Trafika Europe 14 - Italian Piazza
There are some who hang themselves from the hotel’s wooden beams and kick around in the air, the others change their seats in the lobby, until, out of sheer tiredness, they decide to stand around. In order to confirm this decision, they shake their heads, roll their shoulders in circles, knowing well that it ’s way too late. There are baskets filled with apples on the tables; outside, dusk sets in, the phone rings in the porter ’s lodge. Then comes the automatic drawing of the curtains along the glass fronts, the closing of the front door and turning the heating up. No one wants to take the blame. One or two are still dangling from the wooden beam, but have stopped kicking around and press their lips, which takes quite some effort. The lights go out in the porter ’s lodge. The phone has stopped ringing. The others now stand in the lobby in white night shirts, apples in both hands, which, by turns, they take bites of, chew, and finally swallow, stem and all. Everything follows a strict set of rules— that ’s what makes nights here so enchanting.
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