September 1929
GRANDMA DIED OF SPANISH FLU A FEW MONTHS AFTER THE war ended, a war that left traces – fading over the years – of half a dozen mortar shells in the park. When I have time, in the summer, I make it a point to call on Aunt Maria. She’s a woman who lives alone, intense, still beautiful. I try to stay for a couple of weeks when I go. We talk about the latest books we’ve read, and now and then about ‘that character’, our Duce who just won’t stop rinsing the laundry of his Socialism in the holy water font. There’s a tacit understanding between us: we never talk about the war, about what happened at the Villa, about the gallows poles with their hooks. But a few days ago I asked her if she ever has occasion to think about that major from Vienna, Baron von Feilitzsch. Without glancing at me, she ran her forefinger over the rim of her cup, making it sing, as Teresa’s grunt moved off into the distance. Then, her eyes focused on her coffee, in a faint voice, she said: ‘No.’ At that point I turned to look at Teresa. She looked grim, carved out of the evening light, just a few steps away from her kitchen, with her thinning hair pulled back into a bun. She was looking at the hills. I sense that she’ll never leave here, that she’s like the grass, born to stay in one place, at the centre of the miserable splendour of everything that goes past.
‘Diambarne de l’ostia.’