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Luca Poggi
The year of the Inzippillis
Drawn by the harvest
Star by Star by Luca Poggi
Copyright © 2012 Zerounoundici Edizioni
On cover: image Shutterstock.com
The year of the Inzippillis
Memory where the eagles nested, on that mighty near trees to the crest of the mountain; memory when the wild boars drew near at night, digging black trenches looking for tubers. I remember the fragrant woods of mushrooms and the quarrelsome squirrels and the unmistakable odor of the forest, the variegated colors in the autumn, the wind that went down from the tops in the summer nights for then to go up again from the valley in the heat of the day. Every thing memory of that time, with a point of emotion and nostalgia.
Memory my father, perfect citizen transplanted who knows on the hill for what his/her sudden folly; you/he/she was suddenly turned by frequenter of theaters and museums into ortolano, as my mother was changed by elegant lady with the heels in impassioned gardener, with the callous hands marked by the brambles. To the beginning I thought only about myself; I had lost the friends, remained in a school by now remote, and I had serious doubts that in that place I would have been able to do me of it of new.
The city was distant for me. All it took is before going out, to ring loudly to the neighbors, and the flock of daredevil immediately was formed to which had accustomed. But, after we moved there there to the country, there was no anybody around us; only trees toward mountain and a panorama mozzafiato toward valley. Good for a postcard and nient'altro.
To arrive in the city ten minutes of car or forty minutes it were needed afoot. Practically as to be in the jail.
«You will see that we will find well us, here» it said my father trying to console me.
«We are fortunate» it added my mother «your friends still live between unloadings of auto and the grey one some cement.»
To me the grey one of the cement went very well.
I dragged a few the feet, as I was usual to do when I strove me not to beat with sourness, and I climbed in my room. It was a beautiful room, rather it was a beautiful house. Great, and it emanated a certain heat. Perhaps they were the warm shades of the wood, the ample and bright windows, the fluffy curtains. You/he/she had almost entirely been furnished with the mobilio of the preceding house; they missed - and they missed for a piece - the chandeliers to center room; some because we could not afford to systematize once all in, some because my parents didn't like the diffused lights. With the years we put standards in all the angles. In the meantime, stretched out on the bed, I fixed the naked light bulb penzolante from the electric threads on my head.
The new school was not badly, even if I had to lift soon me the morning; with the new companions the things went. I could not often frequent them after school, too complicated. None of their was motivated to come from me, the city he/she offered well greater funs, and I was jammed in mine healthy and uncontaminated hermitage.
I remember that the first times to my made parents the rather hard life; I refused to go out, I had not gotten used to be a lot to the open one and I didn't understand that taste there pits to wander about in the woods and to crush the sod of the fields just ploughed. My father looked me frowning.
«Sandro, goes to take a walk, does it suit you?» it said.
I shook the head. He didn't insist.
«Go us plain with him» I had felt to say from his/her mother «he/she leaves that I/you/he/she get used to the new situation.»
My father followed his/her suggestion, but he didn't like at all the thing. You saw that it studied me to individualize a sign of yelding; I was as a stubborn type him, and he/she knew him/it.
The autumn started to make himself/herself/themselves feel. The air was refreshed, even if that year the climate was almost particularly lukewarm until to Christmas. The first rains came, and they came to the great one; for three days it rained as if the clouds were very you stuff of drops for weeks, greedy as they were of the atmospheric damp to reach the most unstoppable incontinence. That morning of Sunday fogs grigies wound the trees, that seemed soaked dewy, while the first sun made to smoke the brushwood.
My mother had begged me to polish up on the back, near the garden by now unadorned; a lot of leaves were fallen from the trees of the wood and you/they had stretched a brown carpet on the steps that they conducted to the back terrace. Puffing, I obeyed without protesting thing that it didn't miss to catch her/it. In reality I felt like moving me. I taken rake and ramazza and I started to work; I almost immediately lifted the eyes because I had perceived something.
In front of me there was someone.
I beat the eyelids surprised; a boy was from now on to me, he sat on a mountain bike and you/he/she observed me perplexed, almost crossed by my presence, despite you/he/she had been him to enter our ownership without invitation through the old gate that brought to the wood.
«Hi» I said me, not properly friendly.
I moved the eyes from the boy to his/her bicycle, that was very beautiful; it had big dampers and the thick rubbers and you shape as those of a cross motorbike. To the handlebar a colored knapsack had fixed, empty, to judge from the way according to which it got flabby on the loom. The boy, that had around my age, took back him before me and reciprocated my regard with greater joy.
«Hi» it said him «I didn't know what the house had been bought. You/he/she has been abandoned from so much of that time.»
It seemed undecided on the to make himself/herself/themselves; I had never seen anybody so full of freckles. It had an air scanzonata and nice, but I was not well prepared.
«Be', I regret to have entered your ownership» it added, aware of my hostility. You looked around «but the gate is open as always. I was too taken by the search to realize that the ground has been cultivated.»
«The search of what?» I did me.
«Mushrooms. This house is miracolata. Around everything is very difficult to find of it.»
«We see these mushrooms.»
I was curious. I have always adored the mushrooms; my mother was a good cook. I have learned to recognize them from when I had the pacifier; memory the rare vacations in mountain and our raids in the woods.
«You/he/she is not said at all that there is, however» it said that on the defensives.
Gone down by the bike and it drew near to the small scarp that separated the principal garden from an underlying pianoro. Dad had put a hedge of separation among the two areas, trying to cover the cut-off bases of different trunks of trees cut who knows when; you/he/she was easier than to try to remove that stumps, whose roots
surely arrived in depth.
I followed the intruder, and together we peered at through the hedge.
«Seppiolina!» it said him with an expression that, I discovered with the time, it was him characteristic.
I opened wide the mouth but I didn't say anything; under of us the trunks there were not more, to their place a forest of stems and hats it was risen marroncini, more sharp pain in correspondence of every woody prominence.
I stooped me and I extracted one of them: it was soft and he/she sent a pleasant perfume.
«No, not so» it suggested him «cut them to the base.»
It extracted a knife and it started to cleverly chop off. In little time it completed the job; the mushrooms were crowded in its purse, so so many that you/he/she would never have succeeded in closing her/it.
We had shoes and rotten pantaloni for the damp grass. With an embarrassed gesture, as if only account was made then that after all it was not his/her stuff, the full knapsack handed me.
«I regret it. It is the habit. I already foretasted the risotto of my mother» it said.
It was so remorseful that came me to laugh.
I remembered the other collectors of mushrooms that I had known: sometimes nice, but always covertly hostile, to defense of theirs small secret of seeker. It was then that it started to like me.
«Sandro» I said, some embarrassed also me.
«Robi» it did him; we shook us the