Three minutes
From: Linamer64@hotmail.it
A: Annamerlofny@yahoo.us
Subject: We are living
Hello dear Anna do not worry about us. 'S just how I responded to your text message yesterday. Silvia and I are fine. And the mother as well. Fabrizio, too. We're all good, do not worry.
L 'Silvia yesterday evening had been to dinner at our house. The mother had eaten only boiled vegetables and a broth, then had gone to bed. Silvia and I we were prepared spaghetti with clams, then watermelon at will. Silvia was gay, in the mood for confidences, so good-natured complaining of Fabrizio, how to fall asleep on the couch, and the fact that he never wanted to leave, even in sultry evenings like these.
After dinner we were on the terrace, then Silvia has wanted to see a picture that I had exposed in Camaiore, many waves of fringe on the south-west wind that rocks, even the frame of the picture. We talked a bit, 'Sylvia also loves to paint. They had made eleven, and I was thinking of the next working day. "Silvia, I take a shower, I have to get up early tomorrow, what are you doing?" She did not bat an eyelid. She followed me into the bathroom that night was a joyous flood of words, I took a shower, then I started the robe and started to dry my hair. Silvia then decided to return home, perhaps the sound of the dryer was ruining the spell.
Now follow me well, Anna. Eleven thirty-five.
Silvia part by scooter, smile at her from the terrace. I'll be back in the bathroom. Before the completion of the hair, I decided to brush my teeth, then floss. I hear a roar as the final blow in a series of fireworks. Then other explosions. Fires must be, yes, it's summer. Maybe somewhere close to celebrate St. Peter and Paul. Not in Viareggio, I think. Perhaps Lido. I take the hair dryer in hand. The phone rings, one at home. Strange. My friends call me the phone, maybe it's Julius, the big brother who is a mass, that no schedules.
"Hello."
"Lina, I am, I am Silvia! We're fine, but it's a mess, no smoke, smell of gas, fire ..."
"Silvia, where are you? What happened?"
"I'm home!" There are flames nearby! We run away ... "
"Where?" Where? "
"Torre Matilda, hello tututu"
"Sylvia!"
I put on a shirt and pants, flip flops and wet hair at birth. I'm crying, I'm afraid. I approached the station, I see high flames. Arrival in five minutes scoured the parking lot of Tower Matilda. I see people shouting and is desperate, I see Silvia, my legs shake. Silvia hugs me from behind.
"Lina!" I scream. We keep close to good two minutes behind my glasses streaked with tears slowly recognize Fabrizio. It has a pair of boxer shorts and a tank top. Silvia is in pants and shirt. After the joy to be found, we look around. People ran away, upset, someone lying sull'aiola prey to illness. Maybe a gas tank, maybe a car, maybe a house. There's two guys with the scooter.
"has derailed a train carrying gas, and there are way Burlamacchi via Ponchielli with houses and cars that burn! And the walkway on the railroad!" They have red cheeks, they show a movie to a friend. The flames are seen from here, from the tower Matilda, five hundred meters from the railway. There's desperate people looking for other people. All in their underwear. As they spend the whole night there, under the tower Matilda.
Silvia went from street Burlamacchi at eleven-forty-three minutes before the explosion. It was saved for three minutes. Cara Anna, when you save three minutes to think about three minutes for those who were not saved. Some thoughts remind me of the divisions that leave a remainder, a remainder that you do not know how to handle. Two boys had crossed the bridge at eleven and a half, came back because one of them had left the mobile home of his friend. And quell'operaio that passed over with the three minutes after Silvia, if they have not found a trace. And today many people who were in the houses exploded in via Ponchielli are burned and ninety percent will die in the coming weeks. We are fine, Anna, but I can not say the same of us, in your city.
There is a before and an after. On the ridge there is the twenty-ninth of June, at eleven-forty-eight.
No one in town wants to talk about that prolonged whistle, that cloud of white acrid smell, a roar, another, another, another.
Here everyone knows, there is an invisible web that binds the dead and the wounded survivors. Think that in this third night in tents set up for hundreds of displaced persons there was no one, everyone had found accommodations in the homes of relatives and friends.
This invisible network works on the memories. I'm a former school friend, I remember her, crushing her salt, who took to the bakery as a Director. Then the niece of a friend of mine - with a flap of hair that fell over his forehead, lip gloss with glitter, the All Stars - which had led to a dinner, presenting her as "his baby". This is my store of memories, but many who are in the back instead of the memories have a ton of despair.
Last night there was a man sitting on the sidewalk who had lost his companion in the flames of Via Ponchielli: holding his head in his hands, his mouth gaping, face contract. It seemed to scream, but did not go out of his mouth sound.
Versilia Hospital, after yet another child greatly burned, a pediatrician began to scream, stomp, then leaned his head to the tiles of the room, hugging the thing. After ten minutes of Mattie is back at work.
Today on my way to work, like yesterday, I felt the silence. No horn, no radio, no drills, construction sites, no children laughing and screaming in cycling. That silence, Anna, comes in, smashes, screams.
We are fine, Anna. For three minutes early.
A kiss.
Your Lina
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