The bus swinged slowly near the last bend, and the village appeared, like in a technicolor film. It was a nice village, a classical english village with its black and white houses, its grannies behind the windshields and everybody knowing everything about anybody, but still looking as if they didn't care. There were not more than forty houses, but it gave the impression of a much bigger place. The bus stopped in the centre, in the geometric centre, because the village extended along both sides of the road. The man came down quite carefully, looking at both sides of the pavement, deserted. He studied the sign of a tobacconist, then went inside.
- Good morning. May I have a box of Marlboro and some candies?
Behind the desk, a middle-aged man, looking distinctive, wearing turtle textured glasses with very thick lenses.
- Do you need anything else, Sir? You don't live around here, don't you?
- How can you tell that?
- Simply that I've owned this shop twenty years and I've never seen you before. And looking at the way you dress, you don't even look english, even if your accent is perfect.
- Are you a relative of Sherlock Holmes? - asked the customer a bit angry.
- I'm sorry, Sir, I'm really sorry, I didn't mean to mind your business, I thought that automatically.
- Ok, ok, forget it, also because I have a question for you. Do you know Clare Torry?
The man with the glasses suddenly turned to white, as if somebody gave him very bad news. He was about to say something, but he changed his mind. He put a hand in a cabinet to get something, but changed his mind again.
- Yes, I know her very well. I visited her just this morning. Why are you looking for her? Are you a friend of hers?
- No, actually I don't know her, but that's why I came here. I must know her, I think I'm in love with her.
- How can you be in love with her, if you don't know her?
- Oh, yes, it's strange, but I fell in love with her since the first time I listened to her voice. Surely you know that Clare Torry is a singer, don't you?
- Of course.
- So you know how marvellously sweet her voice is.
- Of course but, you see, Clare is very different from the way you imagine her, very very different.
- She can't be very different, with that voice.
- Look, let's do this: I'll tell you where you can find Clare, then you come back and I'll explain everything to you, ok?
- What do you have to explain?
- Nothing, nothing, just do as I ask.
The shopkeeper gave him the address, not so far away, just at the end of the village. The man walked to it, a bit confused by that strange conversation. He followed the pavement until the end of the village, and then he saw it. The cemetery was quite separated from the rest of the houses, discreet. Not believing his eyes, the man entered and almost immediately found her.
Here rest Clare Torry's voice and body, dead at the age of 30
For few seconds he could even think, he saw nothing, he felt nothing. Then his hand moved to his face, drying a rebel drop going down his cheek. The first notes, the first sad notes of The Great Gig in the Sky came back to his mind and Clare Torry's voice, the divine Clare Torry's voice suffering in that unreal song. He remembered the day when he bought the record, the day when he bought a second copy, just in case, the day when he knew it was one of Earth's best selling records, the day when he wrote her for the first time, addressing the letter to the record company, the days when he idly waited for an answer, the day when he bought the ticket to go looking for her. Many things came back to his mind, most of them now without any importance. He took a young rose from a near grave and put it on hers, and walked. He followed the road back to the tobacconist shop.
- You could have told me.
- You wouldn't have believed me - said the man behind he desk, - after all, you're not the first one coming to look for her, and I've got some experience with this. You see, Clare was a fabulous person, with a fabulous voice and an unbelievable attitude. She was, almost, divine. Then they convinced her to sing in that record, you know, the guitarist went to school with her, he knew her force, her magnetic power, her magic voice. She let them convince her, she didn't want to listen to me. The song was, surely, a masterpiece. Clare started to receive letters and phone calls. Then, once, somebody found her. I don't know how he did it, who the hell gave directions; he came here and asked to see her. I tried to convince him not to do it, with no luck. When he did see her, he ran away.
- Ran away? - asked the man, disoriented.
- You see, Sir, as I told you Clare was a fantastic person, but she had some small defects, small and without importance for her. For instance, she weighted 92 kilos, 200 pounds. That didn't embarass her, until the day that man came here. Then another one came, acting the same way, then others again. It was very difficult for Clare, used to be loved for her spiritual values, clashing against the realty, with the cynical inhabitants of the world. So difficult, she couldn't survive anymore, and she stopped her life.
- I'm really sorry - said the visitor.
- Don't worry, I'm sure you would have run away as well, after all. It's better if you didn't know her.
- I wouldn't have run away.
- You would have run away like all the others, you would have based your judgement on the container and not on the content. You wouldn't have been better then the rest.
- How can you say that? - asked the visitor, offended.
- I told you I've got some experience. If you think that you care so much, I can test you.
He put the hand in the cabinet under the desk, pulling out a black and white picture, surrounded by one of those silver frames so popular among english shopkeepers. He studied it for a moment, and passed it to the man. A little imperceptible reaction, betrayed the visitor. The man behind the desk took back the picture. He studied it again and put it back in the cabinet.
- You see, my dear Sir, - he said - you are exactly like the others.
- I'm sorry, I... - tried to say the stranger. - By the way - he said - how is it that you have that photo?
The man behind the desk smiled subtly.
- Clare Torry was my wife - he said.
ΥΓ1: Η παραπάνω ανάρτηση με τίτλο "Τhe man who loved Clare Tory", είναι μετάφραση της φανταστικής ιστορίας με τον πρωτότυπο τίτλο: "L'uomo che amava Clare Torry", που έγραψε ο Ιταλός Riccardo Francavilla, τον Σεπτέμβριο του 1986 !
ΥΓ2: Στο παρακάτω link ακούστε την αιθέρια και ονειρική φωνή της Clare Torry, που την δάνεισε στους Pink Floyd μόλις για £30 ...
The Great Gig in the Sky
Η φωνή είναι της Clare Torry. Τα υπόλοιπα στο κείμενο του Riccardo Francavilla ... δεν είναι !
ΥΓ3: Γνωρίζετε φυσικά τι θα επακολουθήσει αν κλικάρετε τις δύο εικόνες της ανάρτησης ...