cool with the sea in front of their eyes ... "
"And why didn't you go there too?"
“And the little house, Your Grace? No, as poor as a house is, it should not be left entirely alone; otherwise the wisp settles in. It's just like this: the old look after the house, the young go out having fun. "
She sighed, lowered her face to look at the corals on her chest and put them in order, and told how she used to go to the festival - with her husband, her daughter and the dear neighbors. Then she looked up again and looked at the old cemetery.
“These days I always feel as if the dead are rising again. In one long train I see hermake a pilgrimage to the festival. And I believe, as once did, to see Frau Maria, your mother, blessed, sitting on the bench in the corner of the great courtyard. She always looked like a queen with her yellow skirt and her black, brightly embroidered cloth. And all the women from the area sat around her like maids ... 'Come on, Pottoi,' she always said to me, 'try this coffee. Well how do you like it? Good? '- Yes, she was always so kind, so friendly. Oh, and that's why I prefer not to go there anymore; it seems to me that I have left something there that I cannot find again ... "
Noemi nodded vigorously and bent low over her handicraft; the old woman's voice resounded in her ear as from the distant past.
“And first Don Zame, Your Grace! That was the soul of the festival. He cursed often, drove between the others like a storm, but was basically good-hearted. Sunshine always follows a storm. Oh yes, the other day, when I was sitting in front of my little house and spinning flax, I thought I suddenly heard the sound of a horse's hoofs. And right, there he is already ridden on, on his black horse, with bulging cross sacks ... He trots past and nods gently to me: 'Hey, Aunt Pottoi, would you like to come to the party? Got up in no time, old witch! ‹«
Moved, she imitated the voice of the "illustrious dead"; then suddenly she asked, spinning her thoughts on:
"And young Herr Giacinto isn't coming here after all?"
Noemi froze; for she did not allow anyone to interfere in her affairs.
"We shall welcome him when he comes," she replied coolly. But when the old woman was gone, she picked up the thread of her thoughts. And again she lived so deeply in the past that she was removed from the present.
And while the warm shadow of the house slid on and on through the courtyard and the smell of milkweed wafted sweeter and sweeter up from the plain, she remembered Lia's flight more and more clearly. It's a mild evening, just like today; the white and green spotted mountain weighs heavily on the house, the sky is as if made of shiny gold. Lia lingers in the upper rooms and flits silently to and fro; then she steps out on the veranda, pale, in a black dress, with dark hair that is a reflection of the golden-blue sky; s tono it overlooks the castle ruin, then suddenly hitting the heavy lids on, winces and raises his arms as if she wanted to soar like a swallow the golden blue. Slowly she comes down now, goes to the well, sprinkles the flowers, and while the delicate scent of gold lacquer mixes with the tart scent of milkweed in the air, the first stars appear above the mountain.
And now she goes back upstairs and sits on the top step, her hand on the rope, her eyes fixed on the twilight.
Noemi could still see her sitting there, as on the last evening when she passed by to sleep walk. They slept together in one bed, but that evening she had waited in vain for them. She finally fell asleep while waiting and was still waiting.
Everything else whirled confusedly through her memory, unspeakably anxious hours and days full of mysterious horror, as one only experiences in a feverish dream ... All she saw was the pale, contorted face of the servant, who looked motionless, with his head bowed, as he was looking for a lost item there.
"Quiet blood, mistresses!" He muttered; but then he ran through the village himself, asked everyone if they hadn't seen Lia, looked into all the wells and peered into the distance.
And then Don Zame returned home.
With this memory it went like a storm through Noemi's mind. Each M al overcame then the desire to pull away - fortzueilen how to break the terrible spell.
So she got up and went upstairs to her room.
The same room she once slept in with Lia; the same rusty iron bed, painted with long- faded golden leaves and grapes, only one of which shimmers red or blue here and there like a real berry; the same whitewashed walls, the same pictures in the black frames; the same worm-eaten cupboard on which oranges and lemons glow like golden apples in the setting sun.
Noemi opened the cupboard to store her embroidery, and the fishing rod screeched like a broken string through the silence, while the now radiant sun cast a rosy glow on the linen in the blue-covered fans.
Everything in there was neatly arranged: on top, some embroidery, silk scarves, and blankets that had turned saffron yellow over time; including the laundry smelling of fresh quince and a number of rush and wicker baskets, from whose yellow braid the symbols of Sardinian folk art stand out in black: small bowls and fish.
Noemi put her handicraft in one of these baskets and picked up another. Underneath was a bundle of papers: family certificates, baptism and marriage certificates, legacies and trial files, carefully tied with a yellow ribbon to protect against evil spells. And that little yellow ribbon, which could not prevent the family inheritance from being passed into the hands of others and the trial being decided in favor of the opponents, wrapped around the dead Papi he a letter that Noemi every time she got the basket picked up, observed with horrified eyes how one may look at the corpse of a drowned man slowly floating on the waves from the seashore.
It was the letter Lia had written after the escape.
Today Noemi was caught up in dark memories. The absence of the sisters and onesecret fear of being alone brought her close to the past. Even the orange-red twilight, the mountain shrouded in bluish veils, the scent of the evening, everything reminded her of the time twenty years ago. She stood silent and dark in the light between the little window and the cupboard, almost like a messenger from the past who had come up from the old churchyard to check on the abandoned house. She adjusted the cups and embroidery, closed the closet door and opened it again, and the screeching of the door hinge echoed eerily through the house.
Finally, with a sudden resolve , she pulled the letter out of the bundle. It was still completely white, in a white envelope, as if it had only been written yesterday, as if no one had read it yet.
Noemi sat on the bed. But no sooner had she turned the page and put her hand on the brass knob of the bed when there was a knock below: first once, then three times, then again and again.
She raised her head and looked into the courtyard with frightened eyes.
It can't be the postman, can it? No, it has already passed.
The blows boomed loudly through the quiet courtyard. That was how her father always knocked when they didn't open the door straight away .
She put the letter aside and hurried downstairs, but stopped at the gate, listening. Her heart was beating violently, as if it was about to burst.
My God! It won't be him.
Finally she asked rather harshly: "Who's out there?"
"A friend," answered a strange voice.
But Noemi could not open it, her hands were trembling so violently.
Outside the gate, leaning on a bicycle, stood a young man who looked almost like a worker. Tall, pale, in a green suit, with dusty yellow boots and a perky mustache the same color as the boots. When he saw Noemi, he took off the cap that was visible in his thick, shimmering golden hair, and smiled at her with beautiful, white teeth that gleamed between his full lips.
She recognized him immediately by his eyes. Large, almond-shaped, greenish-blue eyes. Of course, those were the Pintor's eyes! But her confusion grew as the stranger rushed up the steps to the gate and embraced her in his sinewy arms.
“Aunt Esther! It's me ... And the other aunts? "
"I'm Noemi