Chronicles From The Future: The amazing story of Paul Amadeus Dienach

I savoured the fresh air of the mountain altitudes again, tonight, after this week’s getaway, off the coast of the ocean. A few days’ trip to the coast of our own western France, so different from the grand centres of production and the luxurious beaches of the South, is enough to give you a fleeting but typical image of the—now identical—states everywhere: successive, immense…

For a traveller coming from my time, the place is unrecognizable. The life of the harbours, the quaint images of the commercial and naval traffic, the typical local colour of this part of rural France, even the lagoon complex that used to prettify the place: they’re all gone! Even the climate has changed; it has become milder, sweeter and more… transparent, free from the humidity brought by the sea, more… Mediterranean if I might say. The old glorious “worldwide” language had now been replaced by the vernacular, which I now have almost learnt by listening to it at the villas and in Salerno, during my brief visit on our way to the cities of central Europe and the big capital of the North. Contrary to what I had noticed while in the outskirts of Salerno, here, no place names have been salvaged, not even the most historical ones.

Only their fruitful vineyards are reminiscent of the old days. Across the country, however, there was no inch of land untended. Perhaps the population could become a matter of debate and one could argue that some places could afford more or fewer inhabitants, but that was it. They had transformed the swamps into huge garden cities. These once indifferent rural areas had now acquired the air and charm of a vast megacity and had turned out to be more striking than even old Paris! Now you don’t see misery next to beauty… You wouldn’t come across any works of art anywhere else except in places where they can be self-conserved. They can’t bear ugliness and decay, not even on the smallest scale. What I saw was a unique sense of beauty and uniformity generously scattered everywhere, as if it was artistically done by a rational spirit. That, of course, was a result of the current economic conditions and their incredible technological capabilities.

Away from the coast at about sixty kilometres inland there is a place called the Flowery Nest, which spreads all around the huge town of Denia Vallia with its crimson flowered terraces and the incredible number of spaces designed for plants and flowers. They were literally everywhere: on every column, every balcony, every roof, every arcade, on the facades of the palaces... I remember wondering how these people managed to grow and preserve all these flowers year-round so as to always look so fresh and incredibly beautiful and, above all, why all this excessive flower-flood, which ultimately doesn’t benefit the residents here, who are mostly former students.

Another thing that struck me was the existence of big and shiny butterflies, which, as Silvia informed me, had this place as their natural habitat and were one of the biggest and most beautiful species in Europe. There were times when, walking through the city, you were startled by swarms of hundreds of light blue butterflies that leapt out of clusters of white roses!

But I was more taken with the statues. As soon as I saw one, I’d go straight to study it. I could see the pedestal and read the inscription, but, unfortunately, the names meant absolutely nothing to me. These people may have changed the course of history and I didn’t have the slightest idea who they were. At moments like these, the distance and my difference from Silvia, Stefan and the rest felt greater than ever. I was and always would be the man from a different era.

I cast these bad thoughts out and wandered in the crowd feeling as if I fit in again, like I belonged in their world. At least that’s what my physical appearance said—without betraying anything of what was happening inside me—and that made me swell with pride! I did, however, wonder whether the joy and happiness I felt was ultimately non-existent, whether it was nothing more than mere enthusiasm.

Further down, I saw little boys and girls inside the flower beds, who, dressed up like poppies and cyclamens, were running uncontrollably around and singing out of tune, each one in their own rhythm. The health and whole-heartedness of these dishevelled children, who lacked for nothing and were given the freedom to express their pure and unadulterated joy so effortlessly through songs, laughter, games and funny voices, was incredible.