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Authors: Beatrice Masini
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like we need the sun. It’s the other side of the coin, the
splinter of darkness we carry with us, wedged into our hearts.
She sighs and picks up a pencil and begins to draw. She draws the fried egg in the sky, the profile of a sycamore, a star like a
tiny kiss of light. This much she can do. And this she will continue to do.
The feast day of San Giovanni is a small but important tradition in the household. Friends from the city visit on the way to their own summer retreats in the countryside in a
kind of farewell until October. It is an opportunity to show off the estate and prove that some things never change. Bianca learns about the feast only during the commotion of the preparations,
from the servants’ incomprehensible, fractured sentences; from the contrasting expressions of Don Titta and his mother, who is reassured by the agitation and shouts orders left and right like
a captain from the bridge. Don Titta confirms his own place by retreating into his chambers. When his opinion is needed about the menu, the flowers or the music, he raises his eyes to the sky and
purses his lips as though to hold back any impertinence.
St John’s Wort is in bloom during the period of the feast. Bianca has an idea, voices it, and it is approved. Her role is to prepare dozens of
boutonnières
: a cluster of
the little yellow flowers bound in ivy shoots. She sends out troops of children to search for the smallest ivy –
only the ends of the branches
,
about this long
,
no more
than that
,
be careful not to cut yourselves
,
don’t run with scissors in your hand
, and so on. Despite Nanny’s worrying and the devastating pruning job, the
mission is completed. When the ladies and gentlemen arrive, the children present them with these
boutonnières
, sprayed with water to appear fresh, from two trays in the foyer. The
guests, of course, remark on the children’s growth before pinning the gifts to their chests.
‘Oh, how big you’ve got, Giulietta. You look like a young lady.’
‘And is this Enrico? He looks like his grandmother. What a beautiful boy.’
Nanny watches the children from behind a pillar, ready to sweep up her prey as soon as the last guests make their entrance. The gates close, keeping out the local peasants, who are travelling to
their own festival in the village piazza, and who stop to watch the arrivals. They hang onto the gate and spy for a while on the gentlefolk and their painted carriages, neatly assembled along the
gravel drive like a collection of exotic insects.
‘See that one? That means Berlingieri is here, too. That light blue and black carriage is from Poma. Can you see the family crest on its door?’
Bianca watches the townspeople and listens to their voices, the rise and fall of their strange dialect, so difficult to understand. Once the soirée here is over, Pia and Minna will head
to the festival in town. They have been talking about it for days. They will let their hair down and dance like lunatics, they say. Whether it is her wild streak or simply her impetuousness, Bianca
knows that eventually her feet will lead her there too. The urge is irresistible. But not yet. The evening is about to commence. She greets the guests and leads them towards the refreshments,
illuminated by a fringe of lanterns.
La Farfalla
is Don Titta’s most recent and well-known literary work. It is so popular that even Bianca has heard of it. The master of the house recites some
appropriate verses, even as moths flit about them rather than the butterfly of the title. When he concludes, he bows and basks in the applause.
‘You’ve given us all a little flutter of excitement, Titta!’ says a beautiful lady in pale rose, causing her friends to laugh.
‘You must have swallowed a Lepidoptera,’ he answers back.
‘Oh, how horrid! You’re a Lepidoptera.’ More laughter follows.
‘Unfortunately, dear Adele, the butterfly is a female.’
‘Well, next time write about dogs then,’ says Young
splinter of darkness we carry with us, wedged into our hearts.
She sighs and picks up a pencil and begins to draw. She draws the fried egg in the sky, the profile of a sycamore, a star like a
tiny kiss of light. This much she can do. And this she will continue to do.
The feast day of San Giovanni is a small but important tradition in the household. Friends from the city visit on the way to their own summer retreats in the countryside in a
kind of farewell until October. It is an opportunity to show off the estate and prove that some things never change. Bianca learns about the feast only during the commotion of the preparations,
from the servants’ incomprehensible, fractured sentences; from the contrasting expressions of Don Titta and his mother, who is reassured by the agitation and shouts orders left and right like
a captain from the bridge. Don Titta confirms his own place by retreating into his chambers. When his opinion is needed about the menu, the flowers or the music, he raises his eyes to the sky and
purses his lips as though to hold back any impertinence.
St John’s Wort is in bloom during the period of the feast. Bianca has an idea, voices it, and it is approved. Her role is to prepare dozens of
boutonnières
: a cluster of
the little yellow flowers bound in ivy shoots. She sends out troops of children to search for the smallest ivy –
only the ends of the branches
,
about this long
,
no more
than that
,
be careful not to cut yourselves
,
don’t run with scissors in your hand
, and so on. Despite Nanny’s worrying and the devastating pruning job, the
mission is completed. When the ladies and gentlemen arrive, the children present them with these
boutonnières
, sprayed with water to appear fresh, from two trays in the foyer. The
guests, of course, remark on the children’s growth before pinning the gifts to their chests.
‘Oh, how big you’ve got, Giulietta. You look like a young lady.’
‘And is this Enrico? He looks like his grandmother. What a beautiful boy.’
Nanny watches the children from behind a pillar, ready to sweep up her prey as soon as the last guests make their entrance. The gates close, keeping out the local peasants, who are travelling to
their own festival in the village piazza, and who stop to watch the arrivals. They hang onto the gate and spy for a while on the gentlefolk and their painted carriages, neatly assembled along the
gravel drive like a collection of exotic insects.
‘See that one? That means Berlingieri is here, too. That light blue and black carriage is from Poma. Can you see the family crest on its door?’
Bianca watches the townspeople and listens to their voices, the rise and fall of their strange dialect, so difficult to understand. Once the soirée here is over, Pia and Minna will head
to the festival in town. They have been talking about it for days. They will let their hair down and dance like lunatics, they say. Whether it is her wild streak or simply her impetuousness, Bianca
knows that eventually her feet will lead her there too. The urge is irresistible. But not yet. The evening is about to commence. She greets the guests and leads them towards the refreshments,
illuminated by a fringe of lanterns.
La Farfalla
is Don Titta’s most recent and well-known literary work. It is so popular that even Bianca has heard of it. The master of the house recites some
appropriate verses, even as moths flit about them rather than the butterfly of the title. When he concludes, he bows and basks in the applause.
‘You’ve given us all a little flutter of excitement, Titta!’ says a beautiful lady in pale rose, causing her friends to laugh.
‘You must have swallowed a Lepidoptera,’ he answers back.
‘Oh, how horrid! You’re a Lepidoptera.’ More laughter follows.
‘Unfortunately, dear Adele, the butterfly is a female.’
‘Well, next time write about dogs then,’ says Young
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