The Long Shadow Of A Dream

This is a work of fantasy. Names, characters, places and events are imaginary or used in a fictitious key and any reference to people, living or dead, to facts or to truly existing places is purely random

Original title of the work: Legàmi

First edition

december 2018

IL MARE

© 2017 La Caravella Editrice

Second edition in Spanish

Publicado por ©Tektime

june 2020

Third edition in English

Published por ©Tektime

october 2020

324 pages

Roberta Mezzabarba

The long shadow

of a dream

Novel

Translator: Emanuela Paganucci

For my grandmother Giacinta

- now just a sweet memory -

who taught me not to give up.

Never

The places of the novel

PREFACE

PART ONE

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

PART TWO

7.

8.

9.

10.

11.

12.

13.

14.

15.

16.

17.

18.

19.

20.

PART THREE

21.

22.

23.

24.

25.

26.

EPILOGUE

Bibliography

Acknowledgements

The places of the novel

PREFACE

Greta could still remember that the night that she made the decision to turn her life around, the sea was lashed by a strong and icy wind from the north. She needed to get a grip of her life.

She had made her mind up: she was going to run away.

There were only waves in the darkness, looking like white and foamy tongues, trying to break up the calmness of that dark blue expanse of water. They were moving faster and faster as if willing to smack the dark rocks of that stony bay overhanging the water.

The thick vegetation was scattered on the shore and was fluttering like nymphs with green hair ruffled by a bothersome wind.

When Greta was a little girl, she used to hide in there so many times. It was in that heaven that she could make a strong and soothing connection with her wilder side. She felt so far away from the rest of the world that was around her, yet the pain was so strong that she could not feel anything else.

She was probably detached from the rest of the world since she was a child, detached from what people felt it was right… and now, after such a long time, she was more and more convinced that she should have kept her distance from what was around her. Too often if we are too close to someone or too open, that can make us weak and helpless to judge and fight against what causes us harm.

When she was a little girl, she liked to fantasize, her look was lost in the dark blue colour of the sea: she dreamed of being a princess locked up by a wicked witch. She held on only because she was waiting for her prince to come and rescue her on his white horse.

It was probably chasing that dream, which had become really exasperating, that had deeply changed her life.

Now that she was alone again, really alone, she bitterly realised that. Now that she did not even have the strength to put together the pieces of her life, debris that were gathering around her, moments which were lost forever. The shadow that had blocked off the sun was right in front of her.

The long shadow of a dream.

“Why man boast of sensibilities superior

to those apparent in the brute?

It only renders them more necessary beings.

If our impulses were confined to hunger,

thirst, and desire, we might be nearly free;

but now we are moved by every wind that blows

and a chance word or scene that

that word may convey to us.”

(Mary Shelley)

1.

Greta was sitting on the steps leading to the Duomo but it was getting late now. She would stay there forever to admire the double-arched windows of the Papal Palace, especially at sunset, when the red sun would make their fine design look even thinner. At first glance, they might have looked like valuable intaglio carvings, done by delicate hands of skilled embroiderers, but actually they were the fruit of the work of strong and meticulous mighty arms and experienced fingers of stonecutters from Viterbo who with their expertise, were able to master the apparent hardness of the peperino1 stone giving it the shape they wanted.

Everything was magic in those moments.

Greta had been working in Viterbo for the last five years as the secretary of a notary public. She loved that adoptive town, the little streets of the old part of the town paved with sampietrini2, the fountains in every square, profferli3. She loved the peaceful atmosphere that you would get in the countryside areas which were not too far from the town. Despite it all, as a real Sicilian woman, she could not keep away from the water, the element that she loved the most and was essential for her life. After running away from Aci Castello, she had lived in Rome for a short period of time, where she worked in a fast food restaurant, then she went looking for a quieter place. She got a place in Capodimonte, a little town fairly close to Viterbo, on the Bolsena lake. That beautiful lake, with its two islands looking like two watchmen, had caught her attention from the first time, casting a spell on her right away.

It was getting late. It was time for Greta to go home. Before doing that, though, she needed to drop in at notary De Fusco, her employer, to collect some paperwork that she had to hand over to the owner of one of the two islands of the Bolsena lake, the Bisentina island. She was excited because the next day she was going to go to that island by boat. It had sparked interest in her since the first time she saw it; she was going to see for herself if what she heard about it was true.

Notary De Fusco was a plump man, in his sixties, with little hair and a blank look, he would take his job very seriously, but certainly he was not a cheerful person. “He was a good man,” thought Greta “but he was afraid of his own shadow and that was maybe his bigger flaw”.

Greta remembered when a few years back, browsing through a local newspaper looking for a job, in the ads section, she was amazed to see how short his message was “Reliability and willingness to work. That’s what I am looking for”.

He was just like this.

«Now Greta, that’s the plan. Tomorrow morning you will meet up with Principe del Drago. I have already made arrangements with that fisherman and you will go in his boat. You will read the sales deed page by page to him, you will get him to sign them, you will give him a copy, and you will bring one copy back. Please be kind, but not obsequious, excessive mannerism is not good in such situations.»

He had been telling Greta this three or four times already, what to do and how to deal with these matters that she knew so well. He was visibly nervous because he wanted this deal to be successful: to him the fact that a big landowner as Principe del Drago had chosen him among all the notary public in the area to settle his real estate business, surely was a reason for pride , especially as regards to those colleagues who, as he used to say when he was in a friendly mood, would consider work only as a way to earn a living.

Greta got out of the front door of the big building where her office was, with a considerable pile of documents inside a black leather briefcase that the notary public had lent her for the occasion. The fresh air accompanied her to the bus stop, like a loyal friend would have done, ready to listen to what happened to her during the day which was just gone.

* * *

When she eventually got out of the bus, the sun had just gone down and was replaced by a light reddish colour that reflected shadows the colour of blood on the lake. It looked as if it was wounded by the wake left by some isolated boat of fishermen back from putting the nets down: the two islands stood out against the horizon so dark as the night.

The Strongholds of Capodimonte, which overlooked the lake from the small peninsula where there was the oldest part of the town, stood out with its magnificent polygonal shape. The wood all around the strongholds, with its fresh and shiny magnolias, palm trees and pink oleanders, was surely designed to virtually shorten the height of the big spurts that were supporting it, however it made the whole view of the strongholds far more beautiful, even from a distance. Greta set off home thinking about the first time she visited that big building: she remembered the courtyard with its doors, his windows, with the triple loggia designed by Sangallo, she remembered the upper apartments where you could get access to from a cordonata4 which was probably used in the old times by horses too, she remembered long, straight and dark sets of stairs. There was not a soul in the old strongholds, and even if the bright colours of the lake were overflowing from every window and from every crevice, you could only feel sadness coming from the walls that once saw the prestige and the splendor of noble lineage which were now just experiencing years of solitude.

Despite her melancholic memories, Greta could only think about the day after, when she could go to the Bisentina Island at last; a tiny piece of land, yet so charming.

She kept looking at the lake, while going up the steep hill paved with grey sampietrini, leading to the upper part of the town, where she lived. Greta knew so well the steep and windy little lanes with stairs everywhere, little walls, arch buttresses with houses built with the local dark stone, with dark entrance halls or brightened up by the redness given by plain patchings with bricks. She knew the smell of thousands of vases and cooking pots stacked with herbs and flowers on the small windows, or left to beautify some small tabernacle at the corners of the houses. All of a sudden, resurfacing from that hydillic view, she felt someone approching her whose shadow was getting longer beside hers.

«Good evening Greta, you are back really late tonight. You work too much.»

An open smile, surrounded by countless tiny wrinkles on a face burnt by the sun: this was Greta’s neighbour, Giacomo, the old fisherman.

«Holy smoke, Giacomo, you gave me a start! I was wondering who that was at this time of the evening… My head is up in the clouds tonight, I can picture myself already sailing the lake.»

They walked ahead for some time, side by side, without saying a word, deep in their thoughts, Greta was holding tight in her right hand, her briefcase packed with papers, Giacomo had a basket full of early produce coming from his vegetable garden: tapered carrots, red and juicy tomatoes, yellow potatoes, pink and velvety peaches and eggs, still warm. On top of the vegetables, Giacomo had placed a bunch of flowers, artistically held together by a twisted twig: colourful zinnias, delicate asters and just blossomed gladiola. They got to the little square; Giacomo wanted to give Greta that basket with the vegetables, but the girl never wanted to take anything from him because she felt already very grateful to him to let a stranger rent his lovely little place for an extra nothing.

«I’d be glad if you accepted this… this basket, Greta. It is about time you try the vegetables I grow. I beg you, I live on my own and I am always left with too much of them. It is no bother to me, it would be a pleasure indeed.»

«Alright Giacomo, I accept your gift with great pleasure provided that you will come for dinner at my place tonight. I am sure that with all this bonanza, even a disaster in the kitchen like me will manage to make a mouthwatering meal.»

Greta was feeling a little sad over the last few days and sharing the dinner with that cheerful old man would do her good.

Greta got down to work in the kitchen, and in just over one hour the food was ready and 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 and made her feel alive and brand new.

To think of herself on a piece of land surrounded by water, gave her such a thrill.

All the trees were enjoying the scented breeze coming from the lake, a scent of crystal-clear water and resin. Her eyes could see bushes in bloom, colourful butterflies and cheerful birds chirping everywhere.

With all that going on in her head, Greta did not see a refined man, wearing a red livery who was probably waiting for her.

«You must be Miss Greta Capua, the secretary of Mr De Fusco. Follow me , please, the Prince is already waiting for you at the villa.»

Greta noticed that he sounded very distant but she justified him right away in her mind thinking that his master would not allow him to socialize with his guests.

Without even waiting for her acknowledgement, the butler set off on the grassy ground, with his shiny shoes, turning on the left. Once they went past the high bush of the bay tree, a vast Italian garden appeared to their sight: it was rectangular-shaped and was divided into three sections, each of them had a central part surrounded by box flower beds. Beyond the high hedge of the bay tree, there was a very green lawn, delimited by a little wood of alders and tall poplars. Further ahead Greta saw the monastery that had been turned into a villa without making too many changes to it. She read about its bare walls, small doors and windows in a few books at the municipal library in Viterbo. S. Giacomo and Cristoforo Church was the main church of the island and was located next to the villa. It had a simple structure but was magnificent at the same time. A few art enthusiasts see a sobriety and temperance that Vignola then lost. The church had a latin-cross plan with three altars in the upper arms; where they joined together, an octagonal dome rose up, covered with lead slabs on the outside.

A group of old pine trees stood out in front of this majestic building and down below, in between the century-old trunks, the lake was shining in silence.

Greta turned around and saw a great big lawn sloping slightly, where people said that hares and pheasants poliferated. At that sight, she felt a strong urge to wander around the island, she felt the need to dream without searching for anything, nor to know anything about the history or the art on the island.

She just wanted to dream about her own island, without having to think of anything else.

However, the butler’s slightly annoyed voice brought her back to reality, she seemed to be daydreaming the whole time. She was reminded of the papers that the Prince was to sign. She took a deep breath, filling her lungs with air and forced herself to think about work , nothing else.

She was still thinking about that when a man in his forties was walking in her direction, after petting the big head on a gigantic St Bernard (his name was Gino, as she later found out). The man was wearing a blue blazer and a perfectly done tie with a snow white shirt. In the meantime, the butler headed back to the villa after taking another good look at her.