After the argument, the boy took his flight to New York. With stop-over in Paris. There was already a child with his family and then as a teenager in a school trip but would not have lost anything in the world the opportunity to review the City of Light finally alone. He loved to travel alone. Rather than travel to the truth he loved to get lost. Going around in circles, aimlessly, without maps, without anyone asking for directions. He went around the streets silent, but with the ears and eyes open: open windows let in the world where rivers of voices and waves of life. The lives of others.
Every sound, every image was carrying handfuls of memories, like pieces of wood washed ashore by the current. He watched everything, every person with an attitude so hungry with a desire so as to be painfully throbbing with life palpable, so much so that sometimes he felt uncomfortable himself. Often felt that indescribable sensation of shame, especially when traveling in northern European countries: France, Holland, Sweden. He wondered if that's so eager to see or rather to devour the lives of others was not too excessive, rude, brash ... if you could not even be unwelcome in the eyes of those people so reserved and quiet, so strangely silent in comparison Italians like him. But instead no one seemed to notice. It seemed unbelievable, but people did not make the case to him, much less to his discomfort, and eventually became convinced that it was his way of traveling alone, with its backpack on his shoulders and his secrets locked inside, to make it invisible.
This time in Paris wanted to do an experiment. He went into a trinket shop on the edge of the town: a flea that had once been a well antiquarian declared as the pompous gilded wooden sign posted on the door, but now only sell frames and bronze orb in dusty among piles of rotten, smelly fur. The whistle of a bird recorded unidentified surprised him and pulled at a smile, garrulous tone and modulation of the sound that gave him welcome when he opened the door and flicked the mechanism, reminded the whistle of appreciation that the boys were Sicilian arrival of Monica Bellucci in Malena, who had seen the film on DVD on the evening before leaving, to relax the nerves before the argument. She looked in the mirror in wood frame oval in front of the shop door and smiled to himself, noting the difference between the boy from his body, made awkward by the oversized blue jacket and the backpack, and the sinuous forms of Bellucci in tight skirt and heels high and uneven gait sculettando on the pavement of the promenade of this Sicilian village after the war. Maybe he lost even a laugh-but he was sure of this-uttered a sound "Bonjour" to register gracefully to the shop owner that he saw, but was well be in there somewhere. Yet no one noticed him. After a good ten minutes, spent to review each of the first floor of the shop, his interest gradually diminished until they disappeared entirely from view of quell'inquietante stuffed hawk, perched on the iron railing on top of the stairs. So he decided to get a look at the basement, where it came from a muffled chatter. 
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