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‘You can lose your way groping among the shadows of the past. It’s frightening
how many people and things there are in a man’s past that have stopped
moving. The living people we’ve lost in the crypts of time sleep so soundly side
by side with the dead that the same darkness envelops them all.’
Louis-Ferdinand Cèline,
Journey to the End of the Night
Rain. It fell softly upon the terracotta tiles, the dull drumming
echoing around the thick walls of the church. Head bowed, my nose
was filled with the wet and warm and sweet smell of soggy air.
Pioggia
.
I like the rain, so did my father; the soft melody, a relief from the
stifled silence of the darkened space. My father would tell me,
l’acqua
trova sempre la sua strada verso il mare
. Water will always find its way back
to the sea. He had the sea in his veins.
The priest’s sharp bell shook me from my dream, slicing through
the silence. He wore a thick black tunic, that looked like it carried
the dust from centuries past. Bible in hand, he threw a solemn glance
towards his audience, then strode to the polished box in the centre
of the room. ‘
Ora
, if any of Signor Valante’s family would like to
come and wish him a final farewell,
avanti, per favore.
’
A slight splash upon my nape made me flinch, then relax as the
cool droplet trickled along my spine, giving way under my tight
collar. They dress differently in
Roma
, a funeral is seen as an event;
yet here, everyone’s faces were downcast, in solemn sincerity. My
shirt tightened across my chest. I felt the gaze of my sister upon me
in expectation, piercing from beneath her latticed veil. I didn’t look
at her.
La pioggia è pesante
. I had to go forward. ‘
Andiamo
… come on!’ I
frowned. ‘Just get this over with.’
The news of his death had not shaken me; not nearly as much as
the fragile voice of the news bearer on the receiver; I guess the
trained hardness of my heart resisted such emotion. He had wanted
that, I’m sure. I picture him, on the train station platform, wearing
his salt stained shirt baring his tanned leathery chest; skin, hardened
like pelt. His face twisted, as if in the full glare of the sun, a grimace.
Whether he was pained by my departure, or purely by my existence,
I don’t know. Through a six-year-old’s eyes, this was a cruel sight and
a contradiction to the idea that family loved you, that family and
home were forever. He didn’t even raise one of his calloused hands
in addio, farewell. He had gripped my shoulder,
colui che serve il dio
in
Il Silenzio E
Il Sentimento,
L’emozione
E La Paura
(Silence And
Sentiment,
Emotion
And Fear)
Carla Mileo
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