Chapter one

Walking down Tinker Street at a brisk pace, captured by tiny round leaves– shimmering and smooth–the young woman stops short. “Baby Tears, native of Corsica... an island off the South of France”, as the words fall from professionally painted lips, Julia rushes over the Catskill Mountains, over the Ocean, over the Sea, and over the years. Catapulted in the outburst of a summer in Corsica. The slow summer of her 14th year.

Time, still and suspended, lingers by the brook. Light dances on the silvery leaves, in the cascading waters, in the droplets of her trickling sweat. The sun bears down on Julia. Within her, changes are budding.
In the midday quietude, powdery dust wrapped around the feet, she has walked over on the dirt road going out of Castineta... She has walked amidst stately trees and sun spills... She has walked past the big pink house, past the long stretch where chestnut trees give delicious shade and treacherous needles... She has walked to meet her friend by the hidden brook... When the water’s crystalline murmur embraced the humming of the cicadas, she has pushed aside a clump of maquis and entered the path... After taking in a deep breath of an air laden with fragrances, she has jumped from boulder to boulder. Feet burning, she reached the edge of the water.
“Dépêche-toi !” greets François.
Legs already dangling over the pool, toes wiggling in anticipation, he smiles, dives, and disappears.
Off comes Julia’s dress. She folds it neatly. Against the fantasy of a sudden gush of wind, she pins it down with a rock.
Arms crossed over her chest, hands folded around thin shoulders, Julia prolongs the pleasure of being swallowed by the water, bit by bit, until the brook engulfs her in cold delight. She swims to François and splashes water in his face. He laughs. Then, lying on their backs under the great benevolent Mediterranean sky, they drift to the fall and slide into the swimming hole framed by the imposing Castagniccia mountains.
Dripping wet, they bend forward and shake their heads of short hair . They stand in the sun to dry. Julia grabs a twig. She draws circles in the sand and smoothes them out with her feet. And François stares at the circles.

François and Julia are of the same kind. Both live on the Continent. Before, Julia had hordes of cousins but no company. The cousins came from Rocca, on the arid side of the mountain, to play with her. At the beginning of the summer, Julia had to fight off repulsion at the sight of the eight blond heads crawling with lice. With fascinated disgust she would watch the critters walking in Indian file on the trail of their parted hair. Unaware of being inhabited, flattered by the Continent Princess’ attention, the cousins sat undaunted and mesmerized while Julia frantically scratched her head.
François is a handsome youngster with strong teeth, thick light brown hair and gentle hazel eyes. Before she even looked at him, Julia was drawn to him. When Sergio, Aunt Zabetta’s handyman, called his name, the girl’s heart had skipped a beat. Julia’s father, who bore the same name, had passed away the previous September. And each time someone calls François her father is still a little alive.

The pair spends hours sitting on the rocks above the rushing waters. They watch lizards basking in the sun, spellbound by the expressionless eyes and the cut off tails. Julia never remains for long in a contemplative mood. She finds silence oppressive and starts to fidget. François then senses she is about to initiate a conversation. He cocks his head with a tinge of irony, ready to listen. The girl blushes and starts to talk. She asks:
“And what do you want to do... later, I mean?”
The boy heaves a sigh. Resting his chin on a hand, he replies:
“I’m not sure I want to grow up... never mind. Let’s see... I’d like to be a photographer roaming the globe to catch History-making events!”
Julia claps her hands. Offended, a few blackbirds screech and fly away.
“And I’ll write the stories!”
“Okay,” he teases: “but you’ll have to work on your English!”
A cloud comes over her face. She pouts:
“I know. Too bad Italian isn’t the international language. Not only do I speak it fluently, but it’s so much more musical and romantic. I bet it’d help avoid wars!”
“Don’t kid yourself,” retorts François vehemently: “as long as people make money selling guns, we’ll always have wars. That’s why I took German as my second language.”
Indignant, Julia sits up straight and blurts out:
“How could you do such a thing so soon after we won the war?”
François leans forward. Hands akimbo, he says:
“You can’t keep fighting the war over and over again. Mark my word, Germany will soon become a wealthy industrialist power!”
Julia comes down a notch. Pensive, she nods:
“I think you’re right!” She sighs: “You must admit though, it’s an ugly, guttural language.”
“Come now, it’s Goethe’s language!”
“Goethe, Goethe... overrated!”
After simulating a yawn, Julia springs up and stands on her toes. With outstretched arms she faces the reddening mountains. Curious, François gets up. The girl whirls around:
“Frankly my dear, I prefer ‘The Three Musqueteers’!
With this she gives her friend a swift pitch. As he loses balance, he grabs Julia’s arm and they hit the water together.
François coughs up some water and says:
“If I recall correctly, both Milady and Mme Bonnacieux were perfidious creatures...”
“Only because the story was written by a man!” Satisfied with her answer, Julia sticks her tongue out and resolutely changes the subject: “You must admit this beats Marseille!”
“It sure does! Are you hungry?”
“Starved! Here there is always something to munch on. By the way, the green gage plums are almost ready. And the figs... Julia closes her eyes and smacks her lips: “Can you think of anything more delicious than a honey sweet fig ripened on the tree?”
François chuckles, crosses his eyes, and says: “What about a big chunk of cheese- the one with the worms, I mean. Have you ever tried it?”
“I have!” replies Julia with bravado.
“Do you like it?” inquires François, impressed.
Julia is tempted to lie. She hesitates and finally opts for the far more challenging truth:
“It’s gross... I think it’s gross! And you?”
She peers into her friend’s face. François’ smug expression of contentment infuriates her. She should have lied. He answers:
“I am getting to like it... it’s neat the way the worms pop up onto the palate... And that little snapping noise when they’re crushed!”
Inwardly, Julia resolves to overcome a natural aversion and to bring herself to enjoy the cheese in question. She says:
“Boys are gross and cruel !” She pauses and adds: “Just like girls are!”
They both laugh boisterously. Since dusk is setting in, they head home. As soon as they catch sight of Aunt Zabetta’s house, the magic breaks. François cuts through the woods and Julia hurries along on the road. Tomorrow they will be back by the brook.

Each morning Aunt Zabetta and Julia work side by side in the garden. The city girl learns how to tie pole beans and tomatoes, and how to divert the village water into shallow irrigation ditches. As her niece’s cheeks take on a rich nectarine color, Aunt Zabetta cannot hide a smile of pride and approval.
After an early lunch of brocciu beans and figatellu in the stone walled kitchen, Julia busies herself with the cleaning up while Aunt Zabetta cares for her invalid mother. From the corner of the eye Julia watches Uncle Giovanni fall asleep in the nook of an arm resting on the rustic chestnut table. When he starts snoring the girl steals away, chuckling at the sassy four-year-old she once was. Puzzled by Uncle Giovanni’s imposing Viking moustache, she had demanded an explanation. Her mother’s laconic reply: “Ask him!” had further aroused the child’s curiosity. She then had been compelled to find out on her own. One sultry afternoon as the uncle dozed off, his great moustache sweeping the table, Julia had tiptoed next to him. Seizing the moustache, she pulled with all her might. Startled by the pain, Giovanni’s mouth opened round to let out a scream. Next, he opened his gentian blue eyes–still glassy–and stared at Julia who scuttled out behind the shelter of Zouzou’s skirt. How wise and discerning she had felt. The moustache had revealed its secret: it was temporarily there to hide a few missing front teeth!

Once the front gate is closed, Julia’s day becomes significant. She often runs the kilometer or so leading up to the broken stone wall. After entering the concealed path, she stops to catch her breath. She smoothes out the green and white gingham frock, runs absent fingers through her hair, pinches her cheeks, but she is ignorant of the nascent lust in her eyes.
“Tu es là...viens vite!” exclaims François.
“Wait a minute!” Julia says, waving a white envelope, “I just received a letter from my mother... I better read it while I can. I mean, before it gets wet!”
“Okay then, meet me in the water!”
Julia flips through the pages, folds the letter back in the envelope, and throws herself in the invigorating waters.
“Good news?” asks François.
“Good news!” answers Julia, kicking water in his face. He catches up with her and despite her pleas for mercy, shoves her head under the water. They frolic–giggling and choking–until, exhausted and shivering, they climb out to the warmth of the smooth rocks.
“Hey! I got some plums...want some?” Julia looks around. She picks up her dress and wonders out loud: “Where the heck did they go?” Frowning, she says, “What a scatter-brain I am, I must have left them by the stone wall.”
“I’ll go and fetch them,” volunteers François.
In no time he is back, carrying a bundle. He unties the kerchief . Julia picks out a plum. She holds it up in the light, brings it to her lips, and slowly bites into it.
“The plums... the plums and your eyes, they match!” observes François.
Julia lowers her eyelids and answers: “Aren’t they divine?”
After rinsing faces and hands, out of Zouzou’s letter the friends build paper boats. With a flick of the fingers they launch them on hazardous journeys to hoped for faraway shores. A couple sails on... as François and Julia watch them disappear downstream, they marvel on how far they will travel. The lizards become crocodiles and the water slide Victoria Falls.

Thus, one day blending into the next, summer meanders on. Watching life on the brook, the youngsters are awakening to the unfolding of tomorrows. Lying on the rocks waiting for their bathing suits to dry or chewing on a piece of grass, they begin to wonder whether they will ever see stars together. Floating in a silence as binding as a promise, they wish for the summer to never end.

Fall came and winter and spring. Julia almost forgot her friend ... Another summer rolled around. On a perfect blue morning, she boards the ship that links the Continent to Corsica. A whole day between sky and sea. She explores the vessel, eavesdrops on boring bits of conversation and watches the dolphins. She neglects lunch and the twice removed cousins. Toward mid-afternoon an outline of land appears on the horizon. As the coast grows more distinct, the passengers converge to the prow to admire the island’s proud Ajaccio, cradle of its most illustrious son. Little by little, people drift away to gather their belongings. The ship is approaching the harbor in the hustle-bustle of everyone wanting to be the first one ashore. At last Julia and the cousins stand on the pier. At last a vague relative of a no less vague relative is located. All pile up in the car and are off to an overnight stopover in so and so’s house.
Early the following morning they are driven to the train station. Packed, the valiant little train starts on its upward trek. An unseen Frenchman, one from the Continent, explains the obvious in a strenuous textbook English: “A fire over there... a garbage dumb...” Put out, Julia succeeds in blocking him off until another voice pitches in. This time it is a hoarse smoker’s voice belonging to an American female. No doubt, the man’s interlocutor: “I wouldn’t call sinecure a job that pays a pittance.” Suddenly, Julia realizes they are speaking English and she has no trouble understanding it. Her efforts this past school year have paid off and she can not wait to impress François. A glance through the window causes Julia to forget these trivial considerations.
The train has started to climb. It precariously hangs on the side of the mountain at a dizzying height. No road mars the grandiose scenery. The crisp and scented air is filled with the maquis wild herbs. As the altitude increases, olive trees are replaced by chestnut trees and then by pines. Here and there, on clearings, lone shepherds tend to their flocks. The Vizzavone Tunnel, nearing four kilometers in length, engulfs them. The passengers close their windows. Antagonistic and curious, Julia sticks her nose out. She is the only one to do so. When the train emerges into the luminosity of a high sky, she is also the only one whose face is smeared with soot. One wonder follows another. Soon it is the double-decker Vecchio Bridge. A rare tourist–Michelin guidebook in hand–shares some information: “Built by Gustave Eiffel... 96 meters tall...’’ Julia is proud to be Corsican and so happy to be back on the Island.

After a bumpy ride from Ponte-Leccia to Castineta, Julia finds herself in front of Aunt Zabetta’s house. A cousin hands her a suitcase and the others wave a noisy good-bye. Julia barges into the house and takes possession of a new summer.
She had expected to find her grandmother in bed, but the room is tidy, cool and empty. The news of Mamone’s death had reached Zouzou and Julia in Nice several months ago; however, the news to the girl was nothing more than a mere unreality. But now, confronted with the old woman’s absence, she grasps the meaning of the word death: an irreparable absence. Strangely, the bed conjures up the grandfather’s tall figure. Julia sees him standing by the bed, as he did a few times a year when he made the trip from Rocca–where he lives with his youngest son Julio–to Castineta. He used to stand there with his wife Paolina–awkward and silent–twirling a hat between gnarled fingers. And Julia remembers a silence so thick the silence of strangers who had shared five children–that the loquacious child she was could never utter a single word.
But Julia refuses to be sad. She turns around and faces Uncle Giovanni . He is contemplating her with blatant admiration, a broad grin on his tender face. Behind him appears Aunt Zabetta, wiping dirt-stained hands on a black apron. Both marvel at Julia’s growth. They call her an ‘almost young lady’.
Early in the morning, Julia walks to the kitchen. She grabs the milking pail and leaps down the stairs. Aunt Zabetta is in the courtyard untying her bun and letting the luxuriant wave of hair fall down to her ankles. The goats are patiently waiting to be milked, udders too full to gambol. Julia watches the aunt’s deft fingers, then she carries the foaming pail back up to the house. After pouring herself a consequent café-au-lait, and buttering a slab of bread, she sits by the window looking at the hazelnut branches bending over the runnel. Nothing has changed in the garden. Nothing has changed in the basement with its oven expecting to be fired on baking day. Overjoyed, Julia dances throughout the whole house. She finds herself skipping up and down the orchard and on the road leading to the brook.
Maybe François has not arrived yet. Julia has come sooner this year. The next day she runs again to the brook... and the following day... and the one after that. François has not arrived yet. Since she is obliged to see the cousins in Rocca, she insists on paying the visit immediately. Amused by his spirited niece, Giovanni saddles the mule and off they go.

After a bumpy ride on the sunny side of the mountain, they reach the hamlet perched on an escarpment. The grandfather is sitting on the porch, straight and solemn, pipe in hand. Upon seeing Julia he stands up and Julia dreads the next few minutes. Twice a year she is subjected to this ritual. The old man will now embrace her and rub against her porcelain cheeks a full beard wet with homegrown tobacco juices and spit. Julia shrivels. She sees inscribed on the abject senescent face the obscene pride of a male ego mistaking repugnance for prudery.
Soon the cousins materialize, still varmint-infested, and with them all of the village youngsters. The next few days are filled with adventure and the grandiose project of building a fort. Tunnels are dug in the maquis. In the center of the clearing a rudimentary stone hearth is erected. Wood is haphazardly stacked and a fire is ready to be lit by Papone Bartolomeo’ s ‘borrowed’ lighter. To defend the citadel, weapons are contrived. Slingshots, bows and swords are improvised. Small forked branches and leather straps for the slingshots. Flexible twigs and lengths of string for the bows. Sticks of hardwood with a short transversal piece fastened with weeds for the swords. Since Julia is the only one to ever have been to the cinema, to her belongs the honor of training the troops in the art of fencing. In innocence they all fight on the same side. The swords are crossed for the purpose of chivalry, and the arrows shot against unseen enemies.
The unwary donkeys lured in the youngsters’ dominion resist colonization. In nefarious tricks, they display an independent and vindictive Corsican heritage. Acting subdued, the mounts pretend to put up with the natives who ride them bare-back, all the while edging their way toward the wild blackberry bushes. Once their objective is reached, the donkeys brush their sides against the thick of the bushes amidst the screams of the children whose legs have become covered with rivulets of intrepid blood. As the friends jump off and help one another extract numerous thorns, the liberated donkeys graze nonchalantly. When the children find relief, they undauntedly climb again on the gray beasts with the black cross-like markings. Complacent, the donkeys start trotting...as the speed increases, the cavaliers cling to the manes. An abrupt stop sends them head over heels into the brambles. Furious, they pick up stones and pelt the impertinent animals, chasing them away.
Starved, they dispatch three of the children with the mission to provide food. Soon they return with a slab of prizuttu–the fat of which tastes like chestnut- bread, heaps of tomatoes, and plums. Now thirsty, the band must venture out for water. They advance on a steep pathway. For the sake of security, a sentinel is posted on each side of the stone shelter surrounding the fountain. From the gut of the mountain, the water gushes out with so powerful a jet that their heads are thrust backwards as limpidity spurts forth in their mouths.
At night the eight cousins sit with Julia cross-legged around the fucone. Famished, they hold up their bowls. Jeanne- Julio’s wife- dishes out steaming vegetable and fasgiole soup while her husband cuts thick slices of dark bread. After supper everybody helps with the cleaning up. Then, the Aunt and the Uncle busy themselves with chores. The grandfather, leaning ever so slightly on the door sill, enjoys a pipe, his pirate profile turned toward the stars. One by one, the children drift back to the fire. Ten years old, Flora scratches her head and in a voice filled with awe and envy, asks:
“How often do you go to the cinema?” With pride she adds, “I have already been once–that’s when Uncle Paolo came from Marseille. He took the whole bunch of us to Ponte-Leccia in the car!”
“Hey! I bet you had fun!” Still scratching , Flora grins. Julia reclines on her elbows. She stretches her legs out and says, “To answer your question, I usually go to the movies once a week.”
Several voices fuse: “Once a week!”
“Yeah, because there is no school on Thursdays, and because it’s Zouzou’s day off, we go on Wednesday nights,” explains Julia.
“How many movies have you seen? I mean altogether?” inquires squat little Valerio, biting his fingernails.
“Don’t you bite your fingernails!” snaps Julia. “How many movies have I seen? I wouldn’t know. A lot, I suppose. Much is to be learned from films. Take ‘Robin Hood’ for example. That’s where I learned the most about swords and bows and arrows!”
And some of the cousins try to imitate the funny accent of the Continent Princess. They repeat, ‘Robin Hood’. Satisfied with the effect, Julia pursues:
“It’s an American movie, made in Hollywood. And the star, Errol Flynn, is the most handsome man you’ll ever see... he is the most suave... the most urbane... the most debonair... the most...”
Julia, having run out of adjectives to qualify men, stops short. She puckers her mouth and closes her eyes. In the silence that follows, Aunt Jeanne plucks from the floor the smaller children who have fallen asleep.
“How great it must be to live on the Continent...” sighs Mimi, a slender brunette of Julia’s age.
Julia emerges from a reverie. She knows that most of the islanders, young and old alike, entertain the desire to leave Corsica and to migrate to the big cities: Nice, Marseille, and Paris. She thinks but one second and says:
“Best of all, cities have books! Tons of books!”
A sudden quietness drops on the room. In the pale light from the dying fire, the heads bend down. Books mean school, and school means trudging down to the Convent in Morosaglia, in rain, snow or shine. It means to be cooped up for several hours while the chores accumulate. Might it be the seasonal chores: the chestnut harvest, the butchering of the pigs, the planting of the crops; or the daily chores: carrying water from the fountain, feeding the animals, milking the goats, and each year the added collective responsibility of a new baby.
For the very first time, Julia is allowed to attend the annual festivities given in the honor of Orezza’s patron saint, and she goes to the ball. Julia and the three older cousins, Mimi, Antoinette, and Pascal, are dropped in front of the Town Hall. A large tent stands on he square and the joyous sound of an orchestra welcomes them. Shoving and guffawing, they enter the crowded tent. A portly woman, an absent smile floating on her lips, is waltzing in the arms of an imaginary partner. Soon a young man invites Julia, and he insists upon teaching her the tango steps. Julia’s feet become shy, but as the lights are dimmed, and after drinking a glass of Patrimonio wine , absolute proof that she is an ‘almost young lady’, she lets herself go, much to the young man’s pleasure. If the feet are keeping the beat, the mind, however, is ahead of the music, racing to the brook where François is waiting.

When Julia returns to Castineta, early in the afternoon, no one is home. Relieved, she darts to the brook. All is still. Frozen in time. No François. After an interminable wait, dejected, she recoils home. She picks up a book at random, sits on the doorstep, and watches the men playing boci. She turns down an invitation to join in the game and vaguely thumbs through ‘The Little Prince’. For him she almost breaks into a smile. As the breeze ushers the evening in, expectations of tomorrow rise... A tomorrow that sees her once more alone by the brook. By small, often repeated gestures, she tries to conjure up fate. Thus, out of Zouzou’s letter, she smoothes out a boat. As she sets it afloat, she surreptitiously glances over a shoulder, wishing for François to appear. Not only does he not appear, but the vulnerable vessel, caught in a whirlwind, capsizes, entangled in the reeds. A fat, bloated maggot crying black ink tears. Panic-stricken, Julia moves away. She stomps her foot and has to rub her heel. She crouches down and contemplates the tiny hem stitches on her dress. The newest one Zouzou made out of fine white Egyptian cotton, with small flowers in her colors–dusty rose and apple green. She knows François will adore it. “That’s it!” she thinks, “By the time I have counted one hundred stitches he’ll be here.” She endeavors to count the stitches. Often, she loses count and has to start over again. Once the task is completed, she begins anew. One last time after another... until, dazed, she leaves.
After a night filled with nightmares, Julia, groggy and pale, steps outside. She blinks, squints, and raises a languid hand. A peddler dismounts his hefty mule and shows Aunt Zabetta his wares. In an unusual gesture, Zabetta adds to the already purchased items a pink ribbon for Julia. Handing it to her niece, she says:
“I think life on the Continent does not agree with you! Last winter even less than before... It’s not like you to mope around!”
Julia forces a smile and ties the ribbon in her hair to make Aunt Zabetta happy. It does.
As the lazy morning stretches out, Julia decides to venture to the upper village where François’ family lives. Apprehensive and shy, without a plan, but unable to cope another minute, she keeps on climbing. When she reaches Castineta Soprana, the silence of early afternoon has settled on the community. In the deserted streets a few chickens are pecking away... The shutters are closed and her friend’s house appears uninhabited. After all, the family may have chosen to stay in Marseille this year. A circular glance at the other houses proves to be inconclusive. The slate roofs sparkle in the heat of the day. The flowers bend wrinkled heads. The leaves on the heavy branches droop down. Julia reaches for a few plums. First, she licks the sugar pearls. Then, she lets the warm sweetness of the fruit cajole her mouth. She spits out the pits and remembers the horrible, gone-forever, wartime years. How , at summer camp, she and other starved waifs used to scavenge peach pits. Armed with an open safety pin they dug for and salvaged any strands of flesh caught in the grooves. When none were left, the pit was broken open and they sucked on the bitter almond to soothe their hunger pains... She is still standing in front of the house. She should go now... but she will return toward the evening.

Seeing smoke rising from the chimney, she quickens the pace. Zabetta must have fired the oven. Niece and Aunt work together to bake enough bread for the fortnight and some focaccia to be devoured immediately. Zabetta brings them out of the oven with a shovel-like implement then lines them on the counter in front of Julia. She looks at her niece, the speckled hazel eyes laughing before her mouth does. Impatient as usual, Julia bites into a focaccia and grimaces with pain.
“Hey Julia, you haven’t changed much since last year! I still bear in mind the pear jam!”
Julia blushes. Aunt Zabetta, having a grand time, goes on:
“You don’t think you had me fooled.... or do you?”
At her aunt’s insight, Julia’s blush deepens. That day, they had spilled several basketfuls of pears into the copper caldron hanging in the fireplace. Julia had been given the job to skim the fruit mixture. She skimmed the frothy foam and licked the ladle. In a sugar frenzy, she skimmed and licked until the jam was cooked and the basin almost empty!
Zabetta, conscious of Julia’s awkwardness, pats her on a cheek and concludes:
“You owe Uncle Giovanni a big thanks. He saved your hide. I was so mad, I wanted to give you a good scolding. He humored me. He said: ‘Zabetta, you now have the ultimate proof that your jam is a success!’”
“How predictable and secure life was then”, thinks Julia, who cannot help but sigh. A shadow darkens her olive complexion. Aunt Zabetta, afraid to have vexed the child whose father she loved so dearly, senses a new fragility in the adolescent. She adds:
“I was only teasing... and thank-you for helping with the bread. What would I do without you?” She holds Julia’s chin up and offers: “And now, how would you like to go to the vineyard with Sergio? He has about an hour’s worth of work and- if you behave, that is- he’ll show you the trout hole. Maybe he’ll even catch a few for you. So, what do you say?”
Zabetta looks at her niece and awaits her answer. Julia sways from one foot to another and decides to go.

Riding the mule down the ravine is a thrill. While the handyman tends to his business, Julia inspects the vineyard built on terraces. It promises a fine harvest. In spite of her better judgement, she reaches for a sanguine and fuzzy vine peach. She rubs it against her shirt and bites into it. She smacks her lips and puckers her mouth. Sergio laughs at her. Already he is brushing the dirt off of his hands. He wipes them on his pants and says:
“Ready to go fishing?”
“Fishing!” echoes the girl, her eyes still fastened to the hands. Were it not for the dirt under the fingernails, they could be midwife hands. Although the term sounds inappropriate, Julia has never heard anyone speak of a ‘midhusband’. She chuckles and asks, “Where are the poles?”
Sergio winks whimsically. He says:
“Where I’m taking you, we don’t need any! You’ll see, follow me.”
Julia tags along. Sergio helps her to negotiate the tricky passages as they cut across the maquis. When they reach the stream, the young man nimbly jumps from stone to stone. Then he stops, waits for Julia and points to the left of a cascade where an incline in the terrace forms a dam. Sergio puts an index finger across his mouth and says:
“If you promise not to tell anybody, I’ ll share a secret with you.”
Julia pretends to shut her mouth close as if it were equipped with a zipper. Then, she swears:
“I won t tell a single soul!”
And she means it. She has nobody to share a secret with except François, and what is the sense of betraying a confidence when no worthwhile friend is at the receiving end.
Sergio picks up a stick and climbs upstream, just above the fall. He says:
“Now, watch this!”
He throws the stick in the rushing water where it disappears for a split second before resurfacing in the deep hole. Satisfied, Sergio concludes:
“Same happens with the trout! Once they get in they can t get out… until I come! Are you hungry?”
“I am always hungry…You know that!”
“Okay then, come!”
Sergio leads the girl to a wider area on the brook. Not far from the bank he builds a fire and asks Julia to mind it. He darts to the water hole. Laying next to it, he plunges his right arm in up to the shoulder, pokes around and brings up a good size trout. In no time he is back with a bounty of four trout. He puts the gasping and writhing fishes down on the rocks, and he fetches several flat stones which he sets on the on the burning embers. Then he cuts the trout open, cleans them in the spring, and stuffs the slit bellies with aromatic maquis herbs Julia has gathered. Carefully the young man places them on the hot stones where they sizzle. Soon a tantalizing smell arises, Julia has to bridles her impatience until Sergio declares:
“That’ll do!” He then rakes the stones out of the fire. With a few onomatopoeias the trout is eaten up. Still licking her fingers, Julia says:
“I think this is the best meal I’ve ever eaten.”
“I think you’re right,” replies Sergio, “now let’s clean up our mess and head on home for…”
“Hey! You live in Castineta Soprana interrupts Julia. “François… they are not coming this year?”
“François... François...” Sergio stops and leans on the branch he was using to sweep the area clean. He swallows hard, then says, “Don’t you know? He’s dead. Several months ago already. Hit by a truck.”
In a flat, mundane and muffled voice belonging to her Julia repeats:
“Dead… François is dead.”
She has to refrain from breaking the twig in her hand.
Dead. The ugliest word in any language.

“How many years ago ?”questions Julia, clutching the Baby Tears in her hand and shoving the change in her pocket. Ten... Twenty... a lifetime now. Dead while she hopped from continent to continent, while she sailed the profligate Caribbean and the magic bound Sri Lanka, while she lost people she thought she could not live without... and while even the memory of them was swept away.

This is the book of my mother.