Tempo

In Italian, the word tempo is used for both weather and time. A compromise for everything that lies beyond our control, yet remains within reach in the long run.

She said, and stubbed out her cigarette against the window ledge.

The view from the balcony was uninterrupted. On a clear day we could see Corsica and, with a little squinting, all the way to Sardinia, but most of the time violent winds drove in here, against the house whose façade was so porous that after every storm I checked whether the plaster was still in place.

The wind is a metaphor for breathing, she said, and ran her pen across a few newly written lines, which I glanced through, and I was probably meant to say something now, though it hardly mattered since she did not trust my judgement, but I needed to say something out of politeness:

Interesting, almost animated.

She drew a fresh cigarette from the packet, cupped one hand around it and held the lighter long enough for the flame to catch. She inhaled deeply and then exhaled. A heavy cloud of smoke formed, quickly swirling away over the Mediterranean. At times her mood followed the ebb and flow, and I had the sense that she was at high tide just now.

Good, she said in reply and took another drag. You should do the washing up now, shouldn’t you?

When night came, I could still see the small cone of light swaying in front of the view. The wind scattered sparks against the window. Her outline could not be distinguished from the night. And I attended to my puzzle, as always. It was all an insignificant episode among the many from that time, simply the one I remember.