Foxes Hill

Foxes Hill Parte 9

Rocchetta, on the other hand, is hidden, and you only see it when you get there; its charm also lies in this: it is a village that leaves itself to be desired.

While the car advances and climbs up the hairpin bends, I ask "Uncle, can you please tell me what is the Italian name of that plant, that everyone in the village calls scchatta'uocchj?"

"The name of the plant is The Asinine Watermelon, and the scientific name is Ecballium elaterium, and when its fruit is ripe, it explodes even if not touched; this is how the plant spreads its seeds!"

"I know this! In the afternoon, I blew a lot of them down at the bottom of the steps behind the bar of Mr. Inglese, and some of them exploded without my touching them!" I reply.

Grandma mutters something; she has discovered, and shows her displeasure, where and how I spent the whole afternoon; where, according to her, I wasted time.

"A child who plays doesn't waste time, he learns!" Intervenes Uncle.

She, with a wave of her hand, shows that she doesn't agree; for the grandmother, and for the culture of the time, a seven-year-old child is already old enough to be useful, and, above all, he no longer has to think about playing.

We are almost there: the car slows down, and leaving the provincial road takes a dirt road on the left.

Ascoli is there on the right, high up on the hill, and begins to light up with public light: thus highlighting its profile as a hilly village.

There is still a bit of light, the sky is not really dark, and so I can see the farm in the distance.

The small road at the beginning is on a slight slope, and after having traveled almost all of it we first skirt the vegetable garden, then the large well and finally, after a short slightly uphill stretch, the car stops on the front yard of the house.

There are people outside, and someone is hanging kerosene lamps from a tightrope over a long table.

The massaro (the chief worker) saw the car arrive and, once stopped, recognizing the occupants, he comes to meet us, greeting grandmother first and helping her to get out.

Uncle and I, at the same time, go down on the opposite side, greeting the massaro and all those present with a loud "Good evening!"

He and Uncle shake hands, and then he sees me and smiling at me, he says: "And you..., are you here again?"

The tone is a bit authoritarian and I, who know him, do not answer; I just smile at him, and with a shrug I make him understand that I am there under the responsibility of grandmother, and that he, of me, will not have to worry.

"I know that you are nu brav guagljon!"(A good kid), he replies, recovering himself: but without a smile this time.

The massaros are like this, sometimes: some believe that they are the owners, and as such, they behave; to this, however, I think that it does not like only having children around.

Diplomatically, with my gesture, I wanted him to understand that he was to mind his own business, and he understood; however, I certainly won't be the one to cause him problems.

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It's a polite, and a little ironic, way of sending anyone who speaks to you in a sarcastic and arrogant way to hell; my father taught me this, telling me: "When someone addresses you in an authoritarian and ironic way, or worse with malice, you must always respond in kind and smile; so, like in a game of cards, you always have four lead points!"

It's a way of saying, from my parts, to mean that in this way you break the comparison to your advantage.

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