Foxes Hill

Foxes Hill 2

A man takes out the harmonica and starts playing; he is good, at least I think, and for me, anyway, that sound is pleasant.

Attracted by the sound I turn around and put my knees on the seat, I get up, look and smile.

Cheerful and carefree people and it shows, yet they are farm laborers, people forced and used to hard work and, perhaps, low wages.

They go to work: who knows where, to collect the grain; hard work, to do under the scorching sun, yet they sing; males and females, at least on this bus, are happy.

It seems, especially women, that they have no thoughts or worries.

Surely, I see, they are happy to go and earn <their bread> even if with hard work, however a job, like that of the reaper.

Now I thought that even the carpenters under my house, while they work with the plane, often sing.

Songs invented at that time, by paraphrasing old famous melodies, even from the fascist era, as my father sings often and with pleasure.

I continue to admire the fields, while the horizon no longer appears flat.

High hills begin to emerge where, due to the greater force of the wind, the wheat sways more: like a stormy sea.

Borgo Libertà -Torre Alemanna stop: a small village inhabited by peasants and small landowners, where there is a bar, an elementary school, a grocery store, a church and an ancient square tower.

My neighbor goes down; instinctively I move to the side to make room for him, and he, not without difficulty, gets up and holds out his hand to me, squeezing it tightly.

He greets me with a smile: "Goodbye!" he says, and "Goodbye!" I reply; slowly, helped by the driver, the old man gets out and goes away.

I never met that man again, however, every time I pass by there, even on the highway, I remember him.

The bus leaves and the women start chatting again.

Two of them, young people, I see that they look at me and, after having exchanged a few words, they motion me to come closer to them.

One of these calls me by name: "Franco!"

I get up, wondering how she gets to known my name.

"Yes!" she says: "You are Franco, the nephew of the mistress Filomena!"

I nod, and almost immediately recognizing her voice, I shout her name: "Rosetta! You are Rosetta!"; "Yes... I am!" she replies.

She gets up, and I run to meet her; he hugs me and gives me a kiss on the forehead and one on the cheek, holding me closer.

"You have grown up, you are a young man now; do you remember me? Last year at the farm in Traversa Valley, in Ascoli Satriano, I was also there for the grain harvest!" She says looking at her companions who, too, they seem surprised.

"I go back there again, with my companions; tomorrow we begin harvest the oats!" she continues, kissing me on the cheek again.

"I'm going to Rocchetta to stay all summer with my grandmother; it may be that we too will come to the farm later on!" I conclude.

Therefore, she started, making me sit on her thighs, to tell her friends, the new ones, about the past season.

He tells how in the evening, after work, we had lunch and danced to the sound of a mouth accordion; then there was a boy, and also this time too, she says sure, who can play it very well.

Clutching me to her, I feel her breasts press against me; Rosetta continues her stories, looking for confirmation from me sometimes.

I, with my eyes turned to her companions, nod.