From a distance, the East African mountain landscape looked like an unmade bed of majestic proportions. The setting sun cast the sleeping landscape in a sea of warm, reddish hues: the farthest fold, just before the pale violet horizon, appeared in a beige-red, the one before it in a mauve-red, and the next in a brownish-red. The cliffs at the end of the long ravine glowed with a final burst of ocher-red. The sunlit rock wall opposite screamed in orange-red, while the walls shrouded in shadow seemed Venetian red to the left and salmon red to the right. The ravine was menacing in its depth and barrenness, yet peaceful in its warmth and silence. Smoke drifted slowly and vertically into the cloudless sky, as the fire at the edge of the cliff relentlessly devoured the piece of paper bearing my name: Maila.
Meanwhile, the last rays of the day warmed Nuno's back as he crouched introspectively before the fire, staring into the abyss. He had a Mediterranean complexion and thick, wavy chestnut hair, with natural blonde streaks that lightly fell over his dark, sharply contoured eyebrows. His elongated face was punctuated by prominent cheekbones. A week's worth of stubble barely concealed his somewhat angular chin. His nose had a slight curve. He was tall, muscular in an understated way, and had a pleasant voice, though to be perfect, he could have lost a little weight. He wore a rumpled white shirt with wooden buttons, the sleeves perpetually rolled up, and a pair of khaki cargo pants. Around his wrists, he sported various African bracelets and bands, which he'd picked up from Ethiopian street vendors in the days before. His brown, weathered hiking boots looked dusty and worn—testament to having carried him across rapids, through thistle fields, and up steep slopes of gravel, sand, and rock.
But the most remarkable thing about him was the contradictions in his aura. He seemed daring, yet at the same time, restrained. He had a friendly nature, though shy. His mischievous face now looked inappropriately serious. His skin was as wrinkle-free as that of a well-preserved thirty-year-old, but his lifestyle had left it weathered. And for some time, a dark mood had cast a shadow over his otherwise peaceful face. On this late afternoon, his large, luminous hazel-green eyes fought back tears as my name was swallowed by the flames.
It would be many years before I learned that Nuno had come to Ethiopia because of me. But he hadn't come to find me—he had come to forget me.
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Exit Eudaimonia
SpiritualitéThe novel describes the protagonist Nuno's inner journey to himself. The story tells of his difficult childhood, his search for recognition and attention, and his deep longing to find his place in this world. As if driven, he goes from one painful...
