«It is said that la Rocchina was given this name because it was built on the ruins of a small fortress, or because it was located right opposite la Strongholds in Capodimonte, or because its plan was similar to the one that la Strongholds has. This little temple is tiny but so perfect, it is unique in its simplicity.»
The Prince clearly loved that little oratorio; Greta found it adorable too. They came down the Rocchina promontory, then Greta followed the Prince climbing up, this time, the steep path leading to Mount Tabor where they came across Mount Calvary oratory7, also known as the Crucifix. It had the forest in the front and the cliff at the back, bare, dark, with patches of lichens, rust coloured moss whose redness seemed to deliberately clash with the emerald green water covered up by its shadow, cast in the afternoon sun. The little Crucifix Church was just a plain cell with a gabled roof which extended over, in the front part, to make up some kind of a vestibule supported by a big arch.
«You see, Miss Capua, below the Crucifix, the cliff goes straight down, going a little inwards indeed, you can still see the marks of the chisels used to get the stone for the construction of la Rocchina that we have just seen and of the main church, the one next to the villa. You just need to go a little further, towards the more northerly tip of the island, to find huge pieces of rock which came off the declivous cliff spontaneously, which rolled down the sloped back of the island and stopped at some level, almost by some miracle.»
Greta was looking towards the water from the top of that cliff and was scared that the rock she was standing on could collapse into the water, mixed with the pleasure she got from getting to know all those details, gave her such a big thrill that she nearly forgot what happened over their lunch with Ernesto, who was furious and reproached the Prince for letting the butler invite him to sit at the table with the other servants. They went on with their tour to find the chapel of Pope Gregory. Up further they got to Mount Tabor oratory, also knows as Trasfiguration.
* * *
«This little temple,» explained the Prince to Greta «bore this name in memory of Mount Tabor in Galilee where the Transfiguration of Jesus Christ took place, which is actually the theme of the fresco painted inside the cell. Mount Tabor oratorio was built in the highest part of the island and it connects with two little temples which we have not seen yet. The way to get to them goes down from one end and goes up from the other. I read in some document that it was possible to have the third part of your sins forgiven if you visited this little temple on July 11th and on August 6th. It is such a shame that today is not one of those dates, dont you think?»
The Prince was glad that Greta appreciated all his explanations which he was quite happy to share, sometimes maybe too scholarly and boring, but she did not seem to mind too much, she was so eager to learn, to know, to see for herself what she had read on dusty books written by people dead and buried.
After a quick stop, they set off on their walk and they saw the fifth oratorio, the chapel of Mount Olive grove, also known as Prayer in the Vegetable Garden or Christ praying in the vegetable garden.
«Can you see these dilapidated walls, above that man made clearing which are embedded in the tufo8 rock on three sides? That is the oratorio dedicated to St. Francis. It was probably built on Grottascura9 rocky cove to make an obvious connection to the spot on Mount Verna where St. Francis received stigmata. Time back here in Grottascura, there was a real cave, which then collapsed, where fishermen sheltered from the deceitful southerly winds. It is really gorgeous, isnt it?»
To the west of the island, there was the Promontory of the Gypsy, also known as Promontory of Lion because it was close to a rock spur on the lake, where a westward lions face was carved. Among formidable groups of oak trees and beech trees, they found the last oratorio, in honor of St. Concordia.
The tour was coming to an end.
The Principe was watching Greta who was eager to take everything in with her dark eyes, fascinated by each and every grain of soil she was walking on. The journey back to the villa was still quite long so the Prince decided to play games Gretas imagination, telling her quite a peculiar story.
«A 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 elses 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.
«Its 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.
«Ill 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.»
Gretas 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 wont be able to have the speedboat for the day but I am sure that you wont 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 Giacomos 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.
Looking in Giacomos 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?