that comes from feeling oneself important, part of something that has value and brings happiness.
“She’s an angel, just as everyone used to say.” To dry her tears today, Maddalena has brought a snow-white little handkerchief of finest cotton muslin.
“Critics liked to call her ‘the angel of the piano’. They would say that she had an angel’s name: Gabriella De Lellis. And she did indeed always dress in white.”
“De Lellis,” I say, involuntarily repeating the Maestro’s words.
“Yes. I know nothing of my father. When I was a child, she would tell me that I had two mothers: herself and music. Later, she promised that one day she would tell me everything. Then she fell ill – but I have the good fortune of not entertaining any curiosity.”
“Curiosity is a sister to the devil,” Maddalena says approvingly.
We climbed the stairs in silence, instinctively tiptoeing so as not to disturb that tranquil drizzle of notes echoing from one wall to the other, from one floor to the other, thanks to acoustics that I perceived as flawless.
She did not look up. She was sitting at the piano and looking at her pale fingers as they glided all along the keyboard like young girls at play on the beach. She was following them with the care of a childminder responsible for their movements, pleased with them and at the same time apprehensive lest one or the other should escape. Her full-length white dress was flutteringin a breeze, revealing a well-rounded, softer and more maternal body than shown in the photographs on the ground floor. There was nothing dry about her: for once, Maddalena had been wrong.
“The chiild from the hoouse on the riiver,” she says softly in a singsong voice, without lifting her eyes from the keyboard.
Maestro De Lellis stops dead in the middle of the room.
“Then you remember her, you remember what I told you …”
“I reemember the sohrrow of women who aare mothers to beeloved children.”
“Did you know my mother?” I say anxiously.
“Too many questions make for bad answers,” Maddalena says, immediately cutting me short. “There’s a breeze in here …”
Maddalena wants to change the subject fearing I might be indiscreet, but it is true that a swirl of air is coming from somewhere, and making us shiver even though we are still in our coats.
The light-filled room was almost wholly taken up by the grand piano, surrounded by three large
ficus benjamina
whose leaves were quivering softly, rustled by a slowly revolving wooden fan suspended from the ceiling and almost completely hidden by the plants. The glass chandelier also participated in that quiet movement, which I had noticed from the street on my afternoon walks.
“My mother needs the breath of the world around her,” Maestro De Lellis says softly. “She once used to walk for hours: to Parco Querini in the city, or the park of the Villa Guiccioli, not far from here, above the Basilica of Monte Berico.”
“She used to come to Ferrovieri, too, along the Retrone.”
Maddalena is not sure she wants to speak. She stops and watches her playing, waiting for some sort of assent that does not come.
“It was raining, the first time I saw her. You could see her from far off. She was walking along the river bank and her white dress was flying about her, at first. She was looking in front of herself without noticing how the rain was making her skirt heavier and heavier. I had the impression she was talking to someone: an angel talking to her fellows.”
“I did not know that. I would not have thought she would walk out that far. On the other hand, that is a typical symptom of her illness, this restless wandering,” the Maestro says.
“But it’s not far: you can take the path that goes down to San Giorgio, it’s very quick.”
“I don’t know it, she never took me there …”
“Perhaps it was one of her secrets,” Maddalena says in a conclusive tone.
While playing, Signora De Lellis was following my movements
“She’s an angel, just as everyone used to say.” To dry her tears today, Maddalena has brought a snow-white little handkerchief of finest cotton muslin.
“Critics liked to call her ‘the angel of the piano’. They would say that she had an angel’s name: Gabriella De Lellis. And she did indeed always dress in white.”
“De Lellis,” I say, involuntarily repeating the Maestro’s words.
“Yes. I know nothing of my father. When I was a child, she would tell me that I had two mothers: herself and music. Later, she promised that one day she would tell me everything. Then she fell ill – but I have the good fortune of not entertaining any curiosity.”
“Curiosity is a sister to the devil,” Maddalena says approvingly.
We climbed the stairs in silence, instinctively tiptoeing so as not to disturb that tranquil drizzle of notes echoing from one wall to the other, from one floor to the other, thanks to acoustics that I perceived as flawless.
She did not look up. She was sitting at the piano and looking at her pale fingers as they glided all along the keyboard like young girls at play on the beach. She was following them with the care of a childminder responsible for their movements, pleased with them and at the same time apprehensive lest one or the other should escape. Her full-length white dress was flutteringin a breeze, revealing a well-rounded, softer and more maternal body than shown in the photographs on the ground floor. There was nothing dry about her: for once, Maddalena had been wrong.
“The chiild from the hoouse on the riiver,” she says softly in a singsong voice, without lifting her eyes from the keyboard.
Maestro De Lellis stops dead in the middle of the room.
“Then you remember her, you remember what I told you …”
“I reemember the sohrrow of women who aare mothers to beeloved children.”
“Did you know my mother?” I say anxiously.
“Too many questions make for bad answers,” Maddalena says, immediately cutting me short. “There’s a breeze in here …”
Maddalena wants to change the subject fearing I might be indiscreet, but it is true that a swirl of air is coming from somewhere, and making us shiver even though we are still in our coats.
The light-filled room was almost wholly taken up by the grand piano, surrounded by three large
ficus benjamina
whose leaves were quivering softly, rustled by a slowly revolving wooden fan suspended from the ceiling and almost completely hidden by the plants. The glass chandelier also participated in that quiet movement, which I had noticed from the street on my afternoon walks.
“My mother needs the breath of the world around her,” Maestro De Lellis says softly. “She once used to walk for hours: to Parco Querini in the city, or the park of the Villa Guiccioli, not far from here, above the Basilica of Monte Berico.”
“She used to come to Ferrovieri, too, along the Retrone.”
Maddalena is not sure she wants to speak. She stops and watches her playing, waiting for some sort of assent that does not come.
“It was raining, the first time I saw her. You could see her from far off. She was walking along the river bank and her white dress was flying about her, at first. She was looking in front of herself without noticing how the rain was making her skirt heavier and heavier. I had the impression she was talking to someone: an angel talking to her fellows.”
“I did not know that. I would not have thought she would walk out that far. On the other hand, that is a typical symptom of her illness, this restless wandering,” the Maestro says.
“But it’s not far: you can take the path that goes down to San Giorgio, it’s very quick.”
“I don’t know it, she never took me there …”
“Perhaps it was one of her secrets,” Maddalena says in a conclusive tone.
While playing, Signora De Lellis was following my movements
Similar Books
