Uovo

The train stops in Modena. A place I have never been to before. Only one other traveller leaves the train with me. A noble man, suggest I because the people who wait outside of the train station lower their gaze as he passes by, accompanied only by a dog of indifferent colors. I decide to take a walk along the river but while crossing the central campo I see that the man and his dog obviously follow me and while I wander along the riverbank, I can see from time to time an ear of a dog flattering in the wind or the edge of a cloak, long and heavy passing by, always remaining in distance,  but do I decide to look at the water, both dog and man also stop, the man looking in the deep, blue and green water as I do, the dog trying to catch flies. When I slowly return to the city, the man and his dog walk silent behind me, but while crossing the market where fishmongers and butchers offer me large and silver salmons and small but red mutton legs, I’ll lose sight of the man and his companion. Many hours later, sitting in a café drinking a juice of indefinite color, I recognize the man beyond a newspaper, while the dogs sleeps at his feet. A pale waiter arrives from time to time at the man’s table, lowering his gaze as the other inhabitants of the city did at the station, while offering the man, on a silver plate a large, white egg, that he cracks between his long and elegant fingers with no ring on them, to drink the egg yolk and egg white as it were a very good and very old wine, carefully placing the egg-shell in a nearby silver- basket. When I woke up, the man was opening as careful as ever his thirtieth egg, looking just over the edge of his paper in my direction, just as to reassure that I would look back at him, with my eyes both open.

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