Eva Colombo, Un racconto che non può essere raccontato, capitolo terzo: La pioggia della Candelora
Aprì la porta perché aveva bisogno di sentire la pioggia, di respirarne l’odore. Aveva sete. Tese la mano sotto lo scroscio, si sfiorò le labbra con le dita bagnate. Era una pioggia calda, che non levava la sete. Eppure era inverno, una sera di febbraio: il 2 di febbraio, la Candelora. Lei era mascherata da Dama con l’ermellino: era anche Carnevale. Lo scroscio si tramutò improvvisamente in un mormorio sommesso, quasi dolce: la pioggia la salutava con un sorriso. Si appoggiò allo stipite della porta ricambiando il sorriso: era tutto così bello. Le stava così bene quel costume da dama leonardesca, era così amabile la donnola che teneva in braccio. Sì, era una donnola addomesticata, una di quelle che diventano bianche in inverno: poteva tranquillamente passare per un ermellino. Fedele all’etimologia del suo nome, quella donnola bianca era davvero una “signorina” schifiltosa: non si sarebbe certo fatta prendere in braccio da chiunque. Ma lei poteva tranquillamente stringerla a sé, accarezzarla: la donnola sentiva che le sue mani erano pure, la donnola sapeva che lei era sempre stata fedele al suo amore. Il suo amore era l’amore per gli artisti: aveva amato solo loro, sempre e solo loro: non li aveva mai traditi. Li amava come la luna ama il sole che la fa risplendere, come l’aria ama lo strumento che la trasforma in musica: era degna di tenere in braccio una donnola bianca. Quella sera sembrava proprio la Dama con l’ermellino ritratta da Leonardo: gli stessi grandi occhi scuri che si spalancano come un inaspettato passaggio sotterraneo che chissà dove conduce, lo stesso ossimorico ovale spigoloso da casta cortigiana. Così incorniciata dal rettangolo della porta si sentiva proprio come sulla copertina di un album dei Led Zeppelin…sì, era proprio come affacciarsi da una delle finestre di Physical Graffiti accanto alla Proserpina di Rossetti. Amava anche quella maschera: il vestito d’acqua increspata e la melagrana si intonavano perfettamente ai suoi occhi che pur non essendo blu erano comunque allagati dall’acqua cupa della malinconia. Ma quella era la sera della Candelora, la Purificazione: la pura dama leonardesca era sicuramente più appropriata. Chiuse gli occhi per poter meglio vedere il proprio volto sovrapporsi a quello della Dama con l’ermellino di Physical Graffiti e sorrise assaporando la propria immaginazione…La donnola ebbe un sussulto: fulminea si liberò dalle mani di lei, fulminea corse sotto la pioggia per sparire nella boscaglia. La donna aprì gli occhi, uscì per inseguirla. Ma il fulmine della donnola sembrava aver ferito la dolcezza della pioggia. No, ora la pioggia non le sorrideva più: si rovesciava violentemente su di lei, risentita. Non poteva avanzare. Si fermò, guardò la boscaglia. Non vide nulla, solo gli occhi della notte che la fissavano incuriositi da ogni goccia di pioggia.
What will happen in the evening in the forest with the weasel / With the teeth that bite so sharp when you’re not looking in the evening
Le parole di Nick Drake per Hazey Jane le giunsero come l’eco del mare in una conchiglia spiaggiata dopo il temporale. Rabbrividì pensando che nel buio della boscaglia l’amabile donnola addomesticata si stava metamorfosando in un feroce animale selvatico, rabbrividì immaginandola sguainare i suoi denti crudeli… Sotto la pioggia, al limitare della boscaglia, la donna pensava ai denti della donnola ed a Nick Drake. L’aveva anche sognato, una volta. Era in cima ad una favolosa torre di legno, seduto su di una prosaica panca. Aveva l’aria assente ma le disse di stare bene. Chissà se era poi vero, che stava bene.
Do you like what you’re doing / would you do it some more / or will you stop and wonder / what you’re doing it for
Le parole di Nick Drake per Hazey Jane luccicavano come la madreperla di una conchiglia frantumata dal temporale. Sì, le piaceva la vita che faceva. Sì, non avrebbe mai smesso. Eppure sapeva che presto tutto per lei sarebbe cambiato, sapeva che presto per lei sarebbe cominciata una nuova vita. Una vita in cui sarebbe stata sola, sempre sola. Una vita in cui avrebbe dovuto sguainare i denti per sopravvivere, come la donnola nella boscaglia buia… Si voltò verso la porta: era ancora aperta. Tra un attimo sarebbe rientrata in quella casa, avrebbe bevuto dai bicchieri degli artisti e si sarebbe riposata sui loro tappeti.
Do you hope to find new ways of quenching your thirst / Do you hope to find new ways of doing better than your worst
Le parole di Nick Drake per Hazey Jane tagliavano come un frammento di conchiglia troppo a lungo dimenticato in fondo ad una valigia. No, ormai non sperava più di trovare altre vie per dissetarsi: quella di quella sera era una pioggia calda, che non levava la sete. Ormai non poteva più cambiare strada, solo i bicchieri degli artisti l’avrebbero dissetata. Eppure la donnola era scappata: significava che le sue mani non erano veramente pure. Era vero, lei era sempre stata fedele al suo amore, l’amore per gli artisti…Ma aveva tradito sé stessa, le sue mani avevano tradito la loro natura. Anche lei era un’artista: le sue mani erano fatte per creare le sue opere d’arte. Invece aveva preferito diventare la materia prima degli artisti, aveva preferito che fossero loro ad affondare le mani nella sua anima per trarvi le loro opere. Lei non aveva il coraggio di maneggiare la propria anima, non aveva il coraggio di impastare l’argilla della sua anima con l’acqua cupa della sua malinconia. Lasciava che fossero loro a farlo, gli artisti che lei amava. Lasciava che fossero loro a sporcarsi le mani con la sua anima mentre lei accarezzava il manto immacolato della donnola.
The more I leave the door unlatched / The sooner love is gone, / For love is but a skein unwound / Between the dark and dawn.
Guardava la porta aperta ed ascoltava le parole della Crazy Jane di Yeats che piovevano su di lei con un mormorio sommesso, quasi dolce. Qualcuno stava scendendo le scale ed aveva acceso la luce: era un artista, uno dei suoi amori, che veniva a cercarla. Davanti alla porta illuminata, la pioggia luccicava come l’oro. Tutto luccicava come l’oro, tutto era così bello. Eppure sapeva che tutto per lei stava per cambiare. L’amore che la legava agli artisti non sarebbe più stato una soffice matassa su cui appoggiare comodamente la testa durante le notti insonni…si sarebbe trasformato nella collana di perle nere, la collana della Dama con l’ermellino, che quella sera lei portava al collo. Non avrebbe certo potuto appoggiare la nuca su quelle perle nere e fredde, su quelle gocce di malinconia. Sarebbe stata costretta a passare le notti china sulla propria opera: solo gli occhi della notte l’avrebbero guardata, solo le perle della sua collana l’avrebbero accarezzata. Le sue belle mani affusolate si sarebbero arrossate e screpolate perché il calore dell’anima brucia ed il freddo della malinconia taglia. Ma quando un’opera d’arte sarebbe uscita compiuta dalle sue mani le perle nere della sua collana avrebbero luccicato e lei avrebbe sorriso, e la sua vita avrebbe ripreso a fluire.
L’artista le prese la mano, la condusse dolcemente verso la casa. Lei non disse una parola ma sulla soglia si voltò verso la boscaglia, cercando gli occhi della notte: luccicavano come l’oro.
 
 
Eva Colombo, A tale that can’t be told, third chapter: Candlemas rain
She opened the door because she needed to feel the rain, to smell the rain. She was thirsty. She stretched her hand into the pelt, she grazed her lips with her wet fingers. It was an hot rain, not a thirst – quenching rain at all. And yet it was winter, a February evening: the second day of February, Candlemas. She was disguised as The Lady with an Ermine: it was Carnival too. The pelt suddenly turned into a soft, almost sweet, murmur: the rain greeted her with a smile. She leaned against the door jamb reciprocating the smile: everything was so fine. The Renaissance costume suited her so well, the weasel that she hold in her arms was so lovely. Yes, she was a domesticated weasel, one of those that become white during the winter: she could pass easily as an ermine. Faithful to her name’s etymology, that weasel was truly a fastidious “young lady”: she surely wouldn’t allow anyone to hold her. But the woman could peacefully hold her, stroke her: the weasel felt that the woman’s hands were pure, the weasel knew that she has always been faithful to her love. Her love was the love for the artists: she has always loved them, them only: she has never been unfaithful to them. She loved them as the moon loves the sun that makes her shine, as the air loves the instruments that change her into music: she was worthy of holding a white weasel. That evening she looked really like the Lady with an Ermine portrayed by Leonardo da Vinci: the same huge dark eyes that open as an unexpected passage – way which who knows where it leads, the same oxymoron of an angular but oval face – a chaste courtesan’s face. Framed by the door she felt as if she were on a Led Zeppelin’s album…as if she were framed by one of those windows of Physical Graffiti cover, beside Rossetti’s Proserpine. She loved that costume too: the water – rippled dress and the pomegranate matched perfectly with her eyes. Even if her eyes weren’t blue they were nevertheless flooded with the dark water of melancholy. But that evening was Candlemas, the Purification: the pure Lady with an Ermine was surely more suitable. She closed her eyes to see better her face superimposed over the face of the Lady with an Ermine on Physical Graffiti cover and she smiled tasting her fancy…The weasel winced: as quick as lightening she freed herself from woman’s hands, as quick as lightening she ran in the rain to vanish into the thicket. The woman opened her eyes, she went out to follow her. But the lightening of the weasel seemed to have wounded rain’s sweetness. No, now the rain didn’t smile any more: it poured roughly over her, offended. She couldn’t advance. She stopped, she gazed at the thicket. She didn’t see anything, only the eyes of the night that gazed at her with curiosity from each drop of rain.
“What will happen in the evening in the forest with the weasel / With the teeth that bite so sharp when you’re not looking in the evening”
Nick Drake’s words for Hazey Jane reached her as the echo of the sea into a shell dashed on the shore by a storm. The woman trembled thinking of the lovely domesticated weasel that in the dark of the thicket was changing herself into a ferocious wild animal, she trembled thinking of the wild weasel unsheathing her cruel teeth…Still in the rain, on the threshold of the thicket, the woman thought of weasel’s teeth and Nick Drake. She even dreamed of him, once. He was on the top of a fabulous wooden tower, sat on a prosaic bench. He seemed far – away minded but he told her that he was well. Who knows if it was true, that he was well.
“Do you like what you’re doing / would you do it some more / or will you stop and wonder / what you’re doing it for”
Nick Drake’s words for Hazey Jane glittered as the mother – of – pearl of a shell shattered by the storm. Yes, she liked the life she was leading. Yes, she wouldn’t put an end to it. And yet she knew that soon for her a new life would begin. In this new life she would have been alone, all alone. In this new life she should have unsheathe her teeth to survive, like the weasel in the dark of the thicket…The woman turned her head to the door: it was still open. In a moment she would go back into the house, she would drink from the glasses of the artists and she would rest on their carpets.
“Do you hope to find new ways of quenching your thirst / Do you hope to find new ways / of doing better than your worst”
Nick Drake’s words for Hazey Jane cut as a fragment of a shell too long forgotten at the bottom of a bag. No, at this point she hoped no more to find new ways of quenching her thirst: the rain of that evening was an hot rain, not a thirst – quenching rain at all. At this point she couldn’t change the road she was on, only the glasses of the artists would quench her thirst. And yet the weasel escaped from her hands: it means that her hands weren’t truly pure. It was true, she has always been faithful to her love, the love for the artists…But she has been unfaithful to herself, her hands were unfaithful to their nature. She was an artist too: her hands were made to create her own works of art. And yet she preferred to be the first matter of the artists, she preferred to allow them of manipulating her soul in order to create their works of art. She didn’t have the bravery of manipulating her own soul, she didn’t have the bravery of pugging the clay of her soul with the dark water of her melancholy. She let them do that, the artists she loved. She let them dirty their hands with her soul while she stroked the immaculate mantle of the weasel.
“The more I leave the door unlatched / The sooner love is gone, / For love is but a skein unwound / Between the dark and dawn.”
She looked at the open door and she listened to the words of the Yeats’s Crazy Jane that rained over her with a soft, almost sweet, murmur. Someone switched on the light, he was descending the stairs: surely an artist, one of her lovers, that was looking for her. In front of the lit door, the rain glittered as gold. Everything glittered as gold, everything was so fine. And yet she knew that soon for her everything would change. The love that bound her to the artists wouldn’t be any longer a soft skein upon which comfortably leaning her head during sleepless nights…it would change itself into the black pearls necklace, the necklace of the Lady with an Ermine, that she wore that evening. She couldn’t lean her nape upon those cold and black pearls, upon those drops of melancholy. She would be forced to pass her sleepless nights bent over her works of art: the eyes of the night only would look at her, the pearls of her necklace only would stroke her. Her beautiful tapering hands would be reddened and cracked because the heat of the soul burns and the cold of the melancholy cuts. But when a work of art would come completed from her hands the black pearls of her necklace would glitter and she would smile, and her life would start to flow again.
The artist took her by the hand, he led her gently to the house. She didn’t say a word but on the threshold she turned her head to the thicket, looking for the eyes of the night: they glittered as gold.