Salted caramel cookies 

« There once was a town, lively and peaceful, that seemed to be no different from any other of its kind. It was full of big blocks of flats in pastel colors that resembled the renaissance’s architecture in some way. You could spot a cafe in every corner of every street or avenue and they were always crowded -it was easy to tell by the hearable chit-chat. The metropolis was well provided for public transport and it had the most breathtaking marble fountain in the town square. People there worked, laughed, ate, slept, fell in love and just lived an ordinary life. But there was no way that could be an ordinary town. Not if Priscilla Fairbourn lived there.

To be precise, all the “extraordinary” of the town was gathered in one yellowish not-so-far from the center tower block, located in what was considered the best neighborhood of them all; That’s where Mrs Fairbourn dwelled.

It is perhaps very difficult to describe such a woman as Priscilla. Judging by her looks, she could have been in her 60s -nobody really knew how old she was- but her sharp glance, hidden behind some thick, black glass frames, was the one of a teenager. She was fair skinned and although time had drawn creases in her porcelain shell, it was impossible not to find her tall and slim figure beautiful and intriguing. Her thin, long and vaguely triangular face framed a pointed nose and some small red lips, usually tense to create an impassable poker face. Elongated and tapered fingers were often adorned with fun colored nails and humongus golden rings -Lord knows how much they were worth. As regards her style, Mrs Fairbourn’s was top notch: her go-to outfit generally consisted of skinny leather trousers that went perfectly with a shocking pink latex cropped jacket which covered a blood red turtleneck with puffed sleeves. In the coolest seasons, she would eventually add a fur coat and beanie (both of them synthetic, of course) while in summer she dealt with the hot weather by overcoming the heat with her sole determination. To top it all off, her favorite purse was a zebrine studded one, matched with a pair of unbelievably high heels of the same pattern, obviously. When she walked down the street, she was easy to recognize due to the rhythmic ticking sound of her shoes as she moved her hips from one side to the other, just like a model cat-walking; such movement made her impeccable ice white bob and bangs bounce up and down.

Not a single person in her neighborhood, not even in the whole city, could recall the day she moved into town “It’s like she’s always been here, as if I’ve known her my whole life!” they said. Mrs Fairbourn became well known in a blink of an eye, although she had always had an aura of mystery around her. There were loads of uncertain facts about her and that led to some rumors -more like conspiracy theories- to spread. Her previous line of work was unknown: some stated she once was a famous actress or model who decided to retire out of boredom, others believed she had been a widely known pop star and a few people were absolutely convinced she was an alien. Even her nationality was yet to be clarified. In conclusion, the ones who regularly waved at her in the morning, wishing her a great day, were the same who wondered about Priscilla’s past and unknown adventures.

However, there actually was something referred to her everyone was absolutely sure about: her habits. Mrs Fairbourn was a ridiculously methodical person.

For example, she woke up every morning at the same hour, she walked to the underground station, took the same tube and sat on the same seat. She got off at the stop near the bookshop, in which she always spent two to three hours, but never bought anything. She would get to the town square by train and spend her morning at the “Jasmine Flower '', her favorite tea spot in town. It was the apple of her eye. There, she could delight herself with -quoting her own words- “the most balanced and tasteful Gunpowder tea ever made in human history” while reading her favorite book, “Good Omens: the nice and accurate prophecies of Agness Nutter” . Nevertheless, Mrs Fairbourn's life was not all peaches and dandelions. She had a huge problem yet to be solved and everybody knew about it: miss everything-is-perfectly-under-control didn’t know what to eat with her favorite tea.

Gunpowder tea is a typology of green tea obtained from shriveled up leaves, which result in a strong honey and smoked flavor. Mrs Fairbourn had traveled the whole world -that’s what the rumors say- trying out every combination from every country but none of them felt just right. There was always something missing, though she could not figure out what.

But perchance knowing all these facts about Priscilla may be misleading. Nor her habits or obsession were the most extraordinary thing about her and to understand that it is necessary to return to the yellowish not-so-far from the center tower block in which she lived. Every single apartment was owned by a couple, and as odd as it may sound, it is not totally bonkers. The funny thing is none of the couples were actually couples when they had first moved in; they were total strangers. As in super duper strangers. As in “I would have never noticed your existence, if we didn’t live on the same floor” strangers. So, how did they manage to get together? Well, if you were to analyze the stories of these unlikely pairs, you would discover something rather interesting: directly or not, they all became a couple thanks to Mrs Priscilla Fairbourn. Only a few innocent suggestions, an inescapable series of coincidences and the magic was done. But it was no magic. She was just utterly great to read people. That was Priscilla Fairbourn's greatest secret and gift: she was able to flawlessly match people to their soulmate, and she had never failed to do so, not even once. At least, until that day.

It was a warm spring day. The sun was shining bright and no clouds were allowed in the sky. Priscilla, as usual, was following her daily schedule. Once she sat on her seat in the underground, her attention was caught by someone she had never seen before. “Let’s take a look, shall we?” she thought. That’s usually how her process of identification and match started; just a few glances and she would have already known who you were going to marry. This time, the object of Priscilla’s interest was a lady around her age who, by the looks of it, was the total opposite of Mrs Fairbourn. The mysterious lady was short and chubby. Her tanned skin was the color of the sand, her eyes pitch black and almond shaped -even though the eyelids were so close together you could barely see them. The stranger’s face was rather squared, with wide lips and nose, in a relaxed and kind expression that made her look like some sort of monk who had reached interior peace. A heap of frizzy curly dark gray hair made her head look out of proportion compared to the rest of the body. She was wearing a long brown skirt that made her appear like a hippie -all things considered, she could have been one-, a brown fuzzy jumper and some purple sand shoes that totally clashed with the rest of the fit. Her necklaces and bracelets reflected the neon lights of the underground. “Would you look at that” pondered Priscilla “I love her style, it's so unique! This should be enough, I should be able to match her already…” She started to deeply think about the stranger's perfect pair. But the more Mrs Fairbour reflected, the more unsure she got. Nobody in her mind appeared to be appropriate for her, no matter how much thought she put into it. The worst part was that she could not even think of a hypothetical person, she was not able to read her at all. As Priscilla struggled to figure the inexplicable lady out, she had reached her stop. When she stood up to head out of the wagon, the stranger was nowhere to be seen. “Let’s not think too much about it” she consoled herself “maybe I’m getting older or should I just talk to her? Knowing something more about her will surely help me out.” She stopped “No, there’s no way! And what would I tell her, anyway? And what about my pride? I mean, her sense of style is magnificent but… Let’s just get it over with today” She ultimately blurted out. “It’s not like I’m ever going to see her again.”

There she was. The mysterious lady. The one she could not read. The one she would have never seen again. She was there, in the bookshop. And then on the tube. And at Jasmine Flower. And not only that day, but the day after and the one after that one and so on for a whole week.

This ironic situation was driving Mrs Fairbourn totally nuts. It seemed like the mysterious lady’s routine was mirroring Priscilla’s and the more she encountered the lady, the more her interest toward her grew. During that week, she had been able to discover loads of fascinating things about the stranger, like how she specifically walked on the sunny side of the street -it was natural for Priscilla to notice since she always preferred the shader one- or how she always ordered the dark chocolate chips brownie at Jasmine’s and enjoyed it like it was the first time; she even spotted her reading “Good Omens: the nice and accurate prophecies of Agness Nutter” from time to time!

By now, it was crystal clear that Mrs Faibourn was dying to have a conversation with this woman, both to finally pair her accurately and to get to know her, but no matter how many times she rehearsed their meeting in her head, since she could not scan her like the others, she constantly seemed lacking courage. Maybe that is what they call “fear of the unknown”.

Meanwhile, the rumor of an enigmatic figure who was able to make the Priscilla Fairbourn stumble was spreading like wildfire in her neighborhood. Furthermore, it was undeniable that she was eager to meet with her but could not bring herself to ask her out. Everybody was rather stunned, but also worried about their precious Priscilla: even though she was so bizarre, all and sundry loved her to bits and pieces, and owed her due to her “coupling work”. To be exact, no one in the tower block in which she lived ever did something to thank nor repay her. It was their chance to do so.

It was yet another warm spring day -what an unbelievably sunny spring- and Mrs Fairbourn was, unsurprisingly, following her daily schedule. Along with the mysterious lady, of course. Priscilla had been speculating so much about her and she didn’t even know her name! But not even that could get in the way of a perfectly calibrated daily program. In fact, her righteousness combined with her not wanting to bump into the lady resulted in some safety measures; she would avoid her but still subtly gaze at her, from a distance. That day, after their usual stop at the bookshop, they went to the Jasmine Flower. Priscilla waited for the mysterious woman to enter; she stood by a bit, then let herself through the door. She had yet to discover what was awaiting her. “Now, that’s an unusual sight…” she murmured in awe as she found every single seat of the cafe taken except from the one in front of the ineffable lady! Her first thought was to turn tail and flee, but she could not resist the urge to have that tea. While she wandered around the crowded place, she started to recognize everyone who was sitting at those tables. One of them was taken by the couple of newlyweds whose honeymoon -which was a blast- had been suggested by Priscilla, another one by two youngsters who had become a couple after she gifted the both of them a ticket to the same concert, one more was occupied by two married pairs, who met thanks to Mrs Fairbourn, that would have celebrated their 15 years anniversary in a few months. Now it was certain that her favorite cafe was being invaded by her flatmates. “How come they are all here? And why is the only available spot next to her? I guess I have no choice…” Little did Mrs Fairbourn know that the people she romantically helped just wanted to return the favor. Priscilla, hesitant, went to confront the inexplicable lady. She could not escape anymore. She politely asked if she could sit there, in front of her, and she got a sweet “Of course, hon, suit yourself!” as an answer.

They talked for hours, but it felt like minutes for them. Turns out the “mysterious lady”’s name was Luisa Gracewood and she and Priscilla shared lots of interests aside from literature. Their favorite band was Radioead, they both enjoyed walking on the beach, they were amused by musical theater and they had already decided to go visit one of Andrew Atroshenko’s exposition together -since they both considered him a painter with immaculate style. Naturally, they were not always on the same page. Therefore, Mrs Faribourn was more of a cat person, while Mrs Gracewood preferred dogs and she was also a huge fan of the DC movies, but Priscilla liked Marvel more and said that the only decent DC movies were Nolan’s trilogy of the Dark Knight. Even though they did not completely agree on everything, they were always able to find a common ground. They perfectly balanced out each other. As if they were meant to be. As if they were a fated pair.

Among the other things, Luisa also revealed to be a great pastry chef and claimed that her salted caramel cookies were outstanding “They go well with literally anything, but they give their best with something honey and smoked flavored!” she proudly said.

Nobody really knew  what had happened after that bizarre chat. What was sure was that sometimes, from Priscilla Fairbourn’s apartment in that yellowish not-so-far from the center tower block you could smell the delicious scent of homemade salted caramel cookies.»

Matilde De Giorgi

La historia del autodromo de Monza,

bien explicada

El autódromo nacional de Monza es un circuito de carreras de coches internacional dentro del Parque de Monza. Es el tercer circuito más antiguo del mundo después del circuito de Brooklands en Inglaterra, ahora abandonado, e Indianápolis en los Estados Unidos. El circuito italiano es muy famoso, sobre todo porque es la sede principal del Gran Premio de Italia de Fórmula 1. Aquí corren otras categorías de coches diferentes y también corrieron las motos. Este circuito es el más rápido del mundial (excluidos los circuito ciudadanos).  

[Continua a leggere in Sport...] 

Tommaso Rattegni

LAS ISLAS CANARIAS 

ENTRE HISTORIA Y LEYENDAS

Descripción y origen física de las islas

Puede ser que interpretemos las islas como continentes en miniatura, en particular, las islas Canarias son siete mini continentes a lo largo de la costa del odierno Marruecos/Sahara occidental (pero que no hacen parte del continente africano) de origen volcánica (), muy diferentes la una a la otra por variaciones de clima, topografía y suelo; aquí una frase de David Abulafia, el autor del libro “La scoperta dell'umanità”que nos lo explica:

El monte Teide, el gran volcán  que alcanza los 3718 metros de altura y que domina el archipiélago – David Abulafia

Las siete islas son las siguientes: Gran Canaria, llamada de esta manera porque se retenía   la más grande al día de su descubrimiento; Lanzarote, probablemente descubierta por el navegante genovés Lanzarotto Malocello, Tenerife, Fuerteventura, La Palma, La Gomera, El Hierro, Lobos y el Archipiélago Chinijo compuesto por las islas de Alegranza, Montaña clara, Roque del este, Roque del Oeste y La Graciosa

Literatura y Leyendas

Según la literatura antigua griega y romana, las “islas afortunadas” eran el lugar destinado a los muertos y sus ánimas y, según los cristianos, eran la morada de los elegidos en los campos elíseos .

Del monte antes nombrado, el Teide ubicado en la isla de Tenerife, se dice que Dante puede haber tomado inspiración  para la descripción  de la montaña del Purgatorio.

El escritor Valenciano Joannot Martorell en “Tirante el Blanco” contó como “Abrahám, rey de Canaria, jóven fuertísimo con viril juventud inquieta e de noble esperanza” en las Canarias preparó una gran  flota para atacar Inglaterra llegando a Southampton, asaltando Londres y Canterbury y logrando conquistar el castillo de Kenilworth.

Las islas Canarias son incluidas entre los numerosos mitos y leyendas junto a la historia de las Siete Ciudades y la Navigatio Sancti Brendani cuyo protagonista es un sacerdote irlandés del siglo V que se dice haya viajado en búsqueda del paraíso terrestre y que después haberlo encontrado , regresó a  Irlanda.

Giovanni Boccaccio logra describir en el “Della Canaria” la expedición del 1341 contada por el genovés Nicoloso de Recco, aquí algunas frases:

En julio de 1341, dos naves muy grandes acompañadas por una más pequeña, viajan para las Canarias desde Lisboa transportando, cosa usual para la época, un grupo mixto compuesto por portugueses, castellanos, catalanes e italianos

Una referencia al archipiélago se encuentra en el “De vita solitaria” escrito por Francesco Petrarca que afirma:

Esa gente disfruta de la soledad más  de casi todos los mortales, pero es así salvaje y similar a las Fieras que, portándose así más  por el instinto natural que por voluntad propia, no mucho vive en soledad cuanto viaja por lugares solitarios o con los animales selváticos o con los propios rebaños

Geografía, descubrimiento y conquista

Plinio el Viejo se piensa que fue el primero en nombrar el archipiélago en su obra “Naturalis Historiae”. Él  afirma que fueron descubiertas por el rey marroquí Juba al tiempo del emperador romano Augusto y que cuyos únicos habitantes eran perros (del latin, canis ¿por eso “Canarias”?), cabras y lagartijas; los únicos  edificios presentes al tiempo eran ruinas y un templo abandonado, ésto significa que había vida y que eran más antiguas de lo que se pensaba.

El geógrafo  arabe y musulman Al-Idrisi conocía las islas Canarias y para los musulmanes se llamaban “islas felices” o Kalidat.

conquista de las canarias por parte de los españoles

Expediciones

A partir del 1277 se desarrollaron importantes flujos comerciales que unían el Mar Mediterráneo con el océano Atlántico donde mercantes italianos y catalanes aprovechaban vender la lana y realizar tejidos para poder comercializar con ingleses y en Flandes .

En una carta náutica de 1339 del genovés Angelino Dalorto aparece la isla de Lanzarote, marcada con el escudo de Génova que se dice haber sido  descubierta por el navegador Lanzarotto Malocello, de ahí puede venir el nombre Lanzarote.

En julio de 1341 tres naves se movían  de Lisboa a por las Canarias transportando una multitud  de gente, multiétnica entre otras cosas.

Las Canarias se prefiguraban  como el límite  del mundo conocido hasta cuando el portugues Gil Eanes de Lagos en el Algarve, bajo orden del príncipe  Henrique el Navegador, logrò superar Cabo Bojador en el 1434 abriendo a los portugueses una ruta comercial en la costa africana.

Habitantes

En la primera isla vieron  rocas y selvas / bosques habitadas por hombres y mujeres desnudos y animales. La gente que vieron era para los europeos “salvaje” por sus costumbres, de todas formas  ellos por su parte les entregaron regalos como pieles de cabra y grasa de foca… la flota alcanzó una segunda isla más extendida, por eso la llamaron Gran Canaria, ahí las naves suscitaron maravilla en los nativos.

David Abulafia afirma: “Probablemente eran inteligentes, pero no es fácil afirmarlo, porque no hablaban ningún lenguaje conocido, por ende la comunicación con ellos tendría que realizarse por el lenguaje de signos”.

Eran amigables y confiados en las relaciones mutuas y tenían la costumbre de dividir la comida en partes iguales, pero uno de ellos, que tenia puesta ropa hecha de hojas de palma era mas propenso en servir los huéspedes, con respeto a los otros que tenían puesto taparrabos de piel de cabra de color amarillo y rojo – David Abulafia

Los nativos estaban  interesados en el pan , que era una novedad para ellos, por el contrario  rechazaban el vino y seguían bebiendo agua. Conocían bien el queso y la carne de oveja y de cabra. No conocían los camellos y tampoco los bovinos y los burros.

Mattias Mastrovito

While the others were chatting quietly, Albert was gazing nervously at Jim with his bluest eyes: with the American doctor’s help, who due to his neutral, medical role could move easily among the two arrays, they had arranged a meeting between Albert and Oskar, the very first after years.

Oskar was thinking about home. The thing by itself was nothing out of the ordinary, everyone there was thinking about home. Their thoughts, as migrating birds unaware of the struggles of men, flew on wings of hope and desire over the conquered soil, the trenches, the soldiers, the living and the dead. They flew past the cursed border between the enemy and home, past the Rhine, to their small timber framed houses with pointy roofs, so similar and so different from the French ones. They thought about the whispers of the firs in their forests, the crackling of the fireplace, the scent of their mothers' freshly baked Lebkuchen. 

Oskar's mind eye, however, went on the opposite direction, wandering through the French trench, where his home was. It was weird, he mused, that this was the closest he had been to his brother in years. So close he could walk to him, hold him in his arms. 

Tomorrow. He told himself. They would've met at dawn tomorrow and, for a moment, they would've been enemies no more. But they still were for now.  The war still raged on, no matter how much any of them despised it. And Oskar, just like anyone else, spent Christmas’s Eve in memories of a distant home. 

His mind played arpeggios on tendrils of the carols of his youth. He drowned in the notes somehow still lingering amidst the cold silence. The same cold silence that had befallen on the Friedrich household since that day. In the faded remnants, French and German lyrics mingled seamlessly over the common music, as if the two languages were one. Without even acknowledging it, he started humming. 

Suddenly, something warmed the deadly silence: Jim could hear soft voices intoning a Christmas carol. They were so low, and so odd in that situation, that they almost sounded ghostly: a chant of the fallen soldiers from the afterworld. The American risked raising his head above the trench to look out: groups of little, mild lights were glimmering beyond the no man’s land, as fable in the icy night as spirits’ will-o’-wisp. 

But other French comrades rose their heads, listening to the rising song, which was growing in intensity and becoming more and more warm, almost joyful as other voices joined the unusual chorus. Jim understood that those golden shining fire-flies were candles, placed as decorations of skinny trees, put on the German trench: he could not believe it, but the Boche had made Christmas trees. He could not help but smile, as many other French soldiers perked from their refuge; someone intoned the carol sung by their enemies, in the French version, and, whoever the singer was, he was immediately joined by the whole company. Growing less hesitating and more cheerful, their voices filled the coldness of war’s midnight, the French and the German lyrics melting in one, quaint but natural ode to brotherhood. 

The peculiar concert continued for many hours, filling both sides with unexpected but welcomed warmth and cheerfulness. On Christmas day the dawn did not break on a battlefield, but on two groups of men longing to act as humans. When he saw the sun rising from the desolate landscape, Jim nodded to Albert: it was THE time. A slender boy emerged from the opposite trench, taking hesitant footsteps toward the snowy no man’s land, unarmored and with his arms raised over the blonde head. Simultaneously, Albert rose over the French walkway and moved toward the marching boy on the opposite side. Standing out as mirroring, dark silhouettes in the golden sunset, the two identical twins gaited toward each other like in a dream, while their respective brothers of Arms watched amazed at the scene . When they finally reached the exact halfway between the trenches they stopped within a step from each other, as if reflexed in an invisible stained glass, locking their gaze reciprocally in those indigo eyes full of tears that had not met for 13 long years. When they finally hugged each other, the blue and the military green of their uniform seemed to be so perfectly matched, as the land and the sea in a beautiful landscape. For a brief moment everybody felt like two halves had rejoined their balance in that crazy world who lost its equilibrium in that war, as if they actually were all men like each other and not two different races at war. Jim doubted it, as if that unbelievable vision could be only a false dream: it looked so strange, so out of place for those men whose new nature was fighting an everyday mortal conflict; or was that war against those men’s nature?

When Albert and Oskar were little, they would always wake up at dawn on Christmas Day. 

As the first rays of the sun tinted the dark wood of their room in a soft pink glow,  they would untangle themselves from the woolen covers, sitting up to find their own smile mirrored on the other’s face in the dim rosy light. Silent as cats they would slip out of their room, their small feet bare against the cold floor so as not to make noise. They would hear their father snore in their parents room and would freeze at the noise. But then they would gaze at the small Christmas tree in the living room beneath, and their hearts would fill with courage again. They would tiptoe down the stairs, drawn by the coruscant beauty of the tree. “Happy Christmas” they would whisper then, giving eachother a small, childishly wrapped package. 

Thirteen years had passed since and here they were, staring at each other in the pearly sunrise of a battlefield. The war had quieted down and the world itself seemed to be sleeping, snoozing so as not to disturb them. On the German trenches, the Christmas trees were still standing guard, their faithfully green branches adorned with golden lights. 

 “Joyeux Noël, Albert.” Oskar said. 

“Frohe Weihnachten, Oskar.” Albert answered. 

Silence fell between them as they fell short of words. It might have been dawn, the Christmas trees might’ve been there, but the children they had been were gone. Two thirds of their lives they had been apart, they had grown and been hardened by life and war, to meet now, between corpses and snow, as adults, as soldiers, as strangers. 

“I…” Oskar started rummaging through his pockets, “It’s not much but… I remember you liked chocolate” 

He handed a pair of chocolate bars to Albert, who smiled fondly.  “It’s perfect. Thank you” 

He slid them into his pocket, pulling out a worn-out book in the process. “I found this in an abandoned trench. You still like reading, don’t you?” 

Oskar nodded, carefully taking the book between his gloved hands. They were quite a rare sight in the trenches and one of the things  he missed more . “Merci” 

“Hey… look!” Albert exclaimed, gesturing in the still, cold air. Oskar looked around and his heart leaped. They weren’t alone in no man’s land anymore. Blue, gray and khaki coats alike punctuated the snow, tentative hands reaching out with chocolate and bread, beer and wine, cigarettes and rum.   

And then, suddenly, something was flying high, standing out against the rising sun. The soldiers ducked, trembling, waiting for the explosion, waiting for fire and death. Yet, nothing happened. 

When Alfred opened his eyes again, a ball had bounced close to his feet. He burst out in a bewildered, relieved laugh. and kicked it with all his strength. Oskar tried to block it, but failed and fell on the frozen ground, provoking a general laughter. A fellow comrade took hold of the ball and a French boy went to pursue. Before they knew it, a football match had started on no man’s land. 

Initially, the soldiers naturally created football teams with their connationals, simply kicking around the ball and laughing in three different languages; and the snow between the trenches, for once, was not covered with the footsteps of dishuman marches or desperate runs, but with the playful mess of boots-steps left from the game. Little before midday, someone tried to plan an organized championship, creating two football goals out of old boxes and tracing the camp limits on the snow with sticks. It would have felt awful, anyway, to re-propose the conflict they have been living through for years through a sports competition, opposing again the French and the German; therefore, new mixed teams were formed, by simple and spontaneous gatherings of men who struggled to verbally communicate with their strong accents. Disordered matches began, while everyone was uncertain of who his teammates were, since there was no uniform to respect: the colors of their suit were joyfully mixing, without caring for ranks or nationalities. 

There, on that whitewashed plan glimmering in perlaceous light, that setting  seemed hardly real: it resembled more to an oniric landscape, out of time and place, hang on the nothingness of a dream; a dream in which all men could smile at each other and forget the word “enemy”; a dream so perfect and fragile that could be on the verge disappear any moment, like a snowglobe. Surrounded by that impossibly white snow, that seemed to have mounded that land of horror with its purity, it was hard to think that the boy who was playing football by your side could have been the one that had shot your companions the day before. 

After the chaotic championship –at the end of which, as in many other situations, it was hard to say who had won– the soldiers gathered sparsely around campfires lit on the makeshift football camp. Sitting on the ground, they had recovered their best extra rations from the trenches and offered them dispassionately, creating a sort of military-issued bouffet of gallets and biscuits, dried meat, various alcoholics and even some potatoes. Eating side by side with each other’s portions, they friendly chatted in a mixture of languages and dialects, not so different from the chaos registered during the matches. But somehow, thanks to those mysterious powers of humanity, they managed to tell jokes and laugh even without understanding each others, just for the joy of finally having a decent laugh; they showed the photos of their girlfriends, who were (hopefully) waiting at home, and more or less politely commented them with appreciations. And while telling of their countries, of the lives that they briskly interrupted and that seemed frozen and only waiting to be restarted, they noticed that it was not so different being a student in Germany or in France.   

Eventually, the twins found themselves sitting side by side in front of a campfire. They did not interact much after that heartbreaking embrace, maybe because they were too astonished and absorbed by the games. It had been actually Oskar who somehow avoided his brother: after having been hardened by his father for years, he did not dare to shed tears or being involved in too intense emotional displays of affection; As a child, he grew in the strictness of a German father and by the shadow of his mother’s grief, it felt unnatural to feel the warmth of brotherhood again, after so many years of ice coldness and distance.

It was Alfred who shyly tried to start a conversation, hope as fleeble and bright of the flame in front of him:

“Also… wie geht es dir, mein Bruder?” he did not watch into those eyes identical to his own, directing more to the points of their boots laid on the snow. 

As cold and sharp as the ice on which he was sitting, Oskar did not care about small talks and ignored the silly question; instead he forced Albert to look him in the eyes: almost nothing was left of the quiet child that his brother had known. There were only two bluette diamonds hardened by loneliness, encircling those dark dwells that were the irises. 

Albert did not lost his soul, and tried to approach him with a topic to which his Oskar could not resist: literature. 

“I have read a book, lately…” he said without letting go of that mirroring look.

“A book? You?” joked Oskar incredulously, raising an eyebrow, the forgotten flash of a smile in his voice. 

“Ja, a book, a real one, with more than 400 pages!” exclaimed the twin, pretending indignation; the temperature had seemed to rise a couple of degrees after Oskar’s little prank, and Albert felt immensely relieved by that casual gesture of his. 

But the incantation soon broke and the tension returned between them, tangible.

“Then, many things must have been changed” observed Oskar gravely, recomposing his features in a solemn mask veiled by sadness.

“Yes, we are changed, Oskar” admitted Alfred lowering his eyes. 

The other twin, the one grown up without affection, was somehow irate: how could it be all of this possible? Why did he had to suffer a childhood alone when the other half of him still had their mother? But he realized to be in wrath more against destiny than against Albert, so he let his walls crack a little. He affectionately patted the French-raised boy on the shoulder and asked which book he read. Albert answered somehow with a dramatic halo:

“One by Charles Dickens, it was one of your favorites…” 

Yes –Oskar thought- “was” was the correct tense, since his father Friedrick prohibited him any narrative that was not compulsory for his grades, in order to make a real man out of him 

Albert almost cried and handed him a copy of the narrative that his brother was reading on the train on that cursed day in Switzerland: a Tale of Two Cities. Destiny definitely was a thing. 

Oskar took it with trembling hands and traced the title’s outline with a finger. He remembered he had been doing the same the moment everything fell apart. The book had been sitting limp and heavy on his legs, frozen by his father’s prohibition. He had been outlining the gold-embossed lettering of the title, repeatedly, mindlessly, as if through it he could absorb all the book he was forbidden from reading. It had been a different copy, heavier, more priced than the one he now held in his hands, but the memories engulfed him anyway. The thundering roar, the sudden jerk… he had been lifted from his seat and he had clung to his book as if an anchor, 

Rocks had hitten him, not big enough to kill or seriously injure him, but sharp enough to leave him bruised and grazed. Dust had clogged his lungs up and the pain had been so bitter and burning that he thought he would’ve died. And yet, it was nothing compared to when, lifted up from the rubble, he had been told his mother and twin brother would’ve never come out from under those murderous stones. 

“Oskar!” His head jerked up. Albert was staring worriedly at him. Albert was there, he was alive. It had all been a lie. Those thirteen years of loneliness and pain… a lie. He didn’t blame his mother. She had saved Albert and herself. They had been leading happy lives till the war, and he wouldn’t have wanted anything else for the two people he loved most in the world. And yet, the pain crushed his lungs under its weight, so heavy and tight they could barely fill with the freezing winter air. And his heart… it had beaten broken for so long he didn’t remember how having an intact one felt. His youth had been spent as a long dim day, and now that he was finally shown the sun, the light excruciatingly blinded him. 

A sob broke out of his throat and, out of reflex, he tried to gulp it down. He was a German, he was a man. Men didn’t cry. But Albert’s hand squeezed his and Oskar saw his eyes too were gleaming with unfallen tears. 

“Tu m'as manqué” He uttered, his tongue stumbling over the language he hadn’t spoken in years. If his harsh German accent made Albert cringe, he didn’t show it. He sobbed, louder, heart-wrenching and repeated: “Du hast mir so gefehlt”

Albert smiled, despite hearing the hated tongue. “Du mir auch, Oskar. Tu aussi”  

Tears were falling, now, and burning their way across his cheeks. Stunned, Oskar brought his hands to touch them. They were the first tears he shed in those thirteen years of cold sorrow and hollow solitude. He felt dragged towards Alfred’s chest, and he rested his head on the blue of his uniform. It was not manly, it was not German, but he didn’t care. His father wasn’t there, Albert was. Albert was and he hadn’t been for so, so long, he was and he wouldn't have been the next day. Oskar cried for the past and he cried for the future, for tomorrow Christmas would’ve been over and he and Albert would’ve been enemies again. 

The man who laughs 

Part 3

He wasn’t left alone for long. He had just had the time to sort father, kidnapped, Wayne, brother into something that, if not made sense, gave an impression of reasonableness, before the door opened again. 

Behind her entered a man and he didn’t hesitate a second to point him as the woman’s father. They had the same self-confidence in their walk, the same arrogance painted in the face, the same spit in their brown glare, the same aura of power hovering around them. The other person was as similar to them as a panther is to swines. Dressed in purple and black she silently slipped inside, then stopped frozen at his sight. His heart jolted in his chest. Cat.

He remembered a saying Brutus told him, a very long time ago, as they picked up the stage tools a group of boys had broken and scattered. “Don’t we do anything?” He had asked, lifting the pieces of his favorite can. The shouts of queers, freaks, charlatans still echoed in his ears, along with the boys’s laughter. Yet  Brutus had shook his head. “All  the chickens come home to roost, kid.” He had just said. 

“What does this mean, Sofia?” The man asked in an imperious tone to his daughter. 

She smiled, like a snake eyeing its next meal. “In front of you is Arthur Wayne, the boy you had kidnapped and killed twenty years ago. Obviously you failed the second task” 

The man gasped, panicked eyes darting across the room, jumping from him and his daughter. 

She put an hand on his shoulder. “I’ve already talked to the Court. Since Beatrix Arkham is dead, Arthur’s existence is no longer an issue.” The woman smirked and managed to pass it as a comforting smile. “There is just one little thing. The Court does not wish to see the Wayne fortune divided. They will make it so the old will, the one Thomas wrote before Arthur’s disappearance, will be applied. Arthur Wayne is the sole heir.” 

Gwynplaine’s head took up humming again. Wayne fortune. Sole heir. The richest man in Gotham. Gwynplaine. Clown. Nothing. Arthur Wayne. Heir. Kidnapped. Disfigured. Hahahahaha. 

He pressed his hands on his forehead, trying to numb the piercing ache. 

“But worry not, father. In their generosity, the Court assured me the pact is still valid. A wedding for a wedding. My dear sister will still marry the Wayne heir, she will only have to change man “

***

“NO!” Selina’s yell cut through the room. “It was the only thing that was mine, mine!” 

Gwynplaine. Of all men, he had to be the secret, forgotten Wayne heir?

He, who had been the breath of air not spoiled by expensive perfume, he, the spur-of-the-moment decision to feel alive, he, a secret in the night, her secret, mine. And now, he was no longer. Now he had taken the place of  the man she loved, the one she had so desperately wished she could decide to spend her life together with, instead of it being set many, many years ago. Now, the breath of fresh air was forced into her lungs, rotten, corrupted, nauseous. 

She was no fool. She knew that the wedding was meant as a punishment for Carmine Falcone, a retaliation for not executing the deed as expected. Your daughter will be the jester’s queen. The Owls would have laughed as they tied the knot. The daughter of Carmine Falcone, marrying a disfigured, monstrous street performer. Oh, yes they were gonna laugh embarrassing the one who had been Gotham’s king. 

She felt the bitter taste of bile filling her mouth. Tools. Jobs. Bank accounts. Positions in Gotham’s social ladder. Labels. Pieces on a chess board. That was what people were to the Court, just like to her father. But she was tired of their disgusting game. She stormed off the room. 

***

Gwynplaine watched her go. He understood. The cat had no joy in capturing a bird tied up in front of her paw. What had been liquid freedom, tasted in the secret of the night, was now chains built by the powerful. 

The one that had been called Sofia smiled. She looked like a snake who had just finished a very large, flavory and satisfying meal.  Gwynplaine understood now. She had bitten envy’s green, bitter apple and drank Selina’s happiness to gulp down the bite. He had been the bottle. 

And then, the man spoke to Gwynplaine.  “I’ll get you a meeting with the directors' board.” 

From there it was all a frenzy, all a vortex of confused images, colors, sounds, textures, flavors, smells, as he was led in the wealthiest part of town, up to the highest floor of the tallest building, through a big, airy, bright room. In there, there was a table, of which every chair but one was occupied by expensive clothes covering very quiet, and visibly upset, people. They were introduced to him as the administrative council of Wayne Enterprises. He took his seat, careful to make as little noise as possible. Everything sounded amplified a hundred times in the deadly silent room. 

In front of him, at the other head of the table, I’m sitting at the end of the table in the WE administrative council!, sat a man whose figure was vastly different from the others. He wore a suit and tie as well, but his hair fell unruly and slightly too long on his face and his eyes were circled by deep eyeshadows. His pale lips were closed in a thin, expressionless line. 

“I’m Bruce Wayne” The voice, low, almost a whisper, barely reached Gwynplaine on the other edge of the table. But the meaning sank in anyway. 

Gwynplaine stared at his brother’s inscrutable face and wondered what he was thinking.

Was he angry, losing his fortune to his father’s bastard son? Did he hate him? Was he envious, resentful? Or was he curious about him? Was he thrilled, instead? Did he want to know him, to discover in what kind of person flowed the same blood as in his veins?  

Then, Gwynplaine looked into himself and found that he, as well, did not know what to think of Bruce Wayne. 

A dossier was placed in front of him. He ran through it, rereading every line twice, and some three or four times. As someone who many and many times had gone to sleep with his stomach rumbling, the numbers simply didn’t make sense to him. Too big, too abstract. 

“This is… this is so much money.”  He muttered. Sparse laughter came from the board of directors. 

My money. He thought. He had to make sense of it, in some way. So he started to divide. How many loaves of bread he could buy, how many rents he could pay, how many medicines, how many clothes, how many warm homes, how many lives…

“This… this will help so many people. We should make a plan, a charity. “ He said, eyes wide open, amazed at the seemingly endless number. “We could buy all the houses in the poorest neighborhoods, make it so no one has to pay rent anymore, make it so they’re always warm and there’s always light. The nights are long in Gotham, the winters are cold. There will be clothes for everyone, and food and medicines…” 

He went on and on, his face beaming, his eyes bright. He told them about the hunger, about the cold, about the pain, about the fear. He told them about Harley’s mother, dead in an alley, alone, gone in a dream. He told them about Harley, about the child who cried for Heaven knows how long, with no one to hear. He told them about himself, how he had knocked door after door with no answer, two children on the brink of death, alone, abandoned, forgotten. He told them about all the things he had seen, heard, felt, and how they could make it better. 

Silence welcomed the end of his speech. Silence that, if he was not mistaken, was of the stunned kind. And then, the silence cracked open, like the dark, cloudy, gray sky when the storm begins. A thundering sound filled the room. 

Hahahahahahahahahahahahaha. 

To him, he was as if all the laughter of all his life was rumbling in his ears, all the men who laughed were roaring their amusement at him, at the clown, at the fool, at the man who laughs. 

So he jumped on his feet, kicked the chair away and ran.

Behind him, he heard his brother yelling at the members, defending him, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. He had spoke of life, he had spoken of love, he had spoke from his heart, and they had laughed. 

So he ran. Ran out of the building, ran out of the quarters of the rich, ran, ran, ran to Harley. He ran to his sweet angel, to his goddess, to the only woman he loved and will always love. He felt dirty, even though the water of the shower he had been made to take had washed away Cat’s perfume. He felt dirty, running in the streets, in the clothes that had been given, how many loaves of bread, how many medicines were those clothes worth? 

So he ran, because only Harley could make him clean. Only Harley could sweep away the darkness lingering on his heart. Harley, his whole world in a world of screaming deaf people, in a world of people who tied a bandage on their eyes not to see the darkness as they walked into the light. 

Or maybe, it was not to see how far from the light and how deep into the rotting darkness they had gone. 

***

There it was. Brutus’s caravan. An oasis in the harsh, rash desert Gotham was. Home. 

He stopped, knocked on the door, smiled. Of course he smiled. He always smiled. 

Brutus came out, pulled him into an hug. He had cried. “Gwynplaine” He said. “I’m sorry” He sobbed. “Harley” 

Gwynplaine’s heart started to slide down, down, down, into a deep, dark abyss, carving his way into his flesh, the hole eating him alive, bit by bit, with the anguish, the anticipation of a disgrace about to be announced. 

"She … I'm sorry. We were trying out the light for the show and I needed someone to switch it on…we really needed to try… it shorted out… I couldn't… I'm sorry. She's dead." 

Three words. The oasis shattered. The world shattered. Gwynplaine’s heart shattered. 

Dead, dead, dead. Harley, goddess, sister, wife, everything, world, dead. 

Deaddeaddeaddeaddeaddeaddead. And the laughter, that never stopped, never ceased, never quieted in his brain. Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha. 

Dead.Hahahahaha. Dead.Dead.Dead. Hahahahahahahahahahaha. Dead. Dead. Dead. 

She was dead and he was laughing, he was laughing because he couldn’t cry. 

He was laughing, like the WE board had done, as Harley’s body grew cold. 

Hahahahahahahahahaha. 

And the dark, that the anticipation to see Harley, the mere thought of her had pushed in the back of his mind, the dark came forward again, stronger than ever. They had laughed, when he had told them houses needed to be made secure. Had their implant been newer, Harley would still be alive. And they had laughed. 

So, they were gonna laugh again. They were so gonna laugh. All chickens come home to roost.

He was gonna make sure they roasted well where they roosted. Oh, he was gonna make them laugh. 

Weeks went by. He buried Harley. She had been carrying their child. He hadn’t known. Did she already? Was she gonna tell him? When? Well, it didn’t matter anymore, did it? 

He saw Malone. He had come looking for him. He told him his name, his real name. Gwynplaine ran. Keep your fortune, keep your place in the chess board. I don’t want it. Arthur Wayne is dead. He died the day he started to smile. Gwynplaine is dead too. He died with her.

Did he say it out loud? Did he only think it? It didn’t matter. He had to make them laugh. That was the only thing that mattered now. He had to make them laugh, because they wouldn’t have cried. 

He made mistakes. He wasn’t, hadn’t been a criminal. Loose ties, clues, for the GCPD to follow. 

But it wasn’t the GCPD who found him standing on a catwalk in the ACE chemicals plant, staring at the kegs of corrosive chemical substances that he was gonna rain on the WE council’s parade.

It was a shadow, a dark, looming omen, a terrifying sight. It was the legend whispered in the lowlifes’ bars, he was the vengeance that came before the deed. The Dark Knight of Gotham, the demon, the Bat. 

His face laughed, as his entrails twisted in sheer terror. He ran as fast as he can, trying to escape, to get away from the reaper of all damned souls. It was no use. The shadow was too fast, closer and closer, unmoveable, unstoppable, like fate. He didn’t kill, he had heard someone say. He only put people behind bars, to rot in some dark cell, without her, without revenge, with only the laughter to keep him company. And as hell he was going to.  

One way to escape. He laughed. Down. 

The Bat yelled, stretched out his hand. But it was too late. He fell, down, down, down.

The acid chemicals engulfed him in their excruciating embrace. Centuries passed, thousands of years of pain. And then, he regained the surface. Over him, Gotham’s dark, dull gray sky. Around him, the waters of a polluted river. In his naris, the smell of decay of which Gotham was soaked. 

In his ears, the laughter. 

The sky rumbled like an angry cat, then hissed, roared and brought down hell on Gotham city. 

The Joker rose from the dump. The world was about to die laughing. 

Tres textos de locos (por no hablar del Quijote)

El papel de la locura en la actualidad: una reflexión sobre Don Quijote y la salud mental

La locura ha sido objeto de fascinación y debate a lo largo de la historia, y en la actualidad no es diferente. En mi opinión, la locura sigue siendo un tema importante, pero tal vez se le presta menos atención de la que merece. En el mundo actual, donde los trastornos psicológicos son cada vez más comunes, es necesario reflexionar sobre lo que significa “estar loco” y cómo se tratan a las personas que lo están.

Uno de los ejemplos más conocidos de locura en la literatura es Don Quijote de la Mancha, el personaje creado por Miguel de Cervantes en el siglo XVI. Don Quijote es un caballero andante que se embarca en una serie de aventuras absurdas en nombre de la justicia y la caballería. Para algunos, Don Quijote es un ejemplo de la locura que puede resultar peligrosa y debe ser tratada. Para otros, es un personaje que desafía la norma y muestra la belleza de la imaginación y la creatividad.

En mi opinión, la locura no es algo que deba ser tratado necesariamente como una enfermedad o algo a evitar a toda costa. En lugar de eso, debemos tratar de entender lo que significa estar loco y cómo podemos ayudar a las personas que lo están. En el caso de Don Quijote, su locura puede ser vista como una forma de escapismo de la realidad dura y aburrida de su vida cotidiana. Su imaginación le permite encontrar un sentido de propósito y aventura que no puede encontrar en su mundo real. Esto no significa que debamos alentar a las personas a volverse locas o ignorar la salud mental, sino que debemos reconocer que la locura puede tener aspectos positivos y no necesariamente debe ser vista como algo negativo.

Además, es importante recordar que la línea entre la locura y la genialidad a menudo es muy fina. Algunas de las mentes más creativas y visionarias de la historia han sido vistas como locas por la sociedad, pero luego han sido reconocidas por sus contribuciones. Un ejemplo de esto es Vicent van gogh, cuya salud mental fue precaria durante gran parte de su vida. Sin embargo, su obra se considera hoy en día como una de las más influyentes en la historia del arte.

En conclusión, la locura es un tema que sigue siendo relevante y debe ser abordado con cuidado y comprensión en la actualidad. A través de ejemplos como Don Quijote, podemos ver que la locura puede tener aspectos positivos y que debemos tratar de entenderla en lugar de simplemente temerla o ignorarla. Es importante recordar que la salud mental es una parte importante de nuestra vida y que debemos prestar atención a ella tanto como a nuestra salud física.

José Manuel Figueroa Cordova

La locura: un tema de múltiples facetas

La locura: un tema muy importante no solo hoy sino también en el pasado

¿Qué es la locura hoy?, ¿Qué significa realmente este término?

Estas son preguntas que durante los años la sociedad siempre ha formulado y a las que, para mí, es difícil dar respuestas precisas porque la locura se trata de manera diferente en cada cultura y época histórica según las ideas predominantes del período, por lo tanto puede ser que diferentes personas la consideran como un dato histórico y social [Artículo escrito por Arnau Berenguer, “Ser histórico, portal de historia" https://serhistorico.net/2018/01/20/breve-historia-de-la-locura/].

Por ejemplo, al final del siglo XIX, se abandonó el término locura porque despreciativo y en la actualidad se prefiere usar el término “enfermo mental” o el de “trastorno mental”, así que se puede separar el desorden de la persona de su carácter y sus propias experiencias [Ibidem].

Como ya se ha anticipado parcialmente en la introducción, el significado de las palabras “loco” y “locura” ha cambiado a través de los siglos, de hecho inicialmente los antiguos sostenían que la locura era sagrada porque era obra de los dioses y demonios que la enviaban como un castigo o una venganza; en cambio, a lo largo de los años con la llegada del cristianismo durante la Edad media, la locura fue reevaluada como sinónimo de pecado o resultado de una posesión [Ibidem].

Todavía hoy en día, los términos “loco” y “locura” se emplean para enfatizar la presencia de un trastorno mental, pero se utilizan también en otros contextos con significados que no tienen relaciones con la enfermedad; actualmente no ponemos límites a la palabra porque etiquetamos como un loco, es decir “una persona que tiene poco juicio o se comporta de forma imprudente o temeraria, sin pensar en las consecuencias” [Definición de Oxford Languages de la palabra loco], tanto a un asesino que comete una masacre, como a un individuo que toma un baño en un lago congelado cuando afuera la temperatura está bajo cero.

La locura siempre ha sido un tema muy tratado dentro de la literatura internacional: baste con pensar en el “Orlando Furioso” en la literatura italiana o la novela inglés “Las aventuras de Alicia en el País de las Maravillas”; a decir verdad, se definió como loco también Alonso Quijano, protagonista de la obra maestra española “Don Quijote de la Mancha” escrita por Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra y considerada como una de las obras más importantes del mundo.

El protagonista Don Alonso Quijano era un hidalgo que vivía en la región de la Mancha y era un lector que tenía una pasión tan grande por las novelas de caballería que llegó a no poder distinguir la realidad de la ficción histórica, hasta convencerse que él era uno de los protagonistas de aquellas aventuras.

Por esta razón, un día el caballero errante decidió partir con su caballo Rocinante y su escudero Sancho Panza para abordar diferentes empresas sin darse cuenta de que todas sus acciones eran inútiles porque veía cosas que existían solo en su imaginación; pasó el resto de su existencia persiguiendo a estas fantasías excepto en los últimos minutos de su vida cuando, gracias a algunos momentos de lucidez, comprendió que no había una relación entre el mundo real y la fantasía.

Las causas de la locura del Don Quijote han sido objeto de estudios también por psiquiatras y se ha obtenido una conclusión: el protagonista sufre de una locura de lectura, en otras palabras considera los libros como la única fuente de verdad y esta convicción lo lleva a interpretar el mundo que lo rodea según su imaginación, estratagema por él mismo confirmada como una especie de escape de la realidad [Documento extraído del libro “Lectura y locura : Don Quijote e la rilettura cortese del mondo”, Quarti Lara https://iris.univr.it/handle/11562/835564].

Desde mi punto de vista, esta análisis de la obra hace emerger una condición no demasiado alejada de la actualidad, dado que hay personas que en su vida sufren o han vivido algo tan insoportable que deciden recurrir a métodos como el uso de drogas para poder colmar ese dolor y escapar de lo que los aplasta, sin pensar en los riesgos que corren: es por eso, para concluir mi discurso, que aún hoy se pueden utilizar textos de la literatura anterior a nosotros para explicar condiciones aún presentes en la sociedad.

Gaia Maltagliati

Video La vida es sueño

The man who laughs 

Part 2

Gwynplaine was prey to internal turmoil. Go or not do go, that was the dilemma who had hunted him for a week and half. But even as he made up his mind and walked to the place indicated by the note, guilt ate through him as a worm in a decaying apple. One part of himself pushed him to go, the most animal part of him, the part that had gazed at the mysterious woman and found her attractive. The other, the best part of him, the part that loved Harley dearly, slowed his pace down, forced him into frequent stops, made him turn around several times. 

The battle between the women in his head was so fierce that he arrived at the rendezvous five minutes late. She wasn't there yet.  A persistent, horrible thought started to crawl into his mind: had it all been a mockery? Was his face not enough? Did she want to find even one more reason to laugh at him? 

A voice pulled him off his thoughts. “Hi” 

Here she was, dressed in leather as black as the night, perched on a gargoyle a couple meters above him.  

“Hi” He said, shyly. 

She jumped down, somersaulted in the air and landed in front of him without the slightest noise. The analogy with the cat seemed even more fitting. 

“You seemed an interesting type. I wanted to have a chat” She said. Chat. He was swarmed by both disappointment and relief. 

"What do you want to chat about?" 

She shrugged. "I don't know. Tell me about you" 

Tell me about you. What is there to tell, about the jester, about the man who laughs? 

To take time, he took a couple steps, leaned his back against a wall. She did the same on his left side. Once he was free from her magnetic green gaze, he found the words on the point of his tongue. So he spoke:

"Not much to tell. As long as I can remember, I've been like this" He pointed at his face. "It makes people laugh. Laughter, they say, it's contagious. So I decided, I might as well get paid for it. And that's where you found me"

She stayed silent. More words tumbled out of his mouth, words he had never said to anyone, not even Brutus, not even Harley. Maybe it was true. Maybe it was easier opening up to a stranger.

  "You know what's the worst part of it? At first I thought it was the reaction I caused. The laughter and then, when it died out, the disgust. But it wasn't that. Then I thought it was the inability to cry, to be sad or angry or anything else that is not the Cheshire Cat's smile. But in the end, I understood. It was that I couldn't laugh. By making me laugh always, they had taken the ability to laugh from me. Because, even when I truly mean it, when I'm truly laughing, it's not mine."

Only when the last syllable died in the air he realized how stupid it sounded. He glanced at the woman, he didn't even know her name, he realized. Her face, though, didn't show what he expected to find. Actually, she seemed to be musing. 

Eventually she spoke. "I'm in love with a man" Again the mixture of disappointment and relief. "I'm in love with a man and my father wants me to marry him. But I do not want it. Because, once I've done my father's bidding, it will be my father's dream come true. It will no longer be mine"

They stared silently in the depth of the night.

"I'm in love with a woman. She's my wife in everything but law because, for the law, we do not exist. I love her, I truly do. But I have not known any other woman and I can't help but wonder: do I love her because she's the only one? Or would I love her even among a million others?"

He found himself saying. Every word rang true to his heart. Did he love Harley because she loved him? Because she was the only person who didn't laugh her head off at the sight of him? Did he love her because she was the only one who saw him? 

But she didn't, he realized. Harley did not see him at all. She saw her Gwynplaine, her puddin', she saw the light. She knew nothing of the dark, of the animal desire that tormented his bowels from time to time, of the feral instinct that every now and them screamed in his mind, overcoming the laughter, commanding him to burn something down, to extinguish a laughter in blood, to take the woman in front of him. His goddess knew nothing of that and lest she knew how increasingly difficult it was to resist. 

But, if he loved her because she loved him, and if she of him loved only a part… how could it be his? 

The woman pulled herself apart from the wall and, in the blink of an eye, once again was in front of him, closer than ever. "In my experience…" She murmured, pulling something out of her pocket. He vaguely realized it was his wallet, his senses too overcomed by the presence, essence of her, by her smell, her heat, her being. She continued as if she had read his mind. "The only way to have something really mine is take it without permission" 

The struggle within him, that had snoozed off during the talk, awoke with all the strength and might of two fighting dragons. Harley's Gwynplaine deployed an impressive army, under the banners of her starry eyes and candid hair, of her soft lips and crystal laughter, of her pure heart and bright soul. 

Their defense was strenuous, thousands perished in their white vests and thousands replaced them on the walls of his heart. But yet, it was vain. The dark-clothed supporters of the cat-like woman won. Gwynplaine's dark side awoke. 

"What should I call you?" He asked not for her name. She wanted to have something hers. A name was never yours. "Cat"

He knew she was waiting to hear the same. He did not think about it. It had to come from the heart. "Call me Joker" 

He took her hand in hers. "One night. Let it be ours for one night"

***

At the same time, Sofia Falcone was pacing back and forth in her office. The desk was covered in notes. She had put her best men on the job and the results had come in even quicker than she had demanded. Arthur Wayne, by his father's will sole heir of the Wayne empire till his disappearance, lived now as a disfigured showman in the Gotham slums. 

“Find the man that goes by the name of Gwynplaine. Bring him to me. Use whatever means necessary, but do not harm him." 

The men answered like they were one. “Yes, boss”

***

Guilt crept into Gwynplaine's heart as he sneaked back into the caravan. He slipped into the bed he shared with Harley, feeling as dirty as if he had rolled over in horseshit. He was as silent and gentle as he could, but she stirred anyway. "What time is it, puddin'?" 

His heart felt crushed between a hammer and an anvil. Bitter pangs of guilt pierced it, more and more painful every time he laid her eyes on her in the twilight. 

He called upon all his strength of will, all his skill as a showman to answer with the sweetness expected from a lover. "Still early, Harl. Sleep" 

But she didn't. She opened one eye, one starry beautiful eye, and seemed to look at him. 

"Were you out all night?" She uttered. 

"Yes. I needed…" Suddenly he realized he couldn't stay here. He couldn't lay next to her with Cat's scent still hovering in his naris, the memory of her touch still impressed upon her body. " Just sleep." He said. His throat felt pinched in an iron grasp, he couldn't breathe. Yet, for her, he found the breath for the last  words. "I'll explain in the morning, don't worry dear." 

Would he? Would he have told the truth, begged her forgiveness? Or would he have come up with a lie? What was best for her? What would've hurt her less? 

He needed to think. He needed air. He got out of the caravan and started running in the cold wind. 

There was a question he had to answer first and foremost, a question that was eating him alive. With Cat, had he enjoyed it? 

He didn't get to think about an answer. Suddenly strong, harsh hands were restraining him and a hood of a rough texture was lowered on his head. Then it all went dark.  

***

He woke up to a crackling fire. The hood had been lifted and he could catch a view of the room. It was luxurious, the most beautiful he had ever been into. A pity he had to see it as a kidnapped man. First thing, he checked if he was still intact. Surprisingly enough, he was. The abduction hadn't left any other sign but a few bruises on his arms. Next thing, he realized he wasn't tied. Weird. 

He got up, examined the space, tried without much conviction to open the door. After confirming there wasn't anything in the room that couldn't help him escape, he resigned to just wait for something to happen.

He spent the next hour or so roaming around, examining the objects lined up on the mantelpiece, leafing through the books in the library, running his fingers on the soft texture of the armchairs. It was almost as soft as Harley's hair. Harley. Oh, Harley. 

The sound of the door opening startled him. He raised his head to face the tall, elegant woman who was entering the room. Her dress and jewelry was clearly expensive and she carried herself in a way that spoke of someone used to power. What have I gotten myself into? He mused. Even better, what did I do to get myself into this mess? His mind supplied him with a picture of Cat. He felt his heart skip a beat. If this is the case, then I deserve whatever will happen to me. 

"Salve. You may wonder why you were brought here"

He discovered her brown glare wasn't hard to withstand. It was exactly the same as the men and women he had met in his childhood, the ones who laughed as he tried to cry. It was a mean, scornful gaze, but also one that stopped on the surface. It couldn't see in the depths, because the owner didn't care. 

He lowered his eyes. It was better not to hold a powerful person's gaze for too long. They wanted the lows to grovel meekly in their inferiority. 

"I do" He muttered. 

"You need not to worry. I bring good news to you. You see, many many years ago, there were two young people in love. The man was the richest person of Gotham and she belonged to the most prestigious family of the city. Their marriage had been arranged years and years before and destiny had been so kind to make them fall in love. But there was an issue: the man had a bastard son, whom he loved more than anything in the world. The fiancè's mother did not like the idea of her grandchildren growing up side by side with the son of a common servant girl. So, she called in a favor from very powerful people who also had an interest in joining the two families. They charged a man with kidnapping and killing the child. But the child was not killed. The man's minions disfigured him and sold him to child traffickers, to make a gain. Then, startled by GCPD task forces, the men who had bought it abandoned him on the streets. Arthur Wayne grew up without a memory of his identity, of his father. He grew into a street performer called Gwynplaine"

His head buzzed in an unpleasant way. 

Arthur Wayne. Gwynplaine. Arthur Wayne. 

The name somehow fitted in his mind, like an old forgotten truth. Arthur Wayne. Wayne. He had heard the name around the town. Something about a Bruce…

 "Is… is my father still…?" He asked, grasping the armrests in a vain effort to steady himself. The room seemed to spin around him, the colors twisting and changing in unusual, unnatural shades. His thoughts were running wild, uncontrollable, incoherent. He chased them like Alice with the White Rabbit, trying to give a sense to it all. 

The woman smiled, sympathetically, but he noticed the venom in her expression. He was just a tool in her game. Which game, he had no idea. "No, he died years ago together with his wife. I'm sorry. Their son, yet, is alive"

I have a brother. The thought was clear and limpid through the raging storm in his mind. My own flesh, my own blood. 

The ringing of the doll bell came like a lighting in a quiet night. It shook Gwynplaine to the bones, swept away the blizzard of thoughts, gifted a newfound clarity to his mind. 

He shifted his weight on the armchair. He felt like he had just been woken from a very strange dream. 

Yet, the elegant woman, he didn’t even know her name, he suddenly realized; the elegant woman was still there. “Oh, my guests must have arrived. You mind staying here alone for a minute, caro? “ 

Without waiting for his answer, she exited the room, closing the door after the flourish of her dress. 

Elisa Frigerio

What, my boy, you are not weeping? You should save your eyes for sight;

You will need them, mine observer, yet for many another night.

I leave none but you, my pupil, unto whom my plans are known.

You "have none but me," you murmur, and I "leave you quite alone"?

The old astronomer advises his pupil not to ruin his eyes crying for him, because he will need them to observe the sky for many years, which is surely more important.

I "have never failed in kindness"? No, we lived too high for strife, —

Calmest coldness was the error which has crept into our life;

But your spirit is untainted, I can dedicate you still

To the service of our science: you will further it? you will!

The elder recognises he has  always been detached and maybe not kind enough to his assistant. Indeed, they were too coldly dedicated to science to bother, both reunited and absorbed in the service of knowledge, that the pupil is going to continue. In the same way, Kepler and Brahe worked closely together; even if Kepler considered Tycho's model to be incorrect, he respected his master for his accurate methods and the quality of his observations.

There are certain calculations I should like to make with you,

To be sure that your deductions will be logical and true;

And remember, "Patience, Patience," is the watchword of a sage,

Not to-day nor yet to-morrow can complete a perfect age.

The astronomer, running out of time, says that he would have liked to work longer with the young scientist, to ensure him a good preparation; he recommends him to be patient, because wisdom is not a matter of days, but requires a long time.

​I have sown, like Tycho Brahé, that a greater man may reap;

But if none should do my reaping, 'twill disturb me in my sleep.

So be careful and be faithful, though, like me, you leave no name;

See, my boy, that nothing turn you to the mere pursuit of fame.

The old scientist is aware that he has been only a modest astronomer, but his faith resides in his pupil: he hopes that one day, thanks to their research, someone else may achieve an important discovery. Kepler considered Tycho Brahe the “new Hipparchus” (an ancient Greek astronomer), who would provide the foundation for a restoration of astronomy; indeed, Tycho did not make revolutionary discoveries to be remembered for centuries, but his data has been fundamental in helping Kepler  theorise his 3 laws of planetary motion. The elder also knows that this great future astronomer may not be his pupil: the young may remain anonymous just like his teacher, but he must work for science and not for fame .

I must say Good-bye, my pupil, for I cannot longer speak;

Draw the curtain back for Venus, ere my vision grows too weak:

It is strange the pearly planet should look red as fiery Mars, —

God will mercifully guide me on my way amongst the stars.

The dying astronomer makes his last observation: he sees Venus, with a reddish light similar to Mars’ one. Then, he finally leaves for his “journey among the stars”, those stars that he loved so much during life.

Science is not fame, nor easy, nor just a list of famous names. Science is an ongoing research led by brave men through the ages: each of them helped, with their life and work, to add a new piece to our understanding of the world. Science is the collective effort of millions of people, who loved knowledge more than themselves and cared for the progress of us all more than for the notoriety they might have acquired thanks to it. 

Martina Cucchi

Verity 

How many coincidences does it take to make a suspect?

Most of us probably know Colleen Hoover for her romance books (like “it ends with us” or “ugly love”) but today I’m talking about something different: a thriller (yeah, there’s still a love story in it,so you can also call it romance if you prefer). [Continua su Quarta di copertina...]

The man who laughs 

Part 1

It was a chilly late afternoon of October, the 31st in fact, and dark, stormy, ill-omened clouds hovered above Gotham, hiding the upper floors of the tall, austere, gray skyscrapers. In the mist, the buildings seemed to tower even more on the narrow alleys. The lights of the houses were already on, fleeble balls of light scarcely struggling against the shadows of the gloomy city. 

It was the kind of weather that, in stories, always foreshadows a tragedy, but the people of Gotham paid it no mind. The sun was a rare occurrence in Gotham. A cloudy sky was the norm. 

Actually, most people were rejoicing for the lack of rain, which would have ruined the celebrations for Halloween, and were blown away by the fact that the cursed city had, for once, missed an occasion to spit on them and rain on their parade. 

So, when the child, dressed up in the bright colors of a clown, trotted down the streets together with the neighbors’ kids, his basket for trick-or-treat hanging from an arm, there was a smile on his mother’s face as she watched him disappear in the crowd. Penny Fleck would’ve never seen her son again.

***

About two hours later a black car with tinted glass stopped into a murky alley, empty but for a couple scrawny cats scavenging between trash cans and a tall figure cladded in a dark coat. A man in his fifties, or fourties, stepped out of the back of the vehicle. He stopped in front of the figure. Power, wealth, arrogance were plastered in his whole countenance, but yet he appeared a mere nothingness compared to the quiet, inflexible composure of the other. Here laid the true power. 

Yet, the man was not gonna let himself show unease. “The child is inside. No witnesses. My men have done a good job” His voice was firm, accustomed  to the act of command. It carried a struggling, bitter note, in obeying. He concealed it well, many men would've been fooled, but he could not hide it from the figure. Nothing could be hidden from the figure.

Their face was covered by a white, blunt, expressionless mask. They spoke slowly, in a dull yet eerily fascinating tone. “I expected no less from Carmine Falcone” 

He crossed his arms on his chest. “You do remember the arrangement, do you?” 

The masked figure stayed still, impassible, like an owl sitting on a perch. “I assure you, our memory is sturdy and reliable as stone” 

The other was unconvinced. He shifted his weight. “Will it be so in twenty years?” 

The other showed no sign of rage, discomfort or whatever emotion. “Have faith, my friend. A marriage for a marriage. An queen for a queen. The Court of Owls pays off its debts”

Under the weight of the mask’s gaze, Falcone gave in. He let out a small, almost hysterical, laugh. “Jus’ checking.” 

The rumble of a engine broke the silence. A car, that had since that moment, been hidden by the darkness, had sprung to life. The alley was suddenly invaded by the cold light of the beams. It did not add to the scenery. 

“Dispose of the child.” The stone-faced figure ordered. “Make it so he won’t be heard from again.”

“It will be done.” 

Some footsteps, the sound of car-doors slamming closer, the noise of the engine, silence again. The cars, and the men, had disappeared, as they had never existed. And the child, with them, had ceased to exist. 

***

At the same time, in one of the largest, oldest and more marvelous buildings of Gotham City, Wayne Manor, a phone rang. Thomas Wayne, the richest man of the city, picked it up. His face paled up more and more at every word spoken on the interphone. He said two words only: “I’m coming”.

As he ran out of his study, he looked like someone ready to shift mountains and drain seas. And he would, in fact, metaphorically speaking, do it, for months, for years. It wouldn’t matter. Arthur Wayne-Fleck, his illegitimate but very loved son, would've never seen his father again. 

***

“I don’t understand why we have to keep the brat” A man grumbled. He was big and strong, like a gorilla, the kind of guy for whom the definition “muscle for hiring” was a perfect fit. 

“Yeah” Another, more or less of the same size and kind, echoed him. “Boss said get r’d of him. Let’s get rid of the brat” The third man, obviously the brains, shook his head. He looked exasperated, like he had to explain the same thing one time too many. “Because, there are people paying good money for a child. Or at least, for a child in the way he’ll be after I’ll be done with him.” It was Gotham, after all. Everything could be turned into money in Gotham. 

The third man left the room, a sadistic smile on his lips. He looked at the child, a small lad of no more than four years old, well-fed, well-groomed, well-loved. 

He caressed his tools, with tender care, with love,  as a mother could do with their child’s hair. Then he smiled. For some reason, that smile scared Arthur way more than anything he had been through since he was kidnapped. Fresh tears wet his already moisty cheeks, but no sound came out of his mouth, too terrified to utter his fear into words. “Hush” The third man said. “You cry now, but tomorrow, tomorrow you’ll smile.”  He gently stroked his face. “And the-day-after-tomorrow and the day after that. “You’re gonna smile forever, kid. Smile: you gotta be happy.  You’re gonna be my greatest piece of art” 

Unheard in the blank, thick silence of Gotham’s night, the high-pitched, agonizing cry of a child pierced the ceiling of the warehouse, getting lost in the breeze under a dark gray, starless sky. 

***

Two months from that, a wedding was celebrated in the grandiose Wayne Manor. 

The bride wore a dress ancient as the manor itself, passed upon mother to daughter for generations. The groom was no less glamorous in his elegant, hand-made suit. The magnificence concealed with ease the somewhat, sometimes, lost gaze of the bride, the slight curve of her belly, the darkness clouding the groom like a mantle. And what couldn’t be hidden by money, it was lost to the sight of the guests in the dazzling light of the obvious, intense, love between the two. 

“Amazing how destiny brings together hearts already meant to be tied” 

Beatrix Arkham, mother of the bride, turned to face the man who had spoken. “But even with the most favorable winds the ship still has to be launched at sea” She had gone straight to the point. She knew what Falcone wanted. So, she renewed the promise made by the Court of Owls. “A wedding for a wedding” He smiled as Thomas Wayne and Martha Arkham exchanged their vows. “And a queen for a queen” 

***

It was a freezing night of January when the news arrived. Time, years, had passed since the wedding of the Waynes. The slight curve on her belly had become a child, and that child an orphan. 

Arthur had forgotten he had ever been a Wayne, or a Fleck. He had forgotten he had ever had a mother, or a father, who had loved him. For him, the only reality was in the present. It was the hunger, the cold, the pain, the insults, the hands slipping inside his clothes as he slept. The laughter. It was everlasting, continuous. When it wasn’t real, when his face wasn’t bringing someone to tears from laughing, his mind supplied him with the sound. Hahahahahahahaha. As he slept, as he walked, as he ate, as he breathed. Hahahahahahaha. 

The news were not good. The GCPD had, apparently, found their balls in the dumpster where they had thrown them after the death of the Waynes. They were leading task forces: against drug trade, mafia operations, human trafficking. Arthur was unconcealable, undeniable proof. He was left in the darkest part of Gotham, starved, underdressed, alone. He was left to die. 

But alone he was not. Over the roaring wind, over the laughter echoing in his ears, he heard a cry. 

He ran to it, as if it  was a fire to warm him up, as if it was a piece of bread to soothe the ache in his belly, as if it was a loving embrace to fill the void in his heart. He ran to it, like a moth drawn to the flame, because in the silence that was never silent, in the cold blank darkness of that forgotten alley, the cry was life. 

It came from a child of a couple of months, maybe a year of age. She was curled up against her mother’s cold, dead body. Overdose, probably. 

With no hesitation, he picked her up and she clung to him, to the only warm thing in her world, to life. 

He had nothing to give her but himself and he gave all he could, all his heat to keep the little thing alive as he walked in the freezing, lonely night. 

He screamed for help, knocked on the doors, tried to stop cars passing by.

No one answered. No one answered to a cry of help in Gotham. It could be a trap, to rob, to rape, to kill me, the cowards said. Why me, let it be someone else’s problem, the egoists thought. 

The two children, in the meantime, were freezing to death. 

The lack of success didn’t stop Arthur from trying. What else could he do than hoping in some sort of a miracle ?

He stopped at a van  in a small parking lot. A wolf howled hearing the child approaching. He didn’t step back. What could scare him, with death so close?

Awoken by his animal, the owner appeared on the door. 

Arthur had breath for just one word. “Please” 

The man showed them the entrance.

“What’s your name?” He asked the boy, once he had been wrapped up in warm blankets and served a bowl of hot soup. He couldn’t remember the name his mother had given him. He didn’t remember his mother. But he knew how the men who laughed called him. “Gwynplaine.” 

“And hers?” He shook his head. The man thought for about a second, a hand pressed to his lip. 

“Harley” He said, finally. Gwynplaine nodded. It was a good name for the little creature. 

“My name is Paul.” The man said when the child had finished eating. “But my stage name is Brutus. The wolf is Homo. He’s a good wolf. Better than people, that’s for sure” 

He didn’t smile at the children. He didn’t like humans. But he took a bottle of milk and started feeding Harley. “I think I’ll keep you”

***

Nearly  twenty years went by. The boy had grown into a man and the girl into a woman. The man loved the woman, the woman loved the man. The laughter had never died out, but it didn’t matter, because hers covered it all with its pure, crystalline sound. Her eyes had never, after that night, seen light again, but it didn’t matter, because her light was him. He called her “goddess” because to him, she was. She called him “puddin’”, because of the fondest memory she had of him. 

With Brutus and Homo, they put on a good show. Traveling all around the United States, earned their living and more,then they upgraded the roulotte into a caravan. And now, the twetyseventh’s  Halloween’s night since he had been kidnapped, Gwynplaine was back in Gotham. 

It had changed. The criminals, once kings, dukes, counts, were afraid. There were rumors, rumors of a shadow, of a demon, of a bat. Rumors of a force of vengeance, punishment, acting in the dark. 

In the light, people talked about the mysterious Wayne heir,  back from only-God-knew-where when no one expected him to anymore. Gwynplaine no longer remembered the name having any connection to him. 

Gotham was a good place to put on a show. Its people craved cirstences even more than bread. Night after night, the seats for the audience were always full. A person, in particular, seemed to have a special fascination with the show. He came something like seven or ten times, even stopping a couple of times to talk to Gwynplaine, Harley and Brutus. His name was Matches Malone. He was very well-known around the neighborhood and very well-liked. 

Then, one night, Malone did not come alone. There was a woman on his arm, a really beautiful woman, Gwynplaine couldn’t help but notice. Her beauty was nothing like Harley’s pure, candid, bright glow. Her appeal was of a dark, deep, feral kind. She was slender, agile, graceful and had something wild, fierce and feline in her appearance. She played with her partner’s hair, like a mischievous kitty. Noticing his glare, she curved her lips covered in black lipstick in a mysterious smile. Guilty as he felt about it, he couldn’t take his eyes off her for the whole evening.  At the end, when everyone was gone, he found a note rolled up in the chair where she had been sitting.  

***

Sofia Falcone, leader of the Falcone empire, was not enjoying the party. Her eyes were fixed on a young couple that was dancing in the hall.

The man was like a gargoyle: his feet could have been made of stone for how clumsily he moved them and his pale face, covered by dark, unevenly cut hair made it clear that he wished he could be anywhere else. 

The woman reminded her of a panther. She moved with feline grace in her slinky dress of black velvet, that curved with the movements of her dark-skinned body in an irresistible charm. Selina Kyle was easily the most fascinating woman of the evening. And, Sofia noticed with dismay, she was enjoying her time. She had managed to drag her reclusive companion to dance and was relishing in every second of it. She loved him, that was clear. And eventually, when she would’ve stopped being stubborn, she would’ve followed her father’s will and married him. She would’ve had her happily ever after, as the queen of Bruce Wayne. 

Sofia couldn’t understand what Carmine saw in her half-sister. A bastard, the daughter of a dancer in a club, a nothingness. And yet, he was going to get her to marry the richest man in the city. 

Not that Sofia would’ve liked to be in her place, let’s be clear. She was a queen without a king, she was the queen of Gotham. No, what bothered her was that the little slut was in love with the man, for how much of a weirdo he was. What made her whole being itching with fury was that her bastard sister was gonna be happy.

The sound of footsteps approaching  her interrupted her train of thoughts. She turned around- “Wesker. What brings you here?” 

Arnold Wesker flinched at the haste in her tone. Yet he managed to utter: “A man who worked for your father a long time ago has died” 

“And why should this concern me?” His muttering became, as seemingly impossible as it was, more nervous. “Before dying, he confessed his sins to a priest. It was a long list, but one, in particular, hunted him: the kidnapping, scarring for life, and selling as jester of a child” 

Sofia Falcone was not moved. “I do not concern myself with the conscience of old hired men, nor with poor, abused children” She started to leave, but Wesker was not done.

“What if that child’s name was Arthur Wayne?” 

She turned to face him, a smile, somewhat similar to the one that the man who had disfigured Arthur had borne, coming to her face. “Tell me all you know.” 

Elisa Frigerio

Notre slam

Qu’est-ce que le slam ? 

Pour ceux qui n’en n’ont jamais entendu parler le slam est un art répandu spécialement aux États-Unis et en France qui consiste à faire passer un message à travers un texte poétique parlé avec ou sans musique de fond.

En France, le représentant le plus connu du Slam est “Grand Corps Malade”.

Avec ma classe 2CG et nos professeures de français nous avons travaillé sur un Slam en choisissant quatre thèmes importants pour nous à partir d’une pièce de théâtre de Molière “Dom Juan”: l’amour, le mensonge, le mépris et la trahison. Quatre thèmes très importants à travers lesquels, après beaucoup d’efforts, nous avons écrit de courts monologues en rimes et non chantés, avec un fond musical fait par quatre de nos camarades

Nous avons enregistré une vidéo avec des fonds d’écran spéciaux réalisés par quelques élèves de la classe devant lesquels nos acteurs ont chanté leurs monologues au rythme de la musique créée par nous.

Une fois la vidéo réalisée nous l’avons envoyée à la compagnie théâtrale “Materlingua” pour participer au concours: 

Mô, Slam & Rap - le concours - Mater Lingua

Ça a été une belle expérience et c’est avec grand plaisir que je la partage avec vous tous sur le B-log. 

Nous espérons pouvoir travailler le plus rapidement possible pour d’autres projets aussi intéressants surtout parce qu’ils nous permettent de pratiquer la langue française. 

Zizzi Eufemia 2CG

« Until darkness comes »

My sweetheart, my dear, darkness is about to rise

and the now so bright sky is about to get dark

darkness will fill our hearts

and our love will perish

My only love 

let’s try to escape the inescapable

let’s stay together until we can no more

let’s not give up 

let’s hold on tight to each other 

let’s fight so that our love can keep on living

until darkness comes 

My sweetheart, my dear, darkness is about to rise

right now our love is what is keeping us alive

but tomorrow it might no longer be so

tomorrow darkness might come 

My only love

let’s not think about what’s about to come

let’s live in the moment, and in the moment only

let’s stay together 

until we can no more

let’s love each other 

until darkness comes

Alice Bergna

What is happening in Afghanistan? 

[Continua a leggere in News dal Mondo...]

Alessandra Zagaria

Endgame is a new beginning

How is Marvel’s Phase 4 going?

2019 really seemed the end for Marvel films – the Endgame. With a worldwide cash out of more than $2.700 billions, Avengers: Endgame concluded Marvel’s Infinity Saga as an outstanding supernova finishes the life of a great, bright star: with a memorable show. We had to bid farewell to some of the most iconic characters, as Black Widow, Captain America and Iron Man: their journey is now finished, but “adventures do not ever have an end, since someone else always has to carry on the story” (from J. R. R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring).

Indeed, Marvel’s show is going on, giving a new importance to who seemed to be secondary characters and creating new personages too, to tell their unrevealed stories and to transform them, once again, into unforgettable heroes.

The very first movie released after Endgame has been Spiderman: Far From Home, in which the young Peter Parker, after the disappearance of his mentor Tony Stark’s, is trying to grow as a hero to affirm himself, Spiderman, as an actual avenger, keeping up also with his teenager’s life and feelings in the meanwhile. Anyway, it has been considered as a part of Phase 3, thus the last film of the Infinity Saga.

THE FALCON AND THE WINTER SOLDIER

The actual new Marvel’s Phase 4 is going to be characterised, besides the traditional feature films, by the production of many tv series, which will be released on the streaming platform Disney+, as it has already happened with Wanda Vision this January and with The Falcon and the Winter Soldier in March 2021. In this show, Sam Wilson (Falcon) and Buckie Barners (Winter Soldier) have to collaborate to pick up and defend their friend Steve Rogers’ (Captain America) important inheritance, which, for Marvel, is not just an indestructible shield but a national symbol too. This series will see the confirmation of Falcon as the next, “colored” Captain America, against the racial prejudice. In the meanwhile, our heroes have to face a global emergency about how to deal with the refugees returned after having been vanished because of Thanos during Endgame, which is worsened by the young revolutionary Kari Morgenthau and her followers, who are trying to impose a new global order more open to immigrants with the force. Thus, a thought-provoking plot that makes us reflect about actual problems, but that offers enjoyable action sequences and funny moments too and that retrieves some characters from Captain America’s movies, such as Peggy's niece Sharon Carter - who is revealed to have a second, secret life - and the villain Zemo.

LOKI

Talking about old villains, this summer we had the opportunity to deepen our knowledge of one of the most complex, ambiguous, and interesting personalities in MCU: Loki. The series dedicated to him tells about what has happened to Thor’s brother after have stolen the Tesseract in Endgame and used it to travel in time: caught by the “Time Variance Authority”, a metaphysical organization which oversees the correct flowing of the temporal line, Loki will have to cooperate with his mysterious jailers to fight and capture the other “variants” of himself from alternative temporal lines, since they could interfere with each other destroying the space-time continuum. During this adventure, Loki will reconsider himself and become more than the cynical and unreliable God of Lies, exploiting the second chance that TVA has given him to discover true friendship and real love, in a moving personal-journey that will complete his characters, giving him more emotive dept and revealing even the most tender and vulnerable sides of his personality. Loki will have to fight side by side with his new friends, investigating the true nature of this powerful organization that manipulates people’s choice to avoid them to change their destiny. This intriguing series will carry you on a riveting voyage at the borders of reality, reaching the “End of Times” through dramatic special effects, magic and mystery, with the aim to understand (in an imaginative and implausible way) the inner core of our reality and if we are actually free to decide for ourselves or if a persistent destiny guides our lives.

WHAT IF…?

Speaking of exploring the complexity of reality, a new cartoon signed by Marvel, called What If...?, has been released this August too: in the Multiverse of Marvel, the “Observer” shows us what could have happened if, in a parallel universe, the plots of the original feature films had have been changed, creating a kaleidoscope of fascinating and unique stories. In this way, for instance, an attack during Steve Roger’s transformation in Captain America obliges Peggy Carter to take his place and to become the first female super-soldier of UK, while an exchange of person makes T’challa kidnapped by Ravengers and thus he transforms into Starlord, or the pain for the loss of his beloved Christine leads Steven Strange to become a dark magician and to cause the destruction of his whole universe. In the final episodes, all these new, unusual heroes will assemble to combat an epic battle against Ultron, who wants to destroy life in the whole Multiverse using the power of the Gems of Infinity. The cartoon drawings’ high quality has nothing to envy live action movies, instead it allows the creation of amazing and colourful action scenes that follow each other in enjoyable and heady episodes with creative and stimulating plots, as we have never seen before.

BLACK WIDOW

Eventually, another great secret was revealed on 9th July: Natasha Romanoff’s life before joining the S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Avengers. The super-spy returns in the spinoff movie dedicated to her, to tell us about her bizarre family and her youth as a secret agent of the Red Chamber, an imaginary secret soviet organization which trains girls since childhood obliging them to become extremely skilled spies and to infiltrate in all world’s governments to destabilise them. Natasha had managed to escape, but she had never really freed herself from her difficult past: now it is time for her to regain balance, defeating the brain behind the Red Chamber and re-pacifying with her adoptive family, especially with her little sister Yelena. This feature film, besides offering a deeper insight of Black Widow’s story and revealing her secrets, is also rich with spectacular action scenes: frantic road chases, compelling sequences on helicopters and planes and impressive, acrobatic fights with plenty of confident female warriors and a massive use of extras actors. There is no shortage of comic moments too, in a fast-paced film that combines a thrilling adventure to a touching plot that shows Natasha Romanoff at her very best: a story of personal redemption and acceptance of oneself, that concludes, starting from the very beginning, the epic journey of one of the most powerful and dramatic Marvel’s heroes.  

NEXT MOVIES AND CONCLUSION 

Moreover, the inevitable final clip it gives the cue for the next Marvel’s show about Hawkeye, that will be available on Disney+ from 24th November, in which Clint Barton too will have to face his dark past as “the Ronin” and to protect his family from it, trying to get back home for Christmas; during the six episodes of this show, we will also get acquainted with the annoying but smart Kate Bishop, young Clint’s apprentice, who wishes to emulate him to become the next super-archer.

Two other films are coming out in theatres: the Eternals (3rd November) -which narrates about a group of powerful aliens with incredible abilities that has lived hidden on earth for centuries, watching over mankind without interfering with the events until the arrival of an ancient, dangerous enemy- and Shang Chi and the legend of the 10 rings (2nd September, available on Disney+ from 12th November) - that promises to be a gripping and enjoyable oriental adventure with plenty of martial arts combats that will led to the birth of a young superhero and to the discovery of a fictional, mysterious Asiatic organization called “the 10 rings”, which has appeared in Ironman’s films but that has never been fully explained.

Thence, Marvel’s show is going on, expanding and improving, but the best is yet to come. Who will be your next favourite superhero? You are spoiled for choice!

Martina Cucchi

Nous espérons que ces idées ont été utiles et n’oubliez pas, le recyclage est une arme contre la pollution! Recyclez!

Classe 1CG

Breaking Mirrors

Chapter 6 - Broken Mirror 

That afternoon, the school yard was quieter than usual. Actually, it was silent. There were no laughters, no chattering to welcome Sara when she exited the building. Just whispers. A word. A name. Before she could shove her way through the crowd, she already knew what was happening. 

The Black Cat stood in the parking lot. He was dressed in black, as usually, but his hair was no longer green. It was red, red as the setting sun, red as the blood running from an open wound. Red as the vengeance he was seeking. 

 It was clear who the Cat was waiting for. The crowd slowly opened, letting the Allen boys pass. Thomas didn’t even flinch at the apparition and nor did his brother. The two kept walking straight towards the red-haired boy. “Allen.” The Black Cat hailed the pair with a cold, harsh tone. “You have far crossed the line. It ends today”  Thomas Allen firmly shook his head. “I wouldn’t be so sure, Kitty” His opponent laughed as a threatening light flashed in his eyes. “What do you think you can do to me?” 

 “This” Thomas pressed something on his phone. A loud, shrieking noise echoed across the courtyard. To Cat’s shock, fear flashed in the Black Cat’s eyes. And then the red-haired boy fell to the ground, prey to convulsions. 

Cat blinked in disbelief. Before entering a gang, she had been a nerd. And she knew exactly what had happened. Musicogenic epilepsy. Extremely rare. It occurs when some sounds, said triggers, are able to provoke a seizure in the patient. What she didn’t know, it was how it had happened. How had the Black Cat managed to keep it hidden for so long? And, most importantly how the hell did Thomas Allen know about that?

Cameron Allen was asking himself the same question, not daring to speak it aloud. His brother had only told him he had a plan, never went specific about the details. Cameron hadn’t asked, he didn’t want to seem a petulant, scared and unsure kid. And he wouldn’t have now. After all, the only thing that mattered was that it had worked. His brother had defied the Black Cat. And he had recorded it all. With a satisfied smile, he posted the IG Story. He was gonna get a lot of views.

 The Cats, confused and wrong-footed, were wandering around like headless chickens. They had believed their leader to be invincible. Now, they had found out that in the end, he was just human. Now that his weakness had been exposed and everyone would’ve taken advantage of it, the fearsome Black Cat was a harmless kitty. One after one they went away, leaving their leader there. He could no longer protect them, they would’ve no longer protected him. As soon as he was able to get himself on his feet, the Black Cat ran away. He had not shed a single tear. 

Have I gone too far? Thomas wondered for the millionth time. He had acted in self-defense, hadn’t he? He had spent the whole afternoon trying to convince himself of that. The Black Cat was gonna hurt him or his brother if he hadn’t stopped him. I have acted in self-defense. He decided.  He had deserved that after what he had done to me, Skylynn and… He didn’t finish the thought.  Even if four years had passed since then, it was too painful to remember what happened the day of the picnic. But the look… oh… the look the Black cat had glared at him before running away… Thomas knew he would’ve never forgotten it. If I had acted differently… If I had tried to talk to him instead of counterattacking…. 

His train of thought was harshly interrupted by a shout. Luckily. He thought. He didn’t like when his “dwelling on ifs” was gonna end. When his name was once again shouted, though, he realized his luck had run out. Slowly, puffing, he dragged himself downstairs.

 “Hi, da…” The man cut him off. "What the hell were you thinking?" Thomas did his best to put on a bored, uncaring face. "The video's already viral?" He asked apathetically. “It is! And you better have a good explanation for that” Thomas crossed his arms, looking at his father with false disbelief. "Have you seen what the Black Cat did to my room? To Skylynn, to me? He's nothing but a monster…" His voice broke on the word, but the man didn’t notice. He took advantage from his son’s pause to chime in. "I know. We know. This quarter of Denver knows. The rest of the world doesn't. What they saw was you bullying a disabled person again"  

It wasn’t me who posted the video. Blame it on Cameron. He wanted to say. His little brother was out with his friends, so the discussion would’ve been delayed to a time when Thomas wasn’t already drowning in regrets on his own. To a time when Thomas would’ve been able to defend what he did with a fiercer mindset. 

But then, a question came to his lips. “Have you at least watched it?” His father didn’t flinch as his son’s accusing tone. "It wasn't necessary. The comments…"  Rage built into Thomas. His father was reprimanding him without even knowing what actually had happened. He pushed the phone under his father’s gaze and played the incriminating video. It took the man half a minute, but when he did find out, he was angrier than ever. “That’s even worse, Thomas!”  The boy opened his mouth to speak, but was shut up by the man. “What were you thinking!? People will start to ask questions, questions you can’t answer without draggin’ our whole family in the mud!” 

 His father’s words filled Thomas with disgust. That’s what troubles you, isn’t it? What people will think if they ever are to find out. You don’t care about him, you don’t care about me, you only care about your freaking reputation and career. Don’t you? The words, the accusation he craved to shout, stormed inside him until he felt like a wooden house in the eye of a hurricane, swallowed by a wind he could no longer contain.And finally, Thomas said it. He said the words his father didn’t have the guts to. Nay, he shouted them. “HE WAS MY TWIN BROTHER!”

That was the secret lying in Thomas Allen’s past. This was why he devoted his whole existence to having fun, numbing everything else with it. That was the reason, no matter what he did, he still felt empty. This was why he had trained himself to not care, not care at all, not care about anyone. Caring, loving… It just led to pain. Because he had had a twin brother and he had lost him.

 “He was my twin brother!” He repeated. “A part of me, a soul into two bodies. I exposed myself for him, I covered for him, I always stayed by his side and what do I get? One day I wake up and he’s not here anymore. He’s not in his room, nor in the living room, nor in the garden, nor on the roof. No goodbyes, no notes, no whereabouts. Just… gone. First two weeks, I trusted him to come back. Third week, I understood he wouldn’t have. Next one, I thought he might actually be dead. I spent something like three whole days crying my guts out. Then I moved on. Four years! I spent four years trying to go on with my life. I spent four years having panic attacks every time I heard or saw something that reminded me of him. I taught myself how to live with that gigantic hole in my heart while he has been here all along, living his best life. And when he first sees me, after four years, what does he do? He beats me up” 

He expected to get some sympathy from his father, but James chose just that moment to show he had been overhearing for god knows how long. “Chris? Chris is the Black Cat?” At Thomas’s affirmative nod, he took the phone from his still hands, played the video. When the loud noise of the trigger filled the air, James turned to his brother with eyes flaming with rage. “How could you!? He’s our brother!” James’s accusation fueled Thomas’s anger. Just like their father, he was making assumptions on something he knew nothing about.  

“HE ABANDONED ME! I LOVED HIM, I WOULD HAVE GIVEN MY LIFE FOR HIM AND YET HE LEFT!” A tear slipped down Thomas’s cheek. He furiously wiped it and lowered his tone. “The night of the party, I saw a gang member beating up my former best friend. I attacked him from behind. He pushed me away and turned to face me. At that moment, I was the happiest person on Earth. He was back, he was there. He looked at me, squeezed the necklace around his neck. I started to get up, to move towards him… and his first fist hit me” 

 James was looking at the floor now, probably regretting blaming Thomas. But the boy was past caring. He hardened his tone. “So, sorry if I got a little revenge.” With that, he left his speechless father and brother and ran upstairs. There, in the intimacy of his room, Thomas Allen broke down to tears. 

The mirror had no cracks. It was perfect, new. But the man that it reflected was broken. His face was pale and his eyes underlined by deep eyeshadows were blank. In the creepy light, they had lost their light blue color to a stark gray. They were empty, cold lakes slowly turning into pits. 

On his face framed by bleeding red hair several piercings glowed with a metallic glint. An almost faded scar ran down his left cheek. He rubbed it with his fingers. He liked that scar. It was the price he had paid to become the Black Cat. And now, he was no more. It was over, everything was over. He had lost his role, he had lost his place, he had lost his name. Now he had nothing. He was nothing. 

He squeezed his right hand into a fist, sinking his nails into his palm. “Christopher” He mumbled. He wasn’t nothing: he had a name. “My name is Christopher Miles Allen.” He told himself. But it wasn’t true. He had stopped being Christopher Allen the moment he had run away from home. Or maybe, it had been the day of the picnic. Or he had never been an Allen. Nay, he had been until he had left his mother’s womb. Until doctors had said he was the damaged one, he and not his twin brother. The boy knew the latest was the right one. But, everything considered, he didn’t claim to be Christopher Allen. Just Chris. All he begged for was five letters, five letters to tell he was something. No one was there to give him what he longed for, but none was here to stop him either. So, he took those five letters, said them loud, grabbed tight to their sound. “I’m Chris” And still, it felt nothing. He felt nothing. He stared at his reflection and, for the first time in years, he saw a stranger. I was Chris.

Something took control of him. He acted like he was in a trance. He took off his piercings, one by one. He breathed heavily, as he had had a long run. He put his head in the sink, closed his eyes, opened the tap. Under the cold water he rubbed his hair vigorously to clean them from the low-cost dye he had applied the day before. The water running down the sink was deep red. When he lifted his gaze up to the mirror again, Thomas Allen looked back at him. A sharp cry escaped Chris’s lips as his fist impacted with the glass. 

They say if you break a mirror, you get seven years of bad luck. Chris knew the saying and he didn’t give a damn. He hit again and again, shattering his reflection into pieces. Shattering Thomas into pieces. 

Thomas was awake in his bed. A storm raged outside the window and the boy couldn’t sleep. A thunder shook the house and Thomas’s bed trembled. His eyes jolted open. He hated storms. When he was little, he was utterly terrified by them. Every stormy night, he’d toss and turn in his bed, crying silently, but too proud to ask for help. And, every stormy night, Chris would come in after a couple of minutes. Thomas would stubbornly tell him to go away, that he was big now, he wasn’t scared of storms anymore. Chris would just hug him tight, without saying a word. 

A lightning flashed through the glass. The bolts used to scare Thomas even more than the thunders. Chris, on the contrary, found them fascinating. Often, while Thomas was shivering into his arms, Chris looked at the window in awe. “I love storms” He’d murmured, and Thomas punched his arm almost every time, pretending to be offended. Then the both of them would burst into a laugh and Thomas would’ve forgotten why he had been afraid.

God, we were complete opposites. Thomas thought, smiling at the memory. He and his brother were like black and white. Their characters were, at least. Their looks… even their mother couldn’t tell them apart. They looked as much alike as reflections in a clear mirror. And now Thomas had broken him. A thunder echoed in the stormy night. Thomas quivered. He didn’t remember the saying about broken mirrors. But he would be living it soon enough. 

Elisa Frigerio

Por otro lado, quedó inválida a los 18 años a causa de un terrible accidente que le dejó graves secuelas, fue entonces que ella empezó a pintar, su padre le tomó una caja de colores al óleo, mientras su madre le encargó un caballete que le permitiera pintar acostada en la cama. Sin embargo, tuvo innumerables amantes hombres y mujeres indistintamente, pero el gran amor de su vida fue el celebrado pintor de murales, Diego Rivera, y el 21 agosto de 1929 se casaron.

Entre 1931 y 1934, se trasladaron a Estados Unidos donde Diego obtuvo un trabajo.

Ella quería mucho a su marido, sin embargo la suya fue una relación muy complicada porque él la traicionó muchas veces. La complejidad y la dificultad de su relación dominó toda su madurez.

Además, en su vida ella sufrió cuatro abortos y no pudo tener hijos, un dolor que nunca pudo aceptar y que se ve en algunas pinturas como, por ejemplo, en el cuadro "La cama volando" donde se pintó en una cama de hospital, mojada por su sangre y con seis venas que conectan su cuerpo a distintos símbolos, como el feto de un bebé varón.

Descripción del cuadro «El venado herido»

Kahlo pintó este cuadro después de una operación a la columna vertebral en Nueva York en 1946 con técnica al óleo. 

En esta pintura Kahlo se pintó con el cuerpo de un venado herido atravesado por flechas y sangre y sobre su cabeza tiene cuernos.

Este venado mira al espectador desde un bosque y el cielo está oscuro y tormentoso pero al final se puede ver una pequeña luz que expresa un poquito de esperanza.

También hay árboles rotos que representan el miedo y la desesperación de Frida, en la parte inferior izquierda se puede ver  la palabra karma que significa “destino’’.

Ella utilizó también su propia mascota para pintar este cuadro, un venado que se llamaba Granizo.

El 3 de mayo de 1946, Frida dio este cuadro a unos amigos como regalo de bodas y además dijo que en todas sus pinturas hay tristeza, porque al final esta era su condición.

Ahora este cuadro es parte de una colección privada de Carolyn Forb, una coleccionista de arte y se encuentra en Texas.

Elegí este cuadro porque en mi opinión representa la gran fuerza, la libertad y la esperanza que ella tenía a pesar de todo lo que le sucedió.

A pesar de todo Kahlo vivía, sonreía, pintaba y se expresaba y se desahogaba haciendo lo que más amaba.

Pasó muchas dificultades, pero nunca se abatió y esto nos hace comprender que las cosas que vivimos diariamente no son tan malas como pensamos y que nuestras preocupaciones siempre pueden ponerse en otra perspectiva.

Ha luchado en contra de un accidente, muchas traiciones, cuatros abortos: fue una mujer - podríamos decir - con una fuerza fuera de lo común, que tomó la vida intentando superar sufrimientos increíbles.

Además hoy la recordamos como icono mundial de belleza y de revolución hacia muchos estándares que todavía no se aceptan hoy, como por ejemplo las unicejas, el bigote, y la libertad de ser uno mismo sin preocuparse de corresponder a un modelo típico de la sociedad (sea tener una talla 34 o depilarse), una forma que sigue siendo extremadamente contemporánea: ella fue una mujer con una sexualidad libre, discapacitada, artista y artífice de sí misma, madre sin tener hijos, independiente, enamorada y militante política.

Iris Sofrà

Tell me 

From the darkness, it's known 

The sun always rises at dawn

From the ashes, they tell 

The wood is stronger reborn

From the scratches, some guess

Something better might grow

But tell me, ya that wander off

Is a last, far hope enough? 

Does it turn your fear into dust

As slowly sunset falls to dusk?

Can the promise of a new dawn

Steal the sadness of a dying sun?

And in the twilight can you tell 

Which is, the day or the night, that ends? 

Tell me, and may it be the truth 

Is eventual rebirth worth the devastation? 

Does it numb your ache and desperation 

As you're standing by desolation? 

Can the sound of new life in swift motion

Erase the roaring noise of destruction? 

As the flames devour the trees,can you tell 

Of the new forest, will you recognize the scent? 

Tell me, if you got enough guts

Is novelty really a gentle breeze in hot air? 

Does it keep you far from despair

While everything you built fails? 

Can the smiling future coming fore

Heal the present anguish sore? 

When the last anchor caves, can you tell

Are you falling towards heaven or either hell?

Elisa Frigerio

Travelling the world during a pandemic. Exploring new cultures 

In this difficult period of distance learning, our class 4AT thanks to our English teacher prof Lorenzo, managed to find an innovative way of working during our Business English classes last November. Our teacher, thanks to her knowledge and experience, gathered in a virtual circle five of her friends coming from different countries of the world. From Denver to Dubai, from Berlin to Oxford, she got together all the world to let us try a new educational experiment. The project consisted in organizing interviews on Google Meet with foreign professionals, all with a different story, experience and job. This allowed us to put into practice the knowledge and language skills acquired in class, especially as regards listening and speaking and to have the opportunity of interacting with people belonging to the world of work. To realize these interviews, we were provided with a general presentation on the guests to be able to prepare our questions; then, we talked about an hour to each of them. The focus of the meetings was mainly their job, but also topical topics such as social issues, cultural differences, Black Lives Matter, the Health System in the US, the Education System in different countries, the presidential elections in the US and the pandemic situation were addressed during the discussions.

The first person that we met was Rahib, a young Bolivian Owner Engineer who works in Berlin, after other professional experiences in Saudi Arabia and Madrid. It was interesting to learn about his daily tasks and nice to discover that his passion in the field of construction was born during his childhood, when he enjoyed destroying toys and then fixing them. A meaningful lesson that he shared with us is that integration depends on each of us: when travelling abroad it is essential to be curious and flexible to adapt to new cultures and traditions. David, from León, was the second interviewee: after studying Business Management and Journalism he is now a Researcher and Professor at the Department of Sociology and Communication at the University of Salamanca, working on fake news, hate speech, social media and migration studies. 

Afterwards, we travelled to Colorado, where we met Marlene and Nathan. Nathan is a nurse on the transplant hepatology unit in Denver: he clarified some of the doubts we had on the American Health System and he also shocked us a little bit sharing some details of his job. It was interesting to learn about the pandemic situation in the US and we had the opportunity to understand the differences with Italy: for example there the cost of a simple ambulance call can reach up to 4,000$ and the cost of an helicopter in case of emergency is about 12,000 $. Marlene is a Transfer Admission Counselor at the University of Colorado: she deals with recruitment and assistance of transfer students from community colleges all around the country, helping them to prepare their application to enter universities and get their dream degree. Our journey ended in England with Sophie, who studied at Harvard University and now lives in Oxford, working as Communications Officer at Pamela SteeleAssociates, a management consultancy with a mission to ensure that no patient in low- and middle-income countries suffers due to lack of essential medicine. 

It has been a journey to discover new worlds and to broaden our horizons. Our class has been able to learn English in a lively and dynamic way, in fact we learned new accents, new words and new expressions: for sure it was not easy to understand native speakers, but with prof Lorenzo’s help everything seemed easier! This project allowed us to overcome language barriers, offering us the opportunity to get in touch with customs and traditions different from ours. It made us understand that leaving your country to move abroad is a difficult choice that involves sacrifices and numerous challenges to face, however, it is essential to learn to adapt to cultures other than ours and get out of your comfort zone. 

Despite the pandemic situation that has deprived us of the possibility of doing internships in a company or other extra-curricular activities, we really appreciated this experience: we were pleased to notice that there was a lot of willingness and kindness to listen and answer our questions and curiosities from people never met before, who allowed the project to unfold in the best way. The effort we all put in doing this was remarkable and we are proud of our work, in fact even our school principal participated in one of our meetings and congratulated us. 

It was a challenging and rewarding experience both in professional and personal terms and we saw how hard work and passion allow you to achieve your life goals. 

Classe 4AT

Breaking Mirrors

Chapter 5. Red X

The canteen was noisy and crowded. And at least half of the people were staring at the popular ones’ table. And who could blame them? A true celebrity was sitting among the ones who, though worshipped by their peers, were only normal human beings. 

He seemed so relaxed, so natural and still, he acted more or less as he did on TV or Youtube and Instagram videos. Everyone took it as a confirmation that what he showed on the media was his true self. They were far from imagining it all was a masquerade. 

Skylynn Stewart was play-acting too. She sat in her boyfriend’s lap and laughed at her ex-best-friend jokes. She knew she had to pretend to get along like a house on fire with him.

Thomas Allen was, unfortunately, more popular than her and people in the school wouldn’t have hesitated a second to side with him. But they were her people and she wasn’t up to lose them because of Thomas. He had already taken so much from her. 

“We should throw another party.” Someone was proposing. “John’s didn’t end well”

“You tell me” Thomas mumbled. Skylynn’s gaze ran to his face. It looked bad. The bruises and the scratches were still fresh and seemed realty painful. She looked away. He had gotten what he deserved. 

“Chez moi, ladies and gentlemen ! It’s not so cold yet, we could use the pool” Mark offered. She turned around and kissed him on the lips. 

Then she stated. “And this time, we make sure that the She-Cat…”  After what happened the night of the party, the rumors about Wilson and the Black Cat had grown exponentially. Skylynn wouldn’t ever understand how someone could possibly want to be with someone like the Black Cat. He was a monster.  “...and her boyfriend won’t be there. » 

“Don’t worry darling…” Her fiancé reassured her. “You won’t need the golden boy saving you, this time” He added, his gaze jumping between her and Allen. Mark was still bitter at not having been the one to defend his own girlfriend against the Black Cat. His friend and teammates kept mocking him for that and he was scared to lose her to Allen. Skylynn Stewart was a girl that slipped easily from a boy’s fingers. But he didn’t have to worry. Allen’s gesture had no value for her. 

Unfortunately, to others it had. “How can you say that?” Lindsey intervened. “She may risk drowning and you might not make it in time, while Thomas…” She let the phrase hang, to make the company work with their imagination to create a movie scene. Or maybe she didn’t. Skylynn wouldn’t ever know. 

Because she wasn’t listening anymore. She wasn’t thinking about a pool or a party anymore. She didn’t hear the voices of her friend anymore, nor she saw her or the others or the canteen. In her mind, she was brought back in time, to happier years. To her last happy day. To a picnic in the meadows, next to a sparkling river with crystal clear water…

Cold, raw rage pierced her as she stared in Thomas’s Allen blue eyes. And she spoke. “Have you ever saved someone from drowning, Tommy?” 

To everyone the question seemed innocent even if a bit weird, out of curiosity, to make conversation. But she knew he had felt the venom in her words, saw the wrath in her eyes. She knew she had made clear that she hadn’t forgiven him. And she wouldn’t ever have. 

The golden boy’s hand started to tremble. Thomas quickly hid it under the table, but it was too late. Skylynn had seen it. She smirked. Now they both knew. He knew she still blamed him. He knew it was his fault. And she knew he did. 

Thomas closed his eyes, took a deep breath. Skylynn understood he was trying to calm himself down. And then he got up, knocking over the chair and ran away. 

It’s over. Three simply plain words. A text message. He didn’t even mind to explain why. She just wasn’t interesting for him anymore. Catherine Wilson got up, ignoring the looks of the other Cats at her table. She had been rejected again, as she was the nothing Stewart had made her feel for a whole year. 

So she ran to the place she had been used to go to when Stewart made fun of her. Or simply, when it all became too much. Third floor, second broom cupboard. Could find something better. But not now. 

She dove into the dark, narrow space, only to find it already busy. Oh, perfect.

 A boy sat with his back leaned to the wall, hugging his knees and struggling to breath. She wasn’t exactly in the mood to deal with him. I should leave. She thought, but she didn’t. The boy needed help. And maybe, helping him could push the thoughts hunting her away from her head. 

She kneeled down beside him. “Pocket. Pills” He stammered. She reached for his backpack, took the container and a water bottle, grabbed his shaking hand, put two drops on it.  The boy swallowed them as she handed him the bottle. He almost chocked himself with the liquid, but eventually his breathing slowed down. And then he started to cry. Oh please! My day is bad enough without a crying mess in my broom cupboard! She thought and started to leave. Looks like I’ll have to find some other place. 

“Thanks” The boy called after her. Marveling herself, she turned around. And was stunned even more. At first, she thought her eyes were playing tricks on her. The tear stained face she was staring at couldn’t possibly belong to…“Thomas Allen?” She asked out in disbelief. “Suffering from panic attacks? Crying? I definitely wouldn't have seen that coming."

I should just punch him in the face and leave him here to rot. She thought to herself. She couldn’t forget that he was the one who stood up against the Black Cat. She couldn’t help but wonder if he had had something to do with the Black Cat dumping her. 

"I thought you were immune to being miserable" She teased him. Allen gazed at her furiously, struggling to talk between the sobs and the still rasped breaths. "Well, I'm not. And right now I am miserable, so leave me alone" 

But he hadn’t. The Black Cat had simply grown sick of her. It had to happen one day or another. And, right now, she didn’t feel like being alone. "I'm miserable too. Can we be miserable together?"

The teenage pop star seemed to consider the offer for a moment, then motioned her to sit. Surprising herself once more, she did. 

The boy fixed his blue eyes on her. “You are the She-Cat” He stated. She crossed her legs and looked at her feet. “I was. He dumped me” 

“What am I supposed to say? I’m sorry” There was a hint of sarcasm in Allen’s voice, more than a hint. Cat pretended to not notice it. “Nah, it’s better this way” 

And she meant it. She was better off without him. If only her heart could believe it as easily as her mind did. Thomas Allen raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

She stiffened. “Just because you pretend to write love songs it doesn’t mean you know something about love” 

Thomas ignored the mockery and stared right in her eyes. “Do you love him?” He asked. 

“I don’t” 

“You do. Even if you don’t want to” He insisted. 

“Don’t make assumptions when you don’t even know what I’m talking about. I don’t love him, I never did.” Then why are you so upset? Her conscience wondered. She shushed it raising her tone. “It was just fun, I never cared about him. He’s nothing but a monster. No one can love a monster” 

Thomas took ages to answer her. He closed his eyes and, when he reopened them, there was sadness in his blue irises. “Yeah. Love is a waste of time” He whispered. 

“I could ruin you if I went around telling this” Cat mocked him, but there wasn’t malevolence in her words. She no longer held grudges against the blond boy. They were two souls in despair who found comfort in each other in a broom closet. They were bonded now. In her making fun of him, she was just trying to find the brighter side in their gray life. 

And he knew that too. He smiled. “Somehow, I sense you won’t” She held out her hand. "Catharine Wilson. Nice to meet you" He took it. "Thomas Allen"

Little Sam was bored. Her teenage aunt, Lindsey, was on babysitting duty and Kit hadn’t come saving her yet. A look at the clock brought her to ask what she had been dreading for an hour. “Where is Kit?” 

Lindsey stiffened. “He won’t come. You’re stuck with me, now.” 

“Why?” 

“Because I said so!” The girl spoke up. Lindsey always hated when Sam asked questions. Kit always tried to answer at his best. 

“And why did you say so?” She asked. She loved to tease grown ups with questions. Especially the ones who didn’t want to answer.  

“Because he’s a bad person who does bad things and I won’t let my niece around him” 

But you let me near him for three years! Sam protested in her mind. She knew all about the Black Cat activities. Her mother was a policewoman and was often assigned to cases concerning the boy. Since Sam was only three, her mother had never bothered to hide the reports. Sometimes, people tended to forget she was a child genius. So she had seen the people the Black Cat had beaten up, she had seen the blood he had shed. But she wasn’t afraid. Because she had also seen the drawings he made, and in his eyes, the demons he struggled to keep hidden. Because he was sweet with her and she knew he wouldn’t ever hurt her. “He’s not a bad person. You all are just too blind to see it” 

She turned and went to her room. They were in her house. Sam’s grandparents didn’t let her mother come to theirs. They never had wanted to see Sam, to meet their granddaughter. They were still too mad she was born in the first place.  

From her father’s side, it was even worse. He had never even talked about his family. She only knew she was named after her father’s late little brother and only because she had overheard her parents talking about it. 

Lindsey was the one family member she had ever met. And she despised her. Well, it’s her loss. And she won’t keep Kit from seeing me. No one tells him what to do.

As if destiny wanted to prove her right, she caught a glimpse of a black shadow passing through her window. Kit! But the figure didn’t stop. Disappointed, she climbed on a chair and opened the window. She leaned out, almost risking to fall, but the Cat was gone. She was about to close the window again, when she spotted a white piece of paper on the windowsill. 

She read the lines quickly, in a whisper. “I’m sorry. I think we won’t be seeing each other for a while” Sam was smart for her age and she knew a while meant forever. 

“Why?” She wondered in the empty room. Kit was her only true friend, the only one who really had understood her. For the kids her age, she was just the weird, sassy, lonely child who spent her time in preschool reading heavy books or staring at the void, lost in her thoughts. 

And she was the only one who saw past the monster, straight to his very soul. Then why? Why was he abandoning her? 

The Black Cat hadn’t wanted to let go of Sam as well. She was… well she was like a supernova in the darkness of his life. He needed her. But he couldn’t afford the weakness of needing someone. So he had let her go.

It was for the best. He wasn’t someone who could take care of a child. 

He just hoped the goodbye hadn’t hurt her as much as it had done with him. She will be okay. He reassured himself.

She was three. She would have forgotten him fast enough, replaced him with someone more suitable. Someone who didn’t spend afternoons teaching her how to throw knives. 

He would’ve faded in her memory until there wouldn’t have been nothing of him left. Just as his hold on Cat’s heart would’ve lessened and loosened to the point she was finally free from his grip. 

Kit, Kitten would have disappeared, just as Kitty had done, all those years ago. He would’ve returned to be just the Black Cat, the monster, the name everyone feared. And he was fine with that. It was what he wanted. He was alone again, he was strong again. He was ready to fight. He was fine. Then why did it feel so wrong?

A question shook him from his thoughts. Lawrence was asking him why he hadn’t done anything against Allen yet. “Haven’t you seen the X I drawn under his window?” The Black Cat replied, annoyed. 

Lawrence, the only one close enough to him to not fear him, shuddered. “You left a message. A warning. You’re taking time.” He was. He needed this time to… no he didn’t. He wasn’t taking time. He was… 

A wild, uncontrollable rage blinded him with red. The answer he had been preparing disappeared. The ability to speak left him. He could only scream. He could only roar. He could only attack. So he did. 

Lawrence, a trained Cat, tried to react. He was older, bigger and stronger, but the Black Cat was angrier. And in his fury, he had stopped being a human. He was a feline, but not a cat. A bigger and fiercer one. He was a monster. And the monster beat the soul out of his sidekick. 

When the red dissipated, he was breathing hard. Lawrence, the only Cat he could go so far to call a friend, was bathed in blood. The Black Cat’s fist was within inches from his face. His arm trembled as he pulled it back. He had lost control. Again. He had hurt someone. Again. 

But it was fine. Next time, Lawrence would’ve thought it twice before questioning his choices. He looked at the blood stained form of his friend sprawled on the floor. “I’m not. I was just playing with him. Tomorrow, I will end Thomas Allen” He said, before walking away. 

Thomas took the lift. Their house had three floors and, since they travelled a lot, their father thought having a lift helping with luggage was a good idea. Richard Allen ran a very successful company and could afford buying whatever it wanted. Even a lift. 

He was exhausted. He always was, after having a panic attack. And the homecoming hadn’t been of the most welcoming. He would’ve been surprised if that red “X” wouldn’t come chase him in his sleep.

He had hoped to have more time to set up his plan. But he hadn’t. He had seen the graffiti; he knew the Black Cat was coming for him. And he had to be ready. Cameron silently got to his side. “When are we getting revenge?” He asked, dying to go. Thomas realized he was a fourteen years old boy who had played too much with war videogames. He longed for the fight, he longed for blood, without knowing what it was like. Thomas understood it was his last chance at explaining to the kid what they had gotten themselves into. Who the Black Cat was. 

But Cameron Allen hazel eyes shined with a warrior fire, the kind Thomas couldn’t bring to his own, no matter how hard he tried. Suddenly, he knew that if his determination would’ve flinched, Cam would’ve been the one to convince him to go on with his plan. No matter what. 

Thomas knew perfectly the danger he was putting his little brother into, letting him to help him with the plan. On the other side, he needed his ardor. 

The image of a river pierced his head. He needed to get Cam out of it. Thomas Allen had already proven himself a really selfish person. And this time either, he didn’t fail the devil on his shoulder. 

Just this one. He promised himself. Then it will all be over, and I’ll be a responsible older brother. He put his hand on the younger boy’s shoulder. “As soon as he attacks.”

Elisa Frigerio 

Breaking Mirrors

Chapter 4. High schooler

It’s just the first day of school. Nothing to worry about. Sara repeated himself for the millionth time as she walked along the corridor. It’s just the first day of school in a private school in a foreign country where you don’t know anyone apart from your cousin who’s a jerk. Absolutely nothing to worry about. The thought was quite depressing.

Once she reached the principal office, she discovered she wasn’t alone. Another boy was sitting outside, on his phone. She stopped a few feet from him. “Hi” She said, shyly. He was weirdly curled on the chair, so she couldn’t see anything but his blond hair. However, when she greeted him, he stretched his body and got up.

Sara’s heart skipped a beat. Though his face was bruised and covered in wounds she had no doubts about who he was. She couldn’t believe her eyes: Thomas Allen was standing in front of her. Nay, he was walking towards her.

“Oh, thank god. I was starting to think I would’ve been the only new guy.” The boy held out his hand with a warm smile. “I’m Thomas, by the way. “ Still in disbelief, Sara hesitantly took it. “Sara.”

She stared in his ocean blue eyes and, for some unknown reason, she thought about James. Oh, really? I’m in front of my idol and I think about a stranger only because he has blue eyes too?

Then a new voice shook her from her thoughts. “Good morning everyone!” A girl approached them. She had long, straight, dark blonde, hair held in a waving ponytail and held a notebook in her hands. “I’m Ellen and I’m … oh, you must be Thomas Allen. What an honor.” The pair shook hands. Thomas smiled kindly. “My pleasure.” 

The girl, almost certainly their tutor, took up introducing herself. “Well, I was saying, I’m gonna be your lighthouse in this place of madness. We have about an hour before the gathering stars, so let’s not let it go to waste. Follow me!” She was hyped, bubbly and obviously overestimated the importance of her job. Thomas raised an eyebrow, making Sara laugh. The two followed their energic guide along the hallway.

“Where are you from?” Thomas asked her after a while. “Milan.” The boy nodded, as he had received confirmation of something he had already guessed. She wasn’t surprised. She knew her accent would’ve immediately given away her provenience. And the fact she was the new girl. Then he added. “I lived in an unknown town which…” “… I happen to know” She interrupted him. She was starting to get comfortable around the boy. He was so polite, cheerful, heartwarming. “Oh, I see I have a stalker here.“ He joked and both burst into a laugh.

“Enough with the chattering. You better listen to me now!” Their tutor reproached them. Sara looked around. They had reached the entrance where loads of students were already gathered. Everyone was chatting, hugging each other, laughing. Sara started to feel overwhelmed. She didn’t know anyone. She didn’t have any friends. She was alone.

Ellen’s voice dragged Sara out of her depressed thoughts. She pointed at a black-haired girl that Sara, unfortunately, knew very well. “She’s Skylynn Stewart. She rules the school, even if she’s only in her second year. Don’t mess up with her or your life will be hell” Ops, already did. Sara stared angrily at her cousin. She was still mad after what happened two days before. And her cousin had kept treating her as an inferior being. There clearly had been no bonding between the two, to Karen's disappointment.

 Ellen proceeded with introducing Skylynn’s crew. “The girl next to her is her best friend, Lindsey. She’s in junior year and she’s a bit more down to heart than Stewart. And that boy over there…” She indicated a tall, well-built boy. “… he’s her boyfriend and the captain of the football team. Every girl likes him, but obviously he’s with Stewart because…” Sara was sick of listening to her cousin’s accomplishments. She pointed at a group of weird-looking students who had caught her attention. Most of them had dyed hair or piercings or both. A few didn’t even wear the mandatory uniform, like they didn’t give a damn about rules. Everything in them, from their look to their attitude, screamed: bad guys.

“Who are those people?” She asked Ellen. “Those…” The girl enlightened the word dramatically. “…are the Cats. Nasty people they are, violent and dangerous. And the guys you see here are the ones with rich parents who pay for them to go to this school. Compared to the ones outside, they’re just kitties. And you see that girl here?” She pointed at a purple haired girl. “Last year, she was bullied by Stewart. Then she joined Cats and she’s rumored to be with the Black Cat, who is a bloodthirsty monster and their leader.” 

Thomas rubbed his bruised face, staring absently at the Cats. Sara seemed to realize the boy was wounded for the first time. You could’ve at least asked him how he was, you idiot. She reproached herself, recalling the video her friend Ale had sent to her the day before. The green-haired guy had beaten him up really hard and the bruise on his face seemed very painful. Still he managed to smile while he said: “Yeah, we’ve already crossed our paths.”

Cat felt Thomas Allen’s glare on her. He was standing with Ellen Nate and a red-haired girl some feet beneath them. She didn’t bother praising them with a second glare. Contrary to her twelve-years-old sister and every other girl on Earth, she wasn’t fond of the guy. Especially after what happened the night of the party. 

“We should give a lesson to that arrogant asshole” A Cat murmured. Everyone was outraged by Allen’s last provocation and wondered how the kid had gotten away with it. Cat though it was odd, too. Allen had provoked the Black Cat, challenged him. And the Cat didn’t go for the arrogant kid, nor he kidnapped him or any other thing he was expected to do. He did absolutely nothing. And now the Gray Oxen were targeting them as they believed they’re leader no longer had balls.

 “I think the Black Cat would like to take care of it by himself.” She said, harshly. Cat hadn’t the slightest idea about what the hell the Black Cat wanted. He hadn’t called or texted her since their fight and she knew better than to go looking for him. She knew when she wasn’t wanted and clearly the Black Cat didn’t want her around. 

Sucks for him. It was getting too far, anyway. She told herself. She didn’t want to admit she was hurt. She wasn’t a child and she had known from the beginning the Black Cat never cared about her, but, still, she was hurt. And she hated herself for it. She hated herself for wondering what had changed between them. She knew the boy had simply grown tired of her, but she couldn’t help but ask what she did wrong. She couldn’t get herself to stop believing he cared about her, even if it was just a childish dream. And, worst of all, she couldn’t get herself to stop caring about him.

Sat at the table in his empty room, the Black Cat was scheming. Some of his Cats had been assaulted by the Oxen that early morning and the incident had got him on edge. He was working on several notes scattered on the metallic table, sipping crummy alcohol from the half-empty bottle he held in his left hand.

His boys had managed to take down the enemies, but still the episode was grave. The fact the Gray Oxen had attacked his men could mean only one thing: they no longer feared him. And without fear, his domain over the area would’ve been over. He needed to teach those assholes a lesson. But first, he had to destroy the reason for that disrespect: Thomas Allen. Not only had he attacked him in front of dozens of people and got away with a few scratches; but also, almost a day after the kid had smeared his symbol, the Black Cat hadn’t still done nothing about it. The green-haired boy knew he had to make a move and quickly, and it had to be a meaningful one. Otherwise, he would’ve proven himself weak to the Cats and, worse, to the Oxen and the other gangs. The Black Cat knew well the rule: on the streets, once they think you’re weak, you are as good as dead. And he wasn’t up to go through that.

He slammed the bottle down on the table. He needed to be lucid if he wanted to come up with a decent plan. Freed from their previous task, his fingers unconsciously started playing with his necklace. It took him about a minute to realize what he was doing, but the moment he did, anger took over him. He ripped it off his neck and cast it away. The object impacted with the floor with a metallic jingle. He wanted to stomp his feet over it, to burn it, to crash it. He wanted to see the steel lose his shape, he wanted the necklace to be swallowed by the floor.

But when he stood up, he picked it up and laced it back around his neck. Then he clenched his left fist as, with the right hand, he reached for another identical necklace buried in his pocket. He couldn’t let it go. Why couldn’t he let it go? He was sick of this; he couldn’t take it anymore. He couldn’t stand the feeling of the metallic necklace on his skin anymore but he didn’t seem able to get rid of it. He wasn’t able to let go of his past, to turn off his emotions. His reign was falling apart and, despite he had promised himself to, he wasn’t able to hurt Thomas Allen. Not consciously. He sucked to himself. He was weak, he was harmless. He was a kitty, a small, helpless kitten. He was just a boy, he was…

“STOP!” He screamed and threw the table on the other side of the room. The thud vibrated in his bones, but the boy hadn’t vented anything more than a drop of his rage. His body trembled as emotions threatened to take the upper hand over him. And what’s wrong with that? He wondered. He was so done with the eternal fight between him and his mind. He was done with the vane efforts. 

He brought the bottle to his lips again and swallowed a long sip. Then he let the rage take over. He crashed the bottle on the floor, knot his shoe-laces. He was dressed up in black, as usual, and his piercings shone in a creepy way in the pasty light. He took the gun and the knives resting between the blankets on his unmade bed. His gun, his knives. Then he jumped out of the window.

He landed on his feet without the minimal flinch in his balance. I’m a Cat. The Black Cat. He strengthened his grip around the gun. He was a monster and it was about time to remind Denver of it. He was done with the scheming. It was time to act.

Thomas Allen was bored. He hated math, he hated school, he hated the normal life he was forced to live. Nat kept sending him pics of their group of famous friends having fun and he was envying them so much he was almost getting to hate them. It was the first hour of the first day of school and the popstar was already pissed.

He had tried to pick up conversation with his desk mate, but he was a freaking bookworm and shushed his attempts. How am I supposed to make friends with people like him? In order to prove himself humble and down to heart, in fact, he was told by his father to befriend normal guys, not only the popular ones. The boy wasn’t fond of the idea. He was already forced to hang around normal people, couldn’t he at least go out with the coolest ones? Of course not.

Maybe that red-haired girl could be a match, though. She was new and way too shy to become popular at school, but she wasn’t so bad to be around. What was her name again? He wondered, staring blankly at the blackboard. He gave up after a few seconds. The girl’s name just wouldn’t come up to his mind and he didn’t have time to waste with that. He had to think about a plan. He knew the Black Cat would’ve come for him and he needed to be ready. Thomas couldn’t allow himself a mistake. The guy beat hard.

After half an hour of mental sketching, his mind started to float away. Without realizing it, he found himself in another classroom, several years before. And in the memory, he found his answer. There was a way to take down the Black Cat. There was a way he could’ve won the war.

Thomas ripped a page from his notebook and started writing furiously. It was difficult to actuate and extremely risky. Even if put perfectly in place, there wasn’t a way to be 100% certain it would’ve worked. If I fail, I’ll have just signed my death sentence. But if I succeed…

If he succeeded, he would’ve torn the Black Cat’s life into pieces. Thomas’s excitement turned into guilt. What he was up to do was cruel and…

The boy’s hands had been lifting automatically. As soon as he acknowledged, he sharply redirected it towards his forehead and ran his fingers through his blond hair, masking the real movement he had been up to. I don’t care. He's a monster and deserves it. He convinced himself. Then he smirked. He had a plan.

Lindsey’s plans for the afternoon had just fallen through. “Please, Lind, please. I have no one but you.” She recalled her sister’s words. Marianne had been using the same excuse for three years now and Lindsey had grown tired of it. She hated children and she hated her disrespectful, smartass niece more than any other kid. The girl huffed and fastened her pace along the deserted hallway. Thanks to her sister’s phone call she was late for the second period.

Lindsey was the only member of her family to still speak to her sister. Her mother and father were still mad because she dropped college to marry some scoundrel who got her pregnant at nineteen. Lindsey still didn’t know his name. But when their parents kicked Marianne out, she was the one who got her back and convinced her uncle to take the girl into his department. Lindsey was thirteen at the time and she felt very proud to be the one who got her sister a job. 

Sometimes, though, she regretted siding with her sister. In fact, as if she hadn’t already exposed herself enough for her, Marianne had immediately started asking her to babysit Sam without telling her parents. Even if she had actually accomplished the task only a few times, she still was really annoyed with her sister.

And now the Black Cat was no longer an option. Every time Lindsey remembered she had given her baby niece up to the brutal leader of a gang, a lump of guilt pierced her heart. 

In her defense, when she first had left the baby, who was about seven months old at the time, with the boy, she didn’t know who he was. And it had only been for ten minutes. Just to go get an ice-cream. Still, you left your baby niece with a complete stranger. Her conscience reminded her. Lindsey only wished the thing had stopped there. Yet, it had only worsened and, in a matter of a month she had been leaving Sam with the guy for whole hours.

 And then, there was no coming back. She had tried to back off, almost two years later, when she had discovered her niece’s keeper's shocking identity. In the end, though she kept up pretending, overlooking for another year. But now she no longer could. Even if she disliked the kid, she couldn’t give up her niece to the man who beat her best friend up.  

Lindsey knew she wasn’t a good girl. She was selfish and arrogant and egocentric, just like Skylynn. But she wasn’t a monster.

Lost in her thoughts, she almost overtook the chemistry lab. Taking a few steps back, she knocked, went in, excused herself and took her usual seat next to Skylynn. Then she panted: “I’m sorry, Lynn. We can’t no hang out anymore. My sister wants me to babysit her little monster”

Skylynn said nothing. Siblings was a tough topic for her and she didn’t want her friend to know. She didn’t want anyone to know. She slightly turned her head left. The boy was sprawled next to her cousin. The red-haired girl’s cheeks were still blushing. Two jerks sit side by side. She thought. She hated her perfect cousin as much as her former best-friend. Mama’s girl, daddy’s favorite. Both made her feel like throwing up. They should be together. They suck all the same.

Thomas Allen eyes pierced her. Skylynn abruptly turned her gaze back to the teacher. He knew and it was already bad enough.

The loud noise snatched James from a good dream. He was skiing peacefully on his favorite slope, no one was in sight… Another thud made him jolt in his bed. “What the hell is going on?” He muttered, sleepy and irritated. Since he was forced to stay in Denver for a couple days, he wanted to enjoy at most the only thing the city could offer: sleep. But apparently even that was denied from him by an unmerciful fate.

After a couple of minutes of crashes and thuds and God-knows-what, James gave up and left the warmth and comfort of his bed to investigate the reason of the annoying noises.

The fuss ended up coming from Thomas’s room. Cautiously, James opened the door and sneaked in. Inside, it looked like a hurricane had passed. The window was broken and the walls were covered in red, threatening writings. The furniture was in pieces, and curtains, blankets and pillows were torn apart. Thomas' belongings were scattered all around the floor, stepped on and shattered. And, between the devastation, stood a man dressed in black. He was facing away, but James had no troubles in recognizing him. The Black Cat, who else?

As soon as he heard the sound of someone approaching, the Cat took a run and threw himself out of the broken window upside down. James sprinted to the window and leant from it. Under his disbelieving eyes, the Black Cat did a somersault in the air, landing securely on his feet like a gymnast. Or a cat. 

He’s damn agile! He couldn’t help but think and immediately felt guilty. He wasn’t appreciating the Black Cat skills, was he? He ran downstairs to try and catch the Cat, knowing perfectly it was vane. In fact, once he reached the garden, the boy had already disappeared. But, under the broken glass of his brother’s room’s window, a red, dreadful X defaced the wall. Its meaning gave James chills: Tommy was now a target.

Elisa Frigerio

Italiens à l'étranger

Il y a beaucoup de gens qui, pour une raison ou une autre, décident de partir à l'étranger, de quitter leur patrie pour acquérir une expérience professionnelle ou pour continuer leurs études. La destination la plus prisée par les «dépaysés» est Paris. Cette grande ville, en plus de présenter un grand nombre d'écoles et d'universités, est siège de l'école italienne à Paris. Les questions à se poser sont les suivantes: pourquoi de nombreuses personnes décident de partir à l'étranger et ce qu'ils ressentent en tant qu'Italiens en vivant à l'étranger et non dans leur lieu de naissance. J'ai donc décidé d'interviewer un petit nombre de personnes, Mais voici d'abord quelques informations sur cet institut.

Lycée italien Leonardo Da Vinci

Le lycée italien Leonardo Da Vinci est une école internationale italienne située à Paris, propriété du gouvernement italien, ouverte depuis plus de 65 ans. Le bâtiment principal (composé du collège, du lycée scientifique et de l'administration) est situé dans le 7ème arrondissement.

La première école italienne de Paris a ouvert en 1932, en rue Bixio, puis a déménagé en avenue de Friedland en 1934. L'école avait un internat principal en rue de la Faisanderie et une section séparée à Vincennes. En 1937 et en 1939, chaque collège comptait 300 étudiants. La Seconde Guerre mondiale, cependant, ferma l'école et, pendant plusieurs années, elle fut utilisée comme siège de la Maison d'Italie par le régime fasciste. Le gouvernement provisoire de la République française en prend possession après la Libération puis renvoie l'arrière du bâtiment en Italie, où une nouvelle école italienne rouvre, le 5 novembre 1949, où se trouve le siège actuel.

Le collège de l'école primaire, situé avenue de Villars, a été ouvert en 1961.

Le 4 novembre 1949, il est jumelé avec le lycée Chateaubriand de Rome.

Benita Sagbohan

La reprise de l'école en France

On peut dire que la reprise de l'école en France s'est scindée en deux parties. La première partie vers la fin de juin, après six semaines d'école en dents de scie et plus de trois mois de cours en ligne en raison de l'épidémie, quand les écoles ont été rouvertes à tous les élèves à fréquentation obligatoire, pour une récupération de 2 semaines avant les vacances, suivant un protocole sanitaire rigoureux (une décision fortement critiquée par des parents très inquiets). La deuxième partie de cette reprise a eu lieu le 1er septembre, lorsque tous les élèves sont rentrés à l'école «normalement» en suivant un protocole sanitaire plus simple qui permettra d'accueillir tout le monde à l'école.

Le présent protocole repose sur les prescriptions émises par le ministère des Solidarités et de la Santé qui inclut la distanciation physique, la limitation du brassage des élèves, le nettoyage et la désinfection des locaux et matériels et surtout l’application des gestes barrières (le lavage fréquent des mains, la ventilation des classes et d’ autres locaux). 

Concernant le port du masque pour les élèves en maternelle, c’est "à proscrire". Pour les élèves en primaire et au collège, le masque n'est pas recommandé non plus, à part la configuration qui ne permet pas de respecter la distance sociale d'au moins un mètre. Auquel cas les élèves de plus de 11 ans doivent porter le masque de protection dans la classe.

Une autre nouveauté cette année est un plan spécial “retard scolaire” pour rattraper le retard scolaire accumulé pendant le confinement, dans lequel "des évaluations" auront lieu en début d'année scolaire pour "déclencher une aide personnalisée". 

On peut donc dire que les décisions prises par l'Etat, pour le retour à l'école, sont à la fois suffisantes pour garantir la sécurité des élèves et pour favoriser leur apprentissage et leur récupération scolaire.

Benita Joyce Sagbohan

Breaking Mirrors 

Chapter 3. The day after

Thomas was in pain. His whole body hurt like hell. His face felt like hundreds of elephants stumped over it. He couldn't open his left eye. "You're an idiot." James repeated for the millionth time, pressing a gauze soaked in disinfectant on a cut on his cheek. His brother had taken him home after his fight with the Cat. He couldn't even stand up. "Okay, I fixed you up as well as I could." James said. Thomas gave him a thumb up and flung himself on his bed.

"Can you at least thank me? I was talking with a girl when you called. She was cute" James protested, annoyed. What do you want me to do? Kneeling before you and kissing your feet? The boy thought, sarcastically. James was so selfish. "Aren't you willing to die a virgin for your little brother?" His brother laughed, despite Thomas hadn’t meant to be funny. "Try and get some sleep. It's past midnight" He said, suddenly sounding like their mother. Thomas nodded and closed his eyes. He was exhausted. "Tomorrow you've a couple of things you need to explain"

The day after Thomas didn't feel like explaining at all. He couldn't even move. "James!" He shouted. "James!" He repeated. But the person who entered the room wasn't James. "What's up, Tommy?" Asked his little sister. Thomas sighed. If she was the best he got, he had to make it work. "Do you know what a painkiller is?" He asked, hopefully.

"I'm nine years old." The kid replied, imperturbable. She seemed to believe there was an obvious link between her age and her inability of procuring him what he needed. "Perfect, you're stupid" Thomas was livid. Every inch in his body ached and that idiot wasn't able to take a freaking painkiller to him. "And you're obnoxious!" The child cried, running away.

"Thomas!" James reproached him as he entered the room. "Oh, you're here. It took you ages" He complained harshly. You didn't come when I called and you think you got a right to reproach me!? "Thomas be polite. We're not your slaves." The boy said. Oh, please. Everyone has to do what I say. "I'm in pain" He argued, annoyed.

"And you're a pain in the ass" With that last provocation, the boy disappeared in the hallway. Thomas wasn't willing to swallow his pride and call him back. He would've made it on his own rather than apologize to his irritating brother. But a minute later James came back with a glass of water and some pills. "Here. And get downstairs. Dad wants to have breakfast together."

 Sara hadn't had breakfast yet that day. She was unpacking and settling down in her new room. The day before she had refused to do this, maybe still grabbing to the hope her parents might still change their mind. But now, now she knew she wouldn't ever have. They had left earlier in the morning. She didn't accompany them at the airport. She was too mad after what her mother had said.

Okay, let's say it again. She thought, recalling what her mother had told her. Skylynn’s little brother, Sam, died four years ago at an age of five. Her older brother has been living on his own since he was eighteen and he never calls his family. And Skylynn is a bitch so Karen is depressed. And my mother sent me here to cheer her up. The whole situation was absurd. Sara wasn't a selfish person, but it just wasn't fair.

The girl closed her eyes and sat on the unfamiliar bed. She felt tired. She had fallen asleep late and woke up early. Damn party! She thought. Her parents and uncles had insisted for her to go, and she had had the worst time in her whole life. Apart from the boy, James. The moment she had met his wonderful blue eyes, she had thought he could've been the one to give her a reason to stay. But he had disappeared into the night after he had gotten a phone call. They didn't exchange phone numbers, addresses or even last names. All she knew was his first name and that she would never see him again.

"Sara, dear, do you want to eat something?" Her aunt stood at the door. "Oh, yes thanks" She followed the woman downstairs. She had just drunk a glass of juice and started eating a donut, when Skylynn entered the room. Sara got up and put her dirty glass in the sink. She didn't feel like staying in the same room with her cousin. What happened the night before still burned. "May I eat this outside? It's a nice day" Karen smiled. "Of course." She said, accompanying her to the door.

The last day of summer holidays was sunny and warm. Sara enjoyed the heat while walking on the green, soft grass towards the garden's fines. Holding her breakfast with her teeth, she climbed on the house fence wall and sat on the top, then she let her legs sway on the other side of the wall. The house next to her uncles' was wonderful. It was bigger and more beautiful than the one she would've been living in from that day onwards, that still was a great one. I wonder who lives there.

"Are you new?" A soft voice shook her off from her thoughts. Sara saw a blonde little girl standing in the garden beneath her feet. "Yes." She answered. "I live here. And I hate my brother." The kid said. She looked extremely cute with that angry, outraged expression. Sara laughed. "What's your name?" "I'm Ellie. Can we be friends?" 

Ellie’s other brother was thinking about Sara. I finally had found someone… and now, who knows if I'll ever see her again? Thought James, putting the spoon in his mouth like an automaton. He was eating milk and cereal, but he didn't even feel the taste of it. He was too mad. He hated his selfish, rude, arrogant brother. He hated his manners, his attitude at treating everyone else like they were nothing. He couldn't understand why people loved him so much. Thomas Allen was a jerk.

In that moment the idiot made his appearance. His face was bruised and he moved cautiously, showing that, despite the painkillers, he was still in pain. "What happened?" Their father asked. Thomas flopped in a chair next to Cameron. "I became a hero" He mumbled, reaching for the milk. "Thomas!" The men spoke up. "He got into a fight with the Black Cat" Cameron said. "He's been incredible!" The boy's eyes were sparkling with excitement. Thomas punched his arm.

It was too late, though. "You did what?" Demanded their father in disbelief. James knew the man was worried about the Cats. The gang gathered in a degraded quarter not far from there, but they often targeted the wealthy zone Allens lived in. And now his son bothered the worst one, the leader. Even James was fearing for his little brother safety. The Black Cat was known to be merciless.

"He attacked Sky. I've been a gentleman and defended her. Now I'm a hero." Thomas defended himself, and started peacefully drinking his glass of milk. Richard's fist thudded on the table. James' bowl trembled. "You declared a war!" The man screamed. "You know how that kind of people are like. They hold grudges, seek revenge! And that one here, the Black Cat, is a psychotic monster! You can be sure he's gonna go after you"

Thomas shrugged at the intimidating words. "What can I say? Let the games begin" His tone was rich in sarcasm. Their father didn't appreciate the irony. "It's not a joke, kid!" James thought it was the right moment to give him support. "You don't understand what you got yourself into, Thomas. " He said, copying the adult's severe tone. The boy laughed and stood painfully up. “I do perfectly. I’m at war, and it’s a war I’ll win” The “Whatever it takes” got pinned down before it could reach his lips. Nevertheless, James understood his brother was willing to do anything to take the Black Cat down.

"What are you up to, Tom?" Cameron looked at Thomas as a recruit looks at a war hero. He was in awe. James didn’t know if he had to be mad or afraid. They're just kids. Arrogant, spoiled kids. There was something evil in Thomas's smile. "I'm gonna take away everything from him" 

Cat woke up in an empty bed. It took her ages to realize where she was. She laid on a low bed, in a small, colorful, room. Apart from the bed, there was just a metal table with two chairs and a closet. Two doors on opposite walls lead one to the bathroom and one to the Cat's gathering room, downstairs. Every wall was covered in wonderful murals.

She scanned the place for the author. He was perched on the windowsill, drawing on his sketchbook. Cat wondered how old he was. He had never told her. He looked so young, in the morning light. Even innocent, if you could forget seeing him beating people up almost to death or throwing knifes or robbing people just for fun. All of those things were part of his daily routine. And, day after day, they were starting to become part of her daily routine. This scared Cat almost as much as it horrified her. But it was too much late to turn back and she wasn’t sure she really wanted to. She might be bad, but she was having the time of her life. Finally.

And then awareness hit her with the strength of a lightning. She had slept in the Black Cat house. Oh my god. She quickly lifted herself up and nervously started reaching for her clothes. It wasn't the first time she slept with him. But it was the first one she had fallen asleep in his bed. He had never let her. He didn’t like to have someone in the bed during the night. Not asleep, at least. Stupid little girl! Why did you have to fall asleep!? She reproached herself, while putting on her jeans.

"I'd like you to reconsider this choice". The Black Cat whispered in her hear. Cat jolted. She didn't notice he was behind her. "I'm sorry I fell asleep" The boy started lowering her jeans again. "Oh, don't worry. You look astonishing in your rest" He kissed her neck and wrapped his arms around her body.

His touch pleased Cat but, for as much as she would’ve liked to, she couldn’t stay. She was already in so much trouble. “I gotta go. My parents would freak out if I…” She started and immediately regretted it. “You’re not going anywhere” He strengthened his grip around her body. His voice suddenly sounded threatening. What did I get myself into? She asked herself, trembling.

“Sorry” The word made her jolt. The Black Cat didn’t say “sorry”. He had never done. He was acting weird. He’d always switched between opposite moods as fast as you turn the light on and off in a room, but never like this. He was on edge, kept snapping for silly things. Yet, when he was calm, he was abnormally polite. He had been like this since the fight with the teenage popstar. Cat could feel something was wrong, but she couldn’t figure out what. And that drove her crazy. She hated not having all the answers. Nerd deformation.

 “Are you okay?” The words left her mouth before she could hold them back. He didn’t answer. He freed her body from his grip and went to the window. “Go” He said coldly. She took a faltering step closer to him. “I’m sorry”. He turned around. He was mad with rage; his eyes were like flames. “GO!” He shouted. Before she could move, though, the boy spoke again. "You are mine" The words gave her chills. She had no master. Had she?

The Black Cat wasn’t ok. His breath was heavy as he tried to calm down. He didn’t want to attack her. She was his. He wasn’t up to break something he owned. He kept repeating himself she was his, hoping he could get himself to believe it. Lately, indeed, he had been feeling more as if he was hers. And that wasn’t good for him.

His eyes followed her as he walked away. For a second, he thought about calling her back. He didn’t. He was getting far too attached. It was about time to cut off the strings. He wasn’t that kind of person who believed in love or longed for it. But still his heart ached when she shut the door behind her back.

He knew he had to let her go. He was weak with her around, he was vulnerable. He had something to lose. And he needed to get rid of her before she could be used against him. But he didn’t seem able to.

What’s so special about her, anyway? He wondered. She wasn’t a great fighter or a skilled thief. She wasn’t so fast, agile or strong. She wasn’t even so damn beautiful. And still, she had that power over him… No. He thought. He was mad at himself. She had no power. She was just a common girl. He didn’t need her. He didn’t want her. He didn’t give a damn about her.

The Cat took up drawing. I’m done with her. He stated. And he really meant it.

A couple minutes later, the boy closed the sketchbook as the drawing was done. Good. He thought. It had been a hard one to make, especially since he was still nervous from the night before. The nightmare had brought everything back. And if his growing feelings for the girl scared him, he was totally and utterly terrified by the ones unearthed by the dream.

He took his phone, trying not to think about it. Done. He texted his CEO. He had found an interesting way to make money. He gave some people his drawings and they made t-shirts and sweaters with them. And apparently, people liked those pieces of clothing so he was making a lot of money. It was really enjoyable, being able to buy everything he wanted again.

He had even picked up the habit of returning what he stole. He didn’t need those things, but he didn’t want to give up the excitement he felt while doing the mischief. And it was always funny watching people's reactions as the police alerted by them didn’t find anything missing. I’ve grown weaker and weaker. He realized. He was changing, he was turning again into the scared kid who had run away from home. And he didn’t want that to happen.

The Black Cat snuck out the window and climbed over the flat roof. He stared at the surroundings, as a cold wind started to blow. The sun was almost totally covered in dark gray clouds and the houses around him looked grayer than usual. It was about to rain.

His jawline hardened as he clenched his fists. That was his reign and he wasn’t willing to lose it. He finally had found a place and he would’ve fought for it until his very last heartbeat. And he would’ve won. But first, he would’ve wiped the weakness out of himself. He would’ve sent the She-Cat away. He would’ve forgotten the nightmare and drowned the memories. He would’ve destroyed the idiot who had dared to defy his leadership. And he alone would’ve risen as the king of the darkness.

Skylynn Stewart huffed. She was soaked for the rain, aching due her argument with the Cat and fairly mad. The all-afternoon-long shopping trip had tired her almost as her friend who hadn’t stopped a moment talking about Thomas Allen. Little did she know his past wasn’t as candid as she believed. Skylynn quivered at the memory which had come up to her mind. He’s a liar. Nothing but a liar. The hero who had saved her the night before was just an illusion. Thomas Allen had messed up too badly to have left something to save. She didn’t care about the fact he had been the only one who’d stood for her: she wasn’t going to let her former best-friend move closer to her.

Lindsey's voice broke her thoughts. “Lynn! Look at this!” She turned her gaze to the wall her friend was pointing at. Painted over it, there had been for the last two month a huge black cat with frightening yellow eyes. But that day, it was covered in white paint forming the writing “Allens reign”. Skylynn and Lindsey looked at each other. They both knew what it meant: Thomas Allen had declared war to the Black Cat. Skylynn smiled. “Let's stock up on pop-corns. I feel it's gonna be an interesting match."

Elisa Frigerio

Breaking Mirrors 

2. Game On

Thomas wasn't hungry. Since he knew he wouldn't’ve been home before one p.m., he had begged his father to let him eat junk food on the plane. And his father had pleased him. At least in that. But his mom, she wanted a family lunch. She didn't care it was half past one. 

 And this way he ended up staring at a steak, annoyed by the noise of his younger siblings arguing. "You're just an idiot who does stupid things." His nine years old sister, Ellie, said. "I'm a public figure. I've more than one hundred thousand followers on Instagram!" His thirteen years old brother replied, piqued. Thomas couldn't stand the arrogant boy anymore. "And I have ten million. Shut up kid" He added. Cameron went silent. 

"Easy guys!" His father reproached them, as his mother asked: "What's the matter?" Ellie didn't waste a second. "He took my stuff for his stupid videos!" Cameron defended himself. "I borrowed it! I'm gonna give it back as soon I've finished!" "But you didn't ask permission" The girl protested, looking at her mother for support. Thomas pulled away from the conversation. It was boring. 

His older brother, James ate quietly. He was boring, too. Everyone in that house was boring. The boy pulled out his phone. He got a message from his best friend, Nat. Great party yesterday, uh? Thomas smiled. Awesome. He texted. Kidnap me and take me back to L.A. He added. Nat just sent him laughing emojis. Enjoy the ride toward departure, high-schooler. He wrote a few seconds after. Thomas closed the private chat and started messaging in the WhatsApp group he and Nat had with the rest of their close friends. 

"Oh, there's a party tonight at John's. Can I go?" Cameron asked his parents. Thomas sharpened his hearing. Party. He liked that word. "You aren't even in high school and you already go to parties?" Asked his mother. She’s got a point. Thomas thought, hoping his mother’s sentence meant she was gonna deny the permission to Cameron. He might check out the party. It wouldn't surely have been as the ones he was used to in Los Angels, but it was way better than dying of boredom at home. And he didn't want to take with him his little brother. 

But the stubborn kid was insisting. "I'm starting freshman year in two days. And I'm famous, so they invite me" Famous. You did a couple of videos with me and gained thousands of followers. It's me the famous one. "You can go, but bring one of your brothers with you." Agreed his mother. Thomas huffed. Exactly what I didn't wanted. The teenage popstar glared at James. We're both going and you'll look after the kid. He tried to silently pass the message to his brother, but the boy kept eating, ignoring him. Jerk. And then Cameron said the words sealing his condemnation. "I don't need a babysitter but you are welcomed." 

Sara woke up on the other side of the ocean, in the middle of United States. Behind her, there was Denver, Colorado. Her new home. The flight attendant alerted them to fasten up their seat belt. The plane was landing. "What a beautiful view!" Her mother exclaimed, pointing at the city under them. Back in her home country, the woman had also picked up her mother tongue, English. Sara was extremely glad she knew perfectly the language. It was one problem less. And it would've been a big one. 

Her mother's sister, Karen, was waiting for them at the gate. She looked extremely similar to her sister: they had the same green eyes and red hair Sara had inherited. That should've made her feel like home. It didn't. 

"Margaret!" Shouted Karen, hugging the woman. They hadn't been seeing each other for four years. And the last time they did, it hadn't been in an happy moment. "Karen, I have to thank you so, so much! I don't know what we could've done..." Karen cut her sentence. "Oh come on, we'll talk about it later. You must be exhausted and starving!" "We're jet-lagged" Sara mumbled. "Oh, how rude of me! You must be my niece, Sara. You really look like your mother." The woman talked in an excited tone. Sara forced a smile. She's so annoyingly nice. "Nice to meet you, aunt" She said, offering her hand. The woman took it. "My pleasure" 

But it wasn't a pleasure for Sara. When her parents announced her they would've gone on a six month long work trip she tough: okay, I'm cool with that. At that time, she was thinking she would've gone with them or stayed in Milan with her grandmother. But her parents decided she was going to stay with her uncles in Denver. And Sara wasn't cool with that. At all. 

Nevertheless, she was glad when she arrived at her new home. Karen and Margaret had been talking during all the car trip, about how quickly she and her cousin Skylynn would've befriended. Sara was sick to pretending to listen. Plus, she had been texting Ale in the meanwhile and her best friend had just realized her and Thomas Allen would've been living in the same city. And the girl had wrote that she envied her a lot. Only the sudden arrival stopped Sara from insulting her best friend. Ale didn't seem to understand she would've gladly switched with her. Denver is a big city, anyway. Chances I meet him are something between zero and none. 

Your uncles are here, where are you? Skylynn ignored her mother's message just like she had done with her ten calls. She could tell the woman was furious, but she didn't care. She was having a good time. "Hurry up!" Lindsey said, impatient. Skylynn looked at her friend’s plate. "You're not even at half!" She argued. Lindsey crossed her arms. "I'm done. I have to be slim if I want Thomas to marry me." A new voice came from behind the girls as a boy put an arm on each one's shoulders. "You're wasting your time and effort. If he's gonna marry someone, it will be a model or an actress or..." 

Lindsey interrupted him. "What do you want, John?" "Just invite you at my party, sweethearts. Ten p.m., my place." Skylynn confirmed for both. She really felt like going to a party. The girl didn't even bother asking permission to her mother. It was unnecessary. What could she possibly do to me? 

Her mother had found a way to punish her. Skylynn knew it while she walked towards John's house side by side with Lindsey. And followed by Sara. She didn't like her cousin. She looked so common, so good girl. She would've teared up her reputation. Lindsey felt the same way. "Why did you take the moaning cousin with us? She's making me feel depressed". The girl complained. 

"My mother wanted it. She's punishing me because I fled." Skylynn said, don't even trying to hush her words. She heard the sound of a rushed pace behind her and then Sara overcame them. "You do realize I understand English?" She shouted, before disappearing into the night. No harm done. Skylynn thought, exchanging a high five with Lyndsey.

The girls entered John's house. Music was loud and the house crowed with boys and girls. Some were dancing, some drinking, some looked already drunk. Skylynn spotted two blond-haired boys around who most of the people were gathered. The Allens. She thought, and tried to make her friend turn around before she could see them too. She didn't look forward to meet her neighbors. 

In the process, she bumped into someone. "Wilson, what the hell are you doing there? No one invited you" Catharine Wilson smiled. "I get everywhere I want, Stewart" Lindsey sided with her friend. "Uhh, our cat showed us claws." She joked. Skylynn did a step closer to Catharine. "I think you really need to be reminded what your place is. Ready for a lesson in behavior?” 

"The only one getting a lesson tonight is you, freak" The room froze. The voice that talked wasn't Wilson's. Skylynn lifted her head up. In front of her stood the Black Cat. "Skylynn Stewart. I longed for meeting you" 

The room was silent. Everyone was holding their breath, afraid that doing some noise would've addressed towards them the Black Cat's wrath. Because everyone could feel it: he was mad. Cat smirked. Her leader was there. He was there for her. Her logical side kept telling her she should've been afraid, of the consequences at least. But she buried that side of her when she joined Cats. She wasn't a bookworm nerd anymore. Now she was a Cat. Now she was ruled by her heart. 

Satisfied, she admired the fear in Stewart gaze. Month ago she had the same fear in hers. But then in the girl eyes she spotted something she didn't expect: anger. "How dare you!" The girl screamed. "How dare you C..." whatever thing she was about to say, the Black Cat cut her off. The girl was thrown on the floor where she laid helpless. The Black Cat kicked her. One, two, three times. 

Nobody moved. Nobody tried to protect their school queen. Nobody could or wanted to withstand the Black Cat. Nobody but one. "Let her go! Let her go, asshole!" Cat turned around to see who was the jerk ruining her revenge. An handsome boy was coming toward them. He looked an angel with his blond hair and blue eyes. Thomas Allen. Who else? She thought, sarcastic. It was obvious the popstar would've done the hero. Every girl in the room was holding their breath, terrified about the boy's safety and in awe with his nerve. Boys were amazed too. Thomas Allen was the very first fifteen years old with the guts of opposing to the Black Cat.

Under Cat's gaze, Allen attacked her leader. She didn't move. She knew the green haired boy was perfectly able to beat the arrogant teenager on his own. In fact, in less than a minute, Allen was on the floor. The Black Cat stood over him. He didn't have a scratch. "You're as weak as a three years old baby, Allen." He looked almost disappointed. "Is this the better you morons can offer?" Asked, addressing to the silent audience. "Yes" Spat Allen. Cat couldn't help but admire his stubborn arrogance. 

The Black Cat kicked him. Thomas spewed some blood. "It's not ending like this, Kitty! I assure you, I will unleash hell against you" He shouted, trying to get on his feet. He failed. The Black Cat knelt on Thomas side. His punch hit the golden boy's eye. Good job, Kitten. Leave some scars on his pretty face. Blood ran along Thomas face, a lot of dark red blood. His eyes, though, glowed. He was defied but he had no intention of giving up. The Black Cat smirked. "Game on".

He got up, grabbed Cat's shirt border and started dragging her to the door. No one opposed, not even Cat. As soon as they were out of sight, he pressed his lips over hers. Kiss under moonlight. Romantic. Cat wanted to believe it, even though the hands holding her were bathed in blood. The Black Cat wasn't romantic. And sure as hell he wasn't her boyfriend. She knew she was just a prey in his insane game. But she liked playing too much. 

"Are you afraid, She-Cat?" He asked her. "Not at all, Kitten" She lied. 

Back into John’s house’s garden, James was standing in the cool night air. He didn't feel like getting back into the house. He felt embarrassed. He didn't know anyone apart from his irritating little brothers, and he wasn't good at making friends. He just longed for being back with his team. 

His phone went off. He declined the call as soon he managed to reach the device. Thomas had called him at least five times, asking to get inside and babysit their little brother. He had never answered. He was cool with leaving the boy grow more and more annoyed. It was about time his little brother started taking his responsibilities. 

James sighed. He had been wandering around John's house for a very long time. That, added to the trip, was making him feel tired. He wanted to go home, but he had promised his mother he would've kept an eye on Cam. Standing in the garden wasn't that much helpful, tough. James was starting to consider calling Thomas to tell him he was going home, when he spotted a shadow sitting on John's house's fence wall. Getting closer, he was able to distinguish a red-haired girl.

"Hi" He approached her. She didn't bother turning around. "Hi" The girl replied harshly. He didn't give up. "You don't really seem to fit in, am I wrong?" She lifted her head up to meet his gaze. Her eyes were a wonderful emerald green. And there was so much sadness in them. James couldn't look away. "I don't know anyone. And I hate Denver." Two things we have in common. 

The boy climbed on the fence, next to her. "You moved up recently, didn’t you?" She huffed. "Today" "From where?" He was genuinely interested. Wherever she came from, he guessed it was far away. She had a bit of accent. "Milan" She say. He had guessed right. Yesterday I was on the other side of the Equator and she was on the opposite side of the ocean. We've a lot in common. He thought. He wanted to know the foreign girl better. "Beautiful city. I'm new too" He offered her his hand. "Name's James" She smiled and took it. "Sara" 

A couple blocks from there, the Black Cat opened his eyes. His She-Cat was sleeping on his side, naked. He snuck out the bed and got dressed without making her even flinch. He was always extremely silent in his movements. A true cat. He stopped on the windowsill and turned around to look at his lover. The girl slept peacefully with her purple hair scattered on the pillow. She's so beautiful. He thought, admiring her body once more. Then he disappeared into the night. 

Lawrence waited him in the general quarter. "Already done with the princess?" The boy asked. The Black Cat said nothing. He kept walking, until he reached the Cats' armory. "Call our rookie. I need a target" He ordered, pulling out several knifes from their cases. Lawrence just nodded. 

A couple of minutes after, the Black Cat was explaining to a trembling boy what he had to do. "It's quite simple. You stay here" He pointed at a wooden wall. "And I throw knifes" The boy nodded and positioned where he was asked. 

The Black Cat threw the first knife, trying to cast with it the nightmare which had woken him up. He went for the second, the third, the fourth. The kid jolted in pain when the boy hit his hand, but he knew better than complaining. The fifth. But it wasn't working. 

In the twilight, his blue eyes shone like two bright sapphires. The Black Cat closed his eyelids as memories fled into him. His body started to tremble. He dragged a necklace out of his t-shirt, and squeezed it in his left hand. And with the right one he threw another knife. In the nigh echoed a sharp, painful scream. 

Elisa Frigerio

Commemoration Centenaire de la mort de Hazoumé

20 Mai 1920 – 20 Mai 2020

Toffa 1er, fils de Sa Majesté Dè Sodji  et 18ème Roi de Porto-Novo, a règné sur le Royaume de 1874 à 1908. Son Père, Sa Majesté Dè Sodji règna sur Porto-Novo de 1848 à 1864 et signa en 1863 le 1er accord de Protectorat français.

En 1882, Toffa 1er signa le 2ème Accord de Protectorat avec la France.

Mais, en 1894, irrité par l'injustice de certaines lois coloniales et l'instauration de nouvelles taxes, Sa Majesté Dè Toffa 1er, prendra la courageuse décision de remettre en cause toutes les conventions qui le liaient à la France.

Hazoumè, fut le Premier Ministre du Roi Toffa 1er. Fin Diplomate à l'intelligence aiguisée, Hazoumè avait la confiance totale du Roi et était son précieux conseiller. C'est pourquoi,  il fut  choisi par sa Majesté Dè Toffa 1er pour conduire à Paris en Octobre 1895 la Mission Diplomatique du royaume, pour re-négocier et réviser avec Felix Faure, President de la Republique Française, les clauses Politiques et Economiques desdites Conventions.

Hazoumè occupe le poste de Premier Ministre du Roi Toffa 1er jusqu'à la mort de celui-ci.                     

Publication de Romain HAZOUMÈ, USA et  Flore HAZOUMÈ, RCI

________________

Sources :

1. Archives Famille HAZOUMÉ a Porto-Novo et Cotonou, Benin

2. Département Histoire de la Bibliothèque Nationale de France, 

3. Le Journal “ Le Monde Illustre” du 26 Octobre 1895,

4. “Villages Noirs et Autres Visiteurs Africains et Malgaches”

de Jean-Michet Bergougniou, Remi Clignet et Philippe David, France 2001, page 96

5. Le Chasseur Français N°596 Février 1940 Page 123, Chronique Coloniale, A. O. F. 939 

Benita Joyce Sagbohan

Earth Day from home

On April 22 we celebrate Earth day, the anniversary of both of the modern environmental movements. This year Earth day marks 50 years since its birth, an important goal that we should start to consider with awareness. [Continua a leggere nella sezione News dal mondo...]

Rebecca Urso

El cántico de los temores

In questo periodo di quarantena, la bellezza rappresenta una delle vie di fuga e di salvezza dalle paure quotidiane. La forma più estetica della parola, quella poetica, ci colpisce e apre uno squarcio sulle nostre emozioni. Vi proponiamo la traduzione di una poesia dedicata proprio alla pandemia di COVID-19, di un poeta italiano contemporaneo che ci ha concesso la pubblicazione sulle nostre pagine, Andrea Melis. 

Traduzione di Sophie Sawoud

Poesia a mio fratello bianco

Lèopold Sedar Senghor fu un noto poeta, politico e teorico senegalese. Fu eletto presidente del Senegal dal 1960 al 1980, e il primo africano a far parte dell'accademia francese. Nella poesia Senghor mette in discussione l'uso dell'espressione "uomo di colore", inducendoci a una riflessione sul razzismo, sugli stereotipi e sui clichè culturali ai quali siamo assuefatti.

Traduzione di Benita Sagbohan

Tokyo, a city that is getting ready for the Olympic Games

New sports centres, more efficient train stations, and airports that will get closer and closer, ideally, to the city centre. This Tokyo preparing for the games of the XXXII Olympic, in the summer of 2020, is a city in great ferment where the already incredible level of public structures will be further raised to favor billions of audience and more than 12,000 athletes who will come from all over the world for the Olympic Games.

From July 24 to August 9 2020, Tokyo will become the sports capital of the world, on a background which will include the building of eleven new complexes including the Olympic stadium (out of a total of 33 structures) that will host 324 races, representing 33 different sports disciplines.

What is actually changing in the common imaginary Tokyo? That shiny and sparkling city, among brightened skyscrapers at every hour of the day and of the night and ancient temples which go back to more than 2000 years ago. Apparently, nothing and everything at the same time.

The metropolitan government of Tokyo aims to optimize the infrastructural system of the city, with a budget of approximately 3 billions of dollars, in order to make the audience life easier during and after the games. The two international airports of Haneda and Narita will be renovated and some restrictions, which reduce the actual capacity of the airports, will be eliminated. It is here, in fact, where many of the flights from western countries (Italy included) land.

As regards the railway, which is already a flagship of the “land of the rising sun”, there will be many improvements, starting from Tokyo station - in the neighborhood of Marunouchi - that will undergo a substantial extension, with lines to connect it to Haneda and Narita. In this way, it will be possible to travel to Haneda in only 18 minutes (against the actual 30) and to Narita in 36 minutes (against the actual 50).

What is more, a new line will be built, connecting Tamachi to the airport of Haneda, as the completion of the Central Circular Route, the Ken-Ō and the Tokyo Gaikan Expressway. Finally, the connection of the Yurikamome automated line will be expanded and it will get to the station of Kachidoki, near the new Olympic Village.

Some of the historical structures - that already hosted the Olympic Game of 1964 in Tokyo, those who collected the heritage of the Rome famous games of 1960 - will return in 2020 too to see Olympics competitions. It is the case, for example, of the Gymnasium of Yoyogi, a historical masterpiece whose project is due to the famous architect Kenzō Tange, father of the japanese “traditional modernism” ,or the Nippon Budokan, projected by Mamoru Yamada, that will host judo and karate competitions.

The road cyclism competitions will have an extraordinary scenic impact, they will be held in the gardens of the imperial palace, a three square kilometer wide park that surrounds the ancient residence of the Japanese emperor.

Other iconic centers of the city will host spaces that have different uses from the sport one - like the Broadcasting center, where all the media will meet. The media center will be placed actually at the Tokyo Big Sight, a conference center consisting in four inverted pyramids joint by a central body and sustained by semi transparent pillars in glass and steel.

In conclusion, this is a city that not only already offers so much, but also that wants to get rich - culturally, infrastructurally, and from a sporting point of view - in little more than 1000 days, in order to welcome its tourist and its future. A future that has been already present in Tokyo for a lot of years.

Note of the translator. As we were translating this article, Japanese Prime Minister Shinzo Abe agreed with the International Olympic Committee members (IOC) to postpone the Tokyo 2020 Summer Olympics and Paralympics for one year, after taking note of the complications related to the spread in the world of coronavirus.

Caterina Lambertini

La mujer desaparecida

Primer episodio

"Era nuestro aniversario, decidimos celebrarlo pasando una tarde en la playa" – cuenta el Señor Pérez al alguacil González lo que ha pasado con su esposa hace dos días – "habíamos instalado nuestra carpa, mientras tanto se había oscurecido el cielo, que aquella noche estaba estrellado. Encantados por la belleza de las estrellas, nos acostamos en nuestra toalla de playa para disfrutar de la vista. Mientras tanto, noté un puente antiguo y en ruinas, que conducía a una aldea deshabitada donde se podía ver un hospital psiquiátrico abandonado y allí, de vez en cuando con el rabillo del ojo, noté una forma que parecía ser humana, pero no le di peso a esto. Después de varios minutos fui a controlar, pero todo parecía tranquilo. Al regresar, encontré una serie de huellas que, desde el puente, conducían a la tienda, donde me esperaba mi esposa y cuando vi el interior..." 

En este punto, el alguacil González interrumpió al Sr. Pérez – "Es suficiente por hoy, continuaremos en las próximas sesiones. Prometemos que haremos todo lo posible para encontrar a su esposa". 

Dentro de dos semanas a partir de la denuncia, la investigación se extendió incluso a los países extranjeros más distantes, mientras el señor Pérez tenía que seguir con su vida y su trabajo. 

En un día lluvioso, el profesor de Literatura regresó a su casa después de un duro día de trabajo. Estaba tan cansado que se durmió sin siquiera cenar. Estaba muy estresado en estos días y se estaba volviendo loco. Su cerebro no dejaba de pensar en su esposa ni un segundo y cómo encontrarla, incluso mientras estaba dormido y es por eso que esa noche hizo una pesadilla...

De vuelta a casa para cenar con su esposa Melanie, después de un día con amigos … Toc toc – ninguna respuesta –"Raro, pero Melanie debería estar en casa". De repente, la puerta se abrió sola y lentamente y Pérez se dio cuenta de que la cerradura había sido forzada, ingresó y vio una carta en la mesa que decía: "Si quieres a tu esposa, ven a este lugar a las 11:00 esta noche y trae € 50,000 sin decirle a nadie o arruinarás tu vida! Sé (?) todo…" Inmediatamente Pérez se preparó para salir hacia el lugar indicado por la carta de la desconocida, pero luego, cuando llegó... 

Driiiiiin, se activó la alarma y era hora de ir a trabajo. 

Pasaban los días y cada vez faltaba menos para la última sesión con el alguacil. Todos los días, Pérez seguía teniendo el mismo sueño donde iba al mismo lugar y todos los días el sueño se veía interrumpido por ruidos. Finalmente llegó el día de la sesión y Pérez decidió contar sus sueños y el lugar que veía todos los días. Antes, sin embargo, fue sorprendido por el alguacil que le mostró un bolso y una tarjeta de identidad: "¿Los reconoce?" dijo el Sr.González "Sí, sí, ¡son de mi esposa señor!" Finalmente habían llegado a algo después de dos semanas de investigaciones. Pérez contó sus pesadillas al alguacil González que inmediatamente entendió el lugar. 

Juntos y con una pandilla de policías de seguridad se dirigieron al sitio indicado. Estaba deshabitado y no había otra cosa sino una casa en ruinas donde se oían gritos de una mujer, inmediatamente fueron a salvarla, era Melanie, pero fueron sorprendidos por un hombre vestido con un traje negro y con una máscara de tortuga, fue capturado de inmediato y Melanie fue rescatada. El acosador, que resultó ser el ex alumno del profesor Pérez, fue desenmascarado. 

"Finalmente todo está resuelto" – dijo Pérez – pero de repente: "¡No terminará aquí, ¡me lo pagarás! ¡Melissa me contó todo…!" Dijo gritando el niño tratando de deshacerse de los policías mientras lo llevaban en el auto. Esas palabras resonaron en el aire y Pérez predijo que esta frase no prometía nada bueno… 

Sara Msellek, Shahd Zaytoun, Martina Garigioli