NIGHT

By Carmine CARBONE

Starry skies, the ever-flowing river, a bench with a view over the brightly-lit town. 
It looks like a beautiful night to Dave, a shy and retiring clochard, settling down to rest after another day on the streets. 
But for him, that night will mark the beginning of a journey – a search in which his own memories will intertwine with events. 
It all starts with an advert in the free local newspaper, where a little girl appeals for help to find her lost dog. 
Information provided by his old friend Markus will lead Dave to Ebe, a street performer, who will give him the dog and persuade him to take it back to its rightful owners, in the middle of the night. This in turn will bring him into contact with people of different background and values, causing him to reflect on his past, his childhood in an orphanage, his love of music, his friendships and first love, his dream of musical success with his band, so abruptly shattered by an accident which had left him in a coma for months, followed by a long stay in hospital and finally his life on the streets, with no hope left.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carmine CARBONE
• Release date: Apr 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781507136454

Book preview

Carmine Carbone

NIGHT

1

It was the kind of evening when, gazing up at the sky, you felt tiny enough to comprehend just how vast was the universe and how completely indifferent to the fact that you were there at that moment. 

But there you were.

The moon was so big and bright that it lit up everything about it and, all around, the stars twinkled from the dark night sky.

I could see the lights of the skies reflecting on everything below which was either liquid or metal: the puddle I was standing in, the cars flashing past on the road at top speed, the huge windscreen of a bus and, above all, on the waters of the river, giving an unreal air to everything.

From my elevated position on Continental (as the main road was known) that river of light resembled a streak of lightening piercing a city of concrete.

It was just an ordinary Monday evening.

Ordinary for me, though my view of everyday life was from a rather different perspective than most folk.

For many people, Monday evenings mean coming back home tired from the first workday of the week, going to the bar with friends for a beer and a chat about the football match of the day before, or going to the cinema with friends met over the weekend.

Not for me. For me it was the evening I could collect clean clothes and blankets from the association.

Mondays and Thursdays: collection of household effects. How could I ever forget it? For ten years I had spent those two days of the week in the same way.

Most nights I slept in the square behind the market, but on Monday evenings the Local Residents Committee met there so I went elsewhere.

I loved the riverbanks and, on a beautiful evening like this, they were something not to be missed.

My life gave me little pleasure but one thing I did enjoy was the beauty of nature; it made me feel free: free from the cares of daily life, free from my poverty, free from the feeling of being different and often despised, free not to have to tell people that I loathed being referred to as a tramp or as a homeless person and that I preferred to be called clochard. It made me feel important or rather, it seemed somehow more elegant than those other words.

From that point on the river, near to the bridge I sheltered under, I had a great view of the town: the modern part with its skyscrapers and well-lit buildings; the older part with its monuments and flags on the roofs, a reminder and testament to lives and times gone by; what I called the quiet part, where all the lights in the houses were switched off by eleven o’clock at night, where everyone was sleeping and the only noises to be heard were from scavenging animals amongst the rubbish or from one of my brothers from the association getting ready to settle down for the night; the part I called noisy, where for 24 hours a day there were bars, restaurants, clubs and casinos in full swing.

I often hung out in that area, especially on Tuesdays, Saturdays and Sundays.

On Tuesdays, MAGIK played the coolest jazz and the rubbish bin around the back was like a first row seat.  Peering through the air hole, you could practically tell what size of shoe the musicians on stage were wearing.

On Saturdays, at the CLOY, you could enjoy ethnic music; last Saturday, I listened to afro music from the roof and danced for three hours on end, leaping about like a monkey, partly thanks also to some red plonk from somewhere or other in France.

On Sundays, at the GRUNGE, you got the best of rock music, from golden oldies to new wave.

There, Luigi, the Italian cook in the tiny kitchen, not only made room for me amongst the pots and pans, but often gave me a bite of something tasty to eat. Not that the association food wasn’t good, but you didn’t often find yourself eating lasagne, macaroni and Italian wine.

All the same, I went there for the music, not for the food.

The love of my life: music.

There you are! Music was another thing I adored.

The beauty of nature and music.

2

My passion and my ruin. Music.

How could I not love it?

All I ever did in my childhood and youth was to play the guitar.

I was one of the most promising young guitarists around.  In fact many people, including Jesse, Tom and Faith, who played with me from age eleven onwards, said I was the very best there was.

We grew up in the same orphanage and one Christmas, I don’t remember exactly which year, we received gifts which were to change the course of our lives.

A guitar, a drum set and a bass guitar, courtesy of the nearby RECORDER STUDIOS.

It was as though destiny had taken us by the hand and pointed to where our future lay: in Music.

For sure, we didn’t have any other plans.

From that Christmas until we were grown, we spent all our time on our new hobby.

We