I turned back , determined to find the small slip road that led to the tiny house ..my tiny house ...
Broken shutters and windows that let in the elements, the old door that had seen so many comings and goings, so many births deaths and marriages, the threshold..the entrance and departure point of any home. I came to my senses the daydreaming over and the sharp breaking of tyres on gravel, the car came to stand still. I looked at him, he stared back, eyes like black olives. I flushed, checked my appearance in the mirror, there was no time to alter what I saw. "Are you lost?" "Pardon"... the words spilling from my parched mouth. "No, not lost, just cant find my way", "then your lost.." a small glimmer of a smile spread across his full mouth, determined not to lose this moment of female dignity. "I do know where I am going, but just..." I stumbled my words trying to regain my composure, he takes the door for me and I leave the oven of a car, feeling utterly powerless against my stupidity for not having paid more attention to the sticking and grinding of the soft top mechanism. Back in grey old London I was too keen to miss the build up of traffic that hits the motorway. The ferry was waiting when I finally arrived at the port of Dover and I, far too excited and liberated to bother with technical issues, I was on my way at long last and every penny and pound was required for my new life in Sicily. I neither had the time or money for garage rip offs...the engine was sound after its service and that after all was what was important. It was going to be a long drive, but I had done my home work, studied the maps and the rules of French and Italian roads...
"Fifi...Fifi Martin", I held out my hand, "Salvatore", he takes it and with the briefest of lips on skin moment, acknowledges my shyness .. "Oh, that's nice. Sicilian. and erm.. nice name", he smiles, that mouth again... "yes, here in Sicily we do seem to be given Sicilian name's...."
I turned away, gazed over and out towards the gorge that runs down and out through to the other side of the mountains. I smile to myself at his answer and sense of humour...I like that. Pushing hair back from my clammy face, allowing the cooling mountain breeze to reach it. Feeling slightly relieved and composure under control, I turned back towards him, the black olives are staring straight at me, embarrassed by the weight of them I walk towards the boot and stop. Water... I need water, drink it , swim in it ....bathe!!
The emptiness of the boot stares back at me, I cant believe how empty. For a moment i'm lost in trance, where the hell is the water, come to think of it, the basket of food.
I had stopped off and bought provisions, but now they had disappeared.. Broken from my trance by the sound of bells jingling in the distance, I turn to see a herd of goats heading in our direction.. Salvatore doesn't turn he already knows of their comings. I looked down at his feet, shoeless.
He's a shepherd, it dawns on me, I was struck dumb by the olives that I didn't even notice the rest. The goats are now surrounding us and the jingle of bells fall almost silent and replaced by the munching and bleating of these hot smelly animals. Now I am staring in to another set of olives just as black, but this time they are surrounded by tan leather looking folds of skin that creases around and frames them. I look
from one set to the other, its as though its the same person, but father time has added 80 years. Remarkably identical, strange if some girl was to fall in love with this shoeless goat herding shepherd, she could see the man she would be contemplating spending her life with, then she could simply say yes or no.. a little bit like buying a fitted kitchen in kit form or ready assembled. I thought about it and smiled.
The dialect of these olives as I have now named them , , was thick and slightly heated or was that normal for these parts, I had read about the culture of the island but now here I was immersed deep in the mountains surrounded by goats and black olives, bare feet and no food or water...
My annoyance was broken by the hooting of horns, more cars hooting and gesturing. Salvatore raised his arms, in a typical Italian submission, "so lady, can we move your car as the road now is impassable," goats bleating, horns hooting , olives darting. I couldn't take it all in, I grabbed my bag from the car and started to film the spectacle at the expense of the family of olives dignity. "Basta basta", the old man cried "Basta basta signora". Now the beaten up old cars stand empty, old men with hankies wiping brows and ancient looking women wearing dark dusty clothing peer at me shouting in dialect towards the goats, olives and presumably me.. I lower my camera and acknowledge the now formed gang, "scusi!!!" I try to mumble out the reason for why I was in the middle of the road and surrounded by half of the local villagers, I fail miserably.
"Signora , let me help you"
Glancing towards the car, raising my eyebrows and throwing olives a look.. as to the keys are in the ignition...you move it!! And so he does, pulling onto an uneven scrap of land that attached itself to the old dusty road by clefts of dried tall grass clumps and rocks. Well I thought, not only can he make me smile but he can handle my little sports car rather well for a shoeless shepherd. The old bent bodies return to their cars and the entourage passes by us, suspicious of my arrival, they raise a bony hand and wish us Buonaserra.
The sun was lowering down over Etna, a calmness now descended to us that remained , old father time walked on muttering, goats bleating and their left droppings... a reminder of their wait. Salvatore stood there just smiling, "and what is so amusing, are you not following your father" "yes, but first I must help you to find your lost destination, sorry your destination that you seem to not know how to get to"..........
Copyright January 2016 ... This material belongs to RecknRuin,www.casarecknruin.com
