Narration of Cedric Trasante (une histoire européenne)*

 





...In fact, Cedric Trasante was feeling (but later) that the streets jailed him, caged him, the streets, the open air oppressed him, same in Paris, same in Montevideo, Cedric Trasante.
The reasons to leave Montevideo in 1.974 were as mysterious as sinister, first, Cedric Trasante lived in Aamsterdaam, Dutch city, a place where the people use many A's in the words and where the marijuana is permitted.

Later, later Cedric Trasante lived in Rome, yes, Rome, the so-called eternal city, with its fountains, dry summers and mild winters: exactly, Cedric Trasante descended from a plane of Alitalia in the middle of July of 1.975, exhausted and thirsty he walked all over Rome during a long day that never ended, quite different to Montevideo, when the days end at a respectable hour, say, 9,35 PM.
Cedric Trasante was scandalized because, in Rome, still there was sunlight at 10,50 PM

lost and tired, finally he arrived at the gates of the Trevi Fountain
desperate he realized that the fountain was completely dry: some yellow dogs were walking around, as desperate as him.

Apparently the aqueducts that supplied water to the city got completely dried after a persistent Saharan wave (the south winds), common winds that blow over Rome from May to August, also called Sirocco.
When the atmosphere becomes irrespirable, and the sky gets ironed, the Sirocco gets dispersed by the Mistral, which comes from the north-west, bringing a short but invigorating freshness for the Roman women to wash their vaginas in the fountains, and for the dogs to dance.

All this rare Mediterranean contrasts suffocated Cedric Trasante, even more than his days in the nebulous and bucolic Aamsterdaam, since he was a tranquil man from the profound meadows of Uruguay (Fray Bentos), a place where everything stands still, cows, women, men, forage and tractors.

After sleeping in the sidewalk that canicular night of July, he reminded the spirit that brought him to Europe, in a flight of Pluna: previously to his journey, the open streets of Montevideo in 1.974 where the streets of the world, a world that hadn't limits, that wasn't hampered by any obstacle at all: the free streets of a world of 1.974...suddenly Cedric Trasante did stand up and shout, like waking up from a devilish nightmare: the italian birds still sleeping on the Rome's streets trees got shocked and disturbed

the dawn just was starting to show her rosy fingertips in the sky.

A couple of days later the humanity and suitcases of Cedric Trasante were flying to Paris, it was a cheap, melancholic and short flight, like the flight of a rat bat blue.

Like the flight of the ñandu.




The patriotic streets of Paris received him with a July silvery sun reflected on the memories of a dream, without water, and with shiny-black boots of grenadiers on parade in front of unidentified mausoleums.


...In fact, Cedric Trasante was feeling (but later) that the streets jailed him, caged him, the streets, the open air oppressed him, same in Paris, same in Montevideo, Cedric Trasante.























*Against all odds and strangely, the story doesn't end here, neither so sadly as it seems, nor so expectedly unfortunate as the decisions and apparent fate of the protagonist seem to suggest.