In The East. Maria Pia Oelker
they were a comfort to his little torments and juvenile pains.
"Is there a mysterious country beyond the mountains?" He had asked his father one day, when he had seen him rest and seeming a little more relaxed and helpful than usual.
His father had looked at him as if he saw him seriously only at that moment after two days of ignoring him and rejecting him, annoyed by his childhood weakness.
" Why do you want to know?”
" Because the sun and the moon always rise from there; now I know well that they are in the sky and not on earth, but ... "
His father was silent, though he continued to stare at him, as he jammed and blushed from the tip of his hair. He had begun to stutter, balancing from one foot to the other, then he was completely silent.
"Well? Go ahead," urged his father, impatiently, but also interested.
" I believe that such shining stars cannot but come from a world that is much more beautiful than the earth we know.”
" Who told you that they are stars?”
" My teacher, but my mother also says there is a heaven in the sky and that God lives there with all his angels and good souls. Then I don't understand how both things can be true. “
" What do you think about this?
" I have some thoughts, but I don't know ...”
"Come on, don't be afraid," his father encouraged him, smiling at last.
"I'm not afraid," he said proudly.
" Ah! Is it so? I'm happy. And then?”
" Perhaps the sky that my teacher describes when he talks to me about the sun and the other stars and the moon that revolves around the earth has nothing to do with the sky that my mother talks about. They are two different skies that have only one name in common. God and his angels must stand much higher and as we look at the sun from below, they observe it from above, facing the edge of the abyss. I therefore imagine the world they see, and we cannot because it is hidden from the mountains, must be wonderful, of gold and silver, where there are the colors of the rainbow and ... all the rest.”
" What do you mean? " asked his father more and more curious and amused.
" Well, the clouds, for example. Haven't you seen how many colors they can be? They are black like the night when there is a storm, white as wool when the sky is blue and warm, red, and purple and orange at sunset and pink in the morning. And then there's the wind with its own colors.”
" Really?! I don’t think so.”
" Yes, because the western wind smells of sea and rain and has the color of clear water and the north wind is cold and has the color of snow and ice of fountains, but that of the south is red with sand and hot.”
" Interesting. And that of the east?”
" I don't know, I haven't thought about it yet. It's hard to say because I can't imagine what lies beyond the mountains.”
" Yes. That's where we started. And I didn't answer your question.”
" No. Why didn't you?”
" Because I've never been in that country and I've only seen it in pictures of the ancient books.”
" Could I see those books?”
" Yes, there are many in the castle library.”
" But it's closed, and the teacher doesn't want me to go there.”
" I'll take you there when we get back.”
" Really?”
The prince’s eyes glowed with eager joy and his father told him:
" Come and shake my hand, as a man.”
But when he held the small hand, soft and trembling like a nestling, in his ones, so big and energetic, he had suddenly drawn him to him and hugged him tightly, choking him against his strong chest, which smelled of leather, sweat and fatigue.
The prince had clearly felt something inside him, perhaps a snare or an obstacle, which was coming apart and he didn't know whether to be happy or scared. He started crying, but then he was afraid his father would find him stupid and boring and deny him his attention and affection again. Then, he bit his lips to hold back the sobs.
The king was fully aware of it and had lulled him with almost maternal love until outburst had faded and his son was calmer again, overcoming the nervousness and the gloomy loneliness of a child who lived such a clustered and unusual life.
The king knew it, was aware of his marital and paternal selfishness, was aware of his faults, but also knew that he would never be able to act otherwise.
Many of his friends and advisors had brought it up to him several times, with due caution and with the fearful respect, as everyone was aware of his irascible and proud, sometimes even vindictive and violent temper, but he had not wanted to listen to them. Better yet: he had listened to them with sincere interest, without showing it; he had agreed with them more than once, but then he had never really succeeded in putting into practice the good intentions they suggested and that he thus set for himself.
His love was always possessive, violently possessive. He could never separate the two feelings. He knew how to be generous with his friends and subjects, courageous and daring in warlike enterprises, benevolent with his son, sweet and affectionate with his wife, but his every gesture and his every feeling were burdened by the shadow of an exaggerated sense of possession. His subjects, his friends, his lovers, his children, his wife: everything was his, and he didn't want to lose control of any of it at any time.
He was tormented by the idea that someday he might lose someone or something of his possession and be left poorer, more exposed, more alone.
In truth, the great and noble father of the prince was even weaker and more defenseless than his little son, who sobbed abandoned on his shoulder.
The child trusted those close to him: his mother, his housekeeper, his father. Perhaps, even the servants and the old gardener. He loved them and didn't need to own them to be happy.
For the king there had never been and there could never be a different love. For this reason, he held captive the very people who were dearest to him, and what to others might have seemed a real mental cruelty was for him his greatest expression of interest and love.
He did not miss anything; that is what he stated proudly and annoyed to those who pointed out to him that life could not be enjoyed entirely by being permanently closed between four walls, even if luxurious.
But it was almost painfully conscious that his wife and son lacked the truest and beautiful thing: freedom. To come and go, to meet new people, perhaps met by chance on the road, to do or not do what he thought was good and right for them.
And he felt more guilt towards his son, who was growing up like a greenhouse flower, than he did towards his delicate queen, who had freely accepted that kind of life, only for his sake. Perfect, splendid in his shape and minimal nuances of color, but without any scent, without that complex vitality that animates the flowers of the field and wild herbs, as well as certain children of the people, whom he had come to know and meet in his travels , during his long hunting days or in the properties he owned.
The prince was as beautiful and fragile as a jewel, his delicate features like those of his mother, his young legs long and slender like those of a purebred colt, his hands still small but strong and elegant. The eyes alone, dark and deep, so strange and disturbing in their exuberant rebel force in that clear childish face showed that he had inherited something from his father’s character, despite all the possible interventions, the continuous "attempts" to counterbalance it, shape it, smooth it. He was to be educated according to the firm and precise suggestions of the king.
He fully understood it now and was not entirely sorry. In fact, he had to admit that he was proud of it.
" I should talk about it with his teacher, but I won't. By God, I'm