Night

The tee is hot and doesn't want to chill. That's good, it means we'll be awake longer tonight. I have time to think... and to feel. I feel good, I feel alive. I feel the world is finally important and I am there to witness the miracle of sunrise. A pure sunrise, without fog or smoke. Whoever he was, he made us live again as he made the bell yell and cry once more.

"I forgot my pistol", says Michael and stands to leave. He looks at Lucinda but she pretends not to hear. I keep my cup inside my two hands and try to be invisible. Michael comes in front of my armchair.

"I bet you've never used a pistol. Come on, I'll show you."

"I've not finished my tee", I answer sad and tired.

He takes the cup out of my hands, drinks up the hot liquid in a few seconds and raises me up with one arm.

"Let's go."

I fallow him outside. We walk silently across the garden until he finds in the wet grass his small gun and starts playing with it. I don't feel like asking anything. I wish no longer to know about the two strangers fighting this man or ghost or clown that he is and I'm no longer curious about their stories. So many questions have tormented me this last half an hour. What did this woman came back for, after all? Who is that man she's chasing? What does he want of her? What does she want of him? Why did she shoot him, this old friend or lover? What's Michael's role in all these? What's mine? For the first time in a while, I just want to sleep. I want to sleep under the sky, under the roof of the tower and let this strange new people quarrel with their destinies however they please.

"It's an old story", says he disturbed by boredom and he lights another stinky white stick.

He doesn't want to explain. I do not want to listen. I say so.

"I don't care."

"Fine", says he and continues to produce smoke. Now he is standing at the base of the belfry and stares at the top of it, lost in thoughts.

"The priest, is he your father?"

"He's the only father I know."

"He's very young", he says, but I don't know that.

Again silence.

"Does your lady really believe in ghosts?" I wish to know.

"Back where we come from, nobody would believe it. Does your priest believe it?"

I see he means to be sarcastic, but I'm not mad at his ignorance and tell him the truth:

"It wouldn't make any difference to us."

He laughs and I feel lonely. There is no tee for me to finish inside the house.