Instead Mr.Blackberry calls on me in the night. He is afraid to sleep. He is 89 years old. For me it’s not a big trouble, because I don’t need to sleep much in the night and I like always some company.
We do recording sessions. I use a program of my computer for recording voice, I bought a microphone, and I hand it to Mr. B.. He clears his voice, he coughs two times,and he starts talking from the bottom of his stomach, from the wearyness of his ailments. This night he’s talking about the time he swam in a little lake in the greek mountainsduring the war. He was escaping from soldiers. He could hear shots far. He reached a little village in the other side of the lake where he was hidden and forced to work like a slave for two years. He still can remember the pain of his legs when they stopped moving, cantracted in spasmodic cramps. He was drowning at 50 meters from the bank. But with the force of his arms he reached the shore, where he slept all the night .
There are some memories that are like engraved in his head, he said. Memories that give man the pride of having lived. And he was there with this microphone in his hand, this choking voice in his mouth just because these memories were too big to let them die.