Erik Pethersen - The Ball

«Here, we are getting there. Passion, attraction, desire: they are emotions that everybody feels. Do you know how all these feelings together are called?»

«In one word, do you mean? Are we heading back to lexical semantics?»

«No, it’s not that difficult: they are called love.»

I look at the glass and the bubbles whirling and spiralling upwards. I take a sip and I look at the notary staring at me.

«Fine. Love is attraction, passion and desire: right... Anyway, where is the female sphere?»

«Sorry but what do you match with love? If you think about love, what is the first thing that gets into your mind?»

«Instinctively? I don’t know. I would say a woman. I associate love with a woman.»

«You see, we have gone back to our primary list. It is not only at the top, but it takes up all the positions.»

I grab my glass again while I realize that this rosé liquid is not enough to deal with the notary, a stronger chemical substance is now necessary, as I had already considered in the afternoon, right after the discussion over the slut.

«I got lost a little in the logics of the primary list. Passion and feelings trigger everything and I would agree with that, but what if passion was not connected to the female sphere? People can be passionate about going fast with the four wheels underneath them, propelled by a four- stroke engine; for sure that is pure passion, attraction, desire to meet or overcome one’s own limits. If we put the three feelings together, we get love: love for speed, love to run on a stripe of tarmac. It’s okay so far and I think it is all romantic but what has the attraction for a woman or for another person got to do with all this?»

«It’s love! You don’t have to force it into all this: it is already in, it is the feeling that triggers everything off. Everything works because of love. It is already in us and it interacts with the outside world: we do not make that feeling by ourselves» the notary said.

«So, there is nothing without love? And that is because love triggers off everything. So, you run around a racing track in your own matt black car because you are unconsciously pushed by love?»

«Yes, Brando, you are getting my point. If you want to go back to lexical semantics, which you seem to fancy so much, we could put èros into play too.»

«Love is èros: they are not synonyms, Alessandro.»

«Not quite. Èros is always a life instinct, impulse, desire: love is the same feeling, the same life impulse.»

The notary takes a sip of wine.

I look at my glass and at the few bubbles left.

«Passion, attraction, desire, impulse: love, eros. It all makes sense, Brando.»

«Èros pushes everything: I could almost agree with you» I say. I look out the glass window: two youths are hugging each other walking up the street, towards me. The blue glow materialises again in my mind. The vision I had in the morning is certainly perfect to trigger off a considerable feeling of attraction: an urge, a simple instinct not slowed down by a lengthy neuronal processing.

«Why almost?»

«Not to make you feel that you are quite right.»

I take my glass and I get rid of the bubbles left. There could be more to it, though. Life is not just based on impulses, there is more to it, a bunch of different feelings and emotions, without taking into account the reason and all the rest of it.»

«Brando, look at this table between us: it is square and wooden. Look at it all, in its whole.»

I push my vertebrae against the back of my chair, I move the chair a few centimetres back and I look at the table.

«Can you see the table completely from where you are?»

«Yes, notary. I can see it all, in its whole.»

«How many legs has it got?» he asks laughing.

«I’d say four» I reply, looking at him askance.

«Are you really sure?»

«Yes, I am sure» I reply, shaking my head a bit as a sign of disapproval for his sneaky and vindictive rhetorical question.

«Do you know why you see four?» he asks. «Because this table has four legs, like the one in my office: sic et simpliciter !»

I lower down the windows of my car a bit. The cool air lashes my face, while I set the volume on 24; this morning I played the Solstafir album, it is not that bad.

I glance at the display, looking for the title of the track now playing, and I identify it as Sjúki skugginn 1. As I have already done now more than twelve hours ago, I think that each track should have a meaning, no matter how difficult the language is. I am going to read the lyrics again, or at least to give the titles some sort of meaning.

Bass guitars play really low: let’s higher up to 32.

I overcome the humps and I swirl to the left, I cut through the roundabout, keeping an eye on the central kerb, I merge onto the avenue that leads to the university. The lanes are all free from traffic.

I get it into second gear, driving along the wide roundabout of the emergency room and I press my foot on the accelerator. In about three hundred metres, as soon as I get to the roundabout of the baseball field, I have to drive along it and take the third exit, towards the avenue leading to my house.

When the engine is around 4.700 revolutions, I take a wide turn on the right and I see an electric blue car coming in front of me, in the opposite direction. It seems quite slow and quite far away: it will get to the roundabout after me.

I press my break and I put my car into second gear to prepare for the narrow roundabout, while I am looking at the porphyry stripe that borders the central island, where I want to drive over with my two inner tires. I steer to the left, while I just feel a sudden tingling in my nose: I sneeze. The air that comes out so suddenly from my lungs makes me jump. My left hand swerves the steering wheel and brings it back to the standard position.

Bloody hell, I lost control, I ended up in the camellias. The car jolts a little. I go straight and I slow down. I stop by the roadside, and I put the hazard lights on.

The electric blue car drives past me and goes on.

I get out of the car and I head to the porphyry stripe which runs around the camellias. I made such a mess. I have driven over the three plants on the outer side.

I squat down and I reach out to the plants: they snapped, crushed into the soil, broken up. Poor them.

I get back to my car, feeling sad.

The electric blue car too has stopped with the hazard lights on beyond the roundabout. I look at it for a few seconds: the LED light bulbs off the lamppost light it up from up above, making it a more sparkling blue.

I make a U-turn and I take the road leading to the university. I drive to the very end, I turn left and drive into my driveway.

1Sólstafir ( artist ), Svartir sandar ( album title ), Sjúki skuggin ( track title ), 2011 ( year )

I say hi to Mauro, busy reading the Giornale di Brescia every morning in his small glass house, and I head for the lifts.

A dark spot materializes down there. I continue with a slow pace and reach the area in front of the push button panel. The black spot greets me and I reciprocate. Maybe I smiled too much, but I did it naturally, surprised by the friendliness of a character with such a gloomy appearance.

The central lift reaches the ground floor and we go in. I’ve never seen him, but he behaves as if the place is very familiar to him, so I don’t think he’s an occasional visitor in the building. His gaze is gentle as he asks me what floor I’m going to.

«Seven, please» I smile. Maybe too much again. But this time I smile because of his hair, really messy.