He was expected in Wien, but never got there. He crossed the border at night, the jacket in tears, the blood-soaked save-conduct in the pocket and a wound in the belly.
When the feeble lights of the village blinked in the dark, he realized how ridiculous that entire story was and leaned against a wall before passing out. It was a bizarre sensation, something like being caught by strong hands and thrown abruptly through a hole in the ground. The liquid torpor he was floating on was animated by jelly like voices which exhorted him not to give up. “Only slivers” they said, “can sew up the interstices between life and death and blood” they went on, “is the essential condition to pass through the two-dimensional door”.
He woke up and stared for a while at the colorless filament of the dawn across the room.
Instinctively, he lifted the blanket and looked at his belly. It was untouched. The head fell back on the pillow while the last nocturnal frame faded definitively away. The sea came to his mind along with the stillness of the wrecks after great, terrible storms.
He stood up and went to the window. A line of houses which looked alike were drying in the sun. The parking lot was empty.
“Oh God, give me a fresh start” he thought and looked the other way”I’d like to be a fisherman, with a yellow and pale blue boat in the water off the port of Camogli”.