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Expectations

  

PARTE UNO
 
        E’passato molto tempo dall’ultima volta che scrissi parlando della vita e dell’amore. Dentro di me tutto si è repentinamente inaridito e quelle poche volte che mi provai , pur muovendo le dita sulla tastiera ero incapace a trarne parole di un certo valore, solo note senza significato .
       Dopo la separazione da Mary, la mia vita correva lungo una china di disperazione. Mio figlio che amavo e che pur porta il mio nome, non è mio, Conoscere questa terribile verità mi ha sconvolto. Mary mi ha tradito nei sentimenti più cari, ed il mio amore si è inaridito e repentinamente mi son trovato un relitto abbandonato ai venti nell’oceano dei dubbi e disillusioni.
       Che altro potevo fare? Fui pure generoso con lei. Le diedi del denaro chiedendole di ritornarsene dalla sua famiglia e non rientrare mai più nella mia vita. Ero amareggiato così decisi di andarmene via il più lontano possibile .
       Vendetti il tutto tenendo solo quelle poche cose indispensabili, che impacchettai in scatole di cartone e riposi nel mio Volkswagen camper-van .
       Non avevo una meta, ma presi la strada che conduceva verso il Nord, viaggiando nella frescura della notte e riposandomi durante il giorno  Dove veramente andavo?  Per mesi non mi posi mai questo interrogativo e d’altronde non me ne importava un gran che, sapevo che qualora il tempo sarebbe stato propizio per la mia vita a rigermogliare di nuovo, il mio subcoscio mi avrebbe inviato quel particolare messaggio .
 
      Era un tardo pomeriggio di primavera ed una fresca brezza soffiava dall’oceano lungo la linea di spiaggia semideserta. Vi erano solo un paio di pescatori intenti a lanciare l’esca il più lontano possibile nell’oceano spumeggiante, arcuando le loro braccia con maestria . La loro pesca era buona ed ora, nell’imbrunire alcuni tonni aboccavano all’amo .
      Uno dei due pescatori era una giovane donna , alta e snella con una carnagione olivastra ed occhi scuri. Il lancio della sua esca era perfetto ed era evidente la sua maestria.Vicino a lei, un gruppo di gabbiani erano attratti dagli scarti gettati sulla spiaggia. 
      Sera era poco piu’ che ventenne e non era nata localmente. Proveniva da una remota isola sperduta nell’immensità dell’oceano Pacifico ed era venuta qui ad abitare con alcuni parenti che da tempo vivevano lungo queste coste Australiane , recentemente Sera aveva sofferto un dispiacere amoroso , e se n'era venuta per dimenticare quel ragazzo lasciato in quelle isole Fijiane .
      A Sera piaceva questo tratto di costa nel nord Queensland che aveva tanto in comune con la sua isola là, nei mari tropicali del Pacifico . Il cielo aveva la stessa intensità di azzurro ed il mare era ugualmente calmo e protetto da una barriera corallina. Le spiaggie avevano quella stessa sabbia fine e bianca, correnti all’infinito e gli orrizonti erano rotti da linee di palme di cocco. Alcune di queste palme piegate dai venti, correvano parallelamente alla spiaggia, per poi inalzarsi di nuovo verso il cielo aprendosi in grandi ombrelle di verdi fronde, lasciando al di sotto quel posto di frescura desiderato dai visitatori nei pomeriggi afosi .
      Nonostante queste simililarità tra queste due terre, Sera sentiva pur sempre la mancanza del suo popolo, delle tradizioni e leggende lasciate indietro e che tanto aveva imparato ad amare crescendo la nella sua isola.
      Del tempo passato ben poco era stato scritto riguardo il suo popolo, ma le tradizioni e leggende erano state tramandate a voce viva dai cantastorie durante speciali festività nei villaggi isolani . Sera ricordava bene quelle calde sera dove la gente locale si riuniva sedendosi su tappeti di cocco stesi a terra, a consumare quel cibo che avevano portato con loro. Altri cantavano e danzavano a quei ritmi Polinesiani e tutto era parte delle loro tradizioni . Qualcuno preparava la ‘’ Kava “ quel beveraggio di radice di pepe, infuso in bassi recipienti di legno e bevuta in mezze coppe di noce di cocco. Il bere in comune questo beveraggio, consacrava e riaffermava nuovamente l’amicizia e la frattellanza di tutti loro.
      Ed alla fine il cantastorie sarebbe venuto, e là , sotto alle stelle avrebbe fatto rivivere nella loro immaginazione tutti quegli spiriti della loro mitologia, che nella preistoria erano giunti per dare avvio alla vita dell’umanità in questo paradiso tropicale .
      Ma maggiormente Sera sentiva la mancanza del padre il quale la iniziò a tutti i segreti dell’isola . Erano maggiormente pratici insegnamenti per soppravivere in queste terre. Il padre le aveva indicato dove trovare pur sempre quei frutti tropicali maturati sull’albero ed emananti squsiti profumi. Le aveva insegnato come coltivare, in quel ricco suolo vulcanico le “ Cassavas ed i Dalos “ cosi’ importanti nella loro dieta, ed alla fine il padre aveva insegnato a lei ad amare il mare e i segreti racchiusi in quelle acque blue. Così Sera ancora giovinetta aveva imparato a rispettare la forza di quell’oceano e sapeva dove trovare in quella immensità le ricchezze dei suoi frutti.
      Imparò, sotto la guida del padre, a navigare con quelle loro canoe scavate nei tronchi dell’albero del pane, avente uno scalmiere al lato per dare stabilità alla canoa stessa ed una vela quadrata intessuta con le foglie del cocco. Imparò dov’era il miglior posto per lanciare la rete per la pesca , e dove lasciare i canestri nel fondo corallifero della laguna per prendere quelle immense aragoste .
 
      Raggiunsi Bowen un pomeriggio. Il tramonto era glorioso nei toni di rosso e di oro creando una contrastante luminescenza verso l’Ovest, esponendo il sole in un semicerchio di porpora che rapidamente spariva all’orrizonte entro il mare turchino.
     Il sopravvenire del tramonto era il segnale per le barche dei pescatori a lasciare la costa e prepararsi alla loro veglia notturna, sperando in una buona pescagione durante la notte .
     La calma e la solitudine che circondava quel luogo creava piacere ed inoltre era confortevole quel tiepido calore serale del clima tropicale .
      Incominciai i preparativi per trascorrere la notte e preparai la mia cena, consistente in una larga bistecca assieme a pomodori ed ananas sul barbecue portatile e Stoeky, il mio cane e compagno di viaggio, se ne stava pigramente accovacciato al lato del camper in attesa del suo cibo serale .
      Sotto questa latitudine a notte, le costellazioni tropicali apparivano più luminose ed in particolare la Croce del sud sembrava ancora più vicina indicando chiaramente con le sue stelle la direzione Nord – Sud nel cielo luminoso .
 

      

 

  VI E` PUR SEMPRE UN DOMANI ( EXPECTETIONS )

         by

          Carlo Gabbi

 

EXPACTATIONS

 

My wife comes from a tiny island lost in the immensity of the Pacific Ocean.

From her I learned the Myths and Legends of her people and their simplistic life.

From those memories this story was created.

 

   It has been a long time since I wrote about life and love. The few times I tried to move my fingers on the keyboard; I couldn’t create any sensible words, only notes without meaning.

      After I separated from Annabelle, my life was shattered. It was too much for me to discover the terrible truth. My son is not really mine, even though he had my name.         

    Annabelle had lied. My love had died and I became crushed in the ocean of doubt and disillusion.

        I couldn’t find any solutions and I asked her, to return with her son, where she belonged, to her country and with her family. Although I had no obligation to the baby I settled a generous endowment on her to stay out of my life.

        It took a long time to return to normal and to rise above the depression and apathy. A few months after the separation, disillusioned, I moved as far away as possible.

        I sold my possessions, and packed a few indispensable things in cartons, which I fitted in my Kombi-van. I drove north without a proper destination in mind, mainly I drove at nights, in the fresh air, and rested during the heat of the day.                                                                       Where was I really going? I never asked this question of myself, and I really didn’t care. I was sure that when the time came, my mind would finally find the place to start a new life.

 

        It was a late afternoon in springtime, and a fresh wind blew from the ocean. The long stretch of beach was nearly deserted. Only two fishermen were on the shore arching their arms, throwing their lines away into the foaming ocean, where some breams were biting at their hooks.

     One of the fishermen was a tall, slim young woman. She had an olive complexion and dark hazel eyes. Seagulls circled close to her, attracted by the scraps that she discarded. The woman was in her late twenties and was a newcomer to this part of Queensland. She came from a remote island in the Pacific, hoping to mend her life, after a painful separation from a long time lover.

     Mata found this coast of Queensland had so many similarities with her beloved island, with the same blue sky, and the sea mostly calm, protected by the coral barrier. At the shoreline was also the identical broken line of coconut trees, bent by the wind. Large patches of shade were created by the big green umbrellas of the palm and welcomed by the people who sought relief from the heat.

     Mata liked this stretch of Queensland, but on the same time, she missed the tradition and legend of her people.

    Not much had been written in the past about them, but all the same, those archaic inheritances were well preserved. She remembered the local story-tellers, who narrated the legends to the locals, in the long warm nights on her island.

    On those occasions the villagers used to congregate outside the hall. Families arrived at dusk bringing with them baskets of food. Someone of the group prepared the kava in a large shallow wooden dish. This traditional beverage, symbol of friendship between the islanders, was drunk from a half coconut shell, passed around, and became polished over time.

    Finally, under the stars, the storyteller would revive the life of their legendary ghosts who initiated life in that tropical paradise.

    Mata missed her father. When she and the other children were young, he taught them the secrets of the island, practical survival things.  Father shoved them where to find ripe and perfumed tropical fruits, and how to cultivate cassavas and dalos in the rich volcanic soil. Her father also taught her to love the sea and respect the strength of the ocean. She learned where to find the rich seafood, in the lagoon on the island, and she learned the way to sail the canoe fitted with one outrigger and the coconut canvas, and how to fish with the quadrangular net and the way to throw it properly. Her father also showed her the best spots to sink the baited baskets to catch lobsters and crabs.

                                                                                                                                                                 I reached Bowen one evening. The sunset was glorious, sparkling in reds and gold, creating luminescent contrast over the far west of the sky, where the sun descended rapidly at the horizon. Sunset was the time chosen by the fishermen to leave the calm moorings and move to sea, hoping for a good catch overnight.    

     I liked the remoteness, and the calm of the site surrounding me. More, I enjoyed the warmer sub-tropical climate. I set camp for my overnight stay. On the portable barbecue I cooked a T-bone steak with fried tomatoes and pineapple rings for my dinner. My constant companion, a blue heeler, lay lazily near the camper-van, waiting for his share of the evening meal.

      At night the entire tropical constellation appeared more brilliant then a usual, and the Southern Cross seemed closer to earth, pointing the north-south direction in the sky.

       After months of lonely nomadic life I realized something was mellowing inside me, creating the desire to finally settle down.                                              .                                                                       

   Suddenly the need to move from one place to another wasn’t important any more. 

   In the morning I set up my camp on a deserted beach, a few kilometers out of town, where only a few occasional visitors came for a swim or tried their luck to catch some fish.

     One morning, while I was strolling along the beach, I noticed a “FOR SALE” sign outside a property. It was an old solid cabin, adjoining a mango plantation. 

     On the next visit to town, curiosity made me to stop at the Real Estate office for some information. “Pure curiosity”   I told myself   “It’s not time yet to put roots here or anywhere else.” 

      When I inspected the place, I came to like the rustic nature of the cabin. It consisted of a large open room; the walls were built with boulders and squared ironbark logs.

 It was an old spartan lodge and had solid clumsy furniture, left behind by the previous owner.

        In great contrast with the simplicity of the place there was a magnificent mahogany desk with a matching bookcase containing old yellowish books, emanating an intriguing musky odor.

        Seeing those luxuries in front of me, made me feel weak, and my old passion resurfaced. I swiftly passed my fingers over the smooth silky patina of the old refined desk and I could no longer resist the overwhelmed temptation of owning the desk. I paid a deposit of the property, becoming the new owner.

        My life changed over night. Again I had a roof over my head, and I had a well with plenty of fresh water. Behind the house, and belonging to me, was the orchard with dozens of mature mango trees, heavily loaded with fruit.

       I was proud of my new possessions. I found the books valuable to me, and I was fascinated to read in them of the first settler on this land, two hundred years ago. Other books described sea voyages from Europe, on elegant brigantines, swiftly flying on the waters with their white canvas filled with wind. These stories took me back to the old days, which are unreal in today’s existence.

        I was proud of my new possession, but mostly I loved the magnificent desk that I had always dreamed to posses. My new life ignited the old passions and the love to write resurfaced in me. The laptop’s keyboard once more created musical notes in my ears, and words flowed like rivers from my soul, and translated like songs, into written words.

 

      The first time I met Mata was at the local Hotel, where she worked as a bar attendant. I used to go there at night for a schooner of beer and my evening meal.

    I was attracted by her remarkable beauty and the charming smile on her lips while she served her customers.

      The next morning, while I was strolling down the beach, a jogger overtook me, running on the wet edge of the sand. It was Mata passing me and she saluted me waving her hand, and with a melodious voice she threw a good morning. I replied, even if I didn’t recognize her immediately. Dressed in her shorts and T-shirt she looked quite different from the young woman I knew at the pub. She jogged to the end of the beach and turned back. As she came towards me again I asked her,  “Hi Mata, what about a cup of coffee with me?”                      .   

       She wasn’t surprise at my invitation and with a large smile she simply replied:  “Why not?”

        She didn’t ask where I was living. In such a small community, word of mouth spreads quickly and became obvious to the locals the whereabouts of newcomers.      

 We walked back together, exchanging a few pragmatic words till we reached my home.

       We sat out in the cool verandah facing the sea, with the coffee and toast that we prepared. When we finished our frugal breakfast, Mata in a commanding voice ordered,

     “My morning is free. If you don’t mind, go and do your usual things. This place is a disgrace and in need of a woman’s attention to brighten it up and make it presentable.”

       She left me speechless. Mata, seeing my embarrassment, added, “I am your neighbor and I don’t mind, but it won’t become an habit.”

      It was the beginning of our friendship.

      Mata told me, “On my island we live like one big family and we used to help each other. You are a man and not used to domestic chores. That’s the main reason I want to help you.”                                                                                                                 

       As days passed Mata became indispensable around the house and the orchard with her help and some practical suggestions.

       ”You have to rack the leaves under the trees and burn them. The smoke will keep away the fruit fly. That’s what we used to do on my island.”

        She also dug a garden bed planting vegetables and flowers.

       “The soil is fertile and we have plenty of water in the well.  It’s time to grow fresh vegetables. I will also plant dalos and cassavas for us. You will find them delicious to eat.”

         Mata silently entered my life through the back door. Soon I found myself depending on her.

         On her day off, Mata cooked our dinner. After our evening meal we used to rest outside facing the sea and admiring the bright stars above us.

       The semidarkness allowed us to share our confidences. I told her of my shattered life, while she confided back her disappointments in life.       

    “When I was in Suva I had a boyfriend.” She told me, “He was Indian, one of the many living there. Raj was young and handsome and was full of attentions for me.  We fell in love and spent most of our time together. I never asked him to marry me. I was happy the way it was. We were young and we had decided to save money before our marriage.’

     She told me that regularly, Raj visited his family, who lived on the western part of the island. Then she became apprehensive remembering the sadder part of her life. 

      “I remember once I asked him if he ever mentioned about our relationship and love to his family. He told me that the Indians have different conception about marriages and they believe love would follow the arranged marriages by the families. For them and in their traditions, marriages are stipulated contracts to created wealth in the family and where love is seldom know between husband and wife. Raj told me that his family wouldn’t understand the way we loved each other. Nevertheless he promised that one day, when the proper occasion came, he would talk of his intentions to the family.”

     Mata, after a short interruption kept narrating, “Unfortunately things didn’t work out as he said. A few months later, he returned from a visit to his parents with some unexpected news. Bluntly he told me that his family had arranged a marriage for him with a young woman that Raj had never met. He didn’t object to the tradition of his people and accepted the marriage for the good sake of family interest and for respect to the laws of his people.”

       It was so much sorrow in her now, “I wasn’t prepared for such terrible news and I have never completely recovered from that heartache, and I’m still suffering today.”

        “But Mata,” I told her “You must think about your future. I’m sure soon you will find the right man and you will have your family. In the past I have suffered like you. But believe me, time heals the suffering of the soul and I can see things differently today. I know we have much in common because of our suffering for love. In time we have become friends. I notice you are a wonderful woman and I know you care for me. I like you very much Mata and I believe in the future we can find our paths running in the same direction giving back to us love and happiness.”

       Mata snuggled closer to me. Softly she told me,

      “My dear, I haven’t completely freed myself from the past. I have to find myself first, before I can speak to you about my inner feelings. Even though I know that inside me there are warm feelings for you I cannot yet speak of love for you, simply because I don’t want to hurt your feelings and dreams for the future.’                     

      Holding my hand now she kept on,  “I’ll be honest with you. Raj’s ghost is still with me and makes my life miserable. He stands between us disrupting and delaying our possible future. I can’t pretend to you. If I marry you now, it would only be because of the security and comfort you can offer me, but if I would act in this way, it would be dishonest…”  

       With trepidation I asked,

      “But if things change, and you became free of his ghost, would you reconsider…?”

       “Yes I will, I know one day things will change. Our lives are changing every day, and the way we see life is changing equally. But I promise you, that if my past can be forgotten, the feelings and love that are growing in me for you would become more imperative in my thoughts. But as now I need more time to mend the pain in my heart. 

       Please understand and let us be good friends as we are now, for a while longer. I’m sure, the day will come, when I will be receptive to love again, and ready for you. Then our future will be possible. Making a decision today is premature. We still have the scars from the past, they haven’t healed completely. Our future is so important to me. We have to wait and hope. 

     Finally she concluded, ‘The morrow will be then, a better one for us. ”    

 

 

NOTA AI MIEI LETTORI

Questa e` una delle mie storie, che ho conservato e che ora vi presento senza alcuna correzione, anche se ho notate alcune.

La storia mi è particolarmente cara ed qui e li vi e` rispecchiata la mia vera vita nomadica ed a volte sofferente. Inoltre, anche se allora ero alle prime armi nello scrivere, questa particolare narrazione aveva punti buoni per un principiantre scrittore.

Mentre pubblico la versione in Inglese interamente, questa versione in Italiano la divido in due parti, tenendo conto che viene pubblicata su un sito e quindi non e` giusto vi rubi troppo tempo/

 

 

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