Ph. Attilio Marasco
Tall, nice, slim, they say about him. With big hands, actually strong hands. A thin nose. Blue eyes,actually, dark green. The colour of a green lake, I would say.
He has white teeth as the Moltrasio’s stone, as white as the colour of what is ripened by sun, the colour of cream, of pebbles, the shiny dark of pearls, the same colour of masigott’s crumbs .
He has big hands and long foots, he prefers evening over the morning when everyone rests and gazes at him.
Huge clouds, heavy rain clouds, they keep still, with the rain on the shoulders . They keep still and quite, upon the water of my lake.
It could be the light over the clouds early in the morning or the shadows to the mountains’ side. Early in the morning it could be those people who coming down (from my mountains) to go to struggle.
It’s hard to wake up children for the school, but it’s easier to get through the day, after having gone out, after having watch lights on my waters, on my peaks. The days of boatmen and fishermen are days of light which grounds their struggles with its shimmering on my water and supports their path. Their struggles are their bred and butter, gained by learning to fish and a trade, from top to bottom on my sides.
They have rowed boats, lifted the sails and on my water started the engines, gliding slowly with hovercraft, steamers and boats. The boatmen are waiting for passengers, fishermen allis sheds, forbearing the wind of the south or to see a glimpse of Lariosaur.
Late in the morning I’m waiting with them the first people who wants to travel .
I’m waiting for them on the dock to lay them to see the blooming sides, the sculpted gorges, the famous villas and brave houses.
With their iron caps, those big wooden masts keep other boats safe which are tasting pungent, smelling of corduroy velvet. Those are the same masts and ranging poles where the motorboats Rosina and Giulia are tied to.
They are waiting for boatmen in front of my shores, mixture of soil and wood, mixture of splendors dripping in my water. My water, dark for the snow, for the rain, for the burning summer, dark for green depth and for the green glare of trees reflected from shores. Green the shores and green the dresses of soft and pretty ladies, who descend to the lake to cool themselves down during the evening.
They walk hand in hand as sisters. As friends, their green petticoats move and touch hibiscus and jasmine flowers with their tapered fingers.
Those pretty ladies’ hands are veiled by a Cantù broderie anglais, shining eyes as a sky.
The pretty ladies smell the scent of cedar trees in the air and they sail magnolia’s leaves as small boats.
In the evening, the mountains’ frisk falls down and in the mind the frisk grows in the night: this is known by the boatmen Alessio e Riccardo, they know well. In front of Villa La Cassinella they are curtsying. They are doing on business, for business love, for my sake.
They waiting for pretty ladies whom the blowing air of the lake refreshes .
My breeze always blows. The pretty ladies are descending to cool themselves down e my breeze are blowing under their petticoats, brushing against their white legs, against their stomach in, against warm breasts and pink cheeks.
My breeze blows from plain where my foots lean. The Giardamanti are burnt by a rising desire of nurturing magnolias e araucarias, plane and tilia trees along boulevards, fat hydrangeas and charming azaleas.
Giardamanti nurture gardens and take care of their names and their plants. The gardens on my shores keep still for years. It is enough a new host, coming from afar, perhaps rich or famous for its hunger of gardening. They come but they avoid me and force who live in my villages to dodge me. The pretty tourists and the busy Giardamanti dive into my water, they nurse my coasts, my shores. They speak about me and about my memories.
The pretty ladies chat every day, interrupting themselves every time they meet someone who can be a Giardamante or local. Every day I see the pretty ladies going down and coming up my roads, my docks, my jetties. The boatmen’s cold hands help the pretty ladies to get off from the boat and the pretty ladies’ warm hands lift themselves up, hanging on to the wooden balustrade. Just now, the lake gives way to lane of my paths, to leaves of my gardens and to waters of my fountains, filled to overflowing with those spring waters which nourish me, my water and fountains. The same fountains where seaweeds and plants are growing and floating within votive caves, as swimming red fishes, the same plants poured by curious Giardamanti for fun or by chance long time ago.
I can see those pretty ladies: the French ones rest their heads sideways, Americans hold them up and Italian down. They rest their heads on mountains, as mine is resting on valleys. My tired legs are opened on the plain and my heart are beating under the center of the lake, at Bellagio, where by night the pretty ladies get up and descend to cool themselves up and the Giardamanti wait.