She was a rosewater kind of woman. It simply means that she was as simple as a fountain. She indistinctly repeated the same speech with different words to anyone who was listening: the cluster of roses waiting in the garden, the horses, the people who treated her like a horse, the broken fountain, the sweet depressions on the lower back of a resting woman, the moon of the cockcrow.
This was, in fact, the most beautiful of moons: the moon of the cockcrow lacked the wistful nostalgia of the night, when it rather resembled a tear of fear. Nor did the evening prayer moon reassure her much, for it stretched and twisted like dough being rolled out into places where there wasn’t anything before, in the sky of the past noon. No, the cockcrow moon was cold like the jugular of a mute, more like a rock than a metaphor, as it happened to actually be. It reminded her of a motto she had been forced to learn with beatings, because even idiots understand Latin, as God made it the language of all: flectar, non frangar (to bend, not to break).
God had not made Latin foolish, but certainly foolish was she, who remembered everything in reverse, as if eating soup came before preparing the soup, and talking came before thinking. The only thing she had guessed right in reverse was that one should bend before breaking. But then she reasoned, as the nuns had told her to do, that maybe those pagan Latins didn’t have trees. God hadn’t Created them yet. They couldn’t understand what broke, and what bent: perhaps it was because of the lack of trees and the lack of the concept of bending that the Roman Empire fell.
Thus, the higher one was, the harder one fell. It became clear since she had gone up on the roof, for just like a woman’s skin, tiles too are impervious and irregular. Like the women on the roof, who fall without a sob, like Oedipus, who had only to blame himself for trying, it would have been enough not to climb up to avoid getting hurt.
The hurt was pervasive, as it knew how to take as much as it gave. It was always connected, tapping with a Cyclops’ force on a lit screen to send her aunt a photo of a coffee, a cherub, three hearts, a sunflower, and a dahlia. Above all, the caption: ‘Good morning! I wish you a fantastic day!’. Her word, from the witches of Egypt to the harpies of Greece, no one had ever heard of a spell capable of turning fortune in their favour, using ingredients such as the photo of a cappuccino, a cherub; a sunflower and a dahlia.
No shadow of sunflowers could be seen in the garden; nor dahlias. Only a handful of pale roses, pubescents with the first colour on their cheeks, bristling like eyelashes on the contour of an eye. It was the garden of the fountain and the people who treated her like a horse, who thought that fresh air, like Latin, would make her less idiotic. They happily listened to her stammer: she waxed poetic about the moon in the morning. Unfortunately, they immediately frowned when they heard that she was indistinctly repeating the same speech to the horses, the fountain, the roses crying dew under the morning moon. She was, after all, a rosewater kind of woman.
Era una donna all’acqua di rose. Voleva dire semplicemente questo, che era semplice come una fontana. Ripeteva gli stessi discorsi ma con parole diverse indistintamente, a chiunque la stesse ad ascoltare: il gruzzo di rose che attendeva in giardino, i cavalli, le persone che la trattavano come un cavallo, la fontana guasta, le dolci depressioni sulla bassa schiena di una donna a riposo, la luna del chicchirichì.
Era, questa, la più bella delle lune: la luna del chicchirichì, che mancava della nostalgia fremebonda della notte, quando rassomigliava più a una lacrima di spavento; né la luna della preghiera del vespero la rasserenava più di tanto, ché si tendeva e torceva come pasta per stirarsi dove prima non c’era, il cielo del meriggio passato. No, la luna del chicchirichì era fredda come la giugula d’un muto, più simile a un sasso che a una metafora, come capitava fosse veramente; le ricordava un motto che le avevano fatto imparare a suon di legnate, perché pur gli idioti capiscono il latino, siccome Dio l’ha fatta la lingua di tutti: flectar, non frangar (m’infrangerò, non mi piegherò).
Dio non aveva fatto idiota il latino, ma di certo idiota lei, che ricordava tutto al contrario, come che mangiare la zuppa venisse prima del preparare la zuppa e che parlare venisse prima del pensare. Solo una cosa aveva indovinato giusto a rovescio, che ci si piegasse prima di spezzarsi. Ma poi aveva ragionato, come le suore le avevano detto di fare, che forse quei pagani dei latini non ce li avevano, gli alberi. Dio non li aveva ancora Fatti. Non potevano capire cosa si spezzava, cosa si piegava: forse, era per via della mancanza d’alberi e della concezione del piegarsi che l’Impero Romano era caduto.
Si cadeva così, tanto più male tanto più si era in alto. Era beninteso da quando s’era recata sul tetto: poiché come la pelle di donna, anche le tegole erano impervie ed irregolari. Come per le donne del tetto, che cadono senza un singulto, come per Edipo, che aveva da rimproverarsi il solo aver tentato, sarebbe stato sufficiente il non salire per evitare di farsi male.
Il male era capillare, poiché sapeva prendere quanto dare. Era sempre connesso, ticchettando con una forza da ciclope sullo schermo chiaro perché riuscisse a inviare alla zia la foto di un caffè, un cherubino, tre cuori, un girasole e una dalia. Sopra tutto, la scritta: ‘Buongiorno! Ti auguro una fantastica giornata!’. Dalle streghe d’Egitto alle arpie di Grecia, parola sua, nessuno aveva mai sentito di un incantesimo per volgere a proprio favore la Fortuna, e che avesse come ingredienti una foto di un cappuccino, un cherubino; un girasole e una dalia.
Non si vedeva ombra di girasoli, in giardino; né di dalie. Solo un pugno di rose pallide, pubescenti col primo colore sulla gota, irte come ciglia sul contorno di un occhio. Era il giardino della fontana, e della gente che la trattava come un cavallo, che pensava che l’aria, come il latino, l’avrebbero resa meno idiota. Felici ne ascoltavano le balbuzie: poeticava sulla luna al mattino. Si corrucciavano subito, purtroppo, quando sentivano che ripeteva indistintamente lo stesso discorso ai cavalli, alla fontana, alle rose che piangevano rugiada sotto la luna del mattino. Era, d’altronde, una donna all’acqua di rose.
WRITER’S NOTE
From Wikipedia (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Crown_of_sonnets): a crown of sonnets or sonnet corona is a sequence of sonnets, usually addressed to one person, and/or concerned with a single theme. Each of the sonnets explores one aspect of the theme, and is linked to the preceding and succeeding sonnets by repeating the final line of the preceding sonnet as its first line. The first line of the first sonnet is repeated as the final line of the final sonnet, thereby bringing the sequence to a close.
I say: Sometimes the antidote for a pandemic is simply poetry.
In the text, the word ‘idiocy’ is used in the common (now outdated and offensive) sense of mental retardation. Most of the time, fresh air and prayers don’t help with that. Most of the time, there’s nothing to help, because it’s immensely beautiful spending time with rosewater kind of people, who repeat the same, simple speeches to everyone, including horses, fountains, and the beautiful women who live in their minds.
https://www.cam.ac.uk/research/news/autistic-individuals-are-more-likely-to-be-lgbtq
By Nicole Pezza