Burzum
Belus

The other day, after two years, I attended a concert.
Twenty-five people on a private terrace listening to a friend who wants to seriously give it another shot and is doing the "first transmission tests" from the top of the balconies.

A past in a somewhat well-known Milanese indie band that had already caught my attention back then. It was pretty clear that what he was doing was a bit more concrete and prepared compared to the myriad of bands of friends I'd heard before.

He's not playing with that band anymore because... well... Musicians are people who are: always strange, often difficult, not too rarely a pain.
My friend only reflects the first two characteristics but, well, I imagine the group had representatives of all three.
And we know how such things end. They end up ending.

And so, after ten years of inactivity, there he is with a guitar in hand, singing his lyrics to us. And when he belts out "better judged than wasted," I feel a bit of envy.
But whatever, who gives a damn about you.
My superstar friend can not only sing and play. He can also draw, this bastard, which, you probably don't care about, and all things considered, neither should I, but the fact that he's young too, no. The fact that he's young is a problem. Lucky him, you'd say. Don’t invite me to your private parties, I’d say.

Before the concert, when stars make you wait:

- “Excuse me, do you have a cigarette?”

- “What? Yes, sure, just a moment.”

I had already noticed her as soon as I entered, because even a blind person would have seen her.
A phrase from a well-known video game goes: “I don’t know how it works for angels, but for men, it’s fear that gives them wings.”
Well, she isn’t afraid, but she has wings.

- “Do you play with Vic too?”

- “No, I’m just a friend. I haven’t been to a concert in a year, and as soon as he told me about this, I rushed over.”

- “Ah, but you look like a musician!”

- “Thanks!” How the hell was I supposed to reply, “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in the last two years. Marry me, love me, and let’s grow old together”? Maybe, yeah, “thanks” was certainly the dumbest response I had at hand.

- “So do you only know Vic? I've never seen you before, what do you do, what's your job, oh and sorry nice to meet you, I'm Ilda.”

- “Nice to meet you, Ilda, I'm nes.”

- “What a beautiful name.”

- “Thanks, but I actually don't like it very much. When I was a kid, it seemed too peculiar, nobody had that name, and you couldn't find placeholders with my name and stuff like that.”

- “I don't like mine either.”

- “Well, yours isn't very common either, but I don't mind it.”

- “And my name is never found anywhere, imagine it's spelled with an 'H' at the beginning, my mother is Icelandic.”

Holy mother of God and blessed woman mother of this angel, that's where the wings came from, from Iceland.

- “Wow, I've wanted to tour Iceland for ages but can never find anyone to go with me, someday I will.”

- “Nooo, come on... Are you also someone who wants to go to Iceland because of Sigur Rós, uff...”

- “I don't mind Sigur Rós nor Bjork, but honestly my obsession with Iceland started with the first albums of Mum.”

- “Mum, but no one here knows them, are you sure you're not a musician and just teasing me?”

You have no idea how much I'd like to tease you...

- “No, to put it the old-fashioned way: I just ring the doorbell when I arrive. I just listen to a lot of music.”

Around us, people start sitting down in anticipation for our mutual friend to come out from the door and delight us with his things.

I notice I'm lucky to be pursued by a real angel, but still, all around there’s a bustle of dryads and nereids... Where the hell did Vic hide all these ladies?

- “I have slightly different tastes though, I like a bit darker stuff.”

I'm lost in the sea of her eyes while hummingbirds and birds of paradise whisper her words to me right on the lobes of my ears.

- “Like?”

- “Burzum.”

Do you have any idea how a bird of paradise might chirp "Burzum"?
I didn't.
It still manages to make your knees weak.

- “Ah” which is like the second dumbest response I could have given, the first was “thanks,” but I had already used that one.

- “Do you know them?”

- “Yes, of course, I don’t particularly appreciate them, but I know them. I find the artistic phenomenon of Black Metal very interesting, I like the actual music less, but even there: it's a matter of taste, and there are bands I prefer over others and some I actually like a lot.”

- “Want to come over to my place after the concert to watch a documentary about him, or do you work tomorrow? You still haven't told me what you do...”

Right, what do I do? Who am I, what's my name, where am I? At her house? After the concert? Hopefully, it won't last long. The concert. What had she asked me? My gosh, how beautiful you are... how do I tell you that today was the last day of receivership, and consequently, I’m unemployed?

- “Yeah, I do something with computers, I test programs. In theory, because I lost my job this morning.”

- “I'm really sorry, but then you definitely have to come, you need to unwind!”

Vic takes the stage, and the concert begins. I manage to follow without being distracted by the invite received a little earlier, and I just do a quick recap of what follows:

When did you last freshen up?
Get yourself to the bathroom at the first concert break, grab some toothpaste, and figure out a way to brush your teeth.
Hope she has condoms at home because if she prefers the pull-out method, we're in for a disappointment (you're 40, not 18).

The concert ends, we say goodbye and leave, Vic flashes me knowing smiles that seem to shout “way to go, man, make it count!” and we head through the door of her place.

We pass by a cigarette machine, and she asks me if I could buy her a pack because she doesn’t know how to use vending machines. I tell her it’s no problem, but I don’t have my health card on me; she needs to give me hers.

She smiles, puts a hand in her bag. In slow motion, her hand pulls out a white and red wallet. She opens it, smoothly takes out the card, spins it in the air, and places it in my hand. “Here you go. maybe you could get something else besides cigarettes.”

...GOD BURZUM.
With all my heart: I, God, Hate, You.

I insert the card, reach for my wallet, and pull out the money

- “No, take mine.”

I pay for the cigarettes, retrieve them from the machine, and return her health card.
We walk for a couple of blocks. We arrive at a green gate that leads to a lush garden, and she says: I’m here. It’s late; I don’t know if we have time to watch the documentary. But if you come up, I’ll be happy.
Insecure... She... maybe because I only bought the cigarettes.

GOD BURZUM, I swear, I won’t forgive this one. When the time comes, make sure to send me to a very isolated circle in hell, so that if by mistake we happen to cross paths, you might be omnipotent, but as sure as you're a bastard, I'll smack you so much your cries of "mama" will be heard.

How I got out of it remains a secret; I went back to my place after seeing her pass through the gate. She turned around, looking at me with confused eyes for a second. Then mine lowered.

GOD BURZUM

2002 on the health card.

TWO THOUSAND TWO; damn, nineteen years.

The good thing is I still look like a kid... I thought this would come in handy someday, but do you want to know something? No, it will never be handy; it's only good for putting black on white a few bullshit.
n amidst all this mess, the only thing I’ve gained is knowing how it feels to jerk off listening to Belus.
Not a terrifying experience, and I could even recommend it. If it weren't for recommending more of still being nineteen.

Ah, by the way, I mentioned it but not sure you understood: Ilda was “Hilda,” with the H... and now I'll try and see if Filosofem works the same.