A Child from South Italy, a novel, post 1
Francis Sgambelluri
A Child from South Italy
A Novel
Here is my first novel published on the Web in English, “A child from South Italy”, translated from the Italian by Joy Elizabeth Avery. She has done all her best and put all her soul and heart into the work. I am very grateful to her.
No one italian publisher liked “A child from South Italy”. It is, so to speak, an orphan. I am looking for a publisher.
Your opinion, whatever it is, is important for me. Thank you.
Translator’s Note
Francis was introduced to me by a colleague, who thought there might be a chance for an interesting collaboration between the two of us, Francis as author, and me as translator. After a first few meetings, we quickly realised that we were on very similar wavelengths and there was a lot to talk about. I started by translating some of his blog articles, and having read two of his novels, I decided that they should be made available to a wider audience.
My Italian is not perfect, but I enjoyed the book so much that I immediately got down to work. The Italian saying “Traduttore traditore”, meaning “translator, traitor”, in other words, that a translation is often doomed to being unable to give the correct meaning is very appropriate and perhaps Francis’s work deserves a better translation. But we are happy with the results we have achieved in collaboration and I was happy to have the chance to be completely absorbed in this touching story.
There are two other technicalities. Francis uses different versions of the protagonist’s name, “Nicolò”, which can have a negative or positive meaning, for example Nicolino, Nico, Nicolaccio, Lino and Nicolello. It isn’t really possible to reproduce this in English, so we decided to limit ourselves to Nicolò and little or young Nicolò.
Also, when the protagonist describes different passages of his life, he relives them with very strong emotions, so that he often moves from the past tense to the present in order to make the narrative more alive and intense.
We chose this book for the first translation as it has already been translated into Greek, but there are others to follow!
Many thanks are owed to various people for their support in this project, mostly to my husband and Joanna Haritou for their help in reading and correcting my translation.
Joy Elizabeth Avery
Illustration by Silvana Piccamiglio from the painting by Franz Von Lenbach:
Le Garçon Berger
Index:
The Ghosts of Youth Page 1
Life Abroad Page 54
The Return Page 183
For my sweet Muse
And for all the workers of the earth
Without whom nothing
Grows or flowers
It isn’t rebellion itself which is noble, but its aims,
even though its achievements are at times ignoble.
A. Camus
FIRST PART
A Child from South Italy, chapter one
The Ghosts of youth
“Mamma, mamma!” the little girl yells as she runs into the house, “down the road, there’s a man walking along carrying a suitcase.”
The mother opens the window and leans out to see the man coming up the road. She doesn’t seem to know him and she wonders who on earth he can be.
The stranger, tall, with greying hair, dressed in a dark suit, doesn’t seem to belong to these parts. He walks with a decided step, every now and then passing the suitcase from one hand to the other. It’s hot and he’s sweating. He, too, is trying to remember the woman. Who could she be? And the house? It must have been built recently. He stops for a moment, puts down the case and looks at the woman. But he still doesn’t recognise her, so he limits himself to a polite greeting.
She replies and closes the window.
He takes up his suitcase and continues on his way.
After some time, he reaches a farmhouse. Incredible, but it’s just the same as he left it. Ever since his mother died, nobody has ever lived there. Standing in front of it, still with his case in his hand, he looks it over, then, shaking his head, he puts down his case and goes to the pen where they used to keep the animals, and there, under the usual stone, he finds the key. He opens the door and goes inside.
The smell of old things hits him. Mice, cockroaches and other creatures flee. He opens the windows. They creak, the paint is coming off, they are cracked, falling apart. A large black stain covers a large part of the ceiling. The dust, the old junk, the shabbiness can be seen everywhere. Time has stood still, a feeling of dilapidation and abandonment has gained the upper hand in the house.
He sees the whip still there, hanging on the wall near the fireplace, where it always was. It sends a shiver down his spine, and he looks away. His photograph, the only one ever taken when he was a child, even that is still in its old place, a bit curled, dirty and unframed, tattered as if it has been consumed by the years.
He can’t help himself, he takes the photo into the bedroom where there is the piece of broken mirror he remembers. He removes the dust with his handkerchief and holds the photo up to try to see if there is any likeness between the little Nicolino, as he was called then, and the adult Nicolò. At first, he can’t see any trace of himself in that fat, naked baby sitting on a cushion in the middle of the picture, absorbed in looking at something other than the camera. His face has changed. He keeps looking. Then, after a long examination, he can see a similarity. It’s the same intent, curious look he had when he was little, it’s still there now. At that time, everything seemed to him to be a big show, a big playground; now though, the show had changed.
Studying the photo with growing attention, he notices the corners of his mouth which seemed predisposed to smile at the show the world all around had put on for him. What goodness, what artlessness! Nicolino, the little baby Nicolino, ready to smile at the world!
Moving his gaze from the photo to himself and trying to unite the two, he feels like laughing. Then he does laugh, but his smile turns into a grimace.
The bedroom where he used to sleep has been overtaken by chaos. The cobwebs between one beam and another slowly swing in the draught coming in from the window. The walls are cracked, in a corner, there is a rickety chair, the bed is covered with dust. He goes to the bed and presses the mattress. He can still hear the rustle of the maize leaves: what music the rustling used to make when he turned over in bed!
He continues to look at and touch things, all the while holding his breath. He realises that wherever he puts his feet, he leaves tracks as if he were walking on sand. He stands still, thinking, unmoving; he listens, watches, sees signs of life, glimpses of things that once were; he is swamped by impressions, he shivers, surrounded by hostile faces and in this rush of images and feelings, his mind is overrun by memories which burst upon him like fireworks in the dark sky.
Outside he can hear a car going by, then another stops. Nicolò shakes himself and goes outside. He sees a man getting out of the car, a Fiat 500. He hears a strident voice,
“Holy Mother of God!”
He recognises the man. In an instant, they throw themselves into each other’s arms and hold each other tight. For a moment, they don’t speak, then,
“You could at least have told us! Just like that? My God, who would have thought that we would ever see you again! I can’t believe it,” and tears start falling from the small, piercing eyes, tears full of emotion and joy.
Nicolò has already forgotten the impressions bursting in on him a moment ago, he remains cold, impenetrable, astonished at such an effusion. It has been a long time since he felt so deeply, even if in spite of his need for self-control, sudden flashes of affection do on occasion move his heart.
“I didn’t get in touch because I didn’t know where or who to write to.”
“What do you mean, you didn’t know who to write to? To me, of course!” the other man exclaims, drying his eyes.
“And what if you weren’t still at the same address?”
“In these parts, your address doesn’t change so often, and anyway, here in Calvario everybody knows who I am.”
“You’re right, I should have written.”
“Never mind. Tell me, how did you get here?”
“I took the bus to Ferretti, and I walked the rest.”
“On foot, of course,” Amedeo says, and for a moment he feels as if the old memories of their childhood and their familiarity are connecting them. He’s a couple of years older. He’s the taller of the two, muscular, suntanned and with a lean face.
“You’re looking good, Amedeo,” says Nicolò.
“You don’t look bad yourself, Nicolò”, Amedeo replies. “Me too … Ah, I just can’t believe it, no … It will take me a while to get used to the idea. But now, sorry, I have to go. There are two landowners waiting for me to mark out their boundaries. I’ve been doing it for years, but they keep moving them and then taking turns to accuse each other of having a centimetre more than they should. That’s how folk are around here. Why don’t you come along with me?”
“No thanks, I want to clean the house a bit. I’m sleeping here tonight.”
“If it’s only for a couple of nights, my wife can sort you out at our house.”
“It won’t be only for a couple of nights.”
Amedeo gives him a look and says, “I can’t believe that you want to set up home here after all the years you’ve spent abroad.”
“But it’s the truth,” Nicolò confirms with a smile.
“We’ll talk about it over dinner. Don’t try to say no. I’ll come and pick you up at 7 o’clock.”
“You don’t need to put yourself out. I can walk. I’d prefer to walk and I know the way. And it’s not very far.”
“Whatever you prefer,” says Amedeo moving towards his car. He gets in and drives off noisily along the track.
Nicolò pensively watches the car until it is out of sight. Then he goes back inside where he continues to look at the things in the house and pursue his memories.
Next post, part II, A Child from South Italy
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