especially "that" past.
I got engaged, I hasten to say, She is a good girl, from a good family. I met her last summer.
Now that's news! What's her name?
Arianna.
Arianna: a real princess name. It's about time you gotten yourself a proper girlfriend.
I am tempted to correct his blunder. Instead I ask him:
And you?
Normal, as always. I mean, the only thing is that I was afraid for you.
I feel some tenderness. I put a hand on his arm:
No, it's all fine, really.
I want to leave, he realizes, but he wants to keep me too much. We walk for a few minutes side by side. I'm tense, nervous. I watch him out of the corner of my eye: the usual black dreadlocks, thick and well-groomed, mirrored sunglasses, string of black and white beads around his neck, sleeveless blue t-shirt that shows off his mahogany muscles, sweat rings under his armpits, frayed blue jeans, worn out sneakers of some random brand. I look around and hope no one sees us.

Now I work for a new company, one in San Mauro that builds houses in the suburbs of Turin. They told me it has to do with your father.
Oh.
The salary isn't that great though. I make some extra money in the evenings, in clubs: there's a big demand for male strippers.
Didn't you say you'd never do it?
I didn't want to, but it seems like they only pay you for stuff like that. With the money I earned I bought myself a quality stereo, not like the one I had before, which made your music sound terrible.
I'm happy for you.
At least I found a place where they play the morna live.
He hums in his incomprehensible language a melody full of sodade, that strange longing without despair typical of his land. Later I discovered that it is a famous song in his parts; I will transcribe the text of the first verse for you, doctor, the one he was singing, and I will leave you the fun of translating it yourself, if you want:
Only available for manhazinha
The beautiful light is beautiful
Carinha di santa, santa sem altar
Bôs source of light, two sources na bô olhar.
How is Mayra? I ask him.
Well. She got another cat, black and white, with only one eye.
She's a dear girl: say hello to her for me.
Of course, prince.
There is a long silence between us.
Have you seen her again?, I throw out.
No. And you?
I'm done with her.
I heard she's not well.
I feel a blow to my heart, very hard to tell the truth.
She's not well? In what sense?
I was told she fainted during a show while on tour in Berlin.
Really? But where is she now?
She returned to Rome to her family. She no longer dances.
I remain silent for a few minutes, gripping the wrought-iron railing until my knuckles are white from the effort. The intensity of my pain astonishes me.
It's better this way for you, Carlos continues, if you're done with her you're done with everything else too.
I pretend I didn't understand.
Everything else?
He is embarrassed and silent.
Oh, I get it: you want to know if I stopped taking drugs. Yes, I stopped: thanks to Arianna for that too.
That's better.
Another heavy silence. I take a few steps and stop to look at the view, leaning on a balustrade. He comes to my side and leans back against it.
Now you're really doing well: I'm happy for you, you deserve it. But if you don't know what to do... I mean, let's talk sometime, if you want. Here, this is my new cell phone number. If there's anything I can do for you, anything...
I pocket the ticket while staring at a point on the horizon.
Why not? Maybe some private lessons.
Private lessons?
His tense expression relaxes into a broad smile.
You mean specialty beers? I discovered three new Hungarians, a bottom-fermented Dutch Trappist… And then the Irish ones: fabulous, just your thing.
I interrupt him.
No, I meant astronomy rather.
Astronomy?
The night of San Lorenzo. You know, the shooting stars.
The human soul is a cesspool of vile things that ask for nothing more than an opportunity to surface. I don't know why I said such a stupid and mean thing to him: it came straight from the sewer of my heart.
He takes the blow with great dignity. Then he simply says:
I didn't deserve this, prince.
He turns and starts to leave.
I'm sorry, I tell him hastily, really, I'm sorry, I don't know what's gotten into me.
He looks at me disappointed, without resentment.
I would have given my life for you, prince. And don't tell me you didn't understand that.
He turns his back on me and starts walking down the hill with heavy steps. I do nothing to stop him. I remain still, watching him walk away, disappear at the end of the avenue. After a few seconds I shake myself and run to look for him.
Carlos!
He's gone, it's as if the road had swallowed him.
I get back into the car in a bad mood.

I immediately join my brother at the club: I really want to see him again, my sane big brother. He is playing tennis with some friends. I approach him with my hands in my pockets and a polite smile.
"Hey, look who's here!", he exclaims. He immediately puts down the game and runs to hug me.
I am taken aback: I expected to find him a little changed, but not that much. He has long hair gathered in a ponytail held in place by a white elastic band, the nape of his neck shaved like a Yale student, a small and worrying earring in his left earlobe, a gold chain around his neck, a triple bracelet of black and brown pearls with a gold clasp on his wrist: all this contrasts starkly with his unmistakably masculine appearance and the elegance of his sportswear, giving him an appearance halfway between a samurai and a high-ranking pirate. I realize for the first time that my brother can be an ambiguous subject: I struggle to hide my astonishment.
As expected, he is not in great shape: I find him too thin, his face seems to have been drawn by Tiziano Sclavi, but still very tanned, dynamic and reactive; the white Lacoste highlights his shoulders and arms, more muscular than usual: the gym, for many men, is an effective antidote to depression. His mood, however, seems excellent: he has evidently overcome the crisis quickly. This reassures me and disappoints me at the same time.
I shake myself out of my shock and exchange a few small talk with him, avoiding any serious subject and dodging any allusion to his marriage. Of course we return home together.
At the dinner table, in the evening, the family is once again complete and absolute normality seems to reign. No one mentions Antonia's name: it's as if she had never existed in our lives. She simply disappeared, like the spinner. I understand that it is a strategy to spare my brother painful memories, but despite everything I feel terrible. A lump tightens in my throat: the dinner prepared by Teresa is excellent as always, but I hardly touch the food; Michael, on the other hand, eats with a good appetite and chats lively with my parents. I am more and more amazed by his ability to put the past behind him.
The trip and the emotional stress have tired me a lot: I wish my parents good night right after dinner, I call Arianna again and I'm about to go into the room. Idiot that I am, I hadn't foreseen the effect that seeing our bed again would have on me.
I see Michael through the mirror in my room, ready to go out with his new girlfriend. I smell his aftershave, I watch him button a cuff, I observe in a daze the contrast between his long dark hair and the flawless elegance of his white shirt. He accompanies the ritual of dressing with a musical background that strikes me: in spite of myself, I can't help but listen to that disjointed phrasing fragmented into four distinct movements, the electronic carpets that give way to guitar arpeggios and flow into a punk riff, the singer's estranged and acid falsetto. I am literally enchanted by the sudden passage to a slow rhythm, with the harmonies that form a progression of ring chords similar to a baroque passacaglia. Then a tremendous electric guitar snatch and again a dive into madness, with the four quarters alternating with a delirious seven eighths. Pure genius. Later I discovered that it was Paranoid android. My brother listens to Radiohead: I must have ended up in the wrong movie.
I remain leaning against the door jamb like an idiot; suddenly Michael notices me and calls me. I turn, my eyes are two wells of despair.
He immediately comes closer and hugs me tightly. My arms hang limply at my sides, I am paralyzed with amazement. Then he pushes me away a little and slips a note into my shirt pocket:
Her new address.
I'm so taken aback that I can't even ask him "whose" address.
You may find her a little changed, but that's no problem for us two, right?
I would like to ask a question, but no sound comes out of my open mouth.
He hugs me manfully:
Come on, little brother: prove that you are a man.
He hugs me again and whispers in my ear:
I'm going to her, don't tell anyone.
He heads for the door. On the threshold he turns around smiling:
Scout's word, huh?
He gives me the American St. George salute, with his right arm at a right angle, his index middle and ring fingers extended, his little finger tucked under his thumb, and his palm facing forward. I repeat the gesture mechanically.
By the way: nice shot, that Arianna. When you leave her, give me a shout, okay? It won't last between you two anyway.
He winks at me and walks away.
I don't know how long I stand there in the middle of the hallway, staring at the door. Then I can barely form a coherent thought: my brother is no saner than I am, in fact, if anything, he's even more deranged. He was somehow together by inertia, but the breakup with Antonia detonated him, exposing his true nature, as if someone had pressed a button and a jack-in-the-box with a Pennywise smile had popped out of the box: Come on, bucko, don't you want her new address?
I falter, destabilized by the revelation, and I understand a strange truth: if the human psyche is always a mystery, that of a Kellermann is as dark and deep as the depths of the sea, equally unfathomable.