The Long Shadow Of A Dream. Roberta Mezzabarba
he released the sail. Past the little peninsula where the centre of the town was, Greta saw in front of her, beyond the water gently rippled by the afternoon breeze, the town of Montefiascone, perched on a litte hill, towered by the big dome of S. Margherita’s church: she was looking around. Her eyes were looking at the lake coast, lingering on Bolsena first, to continue then towards Gradoli and Grotte di Castro where the sky, in the distance, seemed to be covered with clouds which were white and fluffy like whipped cream, which were thinning out as far as Valentano, which seemed to pierce the blue sky with its two towers.
Greta felt embarrassed.
She was embarrassed with that silence that she wished was full of thousand words.
Ernesto spoke first.
«You know, Greta, today my father went back home after his fishing and he was furious: the current must have pushed the nets towards Fittura, and they tore while he was trying to pull them in. It was quite a bad morning.»
«Fittura?» Greta asked listening to her voice which was as if it was coming from someone else.
«We call Fittura some sort of a fence under water. I heard that it is made of a lot of wooden poles cut to size with the saw and stuck into the bottom of the lake with a mallet. Some scholars presumed that they could be what was left of a lake village. However this theory did not prove right because looking at Fittura more carefully, you could see that it was built on just one line and at the edge of a landslide. It is plausible then to think that it was conceived and built to support a bank.»
«To support a bank under water? What was that for? How could they use a mallet being so deep?»
That sense of uneasiness that there was between the two of them had disappeared quickly without leaving any trace.
«For sure when Fittura was built, the level of the lake was by far lower that the current one and then I think that Fittura, like many other things that are and will remain at the bottom of the lake, should be wrapped around an aura of mystery.»
The boat was getting closer to the Martana island. The water was quite rough and Ernesto focused on the oars and on the movements associated with that.
Unlike the Bisentina island, the Martana island did not have a little harbour but you could have access to it through a little beach with some dark and coarse sand. Greta was esthatic looking at all the overflowing vegetation coming from everywhere while Ernesto secured the boat to one of the many trees which were all around the shore.
A green lawn surrounded by myriads of large poplars and centuries-old olive trees gave them a nice welcome. In silence Ernesto led Greta to the cliff. Immediately to the right, as soon as the slope began, their eyes glimpsed at the few remains of the Church of the Magdalene: a few pieces were enough to show Greta the beauty that the church must have once had before being destroyed and lying on the ground of the island. Going further uphill, they suddenly passed from the grassy path dotted with large plants of prickly pears and giant agaves to a series of steps carved into the rock, unequal, corroded, broken: that was called the Staircase of the Strongholds. They continued to climb one after the other, talking softly to each other, until they saw a furrow in front of them, almost a wound in the living rock where one day, explained Ernesto, the drawbridge used to be lowered.
«I heard people saying that the first set of walls that enclosed the mountain was supposed to be here. Today only a few square stones are left. Probably the missing pieces were used to make new buildings, including probably the church of the Madonna del Monte, in Marta .»
They walked along, without stopping, beyond the gash of the drawbridge. The broken up steps alternated with the unstable ground. Greta lost her balance, perhaps she put her foot in the wrong place or because of her constantly turning to look around. Ernesto was ready to grab her before she fell. They remained motionless for a few moments, without breathing, then without saying a word he took her hand in his, and they continued walking one beside the other, as if falling together could be somehow more pleasant. Greta followed Ernesto, staring at the strong hand gently holding hers: she imagined that he was carrying her to safety, but she could not understand from what. They continued going uphill as far as a small hollow in the boulder on their right: the vegetation completely enveloped the arch dug into the rock as if to hide it from prying eyes.
«Greta, this is the entrance to a tunnel that goes down to the shores of the lake.»
In saying this, Ernesto began to make his way among the luxuriant plants that were hanging from the ceiling like so many arms outstretched towards them. He lit a torch to shed some light in the darkness a little, allowing Greta to see the worn out steps where she was putting her feet. The entrance to the tunnel was high and wide, however as it was going down into the bowels of the island it became increasingly narrow and tortuous. They were going down, hands in hands, but when they got down to the bottom, on the verge of going out, on account of the broken steps, and the rocks, which had fallen from the ceiling and the thick vegetation that grew on the site, they were forced to stop a few meters before reaching the lake. The water glistened in the holes, through the crevices of that blocked passage, with their iridescent flicker.
«We made all this effort to only be able to look through the rubble that prevents us from reaching the lake.»
Greta was annoyed and disappointed.
Ernesto let go of her hand, placed the torch he had held in his left hand until then on the ground, and turned to Greta, turning his back on the shimmer of the lake.
She was beautiful. The reflections of the water were playing on her face, among her red cheeks and the dark eyes made almost shining by those flashes. It all seemed so natural to him. He brought his lips to Greta's small and fleshy ones and kissed her. It tasted of rose petals.
She was shocked, but did not withdraw from that unexpected contact: she felt Ernesto's hands caressing her cheeks, her neck, going down on her shoulders and sliding down to her hands, loose along her hips, then, while he was holding them, he saw tears on her face that she quickly managed to dry with the palm of one hand.
The spell was broken, the mystry was dispelled. Greta was once again caught in her feelings.
Ernesto looked at her. He looked at those tearful eyes without finding the strength to ask her what was wrong ...
«I didn't mean to scare you, Greta, sorry, but he was stronger than me... you're so beautiful.»
«No, Ernesto, it's not your fault... it's me... » Greta kept her eyes down « ... I am wrong.»
«Why do you say this? You are a very sweet girl, why are you making these far-fetched accusations?
«No, you would never understand ... let's forget everything and go back to the sunlight. Let's pretend that nothing happened.»
Greta was pleading with Ernesto to stifle that feeling that had now got hold of him. Even if he wanted to, now it would be useless and painful to forget everything.
«I'm sorry, but I can't, I wouldn't be able to. I'd rather you asked asked me to stop breathing. Greta don't run away, let me ... let me love you ... we are so similar ... don't deprive yourself of what we both want .»
In saying this Ernesto had gently lifted the girl's face.
«I can't, I don't want you to suffer for me, Ernesto.
Try to understand me! »
Greta's voice had become a whisper.
Meanwhile, the sun, reflecting on the lake, continued its flashing games which lit up the cave.
«Do you feel what I feel too? Don’t you? »
Greta did not reply, she was just staring at Ernesto's eyes which were desperately searching for positive hint.
«Greta ... do you love me? »
At those words something seemed to stir up the girl. She was sobbing her heart out. He freed her hands from Ernesto's to cover up her face again flooded with tears.
«Greta… »
«Of