THE LADY AT ELBA

 

I did not visit Elba as a tourist. I went there to search for my wife Emma’s grandpa’s birth certificate. We visited Poggio, the town of her ancestors. The island cast a spell on my daughter Laura and me as we toured it. I could not help feeling strangely sad visiting the place. At the town’s San Defendente church, the pews bore metallic tags with the surnames of the families that donated them. I recognized many of these names as those of my classmates in my hometown. Roman and Milanese now own most of the houses as holiday homes. The grandfather once owned a vineyard in the vicinity. The phylloxera and cryptogamic diseases killed it. He sold the farm and moved to the Venezuelan highlands to grow coffee. Since he and his child, my father-in-law, died as Italian citizens, my spouse and our children could claim their citizenship. Thus, we could move to Italy and escape Hugo Chavez’s regime. I obtained Emma’s grandfather’s vital document in the registry of Marciana Marina.

One day, I called Laura for another ride around the island. She declined and remained at our hotel to rest.

I started driving in no clear direction. Driven by curiosity, I proceeded onto a gravel path bordered by dense woodland on either side. Soon I was in a cultivated area, and I arrived at a farmhouse. A big dog ran out barking, and after it came an old lady. I thought I had invaded the lady’s privacy and felt embarrassed. I stopped and excused myself, telling the woman that I was driving without aim. Smiling, she invited me to have a cup of tea.

“Won’t your husband object to your inviting a stranger into your house?” I quizzed.

“Me and Cerberus are alone here. Enter and relax.” She replied.

She asked me to sit in the living room and disappeared into the kitchen.

Photographs and portraits filled the walls. There were a table and two cupboards.

She inquired, “Where are you from?” My bad Italian had betrayed me.

“I am from Venezuela; I am here to get the birth record of my spouse’s grandad. She wants to claim citizenship for all of us to settle here.” I explained.

“I understand. People migrate from their country seeking better opportunities or escaping from dangerous places. My son Fausto left for Germany. He got an excellent job there and married a German girl. They visited me after eight years of marriage. His wife disliked at once my attachment to this homestead and continued prattling that Hamburg was nicer. She cut short the vacation and never returned until my boy, terminally ill, begged her to bring him here. Medical care and our affection for him were useless. He died here despite everything we did.

I thought my daughter in law would leave right away, but I got a surprise.

“I have nobody waiting for me. I do not want to return.” She said.

“Stay here. You are welcome,” I told her.

“I could not do otherwise. She stayed here for two winters. That girl’s reserve, quiet, and scarce vocabulary, made for a silent, mournful companion. After a while, I took her to the doctor at the local hospital. He diagnosed a serious cardiac disease and brief time to live. I remembered how my son loved her. I tried to be as tender and loving as I could. Days before passing away, she pleaded for my forgiveness and praised me as the kindest person in her life. Now she realized why Fausto had been so kind to her.”

Her story touched me. When she spoke of a portrait of the young woman, I requested to see it. She rummaged in a wooden cupboard and handed me a framed photograph.

I stared speechless. A beautiful Chinese girl looked at me with soft eyes.