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Siamo Cosmopoliti. Blog di viaggi d'Arte, Fantasia e Regioni. Viaggi nel Cinema, nel Teatro. Cosmopoliti di città e di scena. Dall’Italia al romanzo, dal racconto alla fiction, dal Teatro all'economia. Confondere Letteratura, Arte, Città, Nazioni sarà un modo per incantare.

martedì 14 agosto 2012

The White of Ms Lastname




Traduzione a cura di Cristina Sansone e Luigi Tumbiolo


Chapter I


Tall. Gaunt. Dressed in black, the garb long almost to her toes.
            And that singular expression: her mouth that widened from check to check, long like she was constantly smiling.
            Her bare arms were small, slender; her fingers long and thin.  You could see her bones, visible through her garments, as she was emaciated.
            Glasses so dark that they hid her eyes, protecting them from the rays of the sun. In the end, her quick steps were always accompanied by that tiny, short-haired dog tied to his leash.
            Everyone in town has seen her at least once, they’ve watched her walking through the streets, but nobody ever seemed to really know her.
            In another time you would have thought that she was a dame hiding a mysterious secret, that she might have been a witch or a woman of the night.  But she was nothing of the sort. I knew that she had no relation to any of these things and I wanted to know who she actually was, to find the secret of her imitable life, of her unusual and hypnotic image.
            One year ago,  I was still not yet a journalist and I became interested in her, curious about her persona. I started to search for some information and not too long after I learned that she was an artist, a painter. She was known as Francesca Lastname. She was French.
            When I went to go speak to Ms. Maria, her neighbor, I asked her what kind of work she did, what did she do to pay the rent.
            “She paints” exclaimed the old lady who lived across the street in response to my questions.
            “The landlord doesn’t ask her for rent money, he wants her paintings. Once he confessed to me that one day they will be worth a lot. So she paints”
            “And what does she paint?” I asked, fascinated. They must have been rare pieces to allow her to not pay the rent.
            “ I haven’t had the pleasure of seeing one of her paintings” answered the old woman with a sad tone. She watched me intensely and I realized that she too has wished for a long time to know more about that mysterious woman. I exchanged the look. She was a good lady, she was a high school teacher in the city many years ago; now she is 80, small pink stains colored her face and at this point her hair was all white. I wished her goodbye, returning to my walk towards home.