There was a performance at the Triennale called What We Do When in Silence, by Enrico Malatesta, Alessandra Novaga and Nicola Ratti.
Tessa had written to me that Massimo Torrigiani had told her there was a ticket on my name, waiting for me at the entrance, and that she would not be able to make it to the performance after all.
So I went alone.
Then I saw Massimo.
I told him I was happy because perhaps tonight I would finally find out: what we do when in silence, like a Buddhist knows. He laughed and said he was happy I had come.
Around his neck I noticed a rudraksha mala.
I already knew.
He was a Buddhist.
I don’t know much about Massimo.
Only that he has this very light, flowing energy.
The kind of energy Buddhists seem to have.
That is all I know.
Half of the audience moved onto the stage with the musicians, while the other half remained seated.
I stayed in the audience.
I closed my eyes and sank into it.
It was an intensely immersive experience.
I particularly loved the acousmatic sound of sand and stones, which the musicians dropped, one by one, into a loudspeaker, creating an atmosphere out of almost nothing.
At one point I heard Nicola Ratti whistle.
For a moment, the sound took me somewhere else.
It reminded me of the whistle Davide had made for me the day before, explaining how Italians whistle when they see an attractive woman. The exact kind of whistle Jessica Chastain demonstrated on television when she was explaining the Italian way of doing it.
A small whistle travelling through Italy.
From Davide Allieri, to Nicola Ratti, to Jessica Chastain.
And now, somehow, into the silence.
I went outside to go to the toilet and ran into Frida.
Not Frida Kahlo.
Frida Braun.
She is beautiful.
She was with her partner and their friend Pino.
They had left the performance early because they had to return to Munich.
I went back into the room to immerse myself a little longer.
Then I saw Massimo move from the audience onto the stage.
A little later, I almost fell asleep.
I thought: better get home before the Triennale becomes my bedroom.
My obedient green horse was waiting for me outside the Triennale, parked patiently.
Ten minutes later, I was in my warm bed.
