The Majara

Childhood

1

Sicily 1920s

The mistral wind was blowing, playing with the clothes line in the courtyard. Freshly washed sheets fluttered violently under the warm kiss of the sun, while the cicadas sang their usual and harmonic summer chant. The wind blew ruffling the green foliage, swiftly moving through the people walking in the village. It entered through the open windows and rebellious ran away through the slightly open doors. It chased the laughter of the children playing and with them climbed the paths of the mule track, up to the cliffs when, following the precipice, it plunged to the sea and became one with the waves followed by the guttural voices of the fishermen, that with their heave-ho, were pulling in their nets. The wind finally stopped at the beach of Maresa, and kissed the brown hair of a little girl bent over the sand before running away, chasing new passionate adventures.

The thin girl looked the horizon through a fragment of transparent glass, that certainly was once a bottle. She looked as though she was searching for something, like she expected to see a dot appear where the sea touched the sunny sky.

"Look who's there...the majara babba!" yelled with a sharp voice, Vituzzo Pitré, with all the other rascals adding their voices to the tease.

The little girl turned her face and, covering her big brown eyes with her hand, looked every single one of them. There they were; her tormentors. She had been wondering where they had been; every single morning the first good morning of the day she received was theirs, under her room window.

"Stop this now! Go home, louts!". The kids, surprised by the husky voice behind them, turned around immediately and their spine-chilling scream shook all the surroundings. Vituzzo Pitrè, Calogero Scimone and Nanni Balistreri widened their eyes when they realized it was Mimmarella Calò who had spoken. She was tall and thin as a broomstick, she had wrinkled skin burnt by the sun, a harelip and a glass eye. She had lost her right eye while she was cleaning her father's hunting rifle.

"One eye! One eye!" the kids yelled while running away to the safety of their homes.

"Animals! Louts!" mumbled the woman that still couldn't get used to the nickname that people in the town had given her. She looked the little girl on the beach, who hadn't pronounced a single word.

"Rosalia! Rosalia come here. Your mother needs you!"

The child stood up and, holding tightly her precious treasure in her left hand, ran toward her aunt. Mimmarella was the only sister of her grandmother Fina who was still alive and they both lived with Rosalia and her mother in a small white house next to the Saint Carmelo Church. It's an all-female world. Rosalia Scirè, the only child of Annuccia and Ciccio, lost her father, killed at sea, when she was only two years old. She had no memories of him, only a warm feeling tightening her hearth and the bitter taste of reminiscence. He used to take her for a walk every Sunday after going to church and in the evening, he used to lay on the hammock in the terrace, holding her in his chest; and while watching the sunset, he sang the typical fishermen songs to calm her before falling asleep. At least this is what her grandmother Teresa told her every time Rosalia visited her. Her father was handsome; a tall young man with dark thick curls and bright eyes. She usually daydreamed for hours looking at his photograph on the cupboard of the living room. When she arrived home, she found her mother there, in that sameplace.