Roberta Mezzabarba – The Long Shadow Of A Dream (страница 8)
«Greta, this is the entrance to a tunnel that goes down to the shores of the lake.»
In saying this, Ernesto began to make his way among the luxuriant plants that were hanging from the ceiling like so many arms outstretched towards them. He lit a torch to shed some light in the darkness a little, allowing Greta to see the worn out steps where she was putting her feet. The entrance to the tunnel was high and wide, however as it was going down into the bowels of the island it became increasingly narrow and tortuous. They were going down, hands in hands, but when they got down to the bottom, on the verge of going out, on account of the broken steps, and the rocks, which had fallen from the ceiling and the thick vegetation that grew on the site, they were forced to stop a few meters before reaching the lake. The water glistened in the holes, through the crevices of that blocked passage, with their iridescent flicker.
«We made all this effort to only be able to look through the rubble that prevents us from reaching the lake.»
Greta was annoyed and disappointed.
Ernesto let go of her hand, placed the torch he had held in his left hand until then on the ground, and turned to Greta, turning his back on the shimmer of the lake.
She was beautiful. The reflections of the water were playing on her face, among her red cheeks and the dark eyes made almost shining by those flashes. It all seemed so natural to him. He brought his lips to Greta's small and fleshy ones and kissed her. It tasted of rose petals.
She was shocked, but did not withdraw from that unexpected contact: she felt Ernesto's hands caressing her cheeks, her neck, going down on her shoulders and sliding down to her hands, loose along her hips, then, while he was holding them, he saw tears on her face that she quickly managed to dry with the palm of one hand.
The spell was broken, the mystry was dispelled. Greta was once again caught in her feelings.
Ernesto looked at her. He looked at those tearful eyes without finding the strength to ask her what was wrong ...
«I didn't mean to scare you, Greta, sorry, but he was stronger than me... you're so beautiful.»
«No, Ernesto, it's not your fault... it's me... » Greta kept her eyes down « ... I am wrong.»
«Why do you say this? You are a very sweet girl, why are you making these far-fetched accusations?
«No, you would never understand ... let's forget everything and go back to the sunlight. Let's pretend that nothing happened.»
Greta was pleading with Ernesto to stifle that feeling that had now got hold of him. Even if he wanted to, now it would be useless and painful to forget everything.
«I'm sorry, but I can't, I wouldn't be able to. I'd rather you asked asked me to stop breathing. Greta don't run away, let me ... let me love you ... we are so similar ... don't deprive yourself of what we both want .»
In saying this Ernesto had gently lifted the girl's face.
«I can't, I don't want you to suffer for me, Ernesto.
Try to understand me! »
Greta's voice had become a whisper.
Meanwhile, the sun, reflecting on the lake, continued its flashing games which lit up the cave.
«Do you feel what I feel too? Don’t you? »
Greta did not reply, she was just staring at Ernesto's eyes which were desperately searching for positive hint.
«Greta ... do you love me? »
At those words something seemed to stir up the girl. She was sobbing her heart out. He freed her hands from Ernesto's to cover up her face again flooded with tears.
«Greta… »
«Of course I love you ... Yes, Ernesto, I love you.»
This time she brought her face closer to that of the boy: she looked at him for a moment straight in the eyes, then kissed him gently wetting his face with her salty tears.
They hugged.
They remained in each other's arms for an indefinable length of time: Greta felt Ernesto's arms squeezing her deeply against his chest. She heard the distant noise caused by the breaking of the barriers that had kept her so long in that state of proud and stubborn solitude, without doctrines, with nothing to believe in or trust. She felt pain and joy together, she felt a feeling of lightness and at the same time she felt her heart heavy, like a thousand pounds of lead.
* * *
They got back.
After crossing a short field dotted with thistles almost everywhere and sparse olive trees, they reached the top of the mountain that dominated the island, where the second set of walls was located. They found on a large boulder, squared by arms and chisels God knows how long before, what remained of the tower, the fortress, the monastery and the church of S. Stefano. Everything seemed so desolate among those stones covered by those weeds that tried to hide even the last remains of those settlements, but at the same time everything was marvellous: the grey rubble stood out against the dark and gorgeous blue colour of the lake. Some of those pieces leaned over the precipice seventy meters high on the surface of the water, so much so that it seemed that they would slip down that bristling and frightening cliff to disappear in a splash under the deep water.
«You know, Ernesto» Greta broke that silence only broken by the sound of the waters below «I would like to die, now, at this precise moment, falling into the blue waters of the lake, as one of these boulders could do: I am so happy, and I am afraid that everything will change. All the beautiful things in life go by so quickly. I wish everything would remain like this. Forever. Forever .»
Ernesto looked at her: she had such a tiny figure, almost hard to see in the sunlight.
«I don't want you to say these things, not even as a joke. Maybe it's the island that inspires it to you. But don't listen to it. Do you know the story of Amalasunta, queen of the Goths?»
As soon as Ernesto had finished pronouncing those words, a cloud like those ones that were in the sky when they went ashore, covered the sun and blocked it out, as they did with a large stretch of water. In a flash, the island looked like that tragic place because of what happened, which Greta still did not know. A story of legends, tortures, struggles, killings.
«In 526, Theodoric, king of the Goths, who ruled over Italy for thirty-three years, died without leaving a direct heir. He had three daughters from his wedding. The eldest girl Amalasunta was married to a Visigoth. She had a child, Atalarico, who was supposed to take charge of the kingdom because, according to the Gothic law, a kingdom could not be inherited by a woman. In the year when Theodoric died, Atalarico was still a child, and Amalasunta took over the kingdom in place of the boy for almost eight years; then one day Atalarico, who was still not ready to rule a kingdom, died. Amalasunta, then in order not to lose the kingdom she loved so much, offered herself as a bride to the son of one of her father’s sisters: Teodato.
He would have come to the throne anyway, but he accepted Amalasunta as a bride anyway, to calm the hearts of the many people who sided with the woman. Teodato was a ruthless man, who cared for nothing else but to make sure he had a peaceful life by surrounding himself with wealth and ease, without worrying about the well-being of his people. Teodato always pretended: he probably would have liked to get rid of Amalasunta as soon as he got married to her, but he thought that it was safer to commit the crime far from the places where she was loved and cared for. So he deceived her and brought her to Tuscany, with the excuse of seeing their possessions, and then went to Rome where she could have expressed the faith that she had always believed in. But Amalasunta never got to Rome: in fact, on a stretch of the road that was going around Lake Bolsena, she was taken out from the cart that was carrying her, and pushed into a boat that took her to the Martana island, where it is said that she was exiled and then eventually died. Teodato let her live for a short time. It was too dangerous to postpone her killing, not so much because she could ask for help from the Romans, but as for the many Goths who despised Teodato and would think of her with pity being left in a lost island . The way Amalasunta was killed is not very clear, but the legend tells that she was thrown from the top of the cliff on which we are standing now.»
Ernesto finished his story, and Greta was lost in God knows what thoughts: she was thinking about Ernesto, about what he had said to her, she thought about Amalasunta, queen of the Goths, about the stories that were intertwined with those boulders scattered on the ground.
She was wondering how much history those stones could witness.
Surely they knew Amalasunta, and today they had seen Greta surrender for the second time in her life to the sweet and painful delights of her feelings.
6.
The day was coming to an end: the sun now low on the horizon was lighting up the clouds still high in the sky with colorful lights and the emotions going over the two of them like calm, unpredictable and devastating tides. Going down from the top of the mountain, through the stairs carved into the rock, Greta saw some specimens of prickly pear and told Ernesto how gigantic those plants were in Sicily, and what a beautiful scenery they create: in Greta's words there was nostalgia and affection for a land, her own, which she had not seen for nearly six years.