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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 cordonata
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 pugnatella
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.
«Welcome Miss Capua, my humble dwelling is not worthy of your beauty.»
His voice was mellow, each of the words he said seemed to reproduce the notes of a sweet melody. The Prince Fieschi Ravaschieri del Drago was a real noble man, Greta was impressed right away, well before he raised his right hand gesturing a gentlemanly kiss on the hand.
She blushed.
«I am very happy to meet you, Prince, notary De Fusco sends his regards. I brought with me the sales deeds that we will read together. If you are happy with everything, you will sigh them. I will give you one copy and I will take one with me to be registered at the land registry office.»
Greta said the whole sentence without taking one single breath, looking in the eyes the man who was standing in front of her. He felt a little jealous of him because he owned an island: being able to have a place that she could call her own would be her biggest dream, can you just imagine if that was an island…
«It is a beautiful day today and I do not want to bring you inside the gloomy walls of my dwelling. I would like to go to the beach, where none of my butlers can disturb us.»
Greta nodded as if she was bewitched by the voice of that charmer.
The went past the weeping willows, the scented bay trees, the elms, the white poplars whose swaying branches were making a sound as far as the group of alders which followed the shore, almost plunging their roots into the water. Some of those trees were so bent over the lake as to nearly wet their branches and leaves. The silence was broken only by the frogs’ rare and uneven croaking among the reeds.
In the shade of that paradise there was a round table made of stone and four small stools. They sat down.
* * *
The Prince put back his fountain pen after signing the papers that Greta was turning almost without looking, she knew them so well.
«Our duty is done now, don’t you think that we deserve a tour of the island?»
Greta couldn’t ask for anything better, and told the Prince that she had always been fascinated by the island since the very first time she arrived in Capodimonte.
The doors of that magnificent temple of nature and art were about to open right in front of Greta who realised that her dreams were about to come true.
* * *
Ernesto was lying on the pier while waiting. He had a blade of grass in between his lips which left a tangy taste in his mouth.
He was thinking about Greta. Strange girl.
She looks so introvert at first but she is so chatty when there is water around. She is eager to get news and information, like a child, but extremely beautiful despite her flamboyant simplicity.
Her eyes were so dark, as black as the night, as deep as the lake.
3.
Greta and the Prince moved away from the little table that was used to settle the last details of the notary’s deeds and went back to the villa. It was shaded and scented by the fragrant smell of the linden trees, pine trees, mimosas, would waft in the air, it was time for lunch. The Prince insisted on Greta to have lunch with him. In the afternoon, they would go for a tour of the island as promised.
The girl was torn: from one hand she wanted to see the island so much, thinking that such an opportunity would have hardly come by again in her whole life, from the other hand she feared she would not make a good impression of herself accepting an invitation for lunch from a complete stranger. However, making a good impression had never been her strongest point.
She accepted the invitation.
The Prince went into the villa to attend to something. While waiting for him, she saw some branches of a shrub called “Christ’s thorn” sticking out of the roof of the villa: they climbed from the door of what once was the dining hall as far as the top of the villa, to enjoy the view that must have been magnificent from that height.
On that little island there were all kinds of flowers, Greta noticed that the roses had withered unfortunately. Probably they would have been everywhere in May, with their colourful and scented corollas, gathered in bushes, lined up as hedges, climbing on walls, on tree trunks or pergolas. The person who planted them in such a large quantity surely thought that the wind could carry their scent as far as the shores in Capodimonte or Marta.
Greta wandered around the villa and reached the ruins of the sixteenth-century cloister: the five arcades on each side of the quadrangular plan, were covered too by a beautiful blanket of wisteria, jasmin and honeysuckle. Not too far, next to the pine trees and the cedar trees, stood out probably the most popular tree of the island: a huge plane tree, tall, rugged, old and knobby. Even though it was supported up by sticks, his branches were stretching out over the shore as if to provide it with a cool shade as a good father would do. That old tree had lived for four centuries, four centuries of silent and incomprehensible conversations with the lake, its only and immortal friend.
Looking at the lake reminded Greta of Ernesto who was waiting for her with his little white speedboat moored at the island pier, to take her back ashore. She should tell him about the change of plans right away, apologise to him and possibly ask the Prince to invite him for lunch too. It was very impolite of her to forget completely about that boy who had been really kind and eager to tell her all about the Lake and the islands.
She was disappointed that he could not join them in the tour of the island scheduled for the afternoon to see all those wonders hidden by all the vegetation. She felt she owed that boy something after taking her there, letting her live that dream.
The Prince was coming out of his dwelling again and Greta walked towards him with her face all red due to the heat of the midday sun, and she asked him:
«Prince, I would like to go down to the pier to let my boatman know that I will stay until the afternoon. I would love to invite him to have lunch with us, it you don’t mind, he has been so kind to me.»
In saying these words Greta was wondering why she was so interested in that young fisherman…
«Certainly. I will send Gastone down straightaway to tell the fisherman. I am sure that there will be a seat for him at the table of the servants. Now if you could please follow me, I have arranged for a table to be set for us in the shade of the great plane tree.»
The Prince did not like to be contradicted so Greta did not show her disappointment for the fact that Ernesto could not sit at their table but was sent to be with the servants of the island.
A few minutes after that, Ernesto was climbing back the shore from the little harbour leading to the villa: as soon as he got to the open space where Greta and the Prince were already sitting at their table, he headed for the two of them but the butler, was quick to explain that he was not invited to sit at the table of the Prince but he was to eat with the servants of the island.
