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Authors: Nino Ricci
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Bovianum, Cominium, carved it was said right out of the bare rock of the mountains, had been levelled by the Romans, only a few odd ruins remaining now—roadside markers of forgotten import, the mossy foundations of a temple or shrine, the curved stone seats of an amphitheatre; though these were proudly tendered by local towns and villages as evidence of their ancient past. The church at Rocca Secca, just off the main square, was built above a huge cornerstone, accessible through a crypt, that was said to have formed part of Aquilonia’s walls.
Rocca Secca itself had once been a great centre, renowned for its goldsmiths and bronzeworks, its schools, its convents, and the seat of the region’s aristocracy. But in recent times its fortunes had declined: the politicians in Rome, the townspeople complained, thought only about collecting taxes and passing laws that no one could understand, and not about building roads or rail lines; and nowadays, at any rate, people wanted to buy things made in the city by machines rather than things made by hand. For many years now the people of Rocca Secca had been moving away, to Argentina mainly; whole sections of the town stood abandoned, the houses boarded up and crumbling.
The last vestige of the town’s former grandeur sat on a lonely hill on the outskirts of town—the Giardini estate, once the seat of the most powerful family in the region, who owned halfthe land from Rocca Secca to Capracotta. The last of the Giardini, Alberto, had died just after the war, and was still well remembered in the town. In the 1890s he had served as an officer during the war in Abyssinia; but after the Italian defeat he had set off on a trek across Africa, more or less lost to the world for several years. Then one day a beggar had wound his way down the main street into Rocca Secca, his clothes in tatters, his face bearded and gaunt, and had done something which had caused the townspeople to stare in curiosity: he walked up to the
tomolo
in the centre of the square, a hollowed out stone of three compartments used to measure grain for rent and taxes, and dropped his pants to his knees to touch his bared buttocks to the stone. This gesture had a long tradition in Rocca Secca: it was the way in which a man who had exhausted all his resources might publicly declare bankruptcy. But it was only when the beggar pulled a latch key from around his neck and started up towards the estate on the edge of town that the townspeople realized he was Alberto de’ Giardini, returned finally home after his mysterious absence.
Giardini never explained his long absence to anyone, living the next several years as a recluse, seeing no one; though sometimes at twilight he’d appear suddenly in the town in full regalia, his medals pinned in an even row to his chest, and wander the streets like a ghost. Then, just after the first war, he began the project which was to occupy the rest of his days, remaking the grounds of his estate in the image of a primal paradise, importing tropical trees, flowers, shrubs and building a great conservatory to house them in winter, beginning next on the fauna, monkeys, gazelles, strange tropical birds, until he had turned his hill into a small piece of Africa, the air at night resounding with strange jungle sounds. At his death, because he had no heirs, Giardini’s estate reverted to the state, who kept itup briefly as a zoo; but there was little interest in our region for that sort of thing and the property soon fell into decay, the animals dying off, needed repairs neglected. The estate was abandoned now, the conservatory left to ruin, the lawns overgrown, the cages which had once housed the animals left to warp in the sun and rain and a great glass aviary which had been renowned once for its strange coloured birds now sprouting the limbs of trees which had been allowed to grow inside it unchecked. People in the town avoided the estate, as if a curse hung over it; and in the story of
Rocca Secca itself had once been a great centre, renowned for its goldsmiths and bronzeworks, its schools, its convents, and the seat of the region’s aristocracy. But in recent times its fortunes had declined: the politicians in Rome, the townspeople complained, thought only about collecting taxes and passing laws that no one could understand, and not about building roads or rail lines; and nowadays, at any rate, people wanted to buy things made in the city by machines rather than things made by hand. For many years now the people of Rocca Secca had been moving away, to Argentina mainly; whole sections of the town stood abandoned, the houses boarded up and crumbling.
The last vestige of the town’s former grandeur sat on a lonely hill on the outskirts of town—the Giardini estate, once the seat of the most powerful family in the region, who owned halfthe land from Rocca Secca to Capracotta. The last of the Giardini, Alberto, had died just after the war, and was still well remembered in the town. In the 1890s he had served as an officer during the war in Abyssinia; but after the Italian defeat he had set off on a trek across Africa, more or less lost to the world for several years. Then one day a beggar had wound his way down the main street into Rocca Secca, his clothes in tatters, his face bearded and gaunt, and had done something which had caused the townspeople to stare in curiosity: he walked up to the
tomolo
in the centre of the square, a hollowed out stone of three compartments used to measure grain for rent and taxes, and dropped his pants to his knees to touch his bared buttocks to the stone. This gesture had a long tradition in Rocca Secca: it was the way in which a man who had exhausted all his resources might publicly declare bankruptcy. But it was only when the beggar pulled a latch key from around his neck and started up towards the estate on the edge of town that the townspeople realized he was Alberto de’ Giardini, returned finally home after his mysterious absence.
Giardini never explained his long absence to anyone, living the next several years as a recluse, seeing no one; though sometimes at twilight he’d appear suddenly in the town in full regalia, his medals pinned in an even row to his chest, and wander the streets like a ghost. Then, just after the first war, he began the project which was to occupy the rest of his days, remaking the grounds of his estate in the image of a primal paradise, importing tropical trees, flowers, shrubs and building a great conservatory to house them in winter, beginning next on the fauna, monkeys, gazelles, strange tropical birds, until he had turned his hill into a small piece of Africa, the air at night resounding with strange jungle sounds. At his death, because he had no heirs, Giardini’s estate reverted to the state, who kept itup briefly as a zoo; but there was little interest in our region for that sort of thing and the property soon fell into decay, the animals dying off, needed repairs neglected. The estate was abandoned now, the conservatory left to ruin, the lawns overgrown, the cages which had once housed the animals left to warp in the sun and rain and a great glass aviary which had been renowned once for its strange coloured birds now sprouting the limbs of trees which had been allowed to grow inside it unchecked. People in the town avoided the estate, as if a curse hung over it; and in the story of
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