's been the light. Another time.
will be yes and no six o'clock, the rest to fix the black screen of my laptop, where I was working on the translation of some stories from Arabic. I can barely distinguish the outlines of the desktop in the dark silver. I get up, I glance out the window to see if it has remained in the dark only to sharia-qiyade or if there is no light in the whole neighborhood.
I light the candle that I fixed the bottom of a saucer by dissolving the wax. A slight current of air passes through the glass of window by the flickering flame. The shadows dancing in the room while I sit staring at the wall. The house is shrouded in silence. I know that the blackout may last from ten minutes to several hours, and I realize how my life is dependent on the use of electrical appliances. The first time I was in Sanaa did not know what to do when the power went off, then one night I went out to buy cigarettes and I noticed how beautiful the city was shrouded in darkness. From that time to take this opportunity to dedicate myself to my "situationist drift," which in human language means "walking aimlessly." I can not even walk without the appointment of a simple give meaning to accessories. Symbols, words, referents, an intricate network of meanings from which I try to run away simply by setting a word on the page long enough to turn it into a sign unintelligible, perfectly blank. Sometimes, when I work on a translation, it seems to me that the sheets in front of me are filled with absurd signs, left by some alien civilization, such as the alphabet of the Klingon in Star Trek.
I put the jacket, I fix it the shawl on her head, put out the candle and go out. Risk of damage to the close slippery steps of the palace, through the creaking door and are on the road.
whole district collapsed in the dark, I raise my head to watch the sky, not I find the moon and I realize why it is so dark. To me "dark night" was always just an expression of what you read in the stories of fear, such as: "It was a moonless night, and strange fires burning in the hills," the Lovecraft. It is now a reality, when there is no moon, it's all damn dark, so that you can not distinguish a person's face even if you've got an inch from his nose. I set out along the paved road, the sides of the street I see the shapes of old crouched in the shadows and if I reach out my ears to hear the sound they produce their mouths muttered while the leaves of qat. It 's a noise soft, moist, relaxing. "Salam aleykum" says someone in the dark, I do not know if he has with me, but I say to education. Another "Salam aleykum" comes from the right side, this time I recognize the voice, is Muhammad, the guy in the shop. I will not have taken fifty yards I said six or seven "aleykum salam." In front of me I feel the streaks of the ball on the pavement, heedless of the dark, some children playing near a secluded garden where you can see wonderful day of fuchsia bougainvillea.
I head to the Sailah, the bed of the wadi in which the Chinese engineers have built the road that cuts in half the old town, and that when the monsoon blows, bringing tropical rains is flooded to the top. As I walk I sometimes hit people, other times someone hits me. When the lights go out, people talk more quietly, I do not know why, but I prefer the silence and I did not want to talk. In the dark lights shine through the colored glass windows: red, green, blue and yellow. Sailah I arrived at the usually congested with cars that trumpet and pollutes the air with poisonous exhaust fumes. Across the bridge that connects the two halves of the city as fast as I can and I find myself on the other side. I take a road at random from among the many small streets that branch off in the center. There are many people around, someone walks by using their mobile phones to illuminate the road and not stumble in any discovery or pipe in a hole, while others slip away stealthily in the darkness, as if they were shadows of their own. An old lady goes with measured steps, swinging hips, while a man seems to drag his right leg with the aid of both hands.
"Hameeeeed Ya!" Cries an anonymous passerby, who apparently is looking for Hamed. A goat bleats from the top of a roof. The houses of Sanaa, with their square shapes in the dark are like so many graves, or the mysterious monolith in "2001 A Space Odyssey." I wonder why it should just think of the headstones, and thrust their fists in the old coat.
Sometimes, in the dark, you see a few of the shops lit by candles, while the owner is sitting in a corner curled up against the cold, chewing qat leaves. Come to mind the paintings of Caravaggio, remnants of my education, some comments about the teacher's technique of luminosity. I walk in the dark, and I realize I do not see. I walk in the dark, and I realize I do not know. My head is full of scenes, words have been said, expectations, comments and misunderstandings. Inside me there are centuries of history written by eastern Europeans, made up of words, symbols, and prejudices. I tell myself that I'm here and I'm here and now existing in this reality, to be there, to live, I tell myself that this is really part of me, yet I feel I'm missing something, I can not describe, share, store.
I look around and I realize that I'm lost.
I came from the old town and find myself somewhere in the city. Waiting for a taxi on the roadside. Immediately a white car with the familiar yellow stripe on the side stops a few meters from me. I get on and now the contract price for Sharia in front of the hotel qiyade Sam. "
When the light went back off the car in the neighborhood. I see the sign of a tailor in my home. Through the window the guy sees me coming, smile and greets me with a wave of his hand.
I smile, I think I'll stop for a chat.
