Sometimes it surprised him just how quickly time passed and he would frequently catch himself remembering a face, a feeling or a situation with far too much clarity considering the time that had gone by.
He would also question why he continued to come back here to this city, Milan.
Certainly it was a beautiful city, of this there was no question. It had all the aesthetic qualities which in anyone's eyes would render it inviting, as tourists the world over would attest to but it always left him with an empty feeling in the pit of his stomach because it reminded him of what he no longer had. The city had never felt like it was his. It had never opened itself up to him and showed him its inner beauty and secrets, as so many places do, in order to hook visitors, capture their hearts and keep them coming back to feel that special affinity.
In the intervening 30-odd years, he'd been back many times but his feelings about the place had never changed, his passion for it hadn't grown, and the city's heart hadn't softened towards him at all.
His reason for returning was the same as it had always been. It was the same reason he had tried to settle here all those years before; the girl with the name which always reminded him of the city, as if the two entities were eternally entwined. Indeed, they were for him. He could never think of one without the other.
He could still remember her features as she was then, far too well. Her sallow skin, the indent on her lip caused by her endearing habit of pressing her teeth into it whenever she listened intently. He still knew where every wrinkle lay on her face and how it felt to stroke her hair as it tumbled down to her shoulders.
He had to turn his thoughts away from her momentarily as they started to gather pace and detail and drag him back down into the empty pit that started in his stomach and seemed to take over his mind.
To bring him back to the present, he examined the city around him and its myriad features; the Castello Sforzesco, Sempione park, La Scala opera house, Piazza del Duomo, La Galleria and the multitude of Palazzos and villas which seemed to frame hand painted scenes of cafés populated by cultured and beautiful people.
It seemed the years had had no effect on the city or its inhabitants, time hadn't touched their faces or the streets they lived in or the walls they lived behind. He was acutely aware of the effect the intervening years had had on him, even more so because of the lack of change around him and the ease of familiarity this brought him.
He was a young man when he had first walked these familiar streets. A young man full of fire and passion, on a quest for adventure, for learning. What he found was a love that would last a lifetime.
By now he was thinking about a girl who when he last saw her, was a full 30 years younger than he was now. This thought left him feeling uneasy, almost guilty, so much so, he wasn't sure whether it was this guilt or the feeling of futility that left him with the stronger reason to try to forget her and finally give up on this wasted quest.
But giving up was something he just couldn't do. Just as staying away from this city was something he couldn't do. Despite his feelings about the place, it drew him back again and again. It took him a few years and a few journeys to realise that it was all just his way of staying close to her, keeping the memory of their time together alive in some macabre way. It was for the same reason that he still spoke Italian, still studied it, still practiced it. He didn't need to but it almost felt to him that if he used her language, he could revisit the conversations they once had. In his mind he also ran through conversations that were never had.
"Mi porta un altro caffè per favore", he said to the waiter with effortless fluidity.
It was crazy and he knew it. He hadn't taken leave of his senses, he knew this wasn't a healthy way to live. He couldn't justify thinking like this but neither could he resolve the conflict within him which was as stark and as eternal as the conflict between night and day.
Time and again he'd resolved to leave this tragic, doomed story behind but it was like telling the clouds not to travel carelessly on the winds, dampening everyone's parades as they go.
Maybe there was a dark satisfaction to be had by him in revisiting this place or that time, a sore to be continually picked at and never fully healing.
The morning bustled on around him as he sat, as unchanging as his countenance or his pattern of thought.
The smells of coffee, traffic fumes and perfume danced around him, combining to form a sweet, heady but ultimately unpalatable mix, which formed a perfect counterpoint to the cacophony of customers and waiters shouting orders, the cars and Vespas vying for their own scraps of the hot tarmac and the over-bloated, well to do ladies and their seemingly undernourished and useless model dogs.
The usual train of thoughts started to weigh him down again.
Enough! That was it! He was tired of watching the people busily populating their day around him while his life, as ever, seemed on hold.
This was the time to make the change. This was the time to say goodbye to Milan.
He called for the bill and quickly paid it while angrily uttering what would be his last "Grazie".
He stood, closed his eyes and breathed in the Italian sunshine, telling himself to get used to living without it. But "living", that was the keyword here. He wanted to live again. This was how it was going to happen. It had to happen. Steely resolve would help rid him of his old comfortable routine.
He opened his eyes, determined to see just the sunshine and not the grey clouds his mind filled in as an accompaniment.
Just then he saw her and his resolve smashed all over the painfully clean paving slabs of the terrace cafe.
He saw her face, as she was over 30 years ago. She hadn't changed. How was this possible?
Was this one of the Milanese ghosts that accompany the tourists, lovers and merchants along the well kept streets of this culture capital?
There was her sallow skin, her hair in the style she always wore it.
He was in the process of looking for the indentation on her lip when he noticed it, but not on her, it was evident on the older, elegant lady sitting at her table.
He observed how she caressed the hand of the well dressed man with the grey hair, sitting across from her. It was done with an ease and familiarity which only occurs with time. At a guess, at least 25 years, he thought.
When he saw the warmth in the lady's smile as she talked to the girl, he finally knew, and admitted that the right decision had been made all those years ago.
He stood watching, entranced as the lady noticed him, moved her lips away from the tiny cup of dark coffee, caught his eye and remained as open-mouthedly astonished as he was.
He gathered his thoughts together just enough to give her a weak yet sincere smile that said " I'm happy to see you, it's over now".
She returned the smile as sincerely as his and the world held still for that moment, a fleeting moment, but enough for all those never-had conversations to finally be had.
Then the world spun again. The cacophony resumed.
And they never looked at each other again.
The harmony he found in Milan that morning was something he admired and prized. How could he do anything but walk away?
But he had gotten his prize.
It was all there in that momentary smile, all he ever needed to know and to make her understand.
It was done...
...At some point on the plane journey home he even laughed a little to himself.
It was done! And in a way he'd never have imagined...
...He walked in the door of his home on a rainy evening and as he turned to lock it behind him, he heard footsteps up the corridor.
"Hello Milana", he said to the girl.
"Hi dad", she answered.
