A World of Happiness

By Luigi Savagnone

Plot: the protagonist decides to make himself a small boat to be able to find solace to his ailments in the sea, but receives a letter in which he was told that he was hired at the bank. In his new job he is very bad, and for that pretends to be sick to take a vacation in the Sahara. After many misadventures, which threatens the life, is able to return and resume work. But yet another insult suffered by superiors, convince him to resign, take the small boat and venture out into the sea. Here he meets a mermaid who invites him in her amazing underwater world, but ..

• Language: English
• Publisher: Luigi Savagnone
• Release date: Jul 9, 2013
• ISBN: 9781516381401

Luigi Savagnone

Luigi Savagnone è uno scrittore indipendente. Scrive romanzi d’amore e di fantasia adatti ad un pubblico di tutte le età. In questi romanzi avvincenti e di facile lettura, sono tuttavia inseriti dei contenuti culturali e scientifici.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Prologue

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     When I was little, old people of my country me constantly told that everyone, sooner or later, reach their ideal status and are able to live happy, or at least with equanimity, the rest of life before death will overtake. It is with this knowledge and certainty, for the fact that I have always considered wise and infallible, although some of them had the nasty habit of pinching me on the cheek, the older me have educated that I have lived my youth, but ... up to now ! As I, for my part, I could not to accomplish and achieve anything ....... !!

     I'm twenty-five years, so mid-twenties, and I think that more than a quarter of a century I have lived. The whole world around me I got bored. It seems almost a giant leech sucking every day all that is good in me: my youth, my thoughtlessness, my love. I see it all gray and dreary, entirely mechanical. Each step in the road seems like a rite, a rite usual too. Where did, I think, that inspiration that makes us unlike the beasts: where's the taste of knowledge that has elevated the status of barbarians in which our ancestors lived in caves. Everything seems static, automatic, remote controlled. Where is the friendship that has allowed us to come together in the city? Where is the love, so sacred two thousand years ago, and now so profane, that gave us an interest in survival? The big factories on the horizon, and blacks chimneys spewing poisons into the atmosphere. That made us the nature to repay with such money? The coasts are now polluted by harmful debris smelly that we produce. That made us, that sea so benign, that cleanses us from our fetid sweat every summer, to be repaid in this way? Often I get close to people to listen to their speeches: all logical and seemingly ideal, but looking up and crossing it with them, I realize the treachery that release those eyes. Then I look at myself and think. Why this stupid meat needs of food and liquids if he expels them all! So it is unnecessary to give it if he does not bear good fruit! But the survival instinct overrides any logic. We all seem as automata, animals lacking any imagination and intelligence! And the women then, to me alone and abandoned, like I am, they seem to me UFO ... so much I am unable for seek one girl! For me, woman is a utopia, something unattainable, an alien creature that dispenses the pleasures of love and sex to all men; yes, everyone except me! And, as a consequence of my state of mind, every time a girl smiles at me with kindness, I am convinced that in reality hides a monster ready to devour me! I need sex, sex without limits! But then I do not want to get trapped! I know that in Haiti invoke Erzulia, the ancient Egyptians and then the Romans also invoked Isis, the goddess of sex!

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     I went very often to prostitutes, available only women to want to make love with me, and I was humiliated, hoping in bottom of my heart, that they were hiding a goddess, who finally grant me her graces, though, for a fee, and I did not dare ask them anything else, that the permission to lick their feet, although some of them wanted a tariff supplement for grant me the opportunity even to smell them, as they were smelly, and when they allowed me to lick their vagina, it was only to use my tongue to wipe off the sperm left by previous clients. I remember going to some ground floor studios, marked by a red light in the bell outside the front door. I entered and sat down in a dirty couch, where I often found some men who, like me, were waiting for their turn to fuck with the whore. I tried to hide my embarrassed face, but I still managed to wait patiently for my turn. When the bitch had finished with the previous client, she appeared, almost always bare-breasted, in the living room, where I and the other visitors waited patiently. Then, if she was too ugly, someone would go away, but whoever was contented would come with her into the bedroom, if it was his turn, of course. As soon as I undressed, after having washed my private parts of my body, she put the timer at 10 minutes, the maximum time within which I had to enjoy the orgasm; if I could not, she would give me the opportunity, or to continue doubling her rate, or dress and leave. For example I escaped once, and it is a memory that I will never be able to erase from my memory when, bothered by a drunken customer, she scarred him with a revolving kick using his stiletto heel as a blade.

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    But on the other hand, I realize that marriage is more and more a game of interests, very often of endurance and quarrels, which lead to compromises between the spouses such that in the end neither of them is happy, especially sexually. And in fact, inflatable dolls and dildos are very popular.

    For these and other reasons that I am not here to enumerate, I have depleted all my hard-earned cash and I bought an old fishing shack located on a small pier near my house. I bought it for two hundred thousand lire, and I must say that I'm quite happy that I did this thing. To tell the truth, I only paid a little 'peace of mind, because the building is not worth even a quarter of that money: it is rectangular, six meters by two, all wood, rotten because corroded by salt, soiled by mold, because abandoned to itself for some time. I have not touched or clean anything, I like the smell of ancient! I only brought a small table, a gas lamp, a small stove and a sofa for my meditations. There, then, I spent most of my time studying a book that has given me a fisherman. I wanted to learn how to build a boat, a small rowing boat to leave the shore and watch from a place living, the dead city. And while I studied as wrap the timber, the hours passed in absolute tranquility, broken only by the sound of waves crashing on small pier, and the subtle hiss of gas that kept alive the flame of the lamp. 

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     I was thinking of Hemingway and his 'The Old Man and the Sea' and I imagined myself to be that fantastic character, I imagined myself old man with a beard abundant and unkempt, but with the mind quiet while I savored the sweet taste of tobacco by sucking my briar pipe. Ah! As would have been important to me that little boat! What is accumulate treasure on earth when one is always agitated. What is to have a family, then when children are the same, the blood of your blood, the first to trample you. I purposely chose to study the book of boats in that place uncomfortable and humid, rather than comfortably in my home for a very simple reason: when I am in the city, for the enormous hypocrisy that lurks there and that feeds itself until it becomes a perennial toxic cloud that envelops everything, makes me feel the disgust that fills me, even just listening to the sound of it, I prevents any form of poetry, any goodness, any peace of mind, making me neurotic and unable to assimilate these teachings yet so simple, and in addition, I have the feeling of constantly having a myriad of threatening eyes on me, waiting for my smallest mistake, such as touching my penis, for example, to judge, mock and punish me. There, however, in that shack so close geographically, but so far ideally, I am transformed, reborn! That fisherman who had lent me the book was ready, behind lavish hand of course, to make the boat I wanted for me. I refused! The boat is sacred for me, is the carrier that allows me to live in the true sense of the word, is the way to be accepted among the charitable arms of the sea. And so it was that one day, a cold day in November, I decided to put into practice those teachings that the book had given me. I bought the wood, nails, a hammer, a chisel, a saw and a planer. I began to cut the hull and the keel so that they were free of sharp edges and well polished. At the end they are the foundation on which rests the entire building, which is why I put fifteen days to finish it. Then I stared at the wheel of the bow, which is the point of union of the two sets of harnesses. 

     While doing that work, I remembered reading that the Vikings considered that axis of wood as an essential part of their boats, even from the point of view of aesthetics and adorned with decorations and sculptures. I have always admired the Vikings: a people hard and rough, but fair. Great conquerors, but above all great explorers, having been now proven that they discovered America long before Columbus. My hands worked almost automatically, while my imagination wandered without limits of time or space. After the wheel bow was once the most delicate and difficult operation: the assembly of the plating. Each strip of wood needed of ten days to cut, plane it, soften it so that it could be fixed. It took me about four months to