19 de novembro de 2015 | 15h52

— To Mario Vargas Llosa, il miglior fabbro.


Walking through the narrow streets of an old Warsaw borough, I noticed a boy, staring at me from a lower- floor window.

He looked weary; and had soot on his cheeks. Nevertheless, he happily smiled at me and then waved good-bye, saying something in polish —“Rejs” was the only word I could then understand.

My instant thought: I was a fortunate passerby, rewarded handsomely with this incredible sight.

After waving back, I put my hands deep in my pockets again (it was bitterly cold) and went ahead, strolling without any purpose but to be there, in that scene, at that very moment, conjuring up and living a thousand lives at the same time.


Literature allows any of us to be that boy, or that passerby, in faraway Poland.