Seven
Italian Postcards
Card 6: Famiglia Zamani
We
walked on, seeing no one, presently coming upon a short
set of cement steps rising from the main path, though what
lay at the top was not visible to us. Yellow tape that recently
blocked access to the steps had been torn away, half suggesting
an invitation to climb them, yet we hesitated. "I have
to know what's up there," she said, "or else it
will disturb me."
Thus we took them, and, at the top, where the ground leveled
off above a panorama of sea, we discovered a large stone
columbarium illuminated with what looked like dozens of
small yellow candles. As we drew closer we saw that they
were in fact tiny light bulbs, one attached to the face
of every cinerarium, marking the last resting place for
each person's ashes. These chambers were set in two long
rows, open to the sky, and the main wall facing us bore
a simple legend in antique iron
lettering: FAMIGLIA ZAMANI.
We
walked only a couple of paces in, and I read a few of the
nearest names. One was a girl who died in childhood, and
two others were young men whom death found in 1944, a banner
year for it. Here, there was no sound - the night was utterly
windless - and there was nothing to see but the rows of
dead with their glimmering yellow lights and the pewter
expanse of sea beyond. Down below, a church bell faintly
rung eleven o'clock, nearly the witch's hour, and just then
we heard, from the far end of the compound, what sounded
like a plastic bucket or watering can tumbling onto the
stone floor. Its relative loudness surprised us, and I think
we both felt scolded for venturing where we were not supposed
to, so we left the hill, walking down a little more briskly
than before. Did goblins chase us? I wonder.
Card 7: Besame
Mucho
