The Fourth of October, Twice

Day seven, Italy. In Campione del Garda I run into Gernot Koza: architect from Innsbruck, writer, poet, son of a pastor.

„When you travel,“ he says, „things can happen that you can't imagine.“ Then he tells me about Morocco.

It was the fourth of October. He can't say which year. He had a ticket home, with his name on it, the date on it, the flight number on it.

„Not booked today. Come back tomorrow. In shā' Allāh.“ The man at the check-in desk had the right day and the wrong list. Gernot's name was not on it.

If God wills, there is no point arguing about a piece of paper. So he left the airport building. The flight was booked. It was booked for the fourth of October. Today was the fourth of October. He spent the day in the hotel in a state he describes as being slightly beside himself, and slept.

The next morning he stood at the desk again, was given a gate, and flew.

On the fourth of October.

„It should have been the fifth,“ he says. „It was the fourth.“

His father used to say that miracles happen. Gernot thinks his father never entirely believed it. Gernot does, and he has Morocco for a reason.

He writes these things down and puts them into images. As a poet he chooses words that keep their distance from an explanation, which is probably wise of him.