"In a living room an old lady spoke of her life. She was willing to live it all again to prove that he had lived wisely. Yes, I thought, his life is one that must live twice before you can say it was really lived "Karen Blixen
gaze stopped on the series next to the photo in silver frame : friendly faces masked against the backdrop of Venice, a slice of bell.
much time had passed and what was far away in Italy at that time.
Iris sat on the edge of the bed came the muffled voice of the beloved:
"But how? You are not ready yet "And so saying
grabbed the hanger with the garment, by turning waltz roses on fabric.
thoughts went to another memory.
was the last night of the year.
was curious how it was December and it was the right time.
But when the opportunity presents itself for many years rifesteggiare that night. Every time someone came back, every time you wanted to meet.
And so it happened that New Year's Eve in the spring, or some hot summer night, this gave them the illusion of having cheated the time, only the mirror was merciless on the wrinkles and the years that passed.
had chosen Africa, some already knew from Italy, had been joined by other friends, left, found on the road and their houses on the coast with Chinese lanterns lit the evening were the reassuring "Welcome," Karibu in Swahili.
Iris got dressed and walked across the kitchen, he was curious how people there were, they still had their place in his field of vision, such as plaster casts in Pompeii.
The aura that each of us leaves, a crumpled pillow, a gardenia at the door, the movement of chess, one hand grasping a book in a hundred others. Hugs.
They spent all there, this was curious, and sat at the big walnut table that was brought from Italy, came for dinner, for advice, to laugh or to cry and followed them home with his blessing .
Iris ran his hand over the wood grain, like veins on the skin.
and light candles, the scent of jacaranda and frangipani and the tablecloth with the poinsettias that clashed in the middle of summer but it was their way of augurasi "Happy New Year", first because it was not possible.
But that night was really Dec. 31 and who was there would go to Club Mnarani
There were many African and warm air of the evening wrapped with the poignant sweetness of a kanga.
People came and went, liquid in her glass of wine and bubbly.
Even the movements of people and their foibles or their faults, they talk about them before you even see them.
So did that jacket out of place on the arm of a sofa.
I stroked the cut with his eyes and looked up among the people to guess the profile, from behind, and hear the laughter, roaring like summer rain on parched earth.
Iris put his empty glass on a tray.
He turned and left.
The voices of the festival came from the rhythmic thunder of fireworks.
who spent a year at midnight and goes.
The ocean roared down over the reef and the African new moon swinging between the palms.
Kwaheri read the sign, bye.
walked up to his house.
Slowly. The distracted a little knock.
While looking at the roses on her dress, she thought of days gone by, other flowers, sad days, days where Kwaheri was a bit 'less painful farewell. A day of death, that everyone in Africa had asked its price. Mesta begging everyone was paid, the absence was the veil that went down as Amboseli, the fog, hiding the Kilimanjaro.
It came out of the window the sun and the scent of frangipani, like that time, Iris thought, as every time there were all down in his lawn at his home echoing voices friends.
There were in days of celebration and silent in days of sorrow.
came back in waves and sat down at his old walnut table where she sat, but only on certain evenings on the back with a kanga, dogs on the floor with his nose flattened prick up their ears when they felt the wind noise out on the plains .
tea in the cupboard and stories to tell, when he came out of Tsavo.
or Lake Baringo, even in his memories remained those pink flamingos in perfect balance, perfect as a doll of sugar on a birthday cake.
's friend came to the door, Iris slipped his hand on her dress.
"Shall we go? I do not think you will wait much longer "
On the dresser was left of the photo carnival in Venice, but it looked like another life, the roof beams makuti still had the impression that they had been drawn up, for art, like a Cathedral, the house in Kenya.
And the house retains the aura of those who had crossed for a coffee, for advice, to stay long or short moments.
Iris heard echoing his heels as he crossed the kitchen and came out on the lawn when he saw the silhouettes of acacia trees, palms, casuarina trees, and the faces of those who had loved, who were there, like a new year out of date.
walked slowly. The destroyed a hand held out a gardenia.
And yet the shadow of a deja-vu, the absence distracted. But it would be much later.
That was the time of the frangipane.
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