Читать книгу The Long Shadow Of A Dream - Roberta Mezzabarba - Страница 12

After that quick encounter on the beach with Greta, Ernesto got back quietly to his work, finished fixing the net and disappeared.

Some of the fishermen who were there when they had their strange conversation, were talking about him at the bar, making fun of him.

«That guy, Ernesto, is a real dork. He could not utter a word with that girl. Imagine, she went looking for him, right where he was, on the beach.»

Everybody knew that no woman was allowed in there, only the most daring wives would venture to that place.

«He looked bewitched, did you see him? If I were him, I would have invited her somewhere for sure.»

«What do you know? He has already brought her somewhere… I was told that they spent a whole day on the Bisentina island…»

People were talking as usual, gossiping about the unfortunate people who happened to be the subjects of their conversations.

Ernesto however did not listen to them. He could not have, he was miles away from what was around him. He was far away from that meaningless talk, far away from his mates who did not hear for sure Greta whispering those few words which gave him long quivers. He was happy but could not explain the shadow that clouded Greta’s look.

The next day Ernesto did not go to pull in the nets he had cast the night before with his father, as usual, but stayed at home to polish his boat he was going to use to take Greta to the Martana island. That day he was going to be the prince to take her around the island.

The morning went by so slowly, like drops falling one after the other, with the awareness that there will be a great joy at the end of it. He was really fascinated by that girl who appeared to be so hard on the surface but deep down she was quite a sweet person. He had seen her sometime’s before taking her to the Bisentina island, getting out of the bus coming from the town or getting some shopping but she was always serious looking and on her own, but he did not know what to make out of her.

He did not understand her desperate call, shouted out so quietly. He did not understand much of it until there was only water around them, everything had become clear. She was quite different from the others. She was different from the women he had met, very few indeed, but they were always so silly…

All he wanted was to get lost in the depth of those eyes and swim in those dark skies, with some scattered stars to light them up, far away looks. He’d like that but he realised that there was some hostility in her, she seems to hide fear of some kind.

But fear of what? Or better… of whom?

* * *

The sun was burning up in the sky: it was high and so powerful; it could give life to nature and at the same time destry it with its dazzling heat.

The grey pier was hot and virtually burnt and it was from there that Greta saw Ernesto already in his boat, dark-coloured, with a flat bottom, its squared off stern and a mast with a snow white sail hoisted up.

They were near the water again.

Ernesto, with the aid of the oars, managed to come out of the little harbour in Capodimonte, then he released the sail. Past the little peninsula where the centre of the town was, Greta saw in front of her, beyond the water gently rippled by the afternoon breeze, the town of Montefiascone, perched on a litte hill, towered by the big dome of S. Margherita’s church: she was looking around. Her eyes were looking at the lake coast, lingering on Bolsena first, to continue then towards Gradoli and Grotte di Castro where the sky, in the distance, seemed to be covered with clouds which were white and fluffy like whipped cream, which were thinning out as far as Valentano, which seemed to pierce the blue sky with its two towers.

Greta felt embarrassed.

She was embarrassed with that silence that she wished was full of thousand words.

Ernesto spoke first.

«You know, Greta, today my father went back home after his fishing and he was furious: the current must have pushed the nets towards Fittura, and they tore while he was trying to pull them in. It was quite a bad morning.»

«Fittura?» Greta asked listening to her voice which was as if it was coming from someone else.

«We call Fittura some sort of a fence under water. I heard that it is made of a lot of wooden poles cut to size with the saw and stuck into the bottom of the lake with a mallet. Some scholars presumed that they could be what was left of a lake village. However this theory did not prove right because looking at Fittura more carefully, you could see that it was built on just one line and at the edge of a landslide. It is plausible then to think that it was conceived and built to support a bank.»

«To support a bank under water? What was that for? How could they use a mallet being so deep?»

That sense of uneasiness that there was between the two of them had disappeared quickly without leaving any trace.

«For sure when Fittura was built, the level of the lake was by far lower that the current one and then I think that Fittura, like many other things that are and will remain at the bottom of the lake, should be wrapped around an aura of mystery.»

The boat was getting closer to the Martana island. The water was quite rough and Ernesto focused on the oars and on the movements associated with that.

Unlike the Bisentina island, the Martana island did not have a little harbour but you could have access to it through a little beach with some dark and coarse sand. Greta was esthatic looking at all the overflowing vegetation coming from everywhere while Ernesto secured the boat to one of the many trees which were all around the shore.

A green lawn surrounded by myriads of large poplars and centuries-old olive trees gave them a nice welcome. In silence Ernesto led Greta to the cliff. Immediately to the right, as soon as the slope began, their eyes glimpsed at the few remains of the Church of the Magdalene: a few pieces were enough to show Greta the beauty that the church must have once had before being destroyed and lying on the ground of the island. Going further uphill, they suddenly passed from the grassy path dotted with large plants of prickly pears and giant agaves to a series of steps carved into the rock, unequal, corroded, broken: that was called the Staircase of the Strongholds. They continued to climb one after the other, talking softly to each other, until they saw a furrow in front of them, almost a wound in the living rock where one day, explained Ernesto, the drawbridge used to be lowered.

«I heard people saying that the first set of walls that enclosed the mountain was supposed to be here. Today only a few square stones are left. Probably the missing pieces were used to make new buildings, including probably the church of the Madonna del Monte, in Marta .»

They walked along, without stopping, beyond the gash of the drawbridge. The broken up steps alternated with the unstable ground. Greta lost her balance, perhaps she put her foot in the wrong place or because of her constantly turning to look around. Ernesto was ready to grab her before she fell. They remained motionless for a few moments, without breathing, then without saying a word he took her hand in his, and they continued walking one beside the other, as if falling together could be somehow more pleasant. Greta followed Ernesto, staring at the strong hand gently holding hers: she imagined that he was carrying her to safety, but she could not understand from what. They continued going uphill as far as a small hollow in the boulder on their right: the vegetation completely enveloped the arch dug into the rock as if to hide it from prying eyes.

«Greta, this is the entrance to a tunnel that goes down to the shores of the lake.»

In saying this, Ernesto began to make his way among the luxuriant plants that were hanging from the ceiling like so many arms outstretched towards them. He lit a torch to shed some light in the darkness a little, allowing Greta to see the worn out steps where she was putting her feet. The entrance to the tunnel was high and wide, however as it was going down into the bowels of the island it became increasingly narrow and tortuous. They were going down, hands in hands, but when they got down to the bottom, on the verge of going out, on account of the broken steps, and the rocks, which had fallen from the ceiling and the thick vegetation that grew on the site, they were forced to stop a few meters before reaching the lake. The water glistened in the holes, through the crevices of that blocked passage, with their iridescent flicker.

«We made all this effort to only be able to look through the rubble that prevents us from reaching the lake.»

Greta was annoyed and disappointed.

Ernesto let go of her hand, placed the torch he had held in his left hand until then on the ground, and turned to Greta, turning his back on the shimmer of the lake.

She was beautiful. The reflections of the water were playing on her face, among her red cheeks and the dark eyes made almost shining by those flashes. It all seemed so natural to him. He brought his lips to Greta's small and fleshy ones and kissed her. It tasted of rose petals.

She was shocked, but did not withdraw from that unexpected contact: she felt Ernesto's hands caressing her cheeks, her neck, going down on her shoulders and sliding down to her hands, loose along her hips, then, while he was holding them, he saw tears on her face that she quickly managed to dry with the palm of one hand.

The spell was broken, the mystry was dispelled. Greta was once again caught in her feelings.

Ernesto looked at her. He looked at those tearful eyes without finding the strength to ask her what was wrong ...

«I didn't mean to scare you, Greta, sorry, but he was stronger than me... you're so beautiful.»

«No, Ernesto, it's not your fault... it's me... » Greta kept her eyes down « ... I am wrong.»

«Why do you say this? You are a very sweet girl, why are you making these far-fetched accusations?

«No, you would never understand ... let's forget everything and go back to the sunlight. Let's pretend that nothing happened.»

Greta was pleading with Ernesto to stifle that feeling that had now got hold of him. Even if he wanted to, now it would be useless and painful to forget everything.

«I'm sorry, but I can't, I wouldn't be able to. I'd rather you asked asked me to stop breathing. Greta don't run away, let me ... let me love you ... we are so similar ... don't deprive yourself of what we both want .»

In saying this Ernesto had gently lifted the girl's face.

«I can't, I don't want you to suffer for me, Ernesto.

Try to understand me! »

Greta's voice had become a whisper.

Meanwhile, the sun, reflecting on the lake, continued its flashing games which lit up the cave.

«Do you feel what I feel too? Don’t you? »

Greta did not reply, she was just staring at Ernesto's eyes which were desperately searching for positive hint.

«Greta ... do you love me? »

At those words something seemed to stir up the girl. She was sobbing her heart out. He freed her hands from Ernesto's to cover up her face again flooded with tears.

«Greta… »

«Of course I love you ... Yes, Ernesto, I love you.»

This time she brought her face closer to that of the boy: she looked at him for a moment straight in the eyes, then kissed him gently wetting his face with her salty tears.

They hugged.

They remained in each other's arms for an indefinable length of time: Greta felt Ernesto's arms squeezing her deeply against his chest. She heard the distant noise caused by the breaking of the barriers that had kept her so long in that state of proud and stubborn solitude, without doctrines, with nothing to believe in or trust. She felt pain and joy together, she felt a feeling of lightness and at the same time she felt her heart heavy, like a thousand pounds of lead.

* * *

They got back.

After crossing a short field dotted with thistles almost everywhere and sparse olive trees, they reached the top of the mountain that dominated the island, where the second set of walls was located. They found on a large boulder, squared by arms and chisels God knows how long before, what remained of the tower, the fortress, the monastery and the church of S. Stefano. Everything seemed so desolate among those stones covered by those weeds that tried to hide even the last remains of those settlements, but at the same time everything was marvellous: the grey rubble stood out against the dark and gorgeous blue colour of the lake. Some of those pieces leaned over the precipice seventy meters high on the surface of the water, so much so that it seemed that they would slip down that bristling and frightening cliff to disappear in a splash under the deep water.

«You know, Ernesto» Greta broke that silence only broken by the sound of the waters below «I would like to die, now, at this precise moment, falling into the blue waters of the lake, as one of these boulders could do: I am so happy, and I am afraid that everything will change. All the beautiful things in life go by so quickly. I wish everything would remain like this. Forever. Forever .»

Ernesto looked at her: she had such a tiny figure, almost hard to see in the sunlight.

«I don't want you to say these things, not even as a joke. Maybe it's the island that inspires it to you. But don't listen to it. Do you know the story of Amalasunta, queen of the Goths?»

As soon as Ernesto had finished pronouncing those words, a cloud like those ones that were in the sky when they went ashore, covered the sun and blocked it out, as they did with a large stretch of water. In a flash, the island looked like that tragic place because of what happened, which Greta still did not know. A story of legends, tortures, struggles, killings.

«In 526, Theodoric, king of the Goths, who ruled over Italy for thirty-three years, died without leaving a direct heir. He had three daughters from his wedding. The eldest girl Amalasunta was married to a Visigoth. She had a child, Atalarico, who was supposed to take charge of the kingdom because, according to the Gothic law, a kingdom could not be inherited by a woman. In the year when Theodoric died, Atalarico was still a child, and Amalasunta took over the kingdom in place of the boy for almost eight years; then one day Atalarico, who was still not ready to rule a kingdom, died. Amalasunta, then in order not to lose the kingdom she loved so much, offered herself as a bride to the son of one of her father’s sisters: Teodato.

He would have come to the throne anyway, but he accepted Amalasunta as a bride anyway, to calm the hearts of the many people who sided with the woman. Teodato was a ruthless man, who cared for nothing else but to make sure he had a peaceful life by surrounding himself with wealth and ease, without worrying about the well-being of his people. Teodato always pretended: he probably would have liked to get rid of Amalasunta as soon as he got married to her, but he thought that it was safer to commit the crime far from the places where she was loved and cared for. So he deceived her and brought her to Tuscany, with the excuse of seeing their possessions, and then went to Rome where she could have expressed the faith that she had always believed in. But Amalasunta never got to Rome: in fact, on a stretch of the road that was going around Lake Bolsena, she was taken out from the cart that was carrying her, and pushed into a boat that took her to the Martana island, where it is said that she was exiled and then eventually died. Teodato let her live for a short time. It was too dangerous to postpone her killing, not so much because she could ask for help from the Romans, but as for the many Goths who despised Teodato and would think of her with pity being left in a lost island . The way Amalasunta was killed is not very clear, but the legend tells that she was thrown from the top of the cliff on which we are standing now.»

Ernesto finished his story, and Greta was lost in God knows what thoughts: she was thinking about Ernesto, about what he had said to her, she thought about Amalasunta, queen of the Goths, about the stories that were intertwined with those boulders scattered on the ground.

She was wondering how much history those stones could witness.

Surely they knew Amalasunta, and today they had seen Greta surrender for the second time in her life to the sweet and painful delights of her feelings.