The roadway was mostly empty in the early afternoon sun. The fields around them were still quite green but with shades of yellow that weren't there two weeks before. The man with the beard drove quietly, his old Fiat going uphill as the road went through the hills that cut their itinerary in two. By his side, his brother in law suffered for the lack of music in the car. He had tried to turn on the radio first, then his cellphone, hoping he would listen to some music from his own country, but a silent, steady look from the driver had convinced him to turn it off.
On his lap, an old blue messenger bag; inside of it, a book, a sandwich, a bottle of water, an apple, a bag of assorted nuts, and a small cloth bag carrying the reason of their car trip to the south of the island. The man in the passenger seat was tempted to open it up and take a look, but his companion had warned him to just leave it there until they would get back home.
Yet, he knew what was inside of the cloth bag. He had seen them. Two folding knives. He was anxious to decide which one would be his own...although he knew it would be a hard choice.
He had little experience or knowledge about folding knives...yet instinctively he knew at first glance that he was getting more than a knife. He had shaken hands with the man who had made it, with old school techniques, with skill and dedication, an old pattern renewed especially for him, on behalf of his host and brother in law, the silent bearded man by his side, who was willing to give him a present before he left the island. Although he came from far away, he had the firm belief that he would get not just a knife, but a world of culture and tradition along with it. Not a bad gift to receive, and certainly something that he would cherish.
Nothing illegal in carrying two knives in a car trip...yet he had been instructed by the man with the beard, and he would have to wait...so he chose to focus on the country around them as the car crossed the island.
After many miles among lonely plains, they were now driving among a number of small towns on either side of the road. He wondered how many people lived in each and every one of them. Some looked bigger from the roadway, others looked tiny. He knew for a fact that some of them hosted just a few hundred people, and reading road signs was a funny game for him. Parked along the road, every two or three miles, a car with its trunk open was displaying cherries, the pick of the season. He would have stopped to buy some, but he didn't dare suggesting it to the driver. He would eat cherries after they got home.
Meanwhile, his hand went on the messenger bag, and he thought about the knives.
Resolzas, they called them...
Fausto
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