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Authors: Michael Golding
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stirring the morning broth when she heard a pelting sound outside. When she opened her door she saw the fig tree in her front yard spewing the fruit from its branches while the startled birds swept down to peck their fill. Ugolino Ramponi had gone to chop some wood for his hearth when he felt a rumbling beneath his boots. Dropping to the ground, he held his arms tightly over his head, certain that the sea was about to suck the entire island up into its gullet; when the trembling stopped, and he opened his eyes, he found himself covered from head to toe with woodbine and narcissus and morning gentian, the smell so intoxicating that he could not stand up for half an hour. Siora Scabbri woke to cries from her henhouse; the sweet violence in the air so shook her fussy brood that she had to take them back to bed with her.
Maria Luigi and Fausto were just sitting down to some garlic and salt cod when the branches of a beechwood tree thrust in through the tiny window above their hearth. Gianluca was in bed with a girl from Pieve di Forna when the room began to shake so wildly, he thought he'd returned to his first ecstasy with Maria Patrizia Lunardi. Orsina and the three Marias were in their chambers preparing themselves for battle when the tapestries leapt from the walls, the torches lit up in their sconces, and the goose-feather pillows exploded into the air as if Judgment Day had come.
Giuseppe Navo and Gesmundo Barbon claimed they saw the entire thing from the lagoon. First there was a blurring, as if the island were moving at a faster speed, sailing through an empty summer, a stale autumn, and a barren, brittle winter before arriving at the richness of an inconceivable spring. There was a silence — which even the fish attended — followed by an explosion of color that shot across the sky: great streaks of grape and celandine, bold patches of wild vermilion, warm rivers of sapphire, indigo, amber, and primrose. It was like a beautiful woman shaking out her skirts to find a fleet of wild birds hidden in the folds. It was like a great wave of laughter rising up from the soil to drench the air with its vitality.
Valentina had gone into the front yard to use the cider press. She and Piarina had a soap delivery scheduled for later that afternoon, and it looked as if it were going to be a long, thirsty morning of sorting and stacking and trimming. As she reached the well she heard a strange ripping noise, followed by the leaves sprouting forth on the branches of the trees. When she saw this she ran back into the hovel, slammed the door, and woke Piarina.
“Jesus Lord,” she said in a hushed voice. “You won't believe what's happening out there!”
But Piarina knew. From the moment she'd taken the taper from the Chiesa di Maria del Mare, she'd seen the entire process laid out before her. She only hoped Ermenegilda would be happy — and that she'd done no harm in tampering with Nature's plan.
Chapter 5
J UST BEYOND THE WALL that surrounded the Torta garden ran a slender canal. Every year, as the weather grew warmer, Ermenegilda would wade in its soothing green water. At the inside corner of the wall stood a great wisteria, which sent its lacy fingers out over her as she bobbed on the surface; on the opposite shore stood a sproutling from that tree whose smaller branches reached back toward the first. For as long as she could remember, as each spring had brought its sudden perfume and its brief flash of violet, Ermenegilda had thought of those trees as herself and Albertino: billowing and timid, yearning toward contact, separated only by a slim boundary of water. She had always believed that when the branches finally met, forming a natural trellis over the clear canal, she and her beloved would be one. Now, however, as she sank into the canal with the first dip of the delayed spring, that union had come and gone — and Ermenegilda wished nothing more than to yank the wisteria out by its roots.
Ermenegilda was angry. It was
Maria Luigi and Fausto were just sitting down to some garlic and salt cod when the branches of a beechwood tree thrust in through the tiny window above their hearth. Gianluca was in bed with a girl from Pieve di Forna when the room began to shake so wildly, he thought he'd returned to his first ecstasy with Maria Patrizia Lunardi. Orsina and the three Marias were in their chambers preparing themselves for battle when the tapestries leapt from the walls, the torches lit up in their sconces, and the goose-feather pillows exploded into the air as if Judgment Day had come.
Giuseppe Navo and Gesmundo Barbon claimed they saw the entire thing from the lagoon. First there was a blurring, as if the island were moving at a faster speed, sailing through an empty summer, a stale autumn, and a barren, brittle winter before arriving at the richness of an inconceivable spring. There was a silence — which even the fish attended — followed by an explosion of color that shot across the sky: great streaks of grape and celandine, bold patches of wild vermilion, warm rivers of sapphire, indigo, amber, and primrose. It was like a beautiful woman shaking out her skirts to find a fleet of wild birds hidden in the folds. It was like a great wave of laughter rising up from the soil to drench the air with its vitality.
Valentina had gone into the front yard to use the cider press. She and Piarina had a soap delivery scheduled for later that afternoon, and it looked as if it were going to be a long, thirsty morning of sorting and stacking and trimming. As she reached the well she heard a strange ripping noise, followed by the leaves sprouting forth on the branches of the trees. When she saw this she ran back into the hovel, slammed the door, and woke Piarina.
“Jesus Lord,” she said in a hushed voice. “You won't believe what's happening out there!”
But Piarina knew. From the moment she'd taken the taper from the Chiesa di Maria del Mare, she'd seen the entire process laid out before her. She only hoped Ermenegilda would be happy — and that she'd done no harm in tampering with Nature's plan.
Chapter 5
J UST BEYOND THE WALL that surrounded the Torta garden ran a slender canal. Every year, as the weather grew warmer, Ermenegilda would wade in its soothing green water. At the inside corner of the wall stood a great wisteria, which sent its lacy fingers out over her as she bobbed on the surface; on the opposite shore stood a sproutling from that tree whose smaller branches reached back toward the first. For as long as she could remember, as each spring had brought its sudden perfume and its brief flash of violet, Ermenegilda had thought of those trees as herself and Albertino: billowing and timid, yearning toward contact, separated only by a slim boundary of water. She had always believed that when the branches finally met, forming a natural trellis over the clear canal, she and her beloved would be one. Now, however, as she sank into the canal with the first dip of the delayed spring, that union had come and gone — and Ermenegilda wished nothing more than to yank the wisteria out by its roots.
Ermenegilda was angry. It was
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