from Simone Perotti's blog (august 31, 2013)
I don’t know his face and even his name. I followed him already on arrival, passing over the head of the pier of the port. Then I look for him this morning, there he was, still, slow but accelerated. But I was far away. I've only seen this man's history. Rowing against wave ferry, rowing against the engines. Arms for his life.
When I expanded the view, I saw the lady. She’s arrived, she sat on the bench, her purse on her legs, a decent dress such as grandmothers seventies. She waited. He seemed to me just accelerate the pace of the oar, perhaps imperceptibly stand on the trunk, give a tone. How many times has taken her from one end to another. Even as children, perhaps, the girl with her dress clean for the party, the handsome boy with vest and muscle to hope.
Goran, I call him that, he works and live bringing people there. To where, no one knows. Walking by foot they should take a ride down to the bridge, a long route. His office is the orange boat, his raw material are the arms, his market this reach of the sea. Work, effort, dignity, the assets of the Mediterranean. I try to remember his face while Mediterranea entered into the port of Zadar.Add a comment Add a comment