BIANCA (english version)

The room was melancholyly empty as I walked around distracted ... the paintings hung on the wall had never been so lacking in interest to me ... empty ... unable to communicate ... dehydrated by appeal.

The exegesis of the author's poetics hanging on the original wall was still, if possible, more melancholic than the works of the same, all painted in an indefinite penumbra which, in my own way, could not at all know the light that might have been proposed while were dashed; or perhaps I was to find myself in my dark part and could not grasp the splendor; however they were in fact, I was alone in this exhibition at Palazzo Braschi and it was the thing that most of all attracted my attention.

I sat on a bench in the middle of the room for contemplation use of the proposal, and I began to look for an explanation of why I found myself alone; I kept silent for a long time without arriving at any rational conclusion and ended up miserably to fate it.

So I got up and down my head and started to go to the exit; after two steps, a question sprung from a female voice broke the silence in which I seemed to be immersed: "do not you like it?"

 

I turned around, on the doorstep of a side door at the open room there was a minute woman with long black hair, round eyes, a long, terrible, orange dress and flip-flops at her feet; if he had a dark skin instead of diaphan, I would take it for a saint who came from India devoted to a God of that sub continent. 

"No, actually not now, but maybe this was not the right day to come and see them," I said, almost embarrassed.

"It seems to me a good word to be kind to the one who painted them ..." she replied in a loud voice, lowering his gaze at the same time, as if to conceal an emerging shyness.

 

 "The paintings are you, all right?" I managed to say in an incredible embarrassment that flared on me,  lighting on my face a red tint to envy a postcard sunset.

"Yes", she whispered, finding the courage to look into my eyes this time.

"I'm sorry, I did not want ... that is, I really do not think I can be in a moment to express any judgment ..." I said, looking for an unlikely retrieval of the conversation, which actually closed at the end of my sentence along with the door where he stopped to talk to me. 

So, I went out, and made myself move away from that place, where everything that had happened to me seemed so unreal that it was not in reality.

After a few passages in the penumbra of the light of a surreal sunset, incredibly the works I saw returned to my vision, revealing what they really wanted to communicate; it was the same light and who had been able to catch it had to have a feeling beyond common, I thought.

 

I turned to go back, took a few steps, and an Indian boy with a rose in his hand came out of a bar; he offered it and I bought it. 

I paid the entrance ticket again. I crossed the distracted room again. I came to the door. I knocked. I put the rose behind her back. The door opened. That ethereal presence came out again. He lowered his eyes again to the ground. With my left hand I lifted my chin. With the right I offered him the flower. He smiled at last. The room suddenly turned overhead.

"You are good Bianca, and you are also beautiful ..." are the last words I remember saying in a day that changed my life forever ...