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Sometimes he thought that the world was becoming all the same, Chengdu China that, truly, the world had finally become a village, and the village, in spite of it all, a kind of world. That song accompanied the loneliness and the flights into the night of Chengdu China the youth in the Big Apple, but also the dreams of young people in a place whose inhabitants were fewer than those who lived in a single skyscraper of the Chengdu China metropolis. When he travelled to Chengdu China or other cities, however, it became apparent to him that both those who stay and those who leave need to tell each other fables, and that the world isn’t at all the same. The soul of the places where we live forms a part of our own soul.

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In the streets of New York he felt comfortable, serene, without a past and imagined that it was a place where he might be able to live. He stared at the faces of passers-by as if seeking his own happy double.

Mara walked over to Vittorio and fumbled for his hair. She rested her head on his shoulder, as if to say: “Something remains, it’s not all over.” They embraced as if to confirm that they hadn’t disappeared, as had happened to the old village. Vittorio got up and went to the balcony, looking for the sun that had already set.

“Never mind, I beg you,” he said with the tone of someone who is returning from a mysterious world. “It doesn’t make much sense now. Don’t let me stay in the village, don’t imagine me in a place outside of time where nothing happens. We’re no longer who we once were, and even they didn’t fare so well together. I don’t want to think any more, I want to go far away, to fly up, like a child on his wooden horse, over that tuft of white and purple clouds, chasing after the sun to catch up to it near the sea just before it hides in the water and darkness falls.”

The village was behind us. Once past the last curve, the one known as Pietra di Sale (Salt Rock) Junca would disappear from his view, unless he turned back to look and risk crashing on the asphalt. As he negotiated all the curves Gio liked to play the game “now you see me now you don’t” with the village as it came into view only to disappear again. At the crossroads, the turnoff to the left led to Vibo Valentia on the provincial road, while on the right the Via Regia (The Royal Road), so called in memory of a journey made on it by a Bourbon king, led to the Angitola, to Pizzo and the entrance to the highway. On one side the road would take him to the shop where he worked as an apprentice mechanic, while on the other side the road led to the sea, the beach and the summer.

Gio was torn between duty and pleasure, between work that would teach him a trade, and his friends who were waiting for him, beer in hand, at the beach. He was caught in a bind and juggled as best he could to choose the road that led to pleasure without feeling too much guilt. He’d already told his parents, in no uncertain terms, that school was his own fucking business, and he had no use for it. His mother and father knew very well that this child of theirs would find it difficult to graduate from school. In order not to add to their disappointment Gio promised that he would become the best in whatever field he chose to work.

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