The Resina stream runs down, straight and bold, wearing away an immense prehistoric rock inside a wood in the mountains of Umbria.
In those days it was one of the least polluted in the country, and in fact you could find specimens of river crayfish, freshwater crab and Andrea Pazienza there, all animals that, as you know, live only in clean water.
We were going upstream, Paz and I, toward two great waterfalls (almost two meters high!) that formed the pools where the Nan Ch’ai carp was said to live.

Our equipment was:

The writer:
A seven-blade Swiss army knife.
Fishing boots.
The guide Handbook for the inland waters of Umbria, 5th department, department of culture and leisure, containing the general and transitional rules on seasons, sizes and gear permitted for catching the Nan Ch’ai carp.
A carp-o-meter (carp-measuring ruler) from zero to 45 cm.
A two-by-two-meter «lift net» or «umbrella-rib» net (gear not permitted).
A can of «rapid fish» corn groundbait.
A modest quantity.
A canteen of sparkling water.

Paz:
A Sardinian Pattada ox-slaughtering knife.
Motocross boots.
A non-working Bulgarian camera.
A shuriken (prohibited gear).
A landing net (fishing net with a long handle), permitted gear, but torn in three places.
A «ciabatta» sandwich with mortadella.
Loacker wafers.
A modest quantity.
A can of Coca-Cola.
A tube of burn ointment (he had burned his leg on the motorbike’s exhaust pipe, after flying off a hairpin bend).
Paz (bounding from stone to stone, ahead of the writer):
The Nan Ch’ai carp is the most coveted prey a fisherman could wish for. The ancient sacred texts speak clearly…

The writer (trudging behind, his net getting caught in the tree branches):
But are you sure it’s in the Resina?

Paz:
The ancient texts say: where the stream calms for a moment, between the peacock gate of Bhuodang and the turnoff for Santa Cristina, where it is neither North nor South, where men still aspire to be free and where there is an incredible number of frogs…

It was getting hotter and hotter, and going up the river harder and harder. The mosquitoes were attacking us. The hottest climes breed the fiercest fangs (Melville). In that heat, not a soul (Flaubert). The stream was lots of phone booths one next to the other (Brautigan). (Miller).
Break: Paz, lying on a sofa-shaped rock, eats his mortadella sandwich and frescoes the mud with a little stick.

And he says:
The colors here (water-trees-sun-reflections) are very hard to render because they’re full of light, made of light, like the forest in Rashomon, remember? But I can reproduce them exactly on the page; me and who else in the world?

The writer:
No one, master.

Paz:
And the Nan Ch’ai carp is of a color, or rather of colors so rare and marvelous that the Chinese painter Wu Lien, having seen it, drew it, but was so shaken by it that a few days later he died…

Writer:
And what if the same thing happened to us?

Paz:
Impossible. We have an advantage over Wu Lien.

Writer:
Which is?

Paz:
Ray-Ban sunglasses.

Having said this, Paz put on his dark glasses and with four vigorous strides set off again, raising splashes of water, scattering tree frogs and pond skaters, agile and sure-footed though bothered by a gang of wasps very interested in the smell of his burn ointment.
And as the light turned golden and melancholy, we reached the waterfall, the one called Poor Horse falls, because once a horse crossing it had wrecked a hind leg (a fact it still bears the mark of).

Not here, – I said, – at the second pool, the one of the Drummer Crabs.

Here we had once met two crabs that, believe it or not, clicked their pincers in perfect time, accompanying our little radio playing Satisfaction.

This is it, – said Paz blowing out a modest puff, – now it’s all very simple. I’ll push it with my landing net toward your net and you catch it.

No, – I said, – I’ll push it with my net toward your landing net and you catch it.

Let’s do this, – said Paz, – let’s lie here in the shade until that stinker comes out.


And so it was.
The pool was green, still and mysterious.


Paz talked about Fra Angelico, and about how you could jump over eight chairs in a single leap, you just had to believe it and breathe properly. I told him the story of Shaolin master Weng Shin and the twelve cowardly disciples. Suddenly we heard a strange noise. A vibration, like a little beating of wings under the water.

Very quickly Paz pulled out a notepad and a box of crayons.
If it comes out, I’ll draw it, – he said softly.
Be careful, – I said, – it can be dangerous.

At that moment, the carp jumped.
As you well know, the Nan Ch’ai carp is of a beauty beyond words. So I can only repeat: it jumped.


We went back in silence. It was beginning to get a little cool.

Did you draw it? – I asked.

Maybe, – said Paz.

Careful. Whoever draws it even once…

And we saw the first lights of Alcatraz: there sincere friends, dry clothes and hot chickpeas were waiting for us.

Two years later the Resina stream dried up during a terrible season of drought. I retraced the same path I had taken with Paz. A trickle of muddy water was all that was left of the river. The Drummer Crabs’ pool was a dirty puddle, and the few carp were hiding under the stones. Everything was arid, cracked. A river. A great magical river. With its clean water, its rare creatures, its terrors, its inventions, its poetry, its surprises of shade and light. That’s what was no longer there.