Unlimited Dust

“Please, darling, no. Couldn’t we wait and run away tomorrow?” she asked, watching the poor, scrawny figure standing in front of her seat, whose shoes were already patched so many times, wearing brown hat with sweat and dried spit on it. He kept his mouth closed, but his suit — more like merely a stinking cloth —— swung droopingly and feebly with the winds coming from the holes on the wall has answered the question in an invisible voice: “We don’t have a choice.” They had just finished packing their only luggage, if this is counted as a luggage — two pens, a pair of seriously worn leather shoes, their wedding picture, some tea cups from the neighbours, two forks, remaining salt, a nail clipper and dust, unlimited dust. Whenever he removed them using his weak fingers the ceiling would always pour more dust into the luggage, so at last he gave up like his own life. “We are destined to leave, Elvira, now. My uncle’s people will come here no more than a bit of time.” He sighed and spoke to her, who was just now staring at the dim moon through the only dusty window in the room. “The ship will set off soon.” she murmured, changing her idea.

They had a bicycle still, which was crucially lucky for them. Small, gray-bluish and carefully colored and decorated, with a small basket in the front and a smaller seat on the back, and both parts were made with her hands. They got on the bike and began riding. Waving, ugly, dirty hairs. From one house to another alley; from one road to another closed shop. Saw the distant shore, the huge ship, the crowd. Witnessed the moon closely following them. Young. Fevered yet anxious. The small broken part in the middle between two wheels will often make ringing sounds on uneven stones. She and he were familiar with the darkness. Maybe someone in the darkness is preparing to hunt down their dreams. Maybe not. In either case, they won’t stop. Even fail, she thought, I want to see how far I can get.

His glasses were lost in the trip because of bumping and wobbling, but he could still clearly identify the path to the boarding gate under the dim moonlight — he had been here for too many times, and failed for the same. Swearing words, dreams, conspiracies, danger, “America...”, “Go away!”, “Sta Zitto!” all survived on this small port in Naples, crowdingly and precariously. But he felt safe, even safer than ever, because her hand was tightly held in his, and the heat of love transmitted from his to her and back, making them glow invisibly in this land of misfortune.

“That’s him! That hat! Go get him, the filthy poor slug!” a roar burst behind the crowd, four burly men rushing and bumping poor people along their route.

His heart was suddenly frozen. “Go find my uncle. Not me. Not me!” He pulled her from the back of him to the front, and let her hand out. “Leave,” was the only word she heard at last.

“You will have the same ending as your beast uncle.” They arrived, hunted him down without effort, being hindered by people, but useless, broke up the tiny luggage he had and searched for things impossible for them like real beasts.

“That is NEW YORK!” this hysterical shout woke her immediately in an ordinary early morning during this one-month trip. She had vomited ten times during the torturing trip, once for the grisly environment on the ship, once for recalling the scene of their marriage being torn, once for recalling the place of him being torn, and other seven times for pure grief. In her opinion, tears were wept for this news of a new life, and this was the last gift he had handed to her. She knew that this new life will be no different from the past: no better foods, houses, bicycles and the same amount of crowds. But she chose to trust the beauty of dreams, just like how she trusted him for a thousand times before.