Back then Befana sang as she tended the range. Giro de note per veder la bella La note scura e la bella non vedo She imagined a beautiful raven-haired girl in the window of a tower as she tore fresh thyme from the stalk and tipped it into the boiling pot of finely chopped onions and garlic, fresh plum tomatoes and borlotti beans. A long, twisted loaf baked in the oven. All the day, the small house in the mountains rang also with the burbling and clattering of her beloved boy, running in and out of her skirts, chasing scarlet beetles round the porch and dancing the wee puppet along the fireplace, as his mother sang and sang some more, of jewel-like oceans far beyond these peaks, of magic and magnificence. At dusk, she welcomed her husband from the fields. She tore lush green strips of cavolo nero into the pot and when they were just wilted, they ate the soup together and were glad of it all. A tavola non s’invecchia. At the table one does not grow old. She sweeps now, Befana, sweeps and sweeps, her red, scored, wrinkled hands eking solace from the rhythm of her fine birch besom, a kind of lullaby. It is something she can control, this dust. And in its inevitable settled return each morning, she finds not despair but purpose and the newness of the day. She sets her broom at the back door and rinses her hands. An unaccountable notion takes her, the scent of a memory. In the kitchen, she lays the broad oak table with saucers of almonds, pine nuts and pistacchios, powdered sugar and spelt flour. She shaves the zest of three oranges, three lemons, and their zing and the warm earthy reek of cloves infuse her with better days. All morning and long into the afternoon, she sculpts and bakes biscotti and bruttiboni, cherry-topped pignolo and chocolate-dipped mustacciuoli. In the lea of the mountain, the cold light of the wintry evening is ebbing. There is a gentle knock at the door, which starts her. At her threshold, it is a queer sight indeed, quite wondrous. The eldest man, who has met at least as many mornings as Befana herself, extends a hand in greeting, and bows. His eyes are olive green and kind. His beard is soft and thick like fresh snow. His accent is thick too, unfamiliar and careful. He explains quietly, We are travelers, on our way this night to the holy city of Bethlehem in The East. A boy is new born there, he says, a boy who will be King. Befana’s eyes close involuntarily and for a moment she glimpses her own boy, the crown of his tiny head, the sticky black hair. She feels the rise and fall of his breathing, nestled upon her chest for that first time. She ushers them into the warm kitchen. A second, younger man, happed in a heavy saffron cape, sniffs deeply, catching immediately the dense spice and sweetness of her day’s work before he sees it. His eyes light upon the table and glister. He smiles broadly. Befana offers him cannoli. He blinks slowly as the fine pastry crunches and melts into vanilla cream. His fingers touch his lips gently and blow a wordless thanks. The third and youngest and tallest of the men is dark skinned, darker even than Old Tommaso, who came long ago from Cosenza. He wears a scarlet hood, edged with fine bronze braid. He removes it now, and shivers, and she bids him sit by the fire to warm himself. There is bread to bake and you will sleep here tonight, Befana insists, I will dice the last of Francesca’s best sausage and make a stew such as I have not made for many years. That night the four ate and laughed together by Befana’s stove. The youngest man sang songs in a tongue that she did not understand. Still the aching, serpentine melodies spoke directly to her heart of love and loss and longing, as the best songs everywhere always do. And she wondered if he had walked alongside those distant diamond oceans of the old songs she used to sing. When, later that night, the eldest man picked up the marionette from the mantelpiece and Befana flinched, he set it back down again straight away, carefully, without asking, and nodded almost imperceptibly to her with the utmost tenderness and respect. That night the whole house slept soundly. At dawn, as the three men set to leave, the eldest spoke, Come with us Befana. There is great love in you. We will follow the new star to Bethlehem to meet the new King and rejoice. That’s kind, she said, but I have work to do here. I have the garden to tend, the house to keep, the floors to sweep. Go, she said, Travel safe to this boy King. She watched the men disappear over the brow of the hill. All that morning, her sweeping was restless and awkward. She could not find her rhythm, her pace. She seemed to wrestle with that broom. Several times she swore she felt a sharp tug at her skirts and a rush of air, as if, well, she was surely going a little crazy. Besides this, the mounds of sweet treats upon the table were accusations. Who will relish us now? What joy can we bring here? Go, go, they said. Go the child in the holy city. When the sun had reached its height, which was not high in those days of midwinter, she packed a small bag with a blanket and some bread and cheese. On top, she arranged the sweet pastries carefully in layers of muslin, before wrapping and tying them in heavy sack-cloth. Finally, she lifted the marionette carefully from the mantel, swaddled it in a handkerchief and laid it across the parcel of pastries, before drawing the bag to a close. To Bethlehem, in the East she went, all afternoon through the snow and ice. By dusk, she was shivering and utterly lost, and as the evening star rose in the sky, to mark the westernmost horizon, she began to weep. She weeps now, Befana, weeps and weeps for all that needs weeping. She weeps for love. She weeps for the joy of sharing food with strangers. She weeps for the turquoise ocean of the old songs. She weeps for the faraway boy King. She weeps for the boy. ***** Im not religious but the story of Befana moves me, so Ive rewritten it after my own fashion. The 6th January is the Feast of Epiphany and a huge celebration in many Christian cultures. In Italy its associated with the Good Witch, Befana, who fed and sheltered the three Magi on their journey to Bethlehem. She set out to follow them and find the baby King but never did. She is lost for all eternity, searching for the child. Like Santa Claus on Christmas Eve, on the Eve of Epiphany (last night) kind Befana is said to fetch presents, sweet treats, to good children, and coals (or black candies) for the children who have not been quite so good! She carries them on her broom.
Posted on: Tue, 06 Jan 2015 13:57:44 +0000
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