The Long Shadow Of A Dream. Roberta Mezzabarba
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the table was set for two: it felt strange to share the table with somebody else, after almost six years of loneliness. She came out of the door to call her neighbour.
She felt happy.
Giacomo was the grandfather she never had the chance to meet. He dressed up for the occasion, with a waistcoat underneath his blazer and he had even greased his hair.
They sat at the table and they both felt a little uneasy: Greta made a potato omelette, a tomato and carrot salad, and a peach salad. She also made sure she had a jug full of water with flowers in the middle of the table. Giacomo ate everything up: he hadn’t shared the table with somebody in a very long time. He told Greta with tears in his eyes that his wife had died twenty years before of tuberculosis. “He must have been really close to his wife” thought Greta, while Giacomo was talking about her describing her good heart, staring somewhere in front of him.
For a moment the girl’s thoughts went beyond time and space, taking her back to her beloved Sicily, rekindling in her the longing to go back there. Even though it was just a flash which sparkled in her black eyes, Giacomo did not miss it.
«You are not really happy, are you? I have seen you smiling so rarely… when you do, you look so beautiful.»
Greta looked down, she blushed and her chickbones turned red. It was true, she was not happy at all.
She could not get any peace within herself, not even in those quiet days: surely it would be easier not to think about what had happened, the best thing to do was to let time go by and hope to forget, to forget about everything and go back to the way she was, the girl who was going to University in Catania, the girl who did not even know who Alberto was.
There was no other solution.
Everything would pass, but how long would it take?
2.
The next morning Greta got up early and walked along the lakefront for almost two kilometres, until the time to get on the boat. It was June and the sun had just risen. It was already shining in between the leafy branches full of shoots of the ancient elms, with their gigantic trunks and foliage, lined up in pair as if to escort her on her way.
She was putting one foot in front of the other but her eyes could not stop looking at that island which she was going to visit shortly and seemed so wild.
In the peacefulness given by that rose-coloured sunrise, she thought of night before, she felt so happy spending some time with Giacomo. For a moment, thanks to that lovely old man, she remembered what it meant to share a roof with other people. She also felt homesick, and this feeling was so strong that she could still feel it in her bones. She was frightened even thinking about it, having to face what she had run away from, following a decision made on the spurt of the moment.
* * *
At eight o’clock sharp Greta was already at the little port of Capodimonte. Standing on the pier, she was holding on to her black briefcase really tight, as if it was her only pass to have access to paradise. She was looking at the little boats moored at the pier. She was thinking that after her journey on the ferry leaving Sicily, she did not have the chance to sail. She got back to reality because she heard some steps behind her.
A long-limbed boy was walking in her direction, biting hard into an apple.
«Morning Miss. I am Ernesto, and I am here to take you to the Bisentina island. If it is okay with you, I would like to leave straightaway.»
Just like old Giacomo, he had a tanned face, where two brownish/greenish eyes stood out.
Greta did not say a word. The boatman did not wait for her answer and was already on board of the little white speedboat and was busy with the ropes which kept it moored to the pier. Still standing on the pier, with her briefcase in her right hand, Greta was looking at the hands of the stranger, his strong arms, his sturdy shoulders. Ernesto turned around suddenly to look at her: the sun shining behind his back outlined his lean body. The girl could meet those eyes again: he was lending her a hand smiling, trying to help her inside the boat, as if to reassure her. Greta grabbed it and enjoyed the dry heat and the tight grip.
She was on board of a boat again.
She was looking under the keel of the little boat and she was amazed at the vegetation that was slowly fluttering under the water. It looked like an underwater forest, submerged under the depths of the lake. Ernesto noticed that she was very interested in that strange vegetation and rushed in giving her an explanation, even if she had not asked anything yet.
«There are many plants that proliferate in the waters of the lake. There are graminaccio, scopuccia and pugnatella5 which, just like some women, are thorny and fragile at the same time. Unfortunately today it is not possible to see loglia and moracia because they only grow in spring. Loglia comes out of the water to expose its little spikes to the sun, as a mother would do with her little ones. Moracia does the same with her leafy branches which have a blue green colour, and its flowers are red but it is a real miracle if you can find it.»
«I have never seen anything like it… do these plants only grow in shallow water?»
«Certainly not. I heard that crepitaia grows in the deepest seabeds, so much so that when fishermen like myself, find torn net threads, we understand that we have gone beyond the fishing area.»
The two youths were united by the water, which made them feel at their ease: they could understand each other talking about the water, it felt as if they had known each other for a long time. Ernesto was leering at Greta with her hair down that the wind was ruffling with its numerous fingers.
A light breeze was rippling the lake and the waves were crashing against the bow which sounded like gentle slaps.
Just a little offshore Greta could at last discover how big the lake was. She read on a book that the rings of hills was more than forty kilometres long. It was amazing how huge it was.
«Is it true that the Bolsena Lake is the biggest volcanic lake in Europe?» Greta was eager to know.
«Sure, it is true, but don’t think that just one volcano could have such a big crater. Some scientists believe that , and it seems to be true, that at least three craters close together created all the dips and the winding in the area. Do you know that the deepest part of the lake is in between the two islands and that it is nearly one hundred and fifty metres deep? Higher than the dome of St Peter’s» said Ernesto so seriously, proud of all his knowledge.
Greta was amazed at the great deal of things that that sun-tanned boy knew.
The waves that rippled the water of the lake broke down into a myriad of smaller waves which were crushed by the bow of the boat, which reminded Greta of the sound of hands clapping.
The island was getting closer and closer.
It was either the swinging of the boat on the water or the swinging of the waves or maybe the swinging of the trees on the shore that gave Greta the illusion that the island was coming nearer to the boat, as if to fulfil her longing to get to know it.
Sailing ahead Greta saw a majestic and picturesque cupola among the thick woodland. They arrived.
Ernesto drove the speedboat among a multitude of low bamboo sticks emerging from the water, which crakled with the boat sailing through them to get to a canal leading to the small harbour in the island: it was sheltered by a liberty style canopy which came from the International Exhibition in Turin back in 1911.
Greta was finally there.
Ernesto had already slipped out of the boat, fastening his moorings to the little pier. While helping Greta out of the boat, he made sure that she was okay after the journey. He said, smiling to her:
«Miss, when you want to go back, I will be here waiting for you.»
She had just set foot on the ground of the Bisentina island, and she could already feel the blood boiling in her veins: her memories of being an islander herself came back to her