— This is an error in a matrix, a déjà vu, this is not happening yet, this is a scene from the room in Florence —
It was a spacious room with Art Deco stucco, high ceilings, and dark parquet floors. It had several French doors with tiny balconies. This was to accommodate her inner decadent princess. Duchess, to be precise, after all we are in the context of Florence.
Attila opened the window so they could watch the curtains dancing slowly.
It reminds her of a song, so she puts on an instrumental version, on repeat.
Attila disappears in the corridor, but that doesn’t stop her from chattering on:
“I’ve never read Vian – I looked it up though – I’m surrounded by flowers too. Well, plants – hopefully not terminally ill – still, I’m a hopeless and helpless dreamer … The point is to remain curious and playful. Never grow up, it’s a trap.”
She goes on, and so does the watery sound.
“And Marvel, yes, was never my thing either. I can’t name five characters from there.”
Bea announces her presence with a smoker’s cough and interrupts her monologue: “You really are a disgusting people pleaser. You basically agree with everything he said.”
They hear him go into the other room; the old squeaky floor gave him away.
Fellini enters the room through the open window.
“Of course, it’s a human thing to categorise,” he agrees, grabbing a thread of the aforementioned topic. His eternally black-and-white presence fits nicely into a frame. “Stick a label on it and put it neatly in a drawer. What a satisfying routine.”
Eva jumps out of bed and starts opening all the drawers. They are full of secrets and words and puzzles and riddles. She begins emptying all the drawers. “What a satisfying routine.”
“Are you looking for something?” Attila shouts when he hears the noise from the other room.
I had high expectations for 100 Years of Solitude, but I also had a preconceived notion, a self-created, supposed definition of what magical realism would be (and it wasn’t what I expected).
And now I have six tiger cats and seven generations of Attila.
“It’s not there,” says Attila, trying to be louder than all the mess falling out of the drawers.
“The stuffed cat isn’t there, Bea never brought it back,” he calls out in a slightly reproachful voice.
Bea bursts out laughing and starts jumping around like a monkey, making wild, feral gestures.
“Putting things back in their place,” says Fellini rather indifferently, staring through the window at a perfectly graded grey sky.
“Um, actually, there are only five left. One didn’t make it back…” says Bea, sober and serious for a moment.
“WHAT!?” It’s Attila who’s making the noise now, but we still can’t see him. It sounds like he’s standing next to a waterfall.
Federica enters the room through the closed door, perplexed.
“One plushy and five tigers, right? And one of them – I’m not sure. It’s lost – or dead,” Bea tries, making it worse.
Eva raises her hand triumphantly, holding a shiny sticker. Ta-DaAA!
Then she presses it onto her upper arm as a fake tattoo.
“What is it?” Attila curiously from the other room.
“She found another label to identify with,” shouts Fellini back.
Letters from the drawer play catch-me with riddles on the floor, holding each other’s tiny hands to make up words, dancing in circles to make phrases, and meaning.
“Chi pulirà tutto questo casino?” (I don’t know, just because the name “Federica” sounds strict, she acts that way) with her angry pose and wild Italian hand gestures.
“Don’t be angry, darling,” says Fede and gives her a big kiss.
“So, who wants to take a bath?” asks Attila.
“How many more are coming?” asks Eva, looking at the rustic glassware cabinet and choosing crystal glasses.
“And can we finally change that stupid song? My ears are bleeding,” demands Bea.
— End of the glitch. —