Clara walks through the Saturday afternoon crowd, now almost Saturday evening. Elderly couples with synchronized steps compete for the sidewalk with families on leave.
"Free?" thinks Clara.
Just look at them to understand that they are bombs ready to explode, but they do not give up the ritual of the Saturday walk. Except then go home with gall in the mouth and a lump of hatred placed in the middle of the chest that they will try to swallow together with dinner. Ah, beautiful families, pillars of the community!
Clara takes aim at one: mother, father and child, stopped in front of the ice cream shop. The situation looks promising, with the Infanta kicking and screaming for a denied cone and the woman who, alternating promises and threats, tries in vain to stem her fury. Meanwhile the man stares at the scene, catatonic.
"It will be one of those who close the intebrain switch on command” thinks Clara. Then she mentally counts: “One, two, three…”.
Dthe woman's hand gets a slap that catches the brat in the face, making her cry real tears. Brutally awakened, theman starts to sacrament.
"Boom!" gloats Clara. And, while the quarrel explodes violently, she walks away. Given the predictability of the epilogue, she feels like a cheap Cassandra. But they are still satisfactions. Nor does it disturb her to know that she is bad, because her perfidy is now her only vital drive and without her it would be lost.
Further on, near the bar, a group of teenagers is stationed. Category among the most hateful in the eyes of Clara, who just hearing her speak of "juvenile distress" and other bullshit from sociologists feels her blood mount her head. If they came to ask her what she thoughtknows about young people, he would answer: “Tall potential offenders". All the more odious when, as now, they bar her way without showing that they have seen her. Thus, having archived the chapter of families for a walk and related annoyances, she gladly moves on to diversify her hatred. To give herself energy, she observes with disgust the collection of unsheathed cell phones, improbable heels and sunglasses shredded. So, in war gear – shopping bags on one side and sharp-angled arm on the other –, he elbows his way. Under his inexorable blows, the herd is stunned, vanquished, dispersed. Except that the beauty of the group, which mother nature has precociously endowed with a sumptuous backside, the indtreacherously raises a sonorous: «Chitemm is dead! ". Clara, ass faded and dull like the rest of the person, looks at the merchandise on display inside a tight jeans with envy disguised as reproach. The girl in turn analyzes Clara who, through her pitiless gaze, takes note of her forty bad years, her tired face, her undone morning make-up, her hands clutching the plastic bags from the supermarket. Feeling pathetic, she takes note of her solitary walking through the crowd on Saturday afternoon, now almost Saturday evening.
Desperately looking for one diversion, look at the clock: “The weeksand minus ten, I have to hurry!” think and, with a furious turn, avoid a gypsy with a child in tow who has approached with an outstretched hand. The gypsy did not give upand, he glues them to the ribs: «The good forta, lady, good luck!». Then, given the bad turn, he gives up. But before her arises the satisfaction of wishing Clara tribulations of various kinds, receiving in exchange a premature death anathema for her offspring. The monstrosity of the omen leaves the gypsy breathless. Overwhelmed by superstitious terror, she clutches the child to her breast and flees, uttering incantations.
Clara takes the Streptile Sant'Anna alle Paludi.
"I have to hurry, otherwise whoever hears it! Soon, or at all, she gets the good idea of getting out of bed with the result that I find her crashed to the ground, and the more I spit her soul to lift her the more she gets heavy to spite her. And if I tell her that one of these days she's going to break her head off, she pretends to cry. Of what it would not be chapace to make me feel guilty.”
He slips into the door. Breathless, she climbs the three flights of stairs that lead to the house. When he reaches the landing, he stops. Only now has she realized that her shopping bags have dug painful grooves in her fingers. She puts the shopping bags on the floor and rubs her hands, then starts rummaging through her bag, looking for the keys. When she has found them, she observes them carefully, as if they were an alien object found unexpectedly in the midst of her belongings. Despite the rush of a moment ago, she is taking her time. But the time spent looking at a bunch of keys is just wasted time, indeed it's not even time, but a fictitious suspension between the duties that took her on the street and those waiting for her inside the house. Well, we might as well open the door now.
Clara turns the key in the lock and as she sets foot in the dark hall she is attacked by an imperious summons. But it would have been worse if cries for help had come from the room at the end of the corridor.
"Clare', is that you?"
«And who has 'dda to be! Wait, I'm putting the stuff down and I come."
«I was thinkingI was, mommy! But what did you do?”
«There was a crowd at the supermarket, I'm herewait half an hour in the checkout line.”
"And then what else did you do?"
«Then, since the bus didn't passa, I had to walk back.”
«And thank God you keep your legs good! Clare', there is muina 'mmiezo 'a via?
This time Clara doesn't take the trouble to answer and thank God she doesn't really think about it. She takes the shopping bags into the kitchen, puts them on the table and arranges the stuff that needs to be kept in the fridge. The rest of her will sort it out later, she now she has to cook dinner for her mother, hoping that he will then fall asleep.
When the pasta is cooked, it melts a freeze-dried meat in it. Prepare the tray: steaming plate, oligomineral water, pear homogenized, bib. In all respects the food of a baby, if it weren't for the assortment of medicines to be taken before, during and after meals. In the doorway to the room at the end of the corridor, she takes a deep breath. In there, the scent of the old that invades the house is so intense that it catches his throat. Courage: the sooner you decide to enter, the sooner you will leave.
From the fact that she was silent, he must have guessed it: crooked on the cushions, she dozed off. Placing the tray on the dresser, Clara straightens it. She let out a yell: «Jesusmary!So you make me come a panthecus! "
«Eating is readyto. Tie', take the pill.”
«Phew! I know sorryta 'and me piglia these crap!»
«And I was bored to hear you say that. Look, you're not doing me a favor by taking you thereand medicines!”
«Phew! AND let's get together 'studied pinnol…clare', what pasta have you made for me?»
"Starlets."
"And what's the freeze-dried product?"
“Veal.”
«Veal I ate at noon. Wow, you know I like chicken! It was not there, that of chicken?"
Clara knots her bib and arranges the tray on her lap.
«My hands hurt. You give me to eat, Mama."
In revenge, Clara fills the spoon with hot pasta and brings it to his mouth. But she, devastated in body but always presinstitution a se itself, does not fall into it: «Soffia, Clare'! Can't you see how hot it is?".
In order to end it, Clara carries out with the spirit of an assembly line worker: it is done because it must be done and it must be done this way because there is no other way. Blow on the spoon, bring it to his mouth and don't think. Sink the spoon back into the plate, blow, bring it to his mouth. And don't think. She swallows her food voraciously, despite everything she has an attachment to life that would be the envy of a young woman. Food drips down her chin, down her neck, and Clara's stomach contracts. Wiping her mouth with a napkin every three spoonfuls is not a concern, but just another necessary gesture to add to the sequence.
Now she is short of breath. A sign that the overcooked pasta has filled her stomach too much. She would never admit it for fear of missing out on the homogenized fruit of which she is greedy; but that she is in difficulty can be understood from the fact that, to give herself a break, she alternates a question with each mouthful. Starting with, since she never forgets anything, from the one she remained pending.
«Clare', there is muina 'mmiezo 'a via?
«A babel. See how I tell you: that's the last time I go to the supermarket on a Saturday. From next weekmost of the shopping is done on Friday.”
«Clare', did you stop by the pharmacy?”
"Yup."
"And did you remember the ratafia?"
Jesus, the ratafia! How could he forget it, precisely on a Saturday and with Aunt Michelina who is coming tomorrow to pay her usual courtesy call! With Don Mariano's shop placed next to the door as a reminder, how could this get out of her mind? And now who tells that to him; at the very least, he'll faint and then pour endless recriminations on her. Given thing wait for her, it is excluded that it was a simple distraction: there are no saints, it is the gypsy's blasphemies that are beginning to hit the mark. Damn her! May the evil eye he has cast on her rebound on her, may disasters fall upon her that make the plagues of Egypt look like roses and flowers, may that filthy beggar…
«Claret! Did you remember the ratafia?”
"Yes, yes…"
«And you poured it into the bocrystal glass from Bohemia?”
«NNot yet, I'll do it later."
«Don't forget to wrap the empty bottle before throwing it away. Michelina, therea ' sorry help' is able 'and put 'e mman pure dint' 'to rubbish.'
«Don't worry, I don't forget.»
Clara changes her mother's cloth. Twenty to eight.
"I beg you, sleep!" He takes one off pillow from behind the back. “If you sleep I swear tomorrow you will have the chicken freeze-dried that I denied you tonight just for prenjoy yourself with a tiny pleasure.”He turns her on her side and tucks her in the sheets, tight narrow about to the body.
Ten to eight.
"And sleep, by God!" Then, when he finally feels the breath of the grotesque cocoon lying on the bed become rhythmic and heavy, he takes his bag and goes out.
Three minutes past eight. Now the street lamps are on, while the sign with the inscription is off Colonial Aversa. Even though she had hoped for a miracle, Clara had expected it. The owner of the shop, a slimy and ceremonious old man, is more accurate than the time signal and always lowers the shutter at eight o'clock. Now, unaware of the abyss of despair into which she has plunged her, Don Mariano Aversa will be going to home to prepare a broth. “Strafogate yourself! " Clara curses him. Having closed the shop at the appointed time is only the least of the damage that individual has caused her.
It was he, more than thirty years earlier, who sold his mother the first bottle of ratafià. Qhe filth that since then, the world has collapsed, should be offered to relatives on a Sunday visit. Relatives fortunately by now all dead with the exception of Aunt Michelina, may the Almighty call her as soon as possible and that at least this ends jacovella ridiculous of ratafia! But she's already tried in vain so many times to kick Aunt Michelina's feet that she's lost count, and now she's not in the mood to insist. She is too concentrated on wishing a slow and painful death to Mariano Aversa who, on the other hand, deserves it. It was he who suggested her deception to her mother.
Clara was only nine years old, but she still remembers the words that were spoken that day:«You are right, lovely lady! She will also make the liqueur herself, but it's annoying that your sister-in-law reminds you of it every time you drink vermuttino at home. If it weren't too bold, I would like to advise you…».
"What, Don Maria?"
"Have you ever tried ratafia?"
"And what is it?"
«Very fragrant cherry liqueur. What I'm selling is produced by a plant in Ancona, but you assI'm sure it looks homemade."
"Yes?"
«Absolutely! Once you have decanted it into a Bohemian crystal bottle, no one can doubt that this elixir has been packagedor from your delicate little hands.”
«Eh, you make it easy, you! My relatives are nosy… and then if my sister-in-law asks me for the recipe»
«If she asks you for it, you can answer that a friend gave it to you, making you swear on the life of CLyou are right not to give it to anyone.”
«I don't know… swear by figsthere it is sin."
«Sacrosanct. But you you don't really have to do it!"
"Yes but…"
"What, pretty lady?"
«Sounds weird. Why would she tell me to keep the prescription for myself?»
«Because… Percause the process for making ratafià is a secret that his family has been handing down for generations only revealed because it's you."
«A family secret! What a nice idea! Clare', did you understand everything, huh, mama? If you let something poor slip away from you, it makes youI'm trying to get a nosebleed."
So on Mariano Aversa's conscience weighs the ancient guilt of having given Clara the first inkling of how much her mother is inclined to lie. And let no one say that she was just an innocent swindle, because it was so much more.
It was the first link in the chain of lies that has suffocated her ever since.
«This year Claretta helped me make the ratafià. Poor creature, since the father died instead of playing with the others bchildren wants to be alone with me.”
«Thanks all the same, ma'am. Tell your daughter I had nothing against it. But what are you going to do, Claretta prefers to study alone.”
«But what boyfriend! My Claretta doesn't think about these things. Actually, one who had come after her fit, but she didn't like him. And since she didn't have the courage to dirgLielo, I had to do it.”
Five past eight. Full of sperance, Clara rushes to the Wines and spirits at the cornerwhich is still open.
«Ratache?» the man behind the counter asks her, depriving her of any residual illusion.
There's nothing you can do, it has to go like this for her: trying to fix a mistake, not necessarily hers, always costs her tears and blood. And every time it's wasted effort.
It's a wasted effort, on this unfortunate Saturday night, to sift through the bars of the course, open late and stocked with everything but ratafia. Clara heads towards the ferrovia, each step corresponds to a thought of the days consumed behind the needs of the being that is sucking what remains of her life. "Parental care" they call them, said so it seems like a noble mission, instead it's just disgust and exhaustion, loneliness and resentment. Even the homeless man who now passes by her, dragging bags full of rags, is certainly better off than her. He will also suffer from hunger, but at least he is free to come and go without giving any account to anyone, to always and only do what his head tells him. Free even to suddenly start freaking out; and in fact he hears it with what smadonna taste and sends fuck anyone who comes within range! Clara quickens her pace, may she ever become the target of that fluvial discontent. But he, who must have smelled her fear, after having passed her, goes back and stands in front of her.
Clara's heart is pounding, instinct tells her to run but she knows it would be a mistake, just like it's wrong to run away if a dog barks at you. So she looks him straight in the face and he stares back at her, but without hostility. In her eyes there is sweetness mixed with understanding; you would say mercy, if this weren't inadmissible. Then her man talks to herthere. He utters a single word: «Far away». After that, with the air of having lost a thought, he goes about his business.
Clara tries to calm down.
"Some people should lock her up and throw away the key! Who knows what went through that lunatic's head to allow himself to look at me as if I knew and come up with that'Distant'. Distant! Like he's showing me a way out. What would he have meant? But it's not worth asking that much. He really meant nothing, his brain went bad to that one, full stop. Distant. But see if this should have happened to me too, especially tonight when she finds out that I've forgotten about the ratafià who will hear it. Let's hope at least that when she comes back she's still asleep. Distant. What if you don't come back? I could get on a train, or go sit in the station waiting room. Distant. I could make a transitional state the new pivot around which my life revolves, blend in with the street dwellers and queue for a hot meal outside the nuns' institute in Calcutta. Distant. I could burn the documents and sprinkle ashes on my head as a last sign of penance for leaving my mother to damn herself and die alone. It wouldn't last long, alone she's not capable of doing anything, but after all, what is her life, and then it's old, while I... while I, no longer a name and no longer duties, only careful to ensure that my breathor don't stop, maybe I could..."
Clara looks at the insegna of the bar of the station, to the rilook for a sign of destiny.
"I won't go home without the ratafià. Come in and ask, that's what needs to be done. And if I come out empty handed it will mean that my life can change. Enter and ask, but only out of scruple because it is certain that I will leave empty-handed. Tonight the ratafià is nowhere to be found, why should the station bar have it? Enter, ask and exit with empty hands, this must be done. ANDthen, finally, I will be free.”
Clara opens the door. Without turning on the light, she enters the house. No noise. Luckily, she's still sleeping. She goes into the kitchen, puts the bottle of ratafià on the table. She empties the envelopes, she arranges everything for her and when everything is in order she sits down. As she had done a few hours earlier with the keys, she looks at the bottle of ratafia as if she's never seen it before. Who knows what flavor she has, in so many years she has never once had the desire to taste it. She unscrews the cap, smells the liqueur: she smells of cherry. Nice find, it's made with cherries. She gets up, takes a glass and pours a finger of liqueur into it. She then changes her mind, sticks her lips to the neck of the bottle and takes a long drink.
Well, who knows what was expected, instead ratafià doesn't know about lost opportunities and wasted life, but only about alcohol and fruit. A little too sweet, but it's not so bad after all. He puts the bottle back in the cabinet, then thinks about it and puts it back on the table. To be sweetish it is sweetish, but it leaves a bitter aftertaste in the mouth. Yes, it's not bad after all. Later, maybe, he'll drink some more.
Antonella Ossorio
She is the author of texts for children published, among others, by Einaudi, Rizzoli, Giunti, Elect. He has written texts for advertising campaigns and the puzzles in verse in no. 197 of the comic series Dylan Dog. The novel If you enter the circle you are free (Rizzoli), written with Adama zoungrana, in 2010 was included in the White Ravens, the list of the best children's books published in the world. She has also written for adults and has had short stories published in anthologies and in newspapers. His latest novel The salt water cure was released this year by Neri Pozza.
