It is a beautiful summer day and the seasonal scents, the smell of the sea, the heat and the sun make you want to go out. I have four bicycles, they are not new, but they are functional. I like moving my muscles and even more, I enjoy coming to the park, choosing a free bench, or one that inspires me, or both.

Children play accompanied by their parents. The park, which this ugly pandemic had taken away from us, is now fully usable. She had been ugly the scene a few days ago when the swings and games in wood were still barred and the children did not understand that their parents, but to take them to the park, they were due to submit to the agony of the views of those close games, yet unattainable.

It's different now. They can play. I can write accompanied by the noise of the ducks, by the sight of some seagulls and some herons that stop in the small artificial lakes.

The publisher has given me several ideas to correct, he wants the first chapter corrected. I'm ready. We do it as I say, but as he suggests that, by the way, I don't mind.

I put my blue bike on the bench. A team of girls is training next to me. I check that there is no wind, then I turn on the computer, which turns on immediately. It's cool, it's fast, and it's new. A gift for my birthday and I, as an aspiring writer as I am, have made it a point of honour to put in so many beautiful words.

I have a printed copy of the first chapter. I don't want to leave anything to chance, not even the press. I want to make a good impression, I am a perfectionist, at least for this thing, for the rest I am a disordered organized, one who in an apparent disorder has everything in his head. I am like that even when I write. I don't plan anything, I have the story in mind, various intermediate stages and the ending. Sometimes, as in the story I have to deliver, I am kissed by a benevolent fate. I dream of it. I see the film before the book exists and, for me, writing becomes making the book beautiful, at least, like the film.

I am going to write, I find the file of the story, I read a piece of it to"enter"the story again, when from the difference in height beyond the row of benches I hear the sound of leaves.

«In the middle of the journey of our life!»

A man, dressed strangely, tries to climb, indeed literally climb, the difference in height.

«What are you doing? There is a road to the right. «

«In the middle of the journey of our life!» the man repeats again, who seems confused to me.

«Stand still. Now fall. «

I don't even finish notifying him that he falls on his face to the ground and slips into the hedge below him.

«How are you? Are you OK?»

The man raises his head but does not move.

«Stay there! I arrive!» I tell him taking the easy way. I help him, pull him out of the hedge and help him clean it up. Then I look at it. He is dressed like Dante and frankly he looks like us too. The nose, above all, is a work of art, so much like it is.

«Nice disguise. That's right,» I can't stop appreciating it.

«What?» he tells me.

«I have a bottle, so drink some water, then come up.»

The man lets himself be led out of the hedge. Nothing is broken and he does not complain of any pain, but it seems confused. I can't leave him there. He drinks as if he hasn't drunk in centuries. Then he looks at the bottle.

«What material is this?»

«Plastic,» I reply as if it were the most obvious statement in the world.

«Plastic...I don't know it. It must be a new material from the East. «

I'm starting to worry a little. I don't know if he's joking, acting or really a little crazy, but like crazy, he seems harmless to me. We reach the bench and my bike is gone, as well as the computer and the girls, but there are my papers. My mind becomes a whirlwind of bad words that I cannot say, given the presence of the stranger. Other than a team of girls. They disappeared and swiped computers and bicycle. Fortunately, I write in the cloud and the copy of the novel is safe.

«What's wrong with a good man?» "Fake" Dante asks me, noticing my expression.

«They stole my computer and my mountain bike.»

«I'm sorry,» he says with a weird expression.

I collect my papers making sure they are all there.

«What is that ?» he asks.

«My novel.»

«Then you are a man of letters, like me.»

«If I could be like you for a moment... the real one,» I say.

«I have to sit down for a moment. I can see it?»

I hand it to him, maybe he's crazy or a great actor, but those who love Dante love to read. He sits, rests and reads in silence.

«You don't look like me at all,» he says with a vague expression of dissent. If he acts he is good and I am of spirit, so I decide to lend myself to the game.

«What do you think?» I ask.

«All these things are too pointless. Iron ships without oars, iron constructions, flying machines. Listen to me. These things are impossible. Write something more sensible. Real.»

«Dante...you wrote a whole work on Hell, Purgatory and Heaven,» I object.

«Exactly... what is more real than Hell, Purgatory and Heaven. Iron ships, on the other hand, cannot float. However, are you good enough to write all these pages without correcting anything? It's portentous.»

I forget about the bike, the computer and calm down. I decided: it's a joke, but this gentleman is good and I'm having too much fun.

«I write it on the computer. We didn't show up. I am Marco Corsa.»

«Dante Alighieri,» he says, holding out his hand to me.

«Don't be offended, in this period you don't shake hands.»

«Because?»

«Because there is a virus around,» I try to catch him out. Viruses were not known at the time of Dante.

«What is a virus?»

I didn't get him. Now I have fun like never before.

«A little being that if it gets into dry lungs you.»

«Like the plague. Then if we see it we avoid it. «

«You can't see.»

Dante thinks about it for a moment.

«Great problem.»

«Where do I take you, Dante?» I say, I want to resolve the situation.

«At my house, in the center.»

«Tell me the address?»

He looks around.

«I didn't know there was this park in Florence.»

«We are in Brindisi.»

«And where is Brindisi?»

I refer to my leg, as if it were the Italian peninsula and I make him understand the position.

«There is nothing beyond good. What am I doing there? That is, here? «

I must admit that this joke annoys me a little. However the man is old, he seems confused, and when in doubt, it doesn't seem appropriate to leave him there. I decide to take him home or entrust him to the police.

«Let's get out of the park so I can get to the barracks. I'll file a report for the theft and they'll find where to bring it back. «

We move slowly. At that point a bridge appears. I know the park, and that bridge should be behind us. I'm confused.

«What a majestic work. Do you have these wonderful things in Brindisi? « Dante asks with wonder.

«Aren't there such great things in Florence?»

«I swear I haven't seen such great and impressive things in my life. What is it for? «

«There is the road. We pass over. «

Then he sees the road, the cars and gets scared.

«What devilry are they?»

«Cars. What year do you think you are in?» I ask returning to the crazy theory, ignoring the fact that the bridge is not where it was supposed to be.

«In the year of the Lord 1290. Why what year are we in?»

«It's June 27, 2020.»

The man seems lost.

«So, who knows how long I've been dead.»

«The night between the thirteenth and fourteenth of September 1321,» I say naturally. He shakes in surprise.

«How do you know?»

«You, Dante Alighieri, with your Divine Comedy invented the Italian language.»

«So...I gave prestige to Florence and Italy.»

I still think it's possible that it's a joke, but I get a taste for a joke.

«Yes, your work is still polished in almost all Italian homes, perhaps in an economic edition of 5.90 euros.»

Then an impossible thing happens again. Moving forward we return to our bench. I sit lost.

«I want to see this 2020,» he says, striding away. I am too upset to answer him. I close my eyes for almost a minute, when I open them again there is my bike next to me, my computer, my sheets and the girls training.

«What a mental journey, what a hallucination,» I say to myself, but when I open the file of my novel I find a note written:

I reached the end of this forest and found the road and the cars. In the air I saw flying machines and an iron ship in your port. 2020 is an exceptional year, with many wonders of science and technology. The computer is a marvel for writing and we don't look alike at all, but your novel, in the end, is not bad.

Best wishes, Dante Alighieri.