Mid-morning… the three of them are leaning on the peeling wall…
– Why do we bury ourselves in this dusty forgotten village?
– How about we travel?
– To where?
– The world is wide… there are always horizons to reach.
– Aren’t we going to be consumed by nostalgia?
– Nostalgia to this wasteland?! To the sandstorms?! To a country its people are always in a hurry but do nothing?!
The taxi station… each one of them rides a car… each one of them sits in the backseat… each one of them blows vapour and wipes the glass with his elbow… each one of the looks to the village moving faraway and getting smaller behind the misty glass.
The village fades… the hearts are enticed… picking up the details missed by the eyes… the low houses with corrugated iron roofs… Ghalia’s rooster… that calls on the steps of the Old Italian church with its arched and tiled roof… the well… the winding streams… the oven’s fire and its hot crunchy loaves… the scent of the mint and basil troughs… the whore’s house at the neighbouring forest… where her seekers made a path in the rocks… the drunks who donate money to build the mosque… the walls stained with obscene writings and slogans of the revolution…
In the evening… the three of them are leaning on the peeling wall… and laughing…!