The Violin Player

Semi-biographical story

When as a child I asked why my grand-parents were always on the move, I would only get quick, broken sentences. It wasn’t until recently that I was told this amazing story:

 On that Sunday Giacomo got up when the sky was still dark. He pushed open the wooden shutters of his bedroom and looked out into the night. The stars were flickering over the sloped roofs of the still village. Orion was the brightest of all and to the east Sagittarius was drawing his bow aiming to shoot an arrow into the blackness. In that instant of profound beauty, when the world seemed to hold its breath, Giacomo felt a strange emotion washing over him as if something was missing in his life.

   Twenty-five years of age, he had lived and worked as a carpenter in Santa Maria di Sala, a little farming village set at the centre of the Venetian countryside, since he had left the orphanage almost ten years before. Now it was 1963 and he found it still hard to believe that he had managed to build for himself a reputation among the villagers as a trustworthy, hard-working man.  

   Gazing at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, he shaved, combed his moustache and brushed back his dark, wavy hair rubbing it with a few drops of olive oil to make it shine. He frowned a little, thinking back to those long years spent inside the tall stone building up in the mountains. There was so little time for playing and he had often felt lonely despite the fact he was among a lot of other boys.

   Yet, in that boarding school his small hands had grown strong and skilled. The monks had taught him how to cut and shape the wood and then to create beautiful crafted pieces for people to furnish their homes with. The endless chilly winter nights were filled with the mellow tunes of the violin that old Father Basilio had taught him to play. He looked down at his big, capable hands. No matter how heavily he rubbed his fingernails, they would be rimmed with black polish and glue forever.    

   Back in the bedroom, he picked up the black violin case, put it over his shoulder and walked out into the cool autumn breeze. As he headed for the mountains in his round-topped Fiat Topolino, the villages on both sides of the road slowly began to wake up. By the time he reached the alpine village of Belmonte, with its characteristic barns of stone and wood, the sun was lighting up the soaring peaks of the Dolomites with a rosy glow.

   Giacomo smiled as his powerful voice rolled out of the car window striking up an aria:

                                        La donna è mobile, qual piuma al vento...

 At once he was filled with excitement and a kind of expectation. He was still a bachelor, he mused, and that was rather unusual. Most men at his age had already settled down, with a wife and a couple of kids running around the house. Will he ever meet his soul mate? Maybe a pretty but flighty woman, like the one in Verdi’s Rigoletto...?

    After parking the car at the edge of the road, he started climbing up the mountain path, his pace steady and safe – the violin case swinging across his back. He had hiked for almost an hour across the open green valleys of Val di Fassa -barely meeting anyone- when the impressive silhouettes of the red fir trees emerged on the skyline. He stopped, his heart pounding with emotion. He felt like an arrow that had reached its target: the Forest of the Violins stood dramatically in front of him, like a stage from behind a curtain.

    He made his way further into the thick woodland, where the long shadows of the trees were dancing with the sun light and the cool autumn breeze carried in a whiff of moss and resin. Then he sat cross-legged against the trunk of a large fir tree, on a wide carpet of pine needles. Holding the violin under his chin, Giacomo lifted the bow and, his lids resting, he began to play his favourite piece, Albinoni’s Adagio.

   As his fingers lightly moved across the strings, a wave of melodious notes flowed from the instrument into the air. The music gradually expanded reaching its highest intensity and he felt the core of the old fir tree slightly vibrate against his back. Soon it was as if the music was bouncing from tree to tree till the whole forest was resonating with a single voice.

   Giacomo was so taken away by his inspiration and exciting feelings that he hardly became aware of a sudden draft whirling around him. He opened his eyes and there she was: light and airy, her feet and arms moving gently in harmony with his tune. A young girl, probably sixteen he reckoned, with a long fluttering skirt and a fringed red shawl around her shoulders. She was so gracious and her face so radiant that she looked almost surreal.

   “Ciao, where do you come from?” Giacomo asked in a soft voice, fearing she might disappear.

   She stopped and lifted her eyes, “Ciao, my name is Esther and I come from where the sun rises.” She spoke Italian with a slightly foreign accent.

   “I’m not sure I understand...” said Giacomo mesmerized by her big, almond-shaped eyes that seemed to smile.

   “I am Romany,” she went on. “My people follow the stars and live on wheels. We are camped at the edge of the forest. Why are you playing alone among the trees?”

   It was then that Giacomo noticed her dark complexion and the long, dark ringlets dropping loosely around her shoulders. Her smile was broad and spontaneous, her lips full and the rhythmic way she moved her sensual body reminded him of the zingarelle, the gypsies in the Aida that he had recently seen in the theatre in Venice.

   His face broke into a smile from beneath his moustache. “My name is Giacomo,” he said. Then he patted the ground, “Come, I’d love to tell you a story.”

   Esther sat down under the large fir tree next to him. She smelled of grass and honey.

   “Many, many years ago,” Giacomo started, “a man called Stradivari would wander around this forest on an autumn day until he chose his favourite fir tree. It had to be tall and hundreds of years old. Like this one, he said, patting the thick bark of the tree.”

   “How amazing,” said Esther with a startled expression on her face.

   Giacomo realised that she was hooked and so he went on.

   “The man had found out that in the autumn months, when the sap stops running inside the trunk of the red fir tree, its wood becomes a natural sound box. He started to carve his own violins out of these trees and he became a famous violin maker. Since then this woodland has been known as the Foresta dei Violini.”

   “Oh, I see. And are you going to build a violin out of this tree?”

   “Si, one day I will. Do you like my music?”

   “Si,” said Esther. “When your violin plays, it speaks to Baxt, the soul inside the trees, and the forest starts singing and dancing. We do the same. In the evenings we like to gather around the open fire and while the old tell their stories, the men play their guitars and violins. We sing and dance and the creatures of the night come out of the trees to dance with us...”

   Then Esther took his right hand in hers and began stroking the thick veins, the firm knuckles and the work-hardened skin on his fingers.

 “I can see that you work with polish and glue; and your hands carve and shape the souls of the wood.”

   Giacomo’s eyes smiled as he nodded. Esther now was concentrating on the deep lines across his palm. Her forefront frowned and she shook her head.

   “Uhm... your heart line tells me you are a lonely man and from your life line I can see ... I can see sadness in your past and ...”

   “That’s true,” interrupted Giacomo with sudden emotion in his voice. “My parents died in the bombing during the war and I was raised by the monks in an orphanage not far from here.” Then he smiled. The last thing he wanted was to break the spell of the moment with some sad recollection about his past.

   It all seemed so peaceful and still inside the forest that Giacomo now realised he had completely lost track of time. All of a sudden he felt everything was moving very quickly and he had to take his decisions rapidly.

   “Can I see you again?” he then asked.

   But Esther stood up and gently smoothed her skirt. Her dark eyes became intent.

   “I have to go back to my caravan now,” she said almost reluctantly. Then, in a soft voice, she began to explain to him that her father and people would soon be restless again, and they would be moving yet again to another village and then another place...”

   Giacomo saw that a few sunrays streaming through the gaps of the thick vegetation were lighting Esther’s body with a golden glow. He looked into her eyes, his voice slightly trembling.

   “Would you rather like to come with me? May be you can stop travelling and we can start a new life together.” 

   As his words faded into silence he glimpsed a hint of melancholy in her face.

   “If I run away with you, I’ll bring shame to my family and people. I’ll never be able to go back again.”

   Giacomo’s voice trembled as he whispered, “I’ll take care of you. I’ve finally found that which I felt was missing within me.”

   Esther’s big eyes moved from beneath her thick eyebrows as she reflected. She was absolutely free to do as she pleased, Giacomo said to her tenderly. Yet, he would like to have a talk with her father and family to reassure them that there was nothing to fear. He would look after her from now on.

   There was a moment of stillness when the whole forest seemed to wait for Esther’s decision.

   “I’ll come with you only on one condition,’ she said, ‘that every twelve months, when the moon is full and Sagittarius is the brightest in the sky, drawing his bow and ready to shoot his arrow against the night, we will then move to a new place.”

The revelation has filled my own life with a desire for adventure and the almost uncontrollable urge to see distant, unknown places ever since.

 
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Guest Post: Alexia from Greece

Childhood in Greece – holiday memories

Anavisos 

One of the first places we went on holiday as a family was Anavisos, in the southeast of Attica, about thirty kilometers from Athens.  We went there when we my sister and I were very young children, back in the late sixties to early seventies.  Anavisos was fairly rural then. 

We stayed in a room, part of a small bungalow that probably had ten to twelve rooms in total.  There was no way of knowing that it was there, a white bungalow, with gravel all around, raised flower beds with red and pink pelargoniums and, further on, land which had been planted with pistachio trees. 

Everybody seemed to know everyone, because they were mostly relatives of the owners or friends so we all spent time together.  Because of my young age, I do not remember much detail but I do remember the gravel because I fell and hurt my knee, cutting the skin open, blood everywhere.  I still have a mark on my knee from that fall.  And I also remember my dad finding a scorpion inside his shoe.

In those days, there were many mosquitoes in the evenings.  The doors to the rooms had netting supported by a wooden frame to stop them from coming in.  We never left lights on inside for very long, at least when the door or shutters were open because they attracted all kinds of insects.  In the night, we used a ‘fidaki’ (little snake), a green spiral insect repellent, supported on a metal base.  We would place it on a small teracotta plate on the floor and light it with a matchstick.  It would burn slowly throughout the night falling on the plate bit by bit but keeping its original shape, so there would be a small grey spiral of ashes on it in the morning. 

There was a covered porch area all around the building and all the rooms opened out onto it.  This is where we spent a lot of the time, taking shelter in the shade after our lunch or in the evening.  I have photographs and old film showing all the family and other visitors around a big table, talking, eating and drinking.  There are also shots of me blowing out the candles on my birthday cake and my sister getting constantly between me and the camera.

The area around the house was mostly open countryside, the type found in Greece, dry brown soil, stones and some trees here and there, best described by the words of the famous Nobel prize winner poet George Seferis, “… three rocks, a few burnt pine trees, and a deserted small church and further away, the same scenery, as if copied, starts again…”.  

The beach was nearby, only a short walk away, along a dirt track.  The area was so quiet, with hardly any cars going past, even on the main road running alongside the coast, that we, the children, were allowed to go for walks on our own, to the local ‘Evga’ to get some ice cream on a stick for two drachmas only.  The ‘rocket’ (ice cream in a cone) was a lot more expensive at three drachmas.  In Greece, Evga was the name for many corner shops selling milk, fresh cream custard and yoghurt, as well as other basic foodstuffs, like eggs.  The name belonged to one of the largest dairy producers in Greece.

Anavissos was famous for its ‘Alikes’, an area where they produced salt through the evaporation of sea water in large flat plains.  I am not sure whether the bungalow or the Alikes are still there.  The area is now built up, with modern blocks of holiday appartments, trendy hotels, shops, bars and tavernas.  It is so close to Athens that people can pop there for the day for a swim and a lunch or for a weekend break. 

But it is still nice, the beach clean, good food and lots of distractions for children and teenagers.  Sounio with the Ancient Temple is not much further. And, same as the whole side of that coast of Attica, it claims one of the best sunsets that you can ever experience.

Alexia from Greece

Listen to my Podcast in Greek: www.anotherdayinthegreek.podbean.com
 

High School in Venice in the 70s

My Steam Train from Bassano to Venice in 1974

 Published in Pontyclun News, March/April 2015, issue 25
With my friend Silvana, I travel by train every day. It’s a long trip: it starts in the dark of the mainland and ends at dawn in the oily glow of the Venice lagoon.

     In the train compartment I sit among the commuters, mainly workers on their way to the oil refineries at the docks in Portomarghera. Their faces are wrinkled, their hands knotted with thick veins. As they doze, cigarette ash dangles like grey worms from between their fingers. Nobody talks. Only the rattling of the old steam train. When it comes to a halt, we all troop out and vanish into the caligo, the Venice mist. I can feel its bitter breath.

     Commuters and vendors pack the narrow calli (streets). Silvana and I have to jostle our way through the stalls and the lazy tourists. Sometimes we get caught in the middle of protests. It’s when angry workers from the oil refineries storm here in their blue overalls. They sing the Internazionale, shake their fists and wave red flags. University students in jeans and green parkas stream in. They shout slogans. At times they fight one against the other, left against right, and then the riot cops in their metal helmets rush in. That’s when it really gets cool: stuck wherever you are and you can’t move.

     My school is an ancient building in the district of Sestiere Cannaregio, with a lovely marble facade. Yet, a glimpse at the dark shadows of the nearby Jewish ghetto gives me the creeps. As soon as I push open the solid school door, the darkness inside is overwhelming. For the first time I’m in a class of both boys and girls. I’m sitting in the third row on the left, next to Silvana. The warmth from her body doesn’t help to melt away the tension.

     ‘Today’s composition is: Write about an experience that changed your life.’ I flinch at the sound of the Italian teacher’s sharp voice. Miss C, as we call her, has a serious face with deep brown eyes and dark hair, cut short. When she is sitting high on her wooden chair in front of the class, she looks like a Doge in his Palace. She knows her role.

     Miss C is not a conventional teacher, though. There are rumours that she plays football with the dock workers in the evenings; that she is at the head of the new feminist movement in Venice and a Communist herself. She even has a Russian name, Vanya. The students love her. She scares me to death.

     Miss C is moving slowly between the desks. As she comes along, I’m conscious of the swishing of her thighs squeezed in a tight brown skirt. She gives me a quick flick of her eye and moves on. I bite my lip: my paper is still shamefully blank. Whenever I try to write, I shiver. My voice is as dry as the cornfields in the summer heat. I wonder why anybody would be bothered about what I think or feel. In my family I’m the youngest of nine. I’ve learnt to keep quiet.

     I turn slowly around. The heads of my classmates are bowed over their pens scratching on the rough paper. Silvana is among them. She writes beautifully; the Italian teacher adores her. However, she’s not as good as me at foreign languages. Our American-born English teacher, Mr. Smith, seems to like me. He is great fun: he wears red socks which have a big hole in them and has a clownish way of walking. Roberto mimics him behind his back. Next to Roberto sits Marina. Her dark shiny hair smells of lemon shampoo. This morning she was humming David Bowie’s Can you hear me, Major Tom? She has a lovely voice.

     Next to her sits Giuliana. Under her black apron (we all have to wear it), she wears shorts. She comes from the docks at Portomarghera and seems to know a great deal about boys. Francesco and Piero are sitting next to each other in the last row. Francesco, who like me comes from the countryside, wears a pair of old-fashioned knee breeches. Piero lives in Venice. He often makes a point on the difference between a Veneziano, a true descendant of the Serenissima Republic like him, and the rest of us coming from the terraferma.

     His brown eyes flicker and his white teeth gleam when he smiles. During the break in the school yard Piero sings Je t’aime mois non plus, hidden behind the chestnut tree because the song has been banned by the Catholic church. In the summer he chases after young foreign girls on holiday. Once, I overheard him saying ‘I don’t like thin girls like Twiggy. Laura is more my type.’

     ‘You, over there, you’d better show me that you are something more than a pretty face.’ I feel a catch in my throat. I keep my eyes down. Miss C’s words cut into me like knives. I know she thinks I’m a nonentity. A sudden blush reddens my cheeks and I want to cry out: No, I’m not a silly, empty-headed teenager. My fingers grab the pen. And I start writing:

The most important experience in my life was the sudden death of my father. My mother was left alone with nine children to support.

     Mum often messes up our names and dates of birth. Last month my birthday passed unnoticed. But she is no fool. She took two of her eldest children, Luisa and Matteo, out of school to help her run the shoe-shop, and then gave everyone else a role. I, the youngest, was to take my father’s place and sleep next to her, in the double-bed.

     At night my mother often sobs and yells at my father lamenting why he is resting peacefully in heaven with nothing to do all day, while she has to struggle every single minute down on earth, with no time left, not even for a prayer to God...

Decades later in my study in South Wales I look at the teenage girl framed in a Polaroid picture. I smile thinking of the day I got back my mark for that painful composition with Miss C’s comment written in red, ‘Yes, you barely passed.’ I never saw her again.  

 

 

 

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About my Childhood in Northern Italy

Published in Pontyclun News, November 2014, Issue 23

As a little girl of three, back in the late fifties, I would sleep with Mum and Dad in the master bedroom. My bed was the old cot that had previously held my elder brothers and sisters and it had a chalk frieze of Baby Jesus on the wall behind me. The other two bedrooms were smaller and set on either side of ours. These were respectively the girls’ and the boys’bedroom, which hosted my four sisters (Francesca, Luisa, Anna, Mariella) and four brothers (Giacomo, Matteo, Giorgio, Mario).

   I was the baby of the family; blonde curly hair and a smiling face, always chasing after my brothers and sisters and with a constant desire to please everyone. Mum spent most of the day helping Dad at the family shoe store and I longed for the moment she would open the door at the end of the day. She was not willing to play with me though; she would rather go around the house, check that everybody was in and start cooking. I would try to cheer her up and made every effort to catch her attention. She would just cast a half-smile at me and then go on with what she was doing.

    When the night came, the hustle and bustle of the house suddenly ceased. Dad would make sure that everyone was in their bed, then he and Mum would kneel down and sottovoce say a prayer to the Virgin Mary, asking her to keep an eye on their children. It was the time I loved the most: Mum would finally hold me wrapped in her arms, cuddling me tenderly, then snuggle me gently into my cot. In the dark of our bedroom I could hear Mum and Dad whispering and sharing secret moments, until I slowly fell asleep.

    In the morning, large cups of hot caffelatte and biscotti with jam were scattered on the kitchen table. After a quick breakfast my elder brothers and sisters would rush to school, Mum and Dad would leave for the shop while I was left at home with the nanny. Later on, when I went to primary school, Mum would stand at the front door smiling. I’m convinced that a nice smile in the morning, whatever troubles I’m facing, is a good start for my children, she used to say.

  
   On Sundays, after we had been to church– walking in pairs with me at the end between Mum and Dad - we would gather around the large dining table. Dad would ask each one of us to stand and say a special thank-you to God for the abundance of our food. He would bless us all and remind us of those who were not as fortunate as our family. Then he took his seat at the head of the table, Mum always next to him, and we all sat down and reached for the food spread out in the middle of the table.

    Dad had given us proper rules: we were not supposed to stand up until everybody had finished their meal and were not allowed to start the second course unless we had finished the first one. But to me the worst of all was that I couldn’t have a bite of any pastry unless I had completely finished the first and the second course, leaving both plates without any trace of leftovers. This was Dad’s way of orchestrating his many children, all young (only 11 years difference between my elder sister and me) and according to him in need of discipline.

  
   Soon I started longing for new clothes of my own, though I knew it was really asking for the moon. The dresses I wore were those discarded by my older sisters and you could see on the hem the signs of wear and the new material where it had been unfolded. However, at Carnival time in February, I could finally wear a brand new dress: a beautiful, long, fairy-like costume with a smooth glossy texture.

    The dress was donated by Uncle Mario, who lived in the States and whom we called L’Americano.He was my mother’s brother and apparently had made his fortune because Mum was very proud of him and was always holding him up as an example to Dad. It was the kind of dress I was only allowed to wear once a year for Venice Carnival parties when everybody would wear fancy dresses and a mask on their face. I enjoyed showing off to my friends and putting on a regal air. For once I felt special and thought I was Cinderella in her glass-coach going to the ball.

   When a few years later, just before Christmas, Dad died in a car accident, it was me who took his place in the big double-bed next to Mum.

                         

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