This is my story. It would almost be true if the wind weren’t blowing at my back, making my skin crawl. The story is my story, and it doesn’t veer to the right or left. My story moves forward straight ahead, like the silent footsteps that measure time. Listen to the minutes passing by, like the slow chewing of someone falling asleep at the table. Listen to the bell tower, listen to the wind, listen to the beating of a heart next to yours. The story is a true story that I still can’t believe. You get up and take the path in front of you, but at first you don’t know what it means. I can’t read or write. The school is in the hedge, over there by the woods that wink at me and torment me. I like the smell of mint and the sting of nettles more than chocolate. How do you feel about chocolate? Have you ever eaten white chocolate? I have an arm around my neck, black, with a copper stud that chokes me. I have bread in my bag; I’ve been carrying it around for three days. It’s crumbling into a thousand crumbs. My pills, my head is turning, spinning, turning, I move slowly, move slowly. I lift my skirt when I have to cross the water. I don’t like taking off my shoes. The path is uneven, it has ruts and big holes, But I know it well, I’ve studied it, You slide down on a piece of cardboard to the bottom of the hill, Leave your bike on the embankment and climb the fig tree, How big they are, I must have eaten more than a hundred, I don’t know where the scissors are, But do you love me, Mum? Strawberries and pistachios, The cream slowly drips down your fingers and everything dissolves, That’s how time is, I think, like the slow dripping of cream on your hands because no matter how careful you are, You can never lick it all up, That’s how time is too, A ride on a moped through the dead city, the heat immobilises even your brain. And the heat sticks to you as you spin your wheels. When you realise you have nowhere to go, time is already up. Pick up the pieces, the voices say. Brush the padlock that holds you in place with lavender soap. I think I’m going to die. Maybe I’m dying. We’re at the end. Time’s up. Sorry. I didn’t have time to say goodbye to everyone, I made the last pair of clogs with pieces of cherry wood, I filed them down well and shaped them like a downhill road, then I attached wings that would make a cherub jealous, The wood is too heavy to carry on my shoulders, I found a wheelbarrow and I put it in there along with shards, stones and pieces of concrete, With mint leaves peeking out from between the stones on the ground, I looked for any kind of laces, ropes, metal wires or soft nappa leather strings, Even hair, long and strong with a steel soul. I attach the strings to a piece of wood, and a sweet molasses syrup slowly drips down. I want to lick it. I take a trowel and begin to file down the sweet lava that drips down. Splinters fly like rockets and the shavings pile up at my feet. I can’t sweep them under the bed or Ferruccio will notice, So I quickly put them in my pocket, I’ve been scratching for months, Not even my mother’s hot bath helped, They always fall out, I’ve brought at least ten pairs – different colours, I keep them in their hard cases, I can hardly see anything without my glasses, The gold chain, on the other hand, is from my first communion, which I had with an antique book covered in mother-of-pearl. It’s heavy linen, a deep pink, it has a cape that buttons with two red cherries. My mother put it on me when she got on the wrong train and we ended up in Rome. A glass handle. I walk into the Pumphouse, and there it is, shining and glittering in steel rods. I have a drawer full of odd socks. I’d like them to match in size, colour and texture. I don’t like differences. A white handle as big as a deckchair fits perfectly in the palm of my hand, soft and velvety like white paint. If you look closely, it has lots of little holes. Soft and delicate, Maria Innocenti was born in Pepin but lives in Tacchi. Eggs/tea/cloth/pills, air, I need air. I would cut off my head. I have the pills in my hand, tiny and white. I would like to wash my guts with Marseille soap, a big soap bubble. Old, rusty irons press on my head. Hip-hop bubble, A series of bubbles and the pain in my head returns, I have to cut this pill in two or it will get stuck in my throat like egg yolk stuck in my mouth on an empty stomach, A retch, The pills rolled up in a shrine of white napkins, A respectable kitchen, A smile, And this pain in my shoulder that pulls me down, Is there anyone there? Is there anyone here who knows who I am? Help, help, Mum. A slap in the face from the doctor and then another child, and another child, and another child, no, not another child. I’ll beat the desire to have children out of you with my fists and kicks. A smooth wooden stick. I clean it, wash it, sharpen it. I look inside it, beat it like egg white. I pierce it, stab it to make myself a hat of green lizards, lizards and white lizards, This is my only chance, Alone, without fear, If you put a crown on your head, you are the queen of snakes and then they won’t touch you, The plaster is coming off, A big piece came off last night, The last piece of stucco, The walls sweat, breathe, bleed, It’s as if they were crying, I want to stop this flow, I want to bite time, bite it so hard that I leave a clock in its skin, The apple core is left in my hand, But I have the crown on my head like a queen and the snakes can’t touch me, The sheets fold widthwise, not lengthwise, One after the other, they always fold widthwise, not lengthwise, Then fold from the right, and the left overlaps a little, And leave the embroidery on the outside, Keep your hands behind you and move from left to right, White, clean, crisp, I like the rough feel of cotton, I like white, I don’t want to have wet hands, I don’t want to touch the water, I don’t want it to touch me, I don’t want to go any further, I don’t want to go any further, I want to stay here, I don’t want to leave anymore, Always one hand behind, please, Always one hand behind, And a crown on your head so the snakes don’t touch you, Without a mask, wrinkles furrow deep like spires in the sky, My mouth spits wild flowers like vegetables in a field, My house is small, carved out of rock and sand, and sunflowers dangle from the waist up, People like me only have this corner of the world and a piece of broken mirror, They locked me here in this tower, It is a closed, withered, empty tower, It is a tower without a roof but with walls as high as the sky, It is a timeless tower that eats bodies like the Minotaur, It is here in this ancient brick tower that I speak to you, It is here that I raise my wrist to rant and lower it to curse, But never, never to be silent. It is mine, mine is the tower that gurgles. How old are you, my tower? And who are you, do you know who you are? Are you mother or father? Do you have ashes or ghosts inside you? Who is next to you? Rest your head on my shoulder, bow your chin, hug your knees to caress the life still closed, Tower, my tower of love, They closed my eyes and mouth, And tied my hands and feet with string, I am no longer useful to your children, absent generators, Dead by the force of daggers thickly stuck into a ringed body, Old man, it is a word with iridescent blades, it is a word crocheted and knitted, Call me old and I will be prouder, It is beautiful to look at your face streaked with drops of cyanide, Your ancient face is not old, It is as young as a newborn baby, Always call me at this time of the morning and I will answer you.