Beatrice must be sick. The flu is going around, but I’ve never gotten it, not even once. I haven’t seen her for two days. Without the reflection of her red hair, the days seem more than empty. They become white, like days without sun.
I go back home with Silvia. I give her a ride on the Bat-scooter, and she keeps asking me to go slower. Women. We speak at length, and I ask her if she has a dream, like The Dreamer says. I tell her that Niko has a clear-cut dream. He says that he will follow his father’s path. His father is a dentist. Niko has loads of money. He will take orthodontics and then go to work in his father’s clinic. He says this is his dream. But in my opinion, as a dream, it does not count. Because we already know everything. The dream—if I have understood correctly—must have a dimension of mystery to it, something yet to be discovered. And Niko already knows it all.
I don’t have an exact dream yet, but that’s the beauty of it. It is so unknown that just thinking about it thrills me. Silvia has a dream, too. She wants to become a painter. She’s really good at painting. It’s her favorite hobby. Once, she even gave me a painting. (She makes copies of famous works.) It’s a beautiful picture of a woman protecting herself from the sun with a white parasol. This is a special picture because the clothing, the face, the colors of the woman are so light they blend in with the sunlight beating down on them. It’s as if the lady were made of the very light she is trying to protect herself from. And this is the only instance when I am not fearful of white. Silvia has outwitted white in this picture. I like it.
After avoiding at least fifteen deadly accidents from brakes that are in much need of a mechanic’s attention, we are at Silvia’s place.
“My parents, however, don’t want me to pursue it. They say that it can only be a hobby and certainly not my future; it is a difficult road, only very few find success, and then you risk starving if you don’t make it big.”
Decidedly, parents exist in this world to remind us of the fears we don’t have. It’s they who are afraid. Instead, I am happy that Silvia has this dream. When she speaks about it, her eyes sparkle, like The Dreamer’s when he explains something. Like the eyes of Alexander the Great shone, and Michelangelo’s, Dante’s … Eyes blood red, full of life … In my opinion, Silvia’s dream is the right one. I ask her to watch my eyes and to let me know when they shine; maybe this way I can discover my dream while talking to her about something, without being distracted, without me really noticing when it happens. She agrees.
“When I see your dream shining in your eyes, I’ll tell you.”
I ask her to paint another picture for me. She says yes. Her eyes are on fire, and it almost seems as if they are burning my skin. They are bright blue. That’s her dream. I don’t have one yet, but I feel like it is coming. How will I recognize it? My eyes, with dark circles under them? Yes, I have bags under my eyes, and I carry my dreams there. When I find mine, I will empty these bags, and my eyes will shine brightly.
I accelerate toward the blue of the horizon, and it almost seems like I am flying, without brakes and without dreams. …