| View Blog
|
|
|
|
The letter, in its rich, heavy, vellum envelope arrives at my apartment out of the blue. It reminds me of such invitations as I have received to cultural events like gallery openings and the like, but the Italian postage reveals it to be something quite different. I carefully slit the top of the envelope with my pen-knife and allow the neatly folded letter to slide out into my palm. Opening it, I am certain that this is like no other letter I had ever received and I sit down to study it carefully in the bright morning light of my kitchen.
The page is embossed at the top with a coat-of-arms and I can see in the reflected light that the same emblem appears in the water-mark of the page. It is custom made stationary of a kind rarely seen today. Looking at the motto I see the Latin words ‘Fortis Esercitum Angelii Repellunt’: Strength to Repel an Army of Angels. A strange motto, indeed.
The letter itself seems to be something out of the past; the writing, with it’s flourishes and curlicues in a light female hand, is more appropriate to some dusty archive than a modern letter. It begins, ‘Carissimo Cugino lontano’: Dear distant cousin; and as I read, frustrating myself with the state of my Italian, I realise that the sender is Costanza de’Neri, a cousin of mine, from which my line of the family was separated possibly since the time of my great-grandmother, who was also de’Neri.
In the letter, with exalted language and pleading tone, she begs me to come to Italy to assist in resolving a hereditary issue dealing with the ancient family estate and holdings.
How can I resist a trip to Italy?
The next week is a whirlwind of activity. I inform my colleagues at our small publishing house that I will take a short leave. I rush through all of the pending manuscripts and distribute what I can, rejecting the rest, as we are want to do. I book a flight to Pisa, buy sufficient Euro for the duration of my stay and make arrangements for my apartment to be taken care of. I also send a priority letter, in broken and ineffectual Italian, to Costanza telling her the date of my arrival. On the afternoon of my departure to Italy, exhausted but excited by the prospect of the journey, I quickly pack the necessities of my trip and then call for a limousine to the airport.
By early afternoon the next day, I am happily driving an ancient, rented Citroën into the hills of the Chianti region north of Florence, near a town called Gaiole in Chianti. I stop once to ask directions, and the old man at the side of the road draws a crooked finger across my map showing me the correct country roads to follow to an area called Paese dell’Ombra where I will find the de’Neri estate.
The countryside of the Chianti region is justifiably famous for its beauty. Even in this grey mid-winter, the scenery is alive with colour and scents and life. The taller hills are heavily wooded and the passing clouds cast alternating light and shadow over the deep green of the pines. In the flatter areas, the winter wheat is an undulating wave of pale yellow. I pass a meadow of bight green alfalfa and am in time to see two small, dun-coloured, European deer bounding out of sight. Here and there I catch a glimpse of the ochre hued walls of some house.
A short time later, I pull to an idling stop in front of a tall, rusted, wrought iron gate which stands open. In the ironwork arching over the top, I read ‘de’Neri’ and know I have reached my destination.
It is like entering a different world as I make my way up the winding drive in low gear. The picturesque landscape that so recently stirred my senses, here seems banished and I find myself instead thrown into perpetual shadow by towering cypresses. I am tempted to turn on the car’s headlamps in the gloom. Without warning, the drive widens and I am in a broad clearing in front of the ancient estate.
I do not know how it is that a building, a simple structure of stone, whether as grandiose as this one or much simpler, can give such a impression of time stopped; like time held in the palm of a closed fist and never released. It is a sense of a continuity with the past which though does not quite arrive to the present of here and now. It is a sense of ancient things brooding, or yet, waiting with infinite patience in darkened recesses and unlit rooms. It is as unsettling and thrilling as a mystery waiting to be discovered.
I am before a large house of mid to late 18th construction in that typical, rational and severe style. Two more cypresses flank the entrance throwing it into darkness. I shoulder my travel back from the boot of the car, all the while gazing about me at the estate and the subtle signs of age and decadence which it reveals. I enter the darkness of the entry arch and almost stumble into a woman who has apparently been lingering there.
“You are Eric,” she says to me and it is not a question. I nod, assenting and still surprised by her sudden appearance in the darkness.
“I am Costanza De’Neri, you are most very welcome, dear cousin.” Her speech flows out of her mouth formally, heavily accented and with a strange lisp as though her teeth are too big for her mouth. I look at her and am taken aback by the strange beauty of this tall dark woman before me. I might be looking at a Renaissance portrait of some Tuscan beauty. Her eyes are extremely dark, almost black, liquid and oddly immobile, seeming to look through me rather than at me. The dark eyes are in stark contrast to the flawless, painted whiteness of her skin which seems to glow in the shadowed space. She is covered entirely in long black gown and a richly made silk shawl is wrapped over the top of her head and around her neck. I can tell from the cut of the gown that she has a tall, thin build similar to my own.
“Please, dear cousin,” she says and again I notice the strange formation of the words, “you will to follow, please.”
The massive entrance door swings open at her touch and we enter a long dark corridor which seems to stretch on forever. I am immediately enveloped by the feeling of time stopped which I had only sensed vaguely from outside the building. Everything that my eye lights upon seems be drawn from a museum or a period set for a film. The focus of this atrium is a massively constructed and carved white marble table. On the side visible to me I recognise the family emblem which has been carved and inlaid with red and black marble. The piece is astounding and probably dates from the early 1600’s. Atop the table, in a simple wooden stand flanked by unlit candles is the very Renaissance portrait I had imagined. Except this long dead woman is the image of the living woman before me.
“But this likeness is…” I begin to say and then trail off as her liquid eyes move from me to the portrait.
“This woman is Allessandra De’Neri, she is born in 1523,” recites Costanza from memory as though giving a tourist visit. “Yes, this is very ancient family and very close. You are right, dear cousin, I am much like her, no? Yes, very much.”
“I am sorry, dear cousin, but I must to do business for some hours, and so I must leave you. In the library,” and here she extends a thin, white hand in the direction of a closed door, “you will find much to entertain you and some refreshment. I will join you after the night will come and we must to speak of many things.” With that said and a slight bow, she turns and disappears silently down the hallway with her black gown whispering around her feet.
----------
Please read Return (II) here.
This is part one of a story that I started some time ago but now it seems to be resolving itself. I hope you like it, and I should have part two ready very shortly. Cheers! :)
|
|
|
|
| |
|
|
| Blog Comments
|
|
|
|
This is fantastic, you have such a way with words, i wish i had a small portion of your tallent....on to part two i go ....
xxxx
|
|
Posted by missmarie
on 2008-02-07 06:42:49
|
|
|
|
You are such a romantic.
I love the elegance of this.
Very nice work Stickman.
|
|
Posted by DifficultSoul
on 2008-02-11 11:23:40
|
|
|
|
wow...
first, l love the description of this. that's always something l've had trouble with myself, and in this l can see nearly every image you've used.
once or twice near the end l found myself stumbling - l think cus it's a longer piece than what l'm used to, and there seemed a few extra words in the 2nd last paragraph - but overall quite excellent. the details stand out beautifully (did l say that already?)
the foreshadowing of the dead woman's portrait was...intriguing - first thought, obviously, was that of a vampire or the like, but l'm curious to see if you'll expand on that in the next piece. good job so far though. :)
~fishes
|
|
Posted by Fishy
on 2008-02-18 13:01:42
|
|
|
|
|
|
| Views: 98
Email This to a Friend 
