The journey of hope

The journey of hope... dreg-like words, among the many left at the bottom of the day. I read them at the chemist's shop, on a glas jar by the cash register: there was a slot to put the money in and a photo of a little boy stuck on with sticky tape, one of those children that needs to be taken far away to have an operation, a journey of hope, indeed. I turn on my pillow, breathing hard. I look at Giuliano's body, motionless, heavy. He is sleeping in his usual way, on his back, bare-chested. Now and then he emits a little grunt from his mouth, like a placid animal flicking away midges. Hope – I think of this word, which takes shape in the darkness. It has the face of a slightly cowed woman, one of those who drag their defeat along with them and yet continue to struggle along with dignity. My face, perhaps – that of an ageing girl, frozen in time, out of loyalty, out of fear. I go out onto the terrace and view the usual scene. The apartment block opposite ours, the shutters closed. The bar with its sign extinguished. There's the silence of the city, the dust of distant noises. Rome sleeps. Its festivity, its quagmire, sleep. They sleep in the suburbs. The pope sleeps, his red shoes are empty.