Seven Lost Stories - A Past Century E-Book

Simone Malacrida

• Herausgeber: Simone Malacrida
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

A century relived in seven tales belonging to a past now lost in which stories of women and men unfold, in their diversity, with some common themes.
Freedom and will, tradition and innovation, the securities and doubts of an ancestral land, wild and deep as Sardinia is, even today, relive in the thoughts of its past inhabitants, in places that, after all, have never changed. 

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

SIMONE MALACRIDA

“ Seven Lost Stories - A Past Century”

Simone Malacrida (1977) | Engineer and writer, he has dealt with research, finance, energy policies and industrial plants.

ANALYTICAL INDEX

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

A century relived in seven stories belonging to a past now lost in which stories of women and men unfold, in their diversity, with some common themes. | Freedom and will, tradition and innovation, the certainties and doubts of an ancestral land, wild and profound as Sardinia is, still today, relive in the thoughts of its past inhabitants, in places that, ultimately, do not they have never changed.

FREEDOM

I

II

III

WILL

IV

V

VI

TRADITION

VII

VIII

IX

INNOVATION

X

XI

XII

SAFETY

XIII

XIV

XV

DOUBT

XVI

XVII

XVIII

EARTH

XIX

XX

XXI

SIMONE MALACRIDA

“ Seven Lost Stories - A Past Century”

Simone Malacrida (1977)

Engineer and writer, he has dealt with research, finance, energy policies and industrial plants.

ANALYTICAL INDEX

FREEDOM

I

II

III

WILL

IV

V

VI

TRADITION

VII

VIII

IX

INNOVATION

X

XI

XII

SAFETY

XIII

XIV

XV

DOUBT

XVI

XVII

XVIII

EARTH

XIX

XX

XXI

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

In the book there are very specific historical references to facts, events and people. Such events and such characters really happened and existed.

On the other hand, the main protagonists are the result of the author's pure imagination and do not correspond to real individuals, just as their actions did not actually happen. It goes without saying that, for these characters, any reference to people or things is purely coincidental.

A century relived in seven stories belonging to a past now lost in which stories of women and men unfold, in their diversity, with some common themes.

Freedom and will, tradition and innovation, the certainties and doubts of an ancestral land, wild and profound as Sardinia is, still today, relive in the thoughts of its past inhabitants, in places that, ultimately, do not they have never changed.

“We don't need no education

We don't need no thought control

No dark sarcasm in the classroom

Teacher, leave them kids alone”

FREEDOM

“I look inside myself

And see my heart is black

I see my red door

I must have it painted black”

I

Orgosolo, spring 1856

––––––––

“May you always do for others,

And let others do for you.”

––––––––

The unmistakable white of the asphodel flower covered the clearing overlooking the gentle slope up which Franco was leading the flock.

He knew that, in the valley, the flowers had bloomed in the previous months, between the beginning of March and mid-April, but in the Supramonte area everything seemed to have slowed down, as befitted his nature.

Thoughtful and calm.

Not very talkative and prone to action.

The first half of May was ideal, with the countryside not yet parched by the summer drought, which produced, even at high altitude, a certain dryness of the soil and grass.

His sheep would not have been able to taste the shoots of fresh grass, slightly damp from the night's humidity.

A simple call, one of those codified for generations, was enough to summon his children.

Pietro, the eldest, already clearly stood out above the animals, with the dazzle of his ten years, while Massimo, two years younger, still had the features of a child.

As with everyone, it was normal for children, especially boys, to follow in their fathers' footsteps in work and get busy.

However, this did not mean that Franco had forgotten how important it had been for him and his brothers to have a certain culture.

Unlike almost all the shepherds he knew, there were no illiterates in his family.

His father Ettore had taken care to have them studied by the young parish priest who arrived from Piedmont, the same one who now, almost elderly, taught the same things to his children.

In addition to knowing how to read and write, some rudiments of mathematical accounts and some notions of geography, in particular of the Kingdom of Sardinia.

If there was one thing, however, that Franco owed to Don Francesco it was diction.

He had not been taught to express himself in any dialect, much less the incomprehensible Piedmontese.

“We will speak in Italian and you will learn in Italian.”

What Italian was when Franco was ten years old, in 1831, was a mystery to everyone.

Someone was clear about what Italy was.

A geographical area, more or less delimited to the north by the Alps and to the south, east and west by the various seas.

A common historical legacy.

And a fairly similar basic culture.

On a political level, it was not known, given that there were at least fifteen small states more or less governed by other powers.

But Italian as a person and as a language could not be defined.

Everyone spoke their own language.

Within Sardinia itself, a Barbaricino differed from an Ogliastrino or a Gallurese.

Indeed, it was even possible to understand, after a few words, who came from Fonni or Gavoi and was not from Orgosolo, or someone who came from the nearest city, namely Nuoro.

In any case, Franco had learned to speak in this strange language, the one used by the lords and notables, especially all those who had to deal with the Piedmontese and the Piedmontese themselves who moved to Sardinia.

Knowing that he possessed a faculty of this type, he had not raised the question of his children in the slightest.

He would have given up part of their help, especially in the afternoon, to send them to Don Francesco, at least until the age of fourteen or fifteen, when their physique would have grown and their help would have been decisive.

For now, Franco felt at full strength and did not feel tired.

The time would come when his children would have to support him and then put him aside in his outdoor work, as he had done with Ettore.

His father now took care of household chores, preparing everything necessary for the reception and growth of the flock.

On the other hand, all that remained for Ettore was Franco.

Eleonora, the youngest daughter, had married another local shepherd, whose flock grazed in the northern area of Orgosolo, towards the mountains overlooking Nuoro, while Franco used to go south.

The daughter had assumed the perfect role of wife, as conceived in the Barbagia code, a mixture of rules that regulated common life in Barbagia.

For this reason, he saw her little and it was not often that he meddled in her affairs.

The son-in-law, Giuseppe, was very traditionalist and completely different from Franco.

There was no bad blood between the two, especially due to their attitude towards traditions and towards the Piedmontese.

The other son, Carlo, had died years earlier.

She had followed Franco to the lessons with Don Francesco and, secretly, imparted what she had learned to her sister Eleonora, openly challenging the custom that women should not have access to any form of education.

Carlo felt led to other tasks and not tied to his homeland.

Although the teachings of Don Francesco and Ettore's family had always been based on a profound religious feeling, Carlo had other things on his mind.

He knew more than anyone about what was happening outside.

But not outside Orgosolo, but outside Sardinia.

He saw no natural, political and cultural boundaries.

He was thinking of Italy.

Thus, at the end of 1848, a year which in Orgosolo had passed identically to many others, he announced his departure.

"I'm going to Rome".

He said to an astonished Ettore and to an equally disconcerted Franco, who was already married and with two newborn children.

Carlo had never wanted to obey the rules.

He hadn't looked for a wife and didn't want a family.

He left with a semi-empty bag.

The same bag was the only object to return from Rome.

A few months later, during the late spring and early summer of 1849, Carlo Monni was one of the many killed in the defense of the Roman Republic.

Since then, little was said about him in the family.

We didn't want to displease Ettore, who was never the same after his son's passing.

Pietro was the first to arrive at his father's house.

He already knew what to do.

No useless words were needed, breath had to be conserved to lead the flock.

About ten sheep had become detached and it was necessary to bring them back to the others.

Slight trespasses were enough to create disagreements and the beginning of events that would then become uncontrollable.

Thus were born the principles of disamistade .

It was difficult to explain this to a non-local person.

Above all the fact that it was handed down from generation to generation and was growing in words and deeds.

“Here it's not like in Gallura”, Franco used to say, even if deep down he didn't believe too much in the words said.

More people like his brother-in-law Giuseppe were enough to make Barbagia a land of clashes like Gallura was.

And then everyone would have forgotten about the Vasa and the Mamia, names on everyone's lips, although no one spoke about them openly.

There was a kind of silence about certain events.

It shouldn't have been talked about.

The same was true for the Piedmontese.

They were there and it was a fact.

Hitting them head-on by going against their laws would have been considered banditry.

Collaborating with them would have been considered betrayal of the origins.

So the majority simply ignored them.

Not to let them into daily lives.

Mutual distrust.

Peter understood the task assigned to him.

He began to walk with long strides alongside the flock.

Racing was banned, so the sheep would be scared.

He began to feel his heart echoing in his ears and his breath becoming short, with labored breathing.

Nonetheless, he didn't back down.

It was inconceivable for the young man not to correspond to his father's provisions.

How could she look him in the eye?

And then he felt he had to set an example towards his brother Massimo, who had always considered him a point of comparison.

What Pietro did was imitated by Massimo, who had never asked himself if there was something truly his or if his entire short life had been devoted to the exercise of imitation.

“Come on.”

He began to raise his voice.

The first sheep that had dispersed began to trot, almost aware of what they had done.

Reassured by the partial result, Pietro did not stop.

“Go back to your seat.”

Better than a guard dog, with kinder ways and without scaring the flock, in a few minutes the problem disappeared.

He knew that the flock was their entire life.

Everything they could or could not have depended on the management of the herd.

First of all, milk was used for direct sustenance and for the production of cheese.

In turn, the cheese was consumed in the family, but above all resold.

Wool was then obtained from the sheep, which was also carded and used by women for clothing and the surplus was resold.

And finally the meat.

On a few occasions, almost all of religious origin, a sheep or lamb was slaughtered for banquets.

Some animals no longer highly productive for milk were sold for slaughter.

Everything proceeded according to ancient customs and according to the alternation of the seasons.

Dry years reduced production but increased the quality of the cheese, which could thus be aged less, saving time between processing and income.

In this framework, there were things that could go wrong.

His father Franco, a constant beacon for both brothers, had summarized all this in a few simple words:

“Famine, disease and war.”

Three things to avoid.

Famine could lead to a decimation of the flock, as could disease.

Directly or indirectly this would have affected the men and therefore their family.

Life felt so fragile and so unpredictable.

It was as if every little natural scent had filtered out of the flock before falling back on them and that was why the animals had to be taken care of.

To prevent the family from going to ruin.

“But of the three, the worst is war.”

Peter didn't quite understand what war meant.

At least, he limited all this to the context known to him, that of Orgosolo.

War was the enmity between families and the related crimes that would result.

He had not understood that behind his father's expression was hidden all the discontent and desperation of a man who had seen his brother perish for an abstruse ideal.

“For the powerful and the masters”, so he had pronounced.

For this reason, Franco had planned to live peacefully.

Without bothering anyone.

And, for this reason, he spoke little.

“Words are dangerous. If misinterpreted, they are the beginning of every conflict.

If out of place, they are the beginning of every misunderstanding.”

Pietro understood, unlike Maximus, that this was a single opinion.

By Franco Monni and not something universal.

There were other people who saw it the other way.

One of them was his uncle Giuseppe.

He had imposed a different way of life than what the two boys had experienced.

First of all, none of Pietro's cousins had ever seen Don Francesco's.

Uncle Giuseppe, not knowing how to read and write, would never have tolerated that his children were more capable than him.

He had already had to suffer the shame that his wife Eleonora, a woman, possessed a similar faculty, but he had given up when faced with the girl's obvious beauty.

She was the only one with delicate features.

A round and not square face.

Graceful features, like a fairytale princess.

She didn't look like anyone in the village, neither her brothers nor her parents and, in their hearts, every inhabitant of Orgosolo thought she came from another place.

That enchanting girl had always had eyes only for Giuseppe and this was enough to convince a determined and determined man to bury the hatchet and be enchanted by the rosolio of love.

Other than that, Giuseppe represented the exact opposite of Franco.

Tradition and code.

Never a word in Piedmontese or Italian, but only in the local dialect.

Never a friend with priests and guards, that's what he called anyone who represented the power of the Savoy.

The guards were not only the soldiers or the thugs, but even the various governors, notaries, lawyers and bureaucrats.

Even the Sardinians who collaborated with them were guards.

Pietro had not yet asked any of this either from his father or from Don Francesco.

The time for uncomfortable questions would come, but not now.

Just as he would have liked to know Uncle Carlo's story.

Once he had completed his task with the sheep, he returned to his assigned position.

It was just a matter of checking the flock until the sun was high in the sky, and then returning home.

It was a large space, located outside the town of Orgosolo, near the Fonte Su Cantaru.

There was the main body of the town, where Franco and his wife Grazia lived, with their children and Franco's parents.

Next to the main body, a large and thick fence partially covered by a wooden roof structure brought the flock together during the night.

There were no predators, apart from other men.

Cattle theft was a consolidated practice, but always viewed with suspicion.

Usually theft was never the first step in a disamistade.

We moved on to theft only after a few verbal disagreements or inappropriate looks.

To stay out of everything, Franco had voluntarily left the town, albeit for a very short distance.

It was a way to highlight a difference.

I'm here, but I don't share certain ways of being.

This placed him on the margins of society, not welcome in those traditionalist circles or even in those who saw the future of their family and career in Piedmont.

By remaining halfway there, he was frowned upon by both factions who hated each other, although he did not openly conflict with anyone.

He thought it was right.

For his and his family's survival.

If there was one thing that Franco cared about, it was the future of his family and his land.

He wasn't one of those men who was all about himself and the contingency of the moment.

“I want more of me to remain than my memory. An example and a way of being.”

He had confessed this several times to his wife Grazia, the only one who had collected his confidences during the long evening conversations in the bedroom.

In that place, a different personality was revealed in him.

Leaving aside the confidentiality and sipping words, in the nuptial bed finely inlaid with resistant oak wood, Franco stripped himself of his role.

He believed that his wife Grazia had the gift of listening and non-judgement.

He had fallen in love with her by staring into her dark eyes, in which he had glimpsed his own.

He could never say where one ended and the other began.

Grace, delicate and petite, listened to her husband's words and usually did not respond.

He would wait a day or two and then return to the topic.

Thus there were always staggered dialogues, with Franco dedicated to new descriptions and Grazia returning to what had been said days before.

It was their way of being accomplices and carving out a space of their own, without any presence of others, not even that of their children.

No one knew about this secret.

“What will become of us?”

Franco's constant and pressing question, to which neither of them had ever found a definitive answer.

The world of sheep farming seemed unchanged for centuries, handed down from the dawn of time without anything new.

In reality, there were great differences and it would have been enough to go to Nuoro to grasp them.

The Piedmontese, by now conquerors despite the title of "Kingdom of Sardinia" for several centuries, were carving out a role for themselves as architects of Italy and Franco was aware of this more from the past speeches of his late brother, who firmly believed in the destiny of the homeland.

“Which homeland?”

He had asked himself several times in his heart.

Homeland is the land that hosts one's family.

Homeland is Orgosolo and Sardinia.

But Piedmont could not even be called Homeland, whose kings and administrators had not even thought about the Sardinians, understood as the population with its needs.

What future did Franco's land have in the great game of powers?

And then all the differences compared to the past.

In Barbagia, since time immemorial, everyone walked around with knives at their waist.

Anyone, of course man, male.

The knife was a very useful tool for carving wood, cutting branches, breaking bread and cheese.

Furthermore, it was an instrument of defense, before that of offense.

And it demonstrated the personality of whoever owned it.

Everyone took care of its maintenance, the blade and the handle, the tip and the sheath.

A real father had to teach his children how to make one and how to improve it.

The knife was considered a very prominence of the person.

But there were also firearms.

Much less romantic and much less customizable.

And the power of the firearms was undoubted.

The Piedmontese guards and henchmen became strong thanks to rifles and small cannons with which they could put entire communities under siege.

And among the shepherds the habit of carrying a rifle over the shoulder, perhaps of an old one, of those disused by the armies, had spread.

It was forbidden to own a firearm, but in Barbagia it would have been difficult to disarm a shepherd, not so much due to obstinacy and tenacity, but due to Nature.

It was the mountains themselves that provided a safe haven.

The Supramonte was a place impenetrable to foreigners, by which I even meant the people of Sassari and Cagliari.

In all of this, Franco found neither answers nor comfort.

He would have liked to guarantee his children greater security, not so much of the present, but of the future.

What would their lives be like in thirty years, once they had families and were fathers?

And his grandchildren would see the new Century, something unheard of.

Faced with this he had no certainties, nor did he give himself peace.

In the long hours spent guarding the flock, he often meditated and this only increased his reflective nature and the few words he exchanged with others.

His children found their father's behavior very worthy of respect.

Anyone who talks too much was not looked upon well.

A priest could do it, precisely because he was not part of the logic of Barbagia society.

A priest answered to God and not to men.

And Don Francesco, in terms of pomposity, was second to none.

Whether it was God or human notions, he did not hold back.

“And what can we say about...” was his typical introductory phrase.

At first Pietro and Massimo thought he was crazy and had counted the times in which the Don had started a speech in such a way.

Forty-two in less than an hour.

They exchanged glances of satisfaction and complicity, without bursting into laughter.

That was reserved for when they walked back from the parish to their home.

They laughed out loud at every little thing.

It was their way of still being children, in a world that wanted them to grow up quickly and which was certainly not suitable for typical childhood joys.

It was easy to understand how difficult life was and without any hope of redemption, contrary to what was written in the books and what Don Francesco proposed from time to time.

“And what can we say about Rome?”

Rhetorical questions, only to introduce new explanations, since those in front of them were certainly not able to answer but only to assimilate what the priest said without any critical spirit.

Neither Franco nor Grazia could have ever hoped for anything better for their children than Don Francesco's primary education.

Compared to all the other children they were certainly more advantaged, especially compared to Giuseppe and Eleonora's children.

The fact that there were two of us and that we always went around as a couple was an advantage.

In those parts, family unity was everything.

No one would have challenged brothers if united.

Disagreements and feuds arose either within various families or between different factions precisely because there were divisions.

This was what was said about Gallura and which was slowly penetrating the Barbagia mentality.

A slow pace that went up the mountains from the plain with exceptional witnesses, such as Giuseppe.

Franco didn't have much to do with him.

He was her sister's husband.

End of the story.

When she went to them it was to visit Eleonora, given that it was much more difficult for a married woman to decide to travel independently across the country.

There were unwritten and rigidly codified conventions that someone like Giuseppe believed to be eternal and absolutely valid.

For this reason, Franco never traveled alone, but usually with his children and sometimes even with Grazia or his father.

A family visit could not be denied.

"Let's go back."

It was the agreed signal.

Pietro and Massimo placed themselves at the flanks of the flock to direct it towards the steep part of the slope.

It would have been a constant journey, without any stops.

Franco paraded the sheep, checking them one by one with his eyes.

If there was anything unusual, he should have noticed it immediately.

Some accident or illness had to be caught in time.

Every problem, if not controlled, even if minimal, would have become magnified.

He queued to make sure nothing escaped.

It was up to Peter to pave the way.

His eldest son now knew his way around, at least while remaining in the vicinity of Orgosolo.

The slopes were easily recognizable to a trained eye, even to a young child.

The case would have been different if he had had to organize a transfer to Lake Olai or a transhumance beyond the Supramonte.

In that case, he would take the lead and direct operations.

He took a drink from his canteen.

Water was a primary and precious commodity for both humans and animals.

It was always necessary to keep in mind the location of natural sources and artificial troughs.

Massimo placed himself on the left side, leaving the right side unguarded since it was bordered by the overlooking woods.

Although undisciplined by nature, the sheep would not have entered a tangle of plants having grassy fields and uncultivated meadows in front of them.

It was in their nature not to be courageous.

Without saying anything, the group climbed the first slope.

From the top of it you could clearly see the perched village of Orgosolo and an attentive eye would have already been able to see the location of Franco and Grazia's house, precisely because of the desired and sought-after isolation.

In the children's minds there were no thoughts about the future with its related worries, but only two completely understandable requests.

The food.

And the afternoon.

The first would be ready as soon as they crossed the threshold of the house.

Bread, cheese and vegetables were never missing.

It was the hallmark of living in the countryside and of being shepherds.

No city privileges, no delicacies that they couldn't even have imagined, but pure simplicity.

And then, once the meal had been devoured, they set off on foot towards Don Francesco's parish, while Franco would continue the tasks of looking after the flock and processing the milk drawn early in the morning.

A tour of the cellars to check the maturation of the cheeses and then again outdoors, until the sun goes down.

Taking advantage of the hours of daylight was essential given that in the evening and at night it was impossible to carry out any activity, despite the light from the fireplace and hearth, mainly during the harsh winter season.

“Now I quicken my pace,” Pietro said to himself.

He could already feel the pangs of hunger gripping his stomach.

If it had been his will, he would have emptied the pantry in a few days, but the doses were arranged by Grazia, who knew how to make the supplies last for the winter without wasting the considerable summer accumulations.

It was up to her to dictate the timing of the house.

Franco noticed the change in pace, but said nothing.

He knew his children inside out and remembered when he was in their place and his voracity as a child.

On this matter, he had never made any comments towards them.

He did not feel authoritarian, although he enjoyed authority.

No one would have complained about that change, neither he nor Massimo nor the sheep who would have continued to follow those in front of them.

The Sun was already high and illuminated the entire plain and mountains.

Under the brightness of the light, all colors appeared faded.

To better enjoy Nature you had to wait until the late hours or wake up early.

In those moments you could notice all the reflections.

Of green and blue.

Of brown and red.

Yellow and even white.

Rocks and meadows.

Flowers and plants.

Everything spoke to the heart of those who knew how to receive such signals.

Not poets and not men of letters, but shepherds.

Besides, wasn't Our Lord born among shepherds?

And hadn't the good news been revealed to posterity itself?

The Holy Scriptures, so full of meaning, echoed in Franco and Grazia's house at an incessant rhythm, far beyond the rites and traditions of the people.

For this reason, Don Francesco had not refused to educate Franco first and then his children.

God-fearing families, without any worries.

No revolutionaries, no liberals or socialists and not even any bandits.

Simple people.

Meek as the sheep were.

It is teachable thanks to individual shepherds, as were the parish priests sent to such inaccessible and inaccessible areas.

Elsewhere it would have been different.

In the city or on the continent.

Without talking about Rome, the center of Christianity.

A city-state governed with an autocratic and semi-dictatorial hand, unaware and unconscious of the immediate future destiny.

They came within sight of the house and each ritual took on its own meaning.

Wash your hands and shake off the dust.

Pouncing on food.

Thank the Lord.

Exchanging glances without speaking.

Finding yourself united, all together, as a family.

Little was enough for simple souls.

From that moment on, everyone would take different paths.

Pietro and Massimo were the first to leave.

Everyone knew about their commitments and their exuberance and no one paid any attention.

The time of hardship would come for them too, but it wasn't that.

Leaving the house behind, after a dutiful farewell to Grazia, who only had eyes for her own jewels, melting into one of her affectionate maternal embraces, the two brothers went towards the usual lesson.

What would they have talked about in that first half of May?

Of history?

Of the language?

Of geography?

Of some account operation?

Beyond that, it was not known.

They were completely ignorant of much of the knowledge.

The physical and chemical sciences, philosophy, theology, foreign and ancient languages, biology and medicine.

All this would not have helped and, indeed, would have instilled doubts and questions.

A general smattering was needed, nothing more.

No mention of the present.

Neither to Kings nor to Revolutions.

A world that was in itself immutable was presented to them.

Unaware of such subterfuges, they already considered themselves lucky.

And they were, after all.

Living in a present elsewhere, almost obscuring a glorious and dark past, with no future ahead.

A profession already decided.

A path identical to itself.

Before the rays of the Sun had finished illuminating the ground, Don Francesco would have finished his lesson and they would have returned home.

In the safe arms of the earth that had generated them.

In the great and soft belly of the Barbagia Supramonte.

A refuge home for simple souls, dormant under a thousand-year-old ash of handed down traditions.

Honest and frank people, tough and true, like their father was.

Franco Monni, one of the men who, perhaps without his knowledge, could be considered truly free.

“Now your pictures that you left behind.

They are just memories of a different life.”

II

Orgosolo, spring - autumn 1860

––––––––

“Hello darkness, my old friend,

I've come to talk to you again.”

––––––––

The news, although mediated and late compared to what had actually happened, reached Franco Monni's house.

Having spread widely, first in the large cities, then slowly through the villages and hamlets, it had wedged itself between the valleys and slopes, climbing up them from mouth to mouth.

The few who could read had recited what was written in the newspapers and the others limited themselves to reporting.

Arriving at the gates of Orgosolo one could say that there was no place that was not aware of it.

Franco found out about it from his father Ettore, who was more accustomed, due to time constraints, to frequenting the town.

Not from his brother-in-law Giuseppe, who had been one of the first to learn about it in the vicinity and not from Don Francesco, who never spoke about these things either with the young students in the afternoon or with the sacristans and faithful of his community.

And certainly not by the Piedmontese guards, who would not have liked a possible commotion.

Somewhere, a strange word echoed when pronounced in Barbagia.

Revolution.

The few times that such a word had been spread, the elders passed on wars, especially regarding the end of the previous century, with the French attacks on the North and South of Sardinia, the first of which were led by a young captain who then he would become Emperor.

Franco had only heard that word on one other occasion.

Said by his brother Carlo in 1848.

And he associated all this with his death.

It wasn't worth risking anything for the revolution.

On the other hand, the more conservative shepherds and farmers, those closest to the ideas of his brother-in-law Giuseppe would never have spoken openly of revolution, but rather of revolt, or rather of liberation.

From the Piedmontese and the Savoys, obviously.

From their absurd laws that had erased all autonomy and all peculiarities of Sardinia.

“What do you think I'm here doing the thugs and guards?” so the brother-in-law had silenced Franco several times with such an expression.

But now things seemed different.

There was a name that, alone, lit hearts and fantasies.

Giuseppe Garibaldi.

Yes, that's him.

A foreigner, after all.

Someone who was said to have been born elsewhere, raised on another continent, married a different woman and who then returned to Italy to make the revolution.

The one of 1848 in Rome, which failed miserably.

For this reason, Franco did not have friendly feelings towards him, despite never having known or met him.

And despite noting what has been said for a few years.

He had become Sardinian.

Meaning that he had not simply bought a piece of land to become a master or a conqueror.

From Gallura, along with the news of the war between the Vasa and the Mamia and of the Piedmontese repression, stories, perhaps legends, had also arrived.

It was said that Garibaldi had asked for the advice and help of the farmers and shepherds of Caprera.

That he worked with them.

That he ate with them.

As one of them and not as a haughty general.

Perhaps he was the only one on the Continent who wasn't a thug.

To truly understand the Sardinian people and their needs.

Now, however, that man was turning the whole political and social panorama upside down not because he had taken the fate of the Sardinians to heart, freeing them from the Piedmontese, but because he had put himself at the head of a group of volunteers and had landed in Sicily, the another large island, so different from Sardinia in terms of history, culture, domination and mental attitude.

“He will end up handing everything over to the Savoys, making them even more powerful”, complained Giuseppe, who was indeed admired by such ardor and courage, but would have preferred that all this had materialized with a march from the island of Caprera on Tempio Pausania and then onto Olbia and Nuoro and then, following the course of the Tirso, up to Oristano, cutting Sardinia in two.

From the mountains they would have descended into Ogliastra, taking the east coast, while to the west they would have headed, going up the coast, towards Alghero and Sassari.

Finally, the convergence maneuver on Cagliari.

They would have appointed him pro-tempore dictator and established a Republic.

Free and independent.

With its own language and flag.

And with its own laws.

No more thugs and guards, no more abuse and domination.

However, none of this had happened.

The news that everyone had in their mouths was that Garibaldi and his red shirts were challenging the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies.

To do what?

Italy, it was said.

Franco thought about it for a long time, as he used to do.

During the long mornings in the mountains leading the flock, in the company of his children.

By now Peter had become powerful.

We were beginning to see signs of the man he would be.

A stocky but sturdy build, with strong legs and a strong trunk.

Black, bristly hair.

He would have made an excellent walker.

Franco was proud of him and understood himself at every glance, although he didn't say anything about it.

Massimo, on the other hand, was still in an age of transformation.

His features seemed more delicate, he must have taken after his mother.

Nonetheless he was animated by a strong spirit of will, conceiving total emulation towards his brother.

If Peter took twenty steps at a run, he too had to take the same number.

It was as if, in the eyes of that young man, the age difference didn't matter, given that he felt invested with an identical mission.

Being shepherds.

Garibaldi's reckless undertaking could only bring to mind the memory of Carlo.

“My brother would have been there, among them.”

Franco was certain of it.

Charles would have worn the red shirt, going to fight for an unknown ideal, perhaps to strengthen the same monarchy that he had fought in Rome and which had dominated his land for centuries.

Inconsistency?

Certainly, but the desire for action would have been predominant.

When Garibaldi's troops were already about to enter Palermo, Franco was still left with the initial news of the landing and wondered if all this could have been a military success.

It took weeks for the news to reach there, but it would come.

Like everything important, lag time was secondary, when measured by the clock of agricultural life.

What's a few weeks?

Perhaps winter wouldn't have arrived the previous or following year?

Or would there be no new lambs or a milk and cheese sale?

Everything would continue in the same way, almost without change.

Only by abstracting from a ten-year or generational perspective could variations and differences have been noticed.

It was a way like any other of possessing certainties.

About your life and your family.

At home, Franco didn't talk about all this.

His wife Grazia didn't ask questions and his father Ettore was satisfied with what he learned in town.

Of his sons, only Peter could have understood.

And perhaps, shortly thereafter, the boy would have heard of the exploits of the general who lived in Sardinia.

Would he have mythologized him?

Or would he have taken it all with a shrug of the shoulders as we learn about life events far away from us?

Certainly, the republican and partly socialist nature alarmed the notables and even the priests.

Don Francesco, among the small circle of trusted acquaintances to whom he could tell everything, always addressed him as:

"The red devil".

And all the Sardinian bureaucracy that saw a business opportunity in Piedmont could only approve.

Thus, while elsewhere an idea of revolution was being built that bothered many, others worked to ensure that nothing changed.

Not only in Sicily, but even in Sardinia, an island where perhaps an unprecedented experiment would have been possible.

“Grandpa, can you tell us about Uncle Carlo?”

It was Pietro who took Ettore aside on a day in mid-June.

Garibaldi's exploits were growing in size and Pietro was curious for news.

He would never ask his father a question like that.

He knew he was of few words and that there were forbidden topics, not shared with anyone.

Hector, raised the hat that constantly covered his head.

He sat up as if a fist had hit him in the pit of his stomach.

It had been a long time since he had given a thought to his missing son.

He had never even seen the body and no one had gone to the cemetery in Rome where the fallen of that conflict were buried.

The last image he had of Carlo was that of a bold young man with a bag over his shoulder.

What did his grandchildren want now?

Why that question?

What were they interested in knowing?

He stared down at a point in front of him.

An insignificant area of beaten earth, identical to the others.

Pietro and Massimo's lessons were over, but the sunlight still abundantly irradiated the outside of the house.

It was the brightest part of the year and this had obvious advantages, but at that moment Ettore would have liked the darkness to fall suddenly, as happens in November.

His torture would have ended, then.

But no.

His grandchildren stood in front of him, standing and waiting.

If it had been one of their peers, they would have already pushed him and pulled him by the sleeve to wake him up, but one had to have respect for an elderly person.

Kind of like one of the family.

You were never to interrupt him or speak before he had begun.

The questions were legitimate, but the answers were at the discretion of the adults and, at that point, there were no more complaints to be made.

An adult could answer or not and this had to be accepted, just with a game of glances.

Ettore looked up and began.

He had to do it.

He had always known that, sooner or later, someone would come along to dig up the past.

He had imagined it was Franco, but over time he understood how his son had already developed a relationship with Carlo over the years and it was certainly not necessary to remind him what his brother was like.

“You know, when your uncle was born...”

Ettore had begun to dissect his own memory.

He had his arms stretched out at his sides, dangling on the sides of the chair, almost as a sign of surrender.

“...we lived in the village, in the house that I have indicated to you several times.

I immediately understood that he was different from your father.

It was not covered in thick dark hair, but only four hairs.

As we grew up, diversity increased.

Your father is as tied to this land and its breath as Carlo lived elsewhere.

We often saw him looking out onto a hill higher than the nearby ones and looking at the horizon.

Towards the valley, towards Nuoro, towards the interior.

One day he took his bag, a water bottle and a piece of bread and cheese and started walking.

We noticed his absence after a few hours, he must have left at night.

He didn't return until four days later.

He had slept in the open for four nights and had gotten so high that he could see the sea.

I've never seen him and neither has your father.

And you?"

Pietro and Massimo shook their heads.

Few in Orgosolo had seen the sea.

Hector continued:

“However, he was not satisfied with seeing it from above. He had come down from the mountain and approached the coast, until, still from a height, he could dominate it with his gaze.

I don't know what he saw, but from that day on he changed.

Once he returned home, his speech changed.

He spoke less and less about the country and more and more about distant things.

He walked to Nuoro just to get first-hand, unreported news and without having to wait the usual time.

It was considered strange, you know.”

Pietro had well in mind what his grandfather meant.

It didn't take much to seem strange.

A gesture or an expression, a way of doing or thinking.

And, from what he was hearing, Uncle Carlo was truly strange, perhaps the only person different from all those he had met so far.

Massimo, despite not fully understanding the meaning of what he was hearing, did not miss a word.

Hector stopped.

He breathed in deeply the warm afternoon air mixed with dust raised by the wind.

He smelled the classic smells of his land.

A mixture of something indescribable and that no Piedmontese had ever been able to capture.

He had to finish at this point.

“For three years it went on like this.

Nobody knew what he was interested in or what was on his mind, until one day he started talking about Italy.

Of what was happening in various cities, unknown to all of us.

He let the spring and summer pass, then in the fall we heard a familiar name.

Rome.

That's where he would go.

He left with few things, but I remember the smile.

A smile never seen here.

No one has ever had it, not even the gentlemen and the rich, not even the bride and groom on their wedding day.

A carefree smile from a different world.

This is the image I have of your uncle.

Then there were the letters your father read to all of us.

Letters he still has, I think hidden in the trunk in his room.”

Pietro and Massimo knew what their grandfather was referring to.

In their parents' room there was a wooden trunk, constantly locked.

The precious things were there.

Grandmother's necklace, now long deceased.

The money saved.

Certificates of ownership of the house and lands.

Uncle Carlo's letters.

Neither Pietro nor Massimo had ever read those writings nor had anyone found the time to talk to them, nor deemed it necessary to do so.

The story could be considered finished, but Ettore wanted to add more.

“I don't know if it's right to live like your uncle Carlo or like us.

If it's worth breaking your back for the earth and animals or getting killed for ideas.

Who am I to judge?

I am neither a priest nor a henchman.

I only know that, if he were alive, your uncle would be with Garibaldi today.

I know that this name scares many, but not Carlo.

Carlo would have been there, to be skewered again, to defend cities and liberate villages completely unknown to us rude and ignorant people."

Ettore seemed drained.

As if ten years of life had been taken out of his chest.

Pietro understood the situation and approached his grandfather.

She would have liked to hug him, but this was not in line with the correct behavior.

Then he hugged Massimo.

"Thanks Grandpa."

It was the only thing he could think to say.

After that episode, there were no noticeable changes in the normal family day.

Everything went on as always.

In particular, Grazia supervised the growth of her children.

Soon, much sooner than her husband would have imagined, both Pietro and Massimo would leave home.

In a short time they would definitely grow up to form a family and at least one of them would take up residence elsewhere.

It seemed like a short time had passed since their marriage, but that wasn't the case.

The efforts and sweat had marked the faces of Grazia and Franco, no longer as fresh and rested as they once were.

It was about fulfilling a task, the same one for which we came into the world and which was handed down to us.

The heat was starting to be unbearable.

It was so difficult to find the right balance between the harsh winter and the scorching summer.

Everything changes, nothing remains fixed.

When is it understood that the mutation has occurred?

Not right away.

The limbs and senses take time to adapt, opposing a constant inertia, always present in everyone.

Only with the progression of habit does it bend.

And when we think we have found a new dimension and say we are completely at ease, almost without the slightest inkling, there he is, again, always him.

Change.

All it takes is a gust of wind or a storm.

So little, but it's the signal.

Summer is fading.

Not quickly and not with a clear stroke, but with an infinite gradation of nuances.

Eye and ear, nose and mouth cannot tell when it ends, and that is why we resort to the calendar.

This entirely human way of fixing the passage of time.

A measured life.

Everyone's.

Franco was no exception to the rule, nor were his children.

However, there was a different perspective.

For the latter, the world was in front of them.

Discoveries and growth.

Love and family.

Work and ideas.

For Franco, however, everything now seemed to be settled.

He had carved out a role for himself, his own, the one he had chosen more or less consciously.

Within a year, he would be forty.

The fullness of maturity.

Indeed, someone might have started to take it as a point of reference.

Not so much about the community.

His desire to isolate himself from everything, from the country and from the code, from tradition and from the Piedmontese, was a new path, taken by few.

“Cowards”, this is how Giuseppe addressed them, dividing them from the other two categories.

The traitors and the righteous, of whom he felt he was part.

To foreign eyes, however, that land seemed unchanged for generations, with a truly limited power of human intervention.

Yes, of course the houses and villages, the few dirt roads and the fences.

But it wasn't like elsewhere.

“Not for long, though,” Giuseppe had underlined.

He knew well about the greed of the conqueror, of those who want to plunder a land.

Woods and timber was what he thought about primarily.