The Long Shadow Of A Dream. Roberta Mezzabarba
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guy by the name of Mery, better known as a famous French writer of the first half of the nineteenth century, invented a story set, I wonder why, right on the Bisentina island. I am going to tell you about it now.»
Her interlocutor paused, smiling, before going on with his story. Greta felt she was being watched, as if the Prince wanted to see her reaction to his words.
«Once upon a time there was a Count of Bolsena who was quite ambitious. He used to gather the adherents of a sect on the Bisentina island, and using magic and sorcery, was trying to find out the secret of immortality. A guy by the name of Viterbese lived in the island too. He stated that a few years from then he would have been able to reaveal that secret the Count of Bolsena cared for more than anything else in the world. The story goes that one day il Viterbese took two children, a little boy of five, and a little girl of three, and he locked them up in two different wonderful gardens on the Bisentina island. These children grew up without anyone around apart from the man and the woman who respectively brought them up and took care of all their needs, without saying a word. One day the two youths met: they did not know how to speak but they managed to understand each other. They fell in love and did what Adam and Eve did in identical circumstances. Il Viterbese found out that they had sinned, he killed them and then killed himself after having told the adherents of his sect that whoever had drunk their blood, mixed with wine, would have received the gift of immortality. The Count of Bolsena, longing to become immortal, drank some of it but he was intoxicated and died.»
* * *
The sky was changing its colour, going from a clear light blue colour in the afternoon to a rose colour. Ernesto was looking at Capodimonte in the distance, recognizing its contour.
He was waiting.
He was waiting for Greta. Like in a dream, she came down the grassy lane with the sun turning red at her back, with her right hand clenched to her black leather briefcase, the butler was escorting her, holding his usual upright posture, meticulous and unemotional. Ernesto thought how drab the life of that man was.
«Now, Miss Capua, safe journey back to mainland. Goodbye.»
«Farewell Gastone» whispered Greta and she turned around to see the island at dusk.
Ernesto jumped into the boat and quietly helped Greta get a seat on the speedboat. He felt her dark eyes searching for God knows what. He could feel them gazing through his blonde curls like long slender fingers, among the creases of his shirt burned by the sun: he could feel her routing in his thoughts as if she could catch one and was frantically looking for it.
He started off the engine, and the tension almost vanished: only then he could look up at Greta. He could not find the words to describe the expression on her face nor could he ever see the same expression on anyone else’s face. She looked happy but at the same time the pain was visible in her eyes with invisible and painful tears rolling down her face: hidden memories. She was looking at him but seemed to look beyond him, through his human dimension, in order to find one that was completely unknown to him.
Suddenly Ernesto remembered the rose that he had picked, probably it was the last one on the island of the spring blooming. It had a dark red colour which turned almost black in some veinings.
He showed it to Greta.
«It’s for you, Greta. The last scarlet rose of the year… its colour is as dark as your eyes, its scent is as exciting as your laughters.»
Ernesto stopped. He wanted to say many more words.
Silence filled the air when Greta reached out to take the flower. She brought it to her nostrils and looked up at Ernesto.
«I’ll nurture it, like one of the most beautiful memories of this magic day where I rediscovered a lot of things about me, which I thought they were lost.»
Greta’s heart was heavy.
They had already sailed away from the island which was getting smaller and smaller down to the size Greta was used to see it. She knew that from that day on, she would not look at it with the same eyes.
Never again.
4.
Giacomo was on his doorstep when Greta came back from her tour to the Bisentina island.
A look was enough for the old fisherman to understand that for the girl that day meant more than a simple job appointment: she was strolling, sniffing a rose that she had in her hand, as if she was getting rid of all the energy given to her by her thoughts.
As a matter of fact, she was thinking: she was thinking about Ernesto and about the words he had used to say goodbye to her:
«If you like, I can take you to the Martana island one of these days. We won’t be able to have the speedboat for the day but I am sure that you won’t regret it.»
She did not give an answer to that invitation nor did he expect to have one.
He was an intelligent young man. Greta felt strange emotions inside, locked in the darkest corner of her soul for years now, however the strangest thing in all these feelings was that she did not feel any dislike for Ernesto, as she usually would feel for all the other boys who showed some interest in her, after Alberto.
Looking in Giacomo’s direction, Greta quickly waved at him, as if to say that she did not feel like getting into any conversation that evening. She went into her house, walking listessly. Time went slowly during the pitch dark night and the dawn when Greta kept asking herself so many questions. She was tossing and turning in her bed haunted by many questions: “Was it fair to let a stranger get so close to her? What was happening to her? Was it dangerous if she let herself go?”
All she could feel, as a matter of fact, was a strong desire to see that fisherman again.
The sun was already high in the sky when Greta got up tired from her bed. The dark boats of the fishermen were already sailing on the silver lake, Ernesto was probably with them.
The bus Greta used every morning to go to work, that morning, was lit up by the dazzling sunlight, on and off, while riding fast the deserted streets and still half asleep from the night before. Greta was slowly getting back to reality, but she was left with a burden on her heart. Touring the island reawakened in her the desire to go back to her beloved Sicily, a thorny desire which scared her a little, but she could not repress it. Such a long time had gone by since she left, and too many times she had pretended to have no connections with that island and its inhabitants. How could she even think that her grandmother, the only person left of his family, could accept her after six years?
After all, over that period of time, none of the two bothered to look for the one other, apart from a couple of times, but with such a coldness which made them two strangers more than gradmother and granddaughter.
Probably that longing would disappear, as it happened before. Greta loned to feel that quiver which she felt when walking on an islnd, she strongly felt that urge.
She was going to visit Isola Martana with Ernesto.
She had made her decision.
* * *
The Notary De Fusco was enthousiastic about the job that Greta did. Although he managed to conceal the sense of satisfaction he felt to have closed that business deal in such a splendid manner, he had words of praise for Greta.
«Greta, you are really a worthy colleague. You know how to do your job and above all you are very good at dealing with people. I am really happy to have you by my side. Now we can treat ourselves to a toast for the success of our work; in the meantime, if you don’t mind, I’d love to hear something about the Bisentina island. I heard it’s an enchanting place.»
Off they went to the most prestigious Coffee shop in the small town, where the entire upper class from Viterbo goes there. They sat at a table with a long yellow tablecloth. She thought that the Notary looked really different, almost cheerful. With great pleasure, Greta told the man who was sitting in front of her, in great detail, about her short time