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- Herausgeber: Youcanprint
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
Avvincente rimanzo ambientato in Puglia con sullo sfondo alcuni degli avvenimenti storico politici contemporanei, dal G8 di Genvoa alla resistenza italiana, dalla lotta del popolo curdo alla guerra civile spagnola. La Puglia si presenta nella sua bellezza artistica e naturale ma anche nella sua realta' sociale, dalla lotta contro lo sradicamento degli ulivi all'opposizione al progetto del gasdotto proveniente dall'Azerbaijan. Il popolo resiste e lotta, protagoniste le donne che, per cambiare il mondo, decidono di cambiare prima se stesse. Donne femministe, antisistema, donne simbolo per altre donne. Donne che, attingendo dal passato, guardano al futuro; donne che ci abbracciano, ci sorridono e ci stimolano a cambiare tutto, anche la nostra vita.
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Table of Contents
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Isabella Lorusso
THE SORCERESS
Youcanprint
A special thanks to Andrew Hillyard who corrected the text and to
Valentina Legnani of traduzioni.eu, the official translator of this book
Title | The Sorceress
Author | Isabella Lorusso
ISBN | 9788831611862
Youcanprint Via Marco Biagi 6, 73100 Lecce
www.youcanprint.it
The sorceress did not know that my kisses were like eyes which began
to open up beyond her, and that I went along outside
as If I saw a different concept of the world,
the dizzy pilot of a black prow which cut
the water of time and negated it.
Julio Cortazar – Rayuela.
The book that you are holding in your hands is my first attempt at third-person narration. Every reference to facts and people are purely coincidental, although my personal experiences from Apulia to Latin America and other parts of the world can be easily distinguished in the background. I’ve always considered travelling a way to make my dreams come true; someone asked me if I was escaping from someone or something, but I could not give any answer; I rather asked myself what would have happened to me if I had lived in another place or in another age. But this is my life and I want to grip it tightly.
For some people, gripping life means remaining in the place where they were born. For me, it was possible but trivial. Life has always been full of limits, obstacles, perspectives and instruments leading me to a different journey, and that’s what actually happened. I stayed in some places until love gave them a special meaning and, after a long wandering, a few years ago, I decided to return to Apulia for a journey that might be definitive or temporary. I left my heart there, but my life goes on elsewhere. I figured out a story written, thought and lived by women; no offence intended for men. A day may come when it makes no sense, but now it still does. A story of rebellious women, women who loved me, who hindered me, who helped me get up and continue my journey. There are some personal stories and political stories, and everyone will place them in a specific place of their mind.
I would like to thank some real people, who have a name and a surname, like Paola Barrotta who gave me a shelter in her house and in her heart to protect me from my raging sea; Gianna, Rosa, Catia and Consiglia who welcomed me with a smile at Women’s House in Lecce; my aunt Angela who invited me for lunch whenever I needed it; Germana Quartulli, my elementary school teacher, because she urged me to discover the world; Andrea and Rina who made me feel at home while I was staying in their house; and many other people that I don’t mention here but are always in my heart. They are part of my story, and maybe even of yours.
I
Carla arrived in Lecce on a summer night in August. As a biologist expert on Xylella, she wanted to understand why those beautiful olive trees were affected by the bacteria. The citizens accused the Region, the Region accused the central government, the central government accused the European government and the European government accused them all.
Carla immediately realised that large-scale political and economic benefits were hidden behind the bacteria; she was a member of an independent committee, but she knew that it was impossible to fight against the interests of the upper-reaches of power.
She had never been to Lecce and booked a room in a hotel in the city centre to visit the so-called “Florence of the South” in her spare time. Carla landed in Brindisi from Milan; then she took a taxi southward and, although it was late in the evening, she saw a large area covered with olive trees along the coast.
«Is it the first time you've been to Apulia?» the taxi driver asked her.
«No, I’ve already been to Apulia, but I’ve never visited Lecce. Excuse me, perhaps I shouldn’t even ask you this, but can I smoke?» «Go ahead, no problem.»
«I don’t want to bother you, but do you know anything about Xylella?»
«Yes, what do you want to know?»
«I wanted to know your opinion about it.»
«I think that they caused the infection!»
«What do you mean?»
«Undoubtedly, the bacteria already existed, but they brought them here!»
«Who are you talking about?»
«Politicians!»
«And what do politicians have to do with Xylella?»
«Before the infection, nobody could touch our olive trees.»
«And now?»
«Now they are cutting them down and will build houses and shopping centres on that beautiful land.»
«It's horrible!»
«Yes, it's horrible. In Apulia tourism has grown by 200% and there isn’t enough accommodation. In the past, you went to the beach and could enjoy the sun and the sea, now the beaches are too crowded!»
Carla smokes another cigarette.
«A few days ago they cut down a dozen trees in Oria.»
«What? »
«I was talking about olive trees.»
«Oh, yes. Go on, please!»
«The workers were about to cry. The policemen surrounded us and beat us like criminals with their batons; four people had head injuries, five people were arrested, a woman fainted.»
«But why?»
«To make us understand that we are the flock and they are the shepherds; they gave the order and in a few minutes seven ancient trees were cut down! They fell with a thud, bang! That thud broke our hearts, believe me. Then the 'experts' paid for by the government arrived, but those trees weren’t affected by Xylella!»
«So what was the problem?»
«They were infected by a fungus and could be saved with a pruning, but those criminals cut them down!»
«I can’t believe it! But haven’t you applied to lawyers to defend you?»
«They’re fine ones! Excuse me, but they are all the same to me. Here we are, that’s your destination. If you need me, call me, this is my number.»
«That’s kind of you!»
«Have a good day and enjoy this wonderful city!»
«Can you give me a piece of advice?»
«Collect information about the gas pipeline coming from Azerbaijan and put two and two together. Have a nice holiday!»
«Thank you!»
II
Carla left her suitcase in the hotel and rushed to the 16th-century church of Santa Croce featuring two statues of Saint Benedict and Saint Celestine. She wanted to visit also its interior; over the years, she became interested in the Baroque and that city was like an endless museum. She sat down on the steps to enjoy the view of the beautiful rose window and the intriguing images of mermaids and griffins which supported the stone balcony. It was hot, as usually happens in August in Lecce and she longed for a glass of wine.
She suddenly recalled Croatia: she had been there some years before and had promised to return. She took a seat at a table of the Moor Inn in the amazing Cathedral Square. Many people were walking along the streets; Carla did not believe that Lecce could be so beautiful.
Her phone rang.
«Yes, I’m fine, mum. I'll stay here until I finish my research. It will take one month, maybe two, I don’t know. I'll call you tomorrow, goodnight mum.»
III
The next day she was awakened by some drums in the square. The celebrations for Saint Oronzo were approaching and the city was full of people; she went downstairs to have a coffee and everybody was talking about the city's patron. He was beheaded on 26 August, sixty-eight years after Christ’s birth, and was also worshipped in Ostuni, the white city.
Carla wanted to see the Roman column on top of which the statue of the saint was placed, ancient remains of the Appian Way of Brindisi; while she was admiring it, someone started shouting slogans against the government.
Taking advantage of the patronal celebrations, some protesters had organised a demonstration against the felling of olive trees ordered by the Region. The slogans became stronger and stronger and she saw some policeman try to divide the protesters from the pilgrims who had come to the city to pay homage to the saint. The streets were blocked, but the protesters tried to reach the column to attach a banner saying “Don’t touch Salento, you are the Xylella!”.
Carla paid attention to a girl who was reading a leaflet: «The committee for the enhancement of Salento expresses its solidarity with all the farmers whose tens of thousands of olive trees will be cut down. We strongly oppose this approach aimed at defending the caste interests instead of the needs of the people of Salento, therefore we ... »
Suddenly there was an assault; a policeman grabbed the leaflet from the girl's hands, threw her on the ground and hit her in a fit of hate and rage. He kicked her in her shins and hips, the blood was dripping from her nose; then he grabbed her by her hair and dragged her toward the armoured vehicle.
The girl looked senseless, and suddenly Carla rushed towards the policemen.
«What the hell are you doing, you idiots!?»
The policemen stood speechless, who was that woman who dared face them?
The girl, covered with swollen bruises, was lying on the ground with her eyes full of blood, and Carla shouted: «You are beasts!»
Even some years later, recalling that episode, Carla - a master's degree in biochemistry and a doctorate in bacteriological research – could not explain what urged her to act that way.
She passed through the police line, laid down next to the girl, wiped her face and kept on screaming.
Suddenly the policemen retreated. The journalists were approaching the two women and the images of the assault in Piazza Sant'Oronzo would soon spread worldwide: the police had better leave.
Some protesters gathered around Carla. «They would have killed her without you!»
The ambulance arrived; the girl was bleeding and the rescuers feared that an internal haemorrhage was going on. That beast had flung himself at her helpless body with all his strength.
Carla hugged the girl as if she knew her. «If you need help, call me, please,» and she put her business card into the girl’s pocket. Then she returned to the hotel dead tired.
«Are you OK?» the porter asked her.
«Yes, thank you!»
«But you are splattered with blood, what happened to you?»
«A girl has been beaten in the street.»
«Do you want me to call the police?»
«No, a policeman beat the girl ... »
The porter gave her the keys to her room. «Call me if you need help.»
«Thank you!» and she ran to her room to change her clothes.
«No pasarán,» she thought and recalled Mika, the militant who had fought in the Spanish war. She wanted to wash the blood away; whenever she saw an assault, she was about to throw up, as happened in Genoa in 2001: there she threw up blood. She had gone there for a congress, but then she stayed there for another reason, and what she saw made her regret being born.
She decided to stay in the hotel; she had brought along a collection of interviews with the militants of the Spanish civil war and wanted to read it. She had just found out that George Orwell, who had gone to Spain to fight against fascism, was on the Stalinists’ 'black list'. Of course, 1984 was a masterpiece, but Homage to Catalonia was worth being mentioned as well.
A few days before going to Lecce, she was in Milan, the city where she lived, and while she was walking down Viale Monza, she had learnt about the presentation of the Voices from the POUM book in the occupied house in Via dei Transiti. She had always wanted to enter that building; she had passed before it many times while travelling by tram and wished to understand how people lived within those walls.
«How does it feel to occupy a house?» she wondered. «Do you have breakfast at a café in the morning or prepare the leaflets to be distributed at the market?»
She could not miss that opportunity: she did not want to go home and there was an aperitif in Via dei Transiti after the presentation of the book. She entered the crowded building. There was a girl, Carmen, who was talking about the exiles after the war: as soon as she met them, she realised that the only right thing to do was to tell their stories and interview them.
Carla paid great attention to the debate and had her book autographed, the one that she was holding in her hands in that hotel room. She opened the chapter dedicated to Andreu Nin1, the leader of the party.
IV
Looking for Nin
Detective Nocito, after having finished his beer, left the smoky café and quickly turned into the deserted alley towards his home.
«What if Nin were still alive?» he thought. Blood froze in his veins.
He had to go to the central precinct, the road was long and it was very hot; he had moved from Valencia to Madrid to investigate the alleged murder of Nin, but the corpse of that man had not been found and the witnesses disappeared as soon as he asked them something about that event. Nin could be still alive, so what did people fear?
Red flags were waving along the streets, a few miles away the fascists tried to conquer Madrid, there were banners everywhere saying “No pasarán”. The image of La Pasionaria with her fist up in the air urged to resist the bombs and misery.
It was strange that, during a war, with all the resulting problems, the fate of one man was so important; the detective wanted to go home and hug his wife, but an inscription drew his attention: “¿Gobierno Negrín dónde está Nin?”.
«Good God,» he murmured to himself, «Where is Nin?»
He could not have been shot; there were disagreements with the Trotskyists2, but they did not kill each other with the Fascists hot on their trails. Since that damned war had begun, he had torn off the poster of Ibarruri3 from the wall of his house, as he could not believe that that woman was responsible for such wickedness. She was beautiful and charming; he would have wanted her to be appointed Minister for Education or Minister for Justice; did she really know something about Nin but did not cooperate?
Detective Nocito found the house keys in the right pocket of his jacket and noticed that they were covered with dust and debris. Plaster was falling from the balconies, the Fascists’ bombs were causing cracks that nobody repaired.
And how could those hungry people repair the roofs? The detective could not understand how the revolutionaries, the Communists, wasted their time on false evidence, false trials and false judicial documents; did they realise what they were doing or were they overcome by their absurd Stalinist faith?
He looked upwards and a child smiled at him. She was standing on the balcony and detective Nocito wished to climb up there and hug her. He missed his daughter so much. She was taken from Valencia to her grandparents' house in Tarragona, and he longed to watch her play with her rag dolls. Damned war! Who would have thought that the generals could rise to power by means by a coup? It should have been a blitzkrieg according to Franco, but it was actually going on for more than a year and nobody knew how or when it would end.
The Vatican supported Franco but who supported the Republic? France and England had signed a non-intervention pact: they were cowards, because they knew everything. Russia supplied weapons to the country and sent its killers. All the wealth of the Republic had been collected and sent to Moscow. After all, the Soviets had never been generous or unselfish.
Detective Nocito was walking along the streets of Madrid trying to think of something else, but failed. He had to write a report on Nin and did not know where to start. Nin had been kidnapped in Barcelona, this was clear. He was taken from Valencia to Madrid, and there he had disappeared; was he really tortured and killed by the Stalinists? They looked like kind people, but did they know what they were doing? Anyhow, he did not want to deal with politics, he was left alone and had to write that report on Nin.
Teresa Carbò4 had seen him in a Soviet prison, but the Stalinists tortured her as well; did they really fear the POUM5 militants to that extent?
In their newspaper, La Bataille Socialiste, Nin wrote about the crimes committed by Stalin. He had lived in Moscow for ten years and knew what was happening there. He had denounced Stalin but offered political asylum to Trotsky, it was bewildering! Was this reason valid enough to urge the Russians to eliminate a party, persecute its militants, close up a newspaper, break up the militia and sully the memory of its supporters? Was it just due to political criticism?
Detective Nocito wanted to have a woman, but did not know what woman, exactly. The streets were full of prostitutes, mothers willing to do anything to feed their children. He was not a communist, but hated that damned war that was taking away the best years of his life in the search for the corpse of a man who perhaps was already lying at the bottom of the sea. If the communists had been more collaborative, that story would have been much easier.
Detective Nocito had a meeting with his mates in the afternoon; he had to inform them of the progress of the investigations, but he began to feel afraid. What if it were a trap? What if they had contacted him to see what he had discovered and kill him too? He shuddered. Stalinists did not like questions and then, after all, he did not care about Nin.
There was a strange reticence and it was impossible that they had all agreed upon this attitude. No, it was impossible and he was going crazy. Nin was alive and nobody had tortured him. He had never been arrested. That crazy Catalan nurse had invented everything. Actually, if you do not invent things, how can you resist torture? She was a fanatic and basically she was the only witness who declared that she had seen Nin in the prison. What if she were wrong?
Detective Nocito started to feel impatient and afraid. His report was clear: Nin had been murdered by Togliatti, Vidali and Longo. They knew what happened to the corpses of the political dissidents, but it was impossible to ask them about this fact.
The detective returned home and lit a cigarette. He had written the names of the murderers of Andreu Nin who had been confirmed by many witnesses, even in silence. They were involved in the crime, there was no doubt about it.
He wanted to hug his daughter and play with her, but if he had delivered that report, his life would have been in danger. He had better burn it and focus on other issues. But a few nights before, he had begun to dream of Nin who talked to him, smiled at him and took him to distant places. Nin demanded justice and he had to give that report to the chief detective at 7 p.m. It was 5 p.m. and he still had a couple of hours to relax. He half-closed his eyes and had a pull at his cigarette.
Suddenly he heard a noise from the other room, the sound of some steps: someone was watching him. He stood motionless and felt a shadow behind his body; he was about to turn around, when an axe detached his head and stained the report on Nin with blood. Everything became red, like a river in full spate. The dishes, the glasses, the table legs … everything turned red.
The killer’s hands sneakily grabbed the documents and hid them under his jacket. Meanwhile, the cigarette, which had fallen to the ground, was still filling with smoke that room that smelled of death. Before closing the door, the killer stared at the head of detective Nocito, who was lying on the ground near the fridge. He adjusted his badge which bore the Soviet symbol. Eventually, he closed the door and got in his car which was red, just like the table legs, the kitchen handle and the nightmares which haunted his sleep.
«Let's go to the department,» he said.
There was a strange atmosphere in the car. The driver smiled, nodded and turned around.
«Ahhhhhhhhh!» The killer cried.
