Rubio Forgotten Objects

1. Auflage 2014
ISBN: 978-1-77076-418-7
Verlag: Editions Dedicaces
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 516 Seiten

Forgotten Objects traces the life of Anna d'Amio, daughter of opera singers Louis and Francesca d'Amio, from Mussolini's Italy to the city of Pittsburgh during the mid sixties. The novel proper is made up of three parts: Italy, Cuba and United States.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Rubio, Carlos

Leseproben

"My father, although he never attended school beyond the third grade, knew the work of the philosophers and the Greek theater with a familiarity that bewildered everyone he met. His mother, my paternal grandmother, during the tedious hours of metallurgical preparation by a forge, laborious engraving with rustic tools or polishing with soft suede, would read aloud while the different tasks were being carried out in the shop. In the mornings she always chose selections from the philosophers; in the afternoons, after a lunch that consisted of bread, olives, cheese and wine that they fermented themselves in wooden casks, she offered them a work by Sophocles, Euripides or Aristophanes. She was also very fond of Hellenistic epigrams.[1]
"Some time ago, due to recent events and the threat of German troops to the entire European continent, my father's family, after a meal too elaborate to lack a special significance, held a midnight meeting to discuss the events that were on everyone’s mind. They decided to go into the hills; the following night they disappeared through the Turkish border. I was, of course, prepared to join them when my father, with the firm gesture of a patriarch of the Greek Orthodox Church, informed me that I would have to accompany my mother to the island of Lesbos. From there we would secure clandestine passage in a Swedish freighter that would bring us to the Italian island of Ischia." At this point Mr. Ioso made a pause, perhaps trying to organize his thoughts or maybe restrain his emotions. "It was, in reality, a very logical decision on my father's part. Although Italian, culturally this island had always been ours. It was later named Aenaria by the Romans; the name is derived from the Latin aenum, which means bronze or metal in general. This fact confirms the flourishing metallurgical activity that was introduced by our ancestors centuries ago. Furthermore, even today one can see on the hills of Mezzavia the ruins of the first forges where the ancient Greeks processed bronze, iron and, of course, gold and silver. The name Epomeo, the very place where we are standing, comes from the ancient Greek and it means 'look around.' "By then the name Ioso had become synonymous with art in the entire Mediterranean basin, and that reputation preceded us. With the help of some countrymen and the meager resources that my mother and I had, I opened a modest metallurgical shop. Little by little, as my artistic work became better known on this island, the number and importance of the commissioned works increased. Although we were not getting rich, the steady work gave us enough to live with dignity." Once again Mr. Ioso made a pause in his story. This time he looked towards the main altar, as if requesting guidance from an ever-present yet invisible presence. "What happened then?" asked Anna, genuinely interested in Mr. Ioso's tale. "My mother's health was declining. Although we had every-thing necessary for our corporal sustenance, the distance from the Greek coasts,  the sudden  suppression  of  the unique sound of our language and our music, but especially my father's absence, slowly undermined her spirit and created a void in her soul. Seated in an old chair upholstered with flowery material and looking towards the sea, she waited for news from my father. Perhaps she strength-ened him with her thoughts or silently sent him the necessary courage to overcome those difficult moments. So busy was I with the work in the shop that I failed to notice her inexorable spiritual decline. "One afternoon, like any other, I left the premises in order to deliver a gold plaque whose manufacture had taken me an entire month. It depicted, in all its bas-relief splendor?the inconsolable disciples; the reclined central figure; the limp hand; the lethal cup carelessly dropped on the floor of the cell?Socrates' last moments after drinking the hemlock. It would proudly crown the main wall of the incipient library." Once again Mr. Ioso made a pause. This time he loosened his tie, as if to facilitate the flow of blood through the carotids and revive his memories. "And then?" asked Anna. "What happened when you returned?" "Upon my return I knew immediately, without even having to come in, that something nefarious had taken place. As I crossed the threshold, I was welcomed by a rarified atmosphere and a silence that was too deep, as if I were in a vacuum chamber. It all augured an immediate tragedy. "On the aforementioned chair I found my lifeless mother. I felt, at that instant, as if an unexpected colony of African termites were gnawing relentlessly at the base of my skull, until they managed to seize with ease the recesses of my medulla oblongata. On the floor, next to my mother, I collapsed. "Some time later, on my work bench and surrounded by awls, chisels and pieces of suede, I came to. I was surrounded by familiar faces and nervous voices who solicitously looked after me. Kind hands?I never found out whose?held cold  compresses  on  my burning forehead. "After the exequies, which were celebrated with all the extensive liturgy demanded by the Greek Orthodox Church, I returned to the shop. I immediately covered all the mirrors with pieces of black cloth and placed a funeral wreath over the  threshold. This way everyone who came through the door was forced to acknowledge the great loss that our house had suffered. "Three days later, as usual, I found my mother sitting in the same chair, looking at the sea. So forceful was her will, so deep her love for life, that she had managed to survive even death. Nothing had changed. I continued with my work in the shop; she continued waiting for my father. "One sunny morning, like every morning here in Ischia, I left to deliver an ornate rococo jewel box with elaborate engravings that would grace the toilet table of a wealthy lady. During my absence the maid, in her zest for cleanliness and order, uncovered all the mirrors that I had so patiently shielded from the light. That night, as usual, my mother's ghost wandered through the hallways, awaiting the call of sleep that often came after midnight. As she walked in front of one of the mirrors, she became aware that her image did not return a reflection. It was at that moment that she realized that death had already come." One more time Mr. Ioso produced the handkerchief and removed the thin film of perspiration from his face and neck. It was apparent that it was difficult for him to evoke such personal and painful memories. Although Anna did not want to appear rude, her curiosity made her urge the stranger to go on. "Did you continue with your work?" she asked. "Not at all," answered Mr. Ioso. "Since that cruel day I lost all my decorative powers.  The metal sheets turned into hideous and amorphous creations at the mere touch of my hand; the engraving tools slipped out of my trembling fingers; the polishing suede, so obedient in the past, openly rebelled against the dictates of my will. I realized then that it was my mother, and not I, the true master and governess of that ancient art," concluded Mr. Ioso. "I came here today, as I already explained, to say good-bye to my mother for the last time. She is buried in the small cemetery next to this church." "What will you do now?" asked Anna. "As you can suppose, my situation is intolerable. Since I am unable to work, I have liquidated everything of value and will be leaving Ischia in three days." "But there is a war going on," said Anna, pointing out the obvious. "I am not just leaving Ischia, but the European continent as well," explained Mr. Ioso. "I am seeking a new beginning on another island, on the other side of the world. Its name is Cuba." "It sounds distant and exotic," commented Anna, not knowing exactly what to say. "You are correct on both counts. Just as surely as my mother guided my hands in life, she will guide my destiny in death. Of that I am certain." "I wish I could be as confident as you are about a bright future," said Anna, struggling to control her emotions. "I have no one anymore" "Then allow me to suggest something. There is room in the Danish freighter for one more person; gather what you can and leave Italy. You too can start a new life in a new land. Today we both came to the shrine of San Nicola looking for guidance. I suspect that you knew all along that there is no longer a life for you here; you just needed corroboration so you could then move forward, just as I am about to do," he concluded. Anna was about to protest at the suggestion, but Mr. Ioso's raised hand stopped her before she could utter any words. "There is no need to decide at this moment. I will wait for you at the pier; the ship leaves at dawn. But just in case I don't see you again, I would like to give you something as a token of this most fortuitous encounter. That way you will always remember this day." As he said this, Mr. Ioso reached into his coat pocket and retrieved what appeared to be a small, flat packet wrapped in white linen. He opened it slowly, allowing the light of the candles to shine on its surface. Before Anna's eyes was a silver plaque with a detailed bas relief depiction of San Nicola. "I want you to have this; it was the last piece I completed before my mother died. When I left the shop this morning, although I knew there was no reason for me to bring it with me, a mysterious force compelled me do so. I now understand why," he said and handed the silver plaque to Anna. "I don't know what to say," she whispered in the silence of the church. "There is nothing to say," added Mr. Ioso, "Accept it as a...