Fleeting Moments

A white piece of chalk and a blackboard in the hands of time. A cloth in the hands of space and the same blackboard a few centimeters away.

A ten-minute delay in a small railway station in the country, an irregular square of strangers stuck in a railway carriage.   Ten minutes, needed to prepare a cup of hot tea. Ten minutes, needed to decide whether to prepare it only for yourself or inviting a friend, and dial the number.

A piece of chalk, and a cloth to write on, and then erase. Time and space to live in and then forget.


In one of the four corners of the square, there was a girl about twenty years old, with an art book in her hands. Her chestnut eyes were observing the stillness of the external landscape. She is waiting, her left foot patiently still, her right one moving to the rhythm of out-of-tune music. It hits irregularly on the opaque grey floor and beats the time, giving a sound shape to space. The violet sweater slides down on her wrist hiding the hands of her watch, the minutes and seconds she impatiently avoids. Celeste makes point A of the square.

At point B, there are two sixteen-year-old girls, wearing low-waisted jeans and short sweaters. They are complaining with loud voices between the blip of a sent SMS and a received one. United by the headphones of a CD-player, which they share like two great friends, which they would like to be. Arianna and Federica make point B of the square.

At point C, is a young mother and her four-year-old son.

At point D, there is an old man, leaning his head out of the window, grumbling about the circumstances of the journey. There is also a young woman, about thirty years old, elegantly dressed, with a pen and a well-used notebook in her hands.

So, there we have it. These are the four points of our square with invisible sides: Celeste, Arianna and Federica; Eleonora, Fabrizio, Mr Giulio and Sofia.

A man’s voice cackles from a loudspeaker, the sound vaguely deformed but comforting. “The train for Serra is departing from platform two.” There is a brief pause. “The train for Giustiano is arriving at platform one.”

Celeste closes her book, two fingers keeping her place in it, indecisive as to whether to put it in her bag or not.

The voice from a loudspeaker crackles again. “The train to Serra is departing from platform two.”

The train to Giustiano is arriving on platform one and their train can finally leave.

Celeste watches as the people on the platform turn towards the arriving train. A whistle sounds.

The two girls turn off the CD-player and ready themselves, for the next stop appears to be theirs. They agree to meet in a few hours to study together, to chat and, for some time, seclude themselves from the rest of the world in their imagination.

The old man sits down again, grumbling.

He must be about sixty years old, and almost bald, Celeste notices. Sofia, the young woman who stands before him, doesn’t seem to attach much importance to her surroundings. She gazes at her notebook and toys with the pen between her fingers. The contrast between the fastidiousness of her dress and the untidiness of her notebook could rouse a careful observer’s curiosity.

Celeste’s fingers are still lodged between the pages of the book while she looks at the other three points of the square without, though not showing much interest in them.

During the unavoidable period of waiting in the railway station of Argane, Fabrizio, the four-year-old child, gave vent to everybody’s impatience by standing up and sitting down continuously. Now that the train is moving again, the child is a volcano of questions. “Mum, why don’t the trees follow us? Don’t they like us?”

“No, Fabrizio, the trees don't move. We are the ones who move,” she answers patiently.

“Mum, why hasn’t grandma come with us?”

“Because grandma lives in Giustiano. But she’ll come to visit us soon.”

“Mum ...”

The train slows. The railway station at Elsiano is now only a short distance away. The door of the compartment opens and two boys pass. Celeste turns. The two girls turn. The young mother, Fabrizio, and Mr Giulio turn, and look about with superficial curiosity. Only Sofia isn’t distracted by the movement, for her eyes are fixed on the notebook and her mind is engaged in useless conversations with her thoughts.

The boys go on to the next carriage. Arianna and Federica stand. The little child continues to assuage his curiosity with his questions. Mr Giulio too stands, and prepares himself to get off.

The square is broken.

Celeste decisively closes her book and puts it into her bag. The next stop is hers. She smiles to herself, imagining the merciless autumn of life calling the roll on Mr Giulio’s head.

She turns towards the window, her chestnut eyes exchanging silent glances with two passing black ones. Swift and silent. Celeste finds herself smiling at a stranger, but she immediately turns her eyes away, annoyed. He failed to return her smile.

The train moves again and, protected by the space that advances and divides, Celeste lets herself be captured by that unknown profile. She seems to recognize one of the boys she noticed a few moments ago. She only has to look at him without being observed.

She doesn’t know why her eyes had lingered on the figure, now only a point with a blurred outline. She doesn’t even attempt to ask herself until Elsiano railway station is far away, and the next one is drawing closer. There’s no reason to remember the stupid name of a stupid station: Elsiano.

Celeste alights, so the carriage is now almost empty.

o o o

The train draws away.

Two stops and it’s the terminus: Serra. The train empties and gets crowded again, ready to start the next phase of its journey.

Sofia lives close to the railway station. A few minutes and she’s home. The elegant dress is replaced by a comfortable and unpretentious track suit. Sofia sinks into the sofa and turns the on the TV. She has a tub of ice cream in her lap and a spoon in her hand. In her other hand, she holds the remote control, her inseparable mate.

Another small portion of ice cream disappears between her lips and Sofia puts the ice cream back in the freezer and tosses the spoon into the sink.

She sinks again into the depths of the sofa. She is bored. Taking the remote control, she changes channel. There is nothing that she wants to watch. She turns off the TV, and stares at the black screen.

She flees from the sofa and finds herself on the balcony.

It’s not a beautiful day, as the sun doesn’t shine. It’s not raining, but there are grey clouds that make the surrounding landscape surprisingly bright.

An unexpected movement in the garden beyond the dirt road captures her attention. Mr and Mrs Berti are busily eradicating weeds. Sofia observes them indifferently.

Mrs Berti straightens her back, putting her hands on her hips, a grimace of pain passing across her wrinkled face. Sofia imagines the woman's short white curls falling over the forehead, beaded with sweat. Her husband straightens too, and passes a handkerchief over his forehead. Sofia observes him turning towards his wife in profile, and is caught unawares by a sudden pang of envy.

He puts his hand on his wife's arm and says something to her. She shakes her head, clearly not convinced.

A smile forms on Sofia's lips as she imagines him going in and making a cup of tea for both of them.

Mrs Berti laughs. Sofia didn’t expect this and that little pang of envy becomes even stronger. She is envying them, she thinks incredulously. She, who is young, with a life full of promises ahead of her. Promises? What promises?

Mr Berti says something to his wife, and they leave the garden and go indoors. Sofia watches them disappear behind the small gate on the other side of the road.

Now she’ll prepare the tea, whilst he gets the cup, and the sugar, and the lemon, surrounded by their love. She’ll wait for the water to boil, and then pour it into the cups.

Sofia goes into the empty house. What has she got? A switched-off TV, a half full tub of ice cream in the freezer, a spoon in the sink. And a memory. Yet another memory to forget. She sighs. She could call Elena, or Silvia, or nobody because there was nobody she wished to speak to in that moment. Without being aware of it, she’s standing before the cupboard. She opens it and takes out a tea bag. She fills the kettle and sets it on the cooker. She puts the sugar and a cup on the table.

She takes a CD from her collection and slips it into the stereo. A melancholic melody of light and shadow suffuses in the room, the symphony of the void trying to fill itself.

The kettle starts hissing. Sofia switches it off. Using a pot holder, she pours the water into the cup and returns the kettle to the cooker. The water turns to an opaque yellow when it surrounds the tea bag.

Sofia sits on a stool and blows on the cup to cool the tea.

The music keeps her company while she drinks that, in a different situation, she would have never prepared for herself. She closes her eyes and slowly opens them again. Her hands are still wrapped around the warm cup.

She sips the last drops of tea, and turns towards the balcony. She imagines a new life for herself, a new landscape, new people. And she imagines herself out there smiling happily. Without any desires of big prizes or rewards.

She grabs a pen, the worn notebook she always has with her, and starts writing.

A smile that’s not mine. A look. Intense eyes that are different from mine. Your skin, hands, face, a light that can’t be mine.

I saw you smiling yesterday, you were talking with a friend, your eyes passing over anonymous faces you would never remember. You weren’t the same person. I scarcely recognized you. Did I ever notice how black your hair is? And where had your opaque whiteness gone? A few meters away, unaware of my presence, you were walking self-confidently.

I felt disgust for someone who doesn’t recognize herself any more, yet recognizing the someone else.

You were distant from me.  Your smile, your look, your life.

I felt empty, not recognizing myself in you anymore. I always knew you were the stranger, a stranger land I had to come to for a moment without being able to savor the flavor of home. My own flavor. Desiring to savor yours. I needed myself and I looked for you. I found myself and wanted you.

With an angry gesture, Sofia slashes two blacks lines across the thoughts she has just written and then rips the sheet from the notebook. Some things aren’t worth being remembered, she thinks bitterly.

o o o

Time writes and space erases. Where there was a beginning, now there’s an ending. Where it was thought to be an ending, a new beginning is born.

Celeste returns home and retires to her bedroom. Her nervous hands trace sharp and light lines. The virgin sheet of paper slowly colors with grey, white and then black, a chiaroscuro of emotions and ephemeral memories. She knows that instants don’t last, that emotions are soon forgotten but, if time erases, space can help remember.

On the background, she draws the outlines of a railway station and, in the foreground, those of a profile, two black eyes, the breath of an instant.

Sofia is about to throw away the sheet, hesitates, opens it again undecided. The words dance in their black dresses, don’t feel any shame, don’t despise their receiver and love the emotions they raise. But Sofia flees from the emotions that bounce barrenly in her memory.

The blackboard of time and space is black, immaculate in its darkness. Scented with silence, it grants opportunities to accept and love, to live intensely, or to forget.

The train resumes its journey, slowly at first, then faster. The landscape is always the same, its eyes are the ones of the hurried passengers. Instants flee, and emotions get lost.

Celeste has replaced her sketchbook, the abandoned sheet of paper on the kitchen table. There’s an art book that has to be studied, housework to be done, gym at six thirty, papers to complete for the following day.

And, on that dark blackboard, imagined or dreamed, there’s the brief fleetingness of an instant and the bitter fear of making it last.

- Lara Marzo
Translated from the Italian by Marta Favro
Turin, Italy.
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