I am a reader. Even if not assiduous as much as I really want. I grew up with books and not “on” books. Adventure books, epic companies and heroic deeds. Like a novel, Achilles, who, perhaps already aware of his short existence, squandered the danger that life put before him. Or like a missed Corto Maltese, at the embodiment of that restlessness and that sense of non-appearance so dear to me. With a taste for immersing oneself in an everydayness that makes the other an identity in which to find oneself. Only to lose oneself again.
Like a merry-go-round: the customers change but the ride, and the music, remains. That, and that again. The same but always different. Another ride again — and off again, always like it was the first time.
Perhaps it will also be for this reason that arriving in Ho Chi Minh City in the evening feels like “coming home.” Of a city, I hold in precious memories of names read as a child in adventure books. But known and held jealously by the name of Saigon.
But it is in the early morning, in the small, colourful and inviting, dirty and wet alleys of District 1 that a staircase, a simple staircase leading to some floor inhabited by the locals – the one where mice and people share knowing how to look at each other in the dark – that a world of memories, commemoration and pride of a people (or two peoples) opens up from the very first steps of that battered staircase.
Poster … and climbed the two flights of stairs with the fear of disturbing someone … that someone, without a word but with the smile reserved for the outsider who deserves your time, the pride and remembrance of a people — or two peoples — is shown in its simplest and most colourful representation.
Poster … or propaganda. The important thing is to believe it, identify with, to pride.
Mark an idea. Choose if it is the one who convinces you.
But, at that moment and in that instant, you can choose if – and in what – believe.
And now … you can do it as a free man.
Saigon, the city of rain, thus bade me good morning.
