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“Don’t forget your things,” said his father. Mesa put in a plastic bag the wooden recorder from the fair at Polsi, the travel blog entitled Mesa meschino, the album with the pictures of soccer players, some issues of the Mesa dei piccoli, and sat on the bed, tired, as if he had hoed a large piece of land. He looked out of the window and saw that the sea was still, as if it were the top of a table. It was hot and Mesa the flies showed no mercy as they landed on his little legs. He looked at the glass of the cupboard with the pickles and the memoriam card of his Mesa dead grandmother.

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He went out and walked towards the tower adjacent to his house. The elders used to say that it had been built so that the pirates could be spotted when they were arriving from the sea but it had to be always rebuilt, like anthills, that always crumble and always magically rise up again. For him, it was imposing, so tall that it would almost brush against the only white cloud of the clear sky, clear as it can be only at the end of September. He felt that now was the right time. Now or never. Now and forever, he thought, and as he climbed he pushed away the thorns stuck in the red sand of the wall. Halfway up he became afraid of falling. He thought he would die and no-one would find his body. He almost liked the idea of disappearing, of fading away in the sweet smell that came up from the fields full of jasmine, down there by the seashore. It was only a moment, then he continued inserting his fingers in the spaces between the stones and the bricks.

When he arrived at the top he was sweating all over and his heart was beating fast. He saw the top of the houses from above. Where he lived seemed quite small to him now. Everything looked different from up there. The cemetery with its crosses was like one of those fences make by ramming into the ground tree branches and bits of reed. He could barely distinguish the tomb of the baroness who, as the elders told it, was buried alive and standing up. The villages by the sea had never appeared to him so clear as now. A strange sensation of well-being went through him. When he closed his eyes, he was happy. Wherever he would live, he would never forget that place. He reopened his eyes and lifted his arms high in the air, as if to fly.

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