Lento Violento – Talisa Lallai

‚Up the hill, along the street‘ they called to them just before they disappeared behind the corner of the house.
The never-ending heat, the uneven cobblestones, dirty from last night’s crowds of the restaurants and bars, their patina reflecting the sun, stood in stark contrast with the freshly washed sheets, underclothes and towels on the washing lines hanging from the closed windows of the first and second storey: the demarcation between above and below; less hierarchical than symbolic. Precisely this distinction gave the place something mystical – not eerie, much more unknown, downright undiscovered, unexplored.

The silence in the streets, undisturbed, furthered even, by cats darting past, was increased by the rays of the sun burning on the pates. As if a bell cover had been placed on the village, oxygen and sounds disappeared like in a vacuum, leaving the dull impression that outside influences were kneading the core of one’s brain until it turns to pulp, whereby the so called normality, life in the streets, conversations, laughter and families, would surely return soon. Wouldn’t they?

There is no life in the streets during this time of the year and day.
The cooling and freshly smelling air of said washing lines – which carried the towels that, from the seawater, had temporarily turned into salt sculptures, but managed to free themselves from this condition, represented all that was human at this place and time – made the search more bearable, even if there didn’t seem to be an actual goal. The flowerpots mounted on the walls, which indeed presaged the lovingly arranged bouquets by still or maybe always anonymous families, deflated due to the heat and dryness. Only the simple thought that it would rain again, allowed to imagine what these flowers must have looked like once. The hope for something liquid gave solace in this situation – both to oneself and to the surroundings.
The buildings’ back walls hiding from the heat, only frequented by tightly embracing lovers during the night, were graced with the leftovers of maybe already fading messages of love. Not a soul in sight during the day, just about every area of town turned into a place overwhelmed by laughter at night.
The yellow of the street lights at once acrid and emanating well-being, which was produced by the gas collected in the head of the lamp, had something toxic, albeit not dangerous, well-nigh romantic. More so it conveyed the semblance of a hot, never-ending night amidst a square lined by palm trees and baroque buildings and churches. The heat, which already during the day was almost pleasantly unbearable, abated only imperceptibly towards darkness, and cajoled the youths, whose voices echoed into the night despite their fatigue, into a lethargic trancelike state they could only escape with cooling alcohol.
Solely the hope and anticipation of a less muggy period gave comfort in these circumstances, even if this is captivated as soon as it comes about and the yellow is exchanged for grey, day and night become one, and the state between not-being-able-to and not-wanting-to is dissolved. Will there be another summer?

Felix Gaudlitz
(Translated from German)