Ringrazio Marco Scalabrino, di cui condivido ogni sillaba, pur consapevole del fatto che, quando dovesse accadere ciò che lui auspica e che darebbe alle scritture dialettali il peso e il ruolo che meritano…chissà se ci sarò!
Ringrazio, altresì, Fabrizio Centofanti per il positivo giudizio che mi onora particolarmente, essendo la prima volta che si occupa di me. A tutti una serena giornata, in pace e tranquillità
Accia e Amuri Di Flora Restivo ARBA SICULA XXXII
Sicuru comu la morti: li fatti chiù streusi capitanu tutti a mia, e megghiu chi mi ci mettu lu cori ‘n paci.
E’ giustu, però, a primu ntranchiti cunsiddirari chi sugnu sempri stunata, cu la testa chi si ni va pi cuntu so.
Allianata, puru si nun mi piaci tantassai, ci nascivi, ma certu l’anni chi passanu beni nun ni fannu.
Tagghiamula ddocu e passamu a lu restu.
Cui mi talia, vidi na fimmina chi, oramai, di giuvintù n’avi giustu giustu lu ciauru.
Certu ancora mi piaci mpuparimi, mi pittu, conzu ssa nzalata arripudduta, comu megghiu sacciu fari, ma la sunata cancia picca. Cuttuttu, però, ancora capita chi l’omini mustranu nteressi pi la me pirsuna, lu pirchì lu sannu sulu iddi e, comu sempri, succedi puru chi la cosa nun mi passa mancu pi lu chiù nicu pirtusu di lu ciriveddu. Tuttu ssu cappidduzzu cunnuci a lu cori di l’avvintura. Na matina, ntunnu a l’ottu, l’ottu e menza, me figghia mi telefuna: “Mamma, allestiti, senza tantu annacariti, a momentu arrivu, datusi chi mi servi cumpagnia pi fari la spisa.” Idda è fatta accussì, di picca palori. Mi vestu, na pittinata e già eccula a sunari la trumma, ‘n centru di piazzali. E’ bedda, ma bedda pi daveru: capiddi longhi e niuri, occhi di culuri cancianti, fina fina, chiù auta di mia, chi nun sugnu lu giganti Gattamugliera. M’assettu nna la machina e partemu. “Mamma (arrè, prima di stasira a tricentu ci arrivamu) nun mi fari scurdari patati e cipuddi, avi na simana chi sugnu senza”. “Signursi”, dicu e mi lu scordu. Dopu n’urata, chi gia ni stavamu arricampannu, chianta li freni a tappu e m’assuppu na botta nna lu cozzu (un beddu arricriu pi la me cirvicali). “T’avia parratu, mi pari, di patati e cipuddi, ma tu “nisba”.
By Flora Restivo Translated into English by Gaetano Cipolla
It’s sure as death that the weirdest things happen to me. I can put my y mind to rest on this. I must admit, however, as a premise, that I am always a bit daydreaming with my head always following its own course. I think I was born like that, even though I don’t like to admit it and certainly the passing years have not improved matters. But let’s cut to the chase and to my story. People who look t me see a woman who by now has but a faint smell of youth left. Surely I still like to doll up a bit, fixing a dried up salad as best I can but the tune remains the same.
Notwithstanding, however, it happens that some men show interest for my person, they only know why and as always happens, the thing does not interest me in the least.
All this to introduce you to the heart of the adventure.
One morning about eight o’clock, eight thirty my daughters telephones: Mom, get ready without wasting time because I am coming to pick you. I need you to come shopping with me.”
That’s how she’s made, quick and to the point.
I get dressed, I comb my hair quickly and she is already there sounding the horn in the middle of the square.
She is beautiful, but really beautiful, with black long hair eyes that change color, thin , taller than I am, though I am no giant CatWoman.
I got into the car and we left.
“Mom, (before the end of the night she’ll say it three hundred time) remind me to buy potatoes and onions. I haven’t had any for a week.
“Yes, Ma’am!”, I say and I forget.
After about an hour, we were ready to return home, but she stomps brakes and I end bumping my neck on the head rest (Not a good thing for my cervical spine condition).
“We had talked about potatoes and onions, but you did not remind you… Now let’s stop at this vegetable store.”
Scinni, cu tantu di funcia e ju mi mettu a pinzari a li fatti mei, ucchiali niuri, m’accutturu biata a lu suli di maju.
L’ammicciu mentri ridi cu na pirsuna, un masculu, penzu chi si canuscinu e ripigghiu lu lestu di li me’ fantasii.
Ntuttuna, sentu grapiri lu spurtellu.
Alluccuta, viju un pezzu d’omu, chiuttostu piacenti e finulicchiu di na quarantina d’anni, a diri assai, chi teni ‘n manu lu chiù trugghiu mazzu d’accia mai vistu e, darrè me figghia, cu na facci di timpulati.
“Permette signora—mi fa—mi vorrei presentare—tuttu in italianu — mi chiamu Piripicchiu Piripacchiu (nun mi ricordu chiù) e —pigghiannu lu dialettu —capisciu chi lei è pirsuna allittrata (???) e ju gnuranti, ma stannu a lu fattu chi, ‘n facci a na signura cu li manu ‘n manu nun m’aju mai arrisicatu di cumpariri, ci offru cu tuttu lu cori ssu riccu mazzu d’accia, chi so figghia mi dissi quantu a lei ci piaci.”
Lu tinia, virdi virdi, a tipu rosi “baccarat.”
Mi stava facennu lu giummu comu li turchi, ma pi si e pi no, pinzannu chi putia essiri un foddi, l’assicunnai.
“Grazii, grazii, l’accettu comu si fussiru gigghi” e affirrai ddu stranu prisenti.
Lu giuvinottu, cuntintuni, s’alluntanau salutannu e partemu. Dda facci di furca di me figghia, comu fu luntana vinti metri, si sdivacau ‘n capu a lu sterzu e attaccau a ridiri finu a chi ci vinni lu sugghiuzzu, ju dda, comu n’allampata a diri: “Ma chi fu, cui era dd’omu?”
Quannu parsi a idda si stuiau l’ occhi (pi quantu avia ridutu ci scinnianu lacrimi stili morti di lu jattu, chi ‘n casa nostra è mpurtanti assai) e ncuminciau a cuntari.
“Cara mammina, (quannu dici “mammina” è lu mumentu di quartiarisi) tu firisti drittu a lu cori ddu poviru picciottu, chi ora è nnamuratu persu”.
Ju ntrunata, senza grapiri vucca.
“Quannu ti vitti nna la machina mi dissi, cu l’occhi sciuti di fora: ma cui è dda bedda fimmina? A mia mi piaci di nfuddiri e, siccomu sugnu ancora schettu, mi vulissi assistimari propiu cu idda”.
“E’ me matri — rispunnivi—
“So matri? E com’è, schetta?”
She got out of the car making a face and I start to follow my own thoughts, hidden behind dark glasses, enjoying the hot May sun upon my skin.
I spot her laughing with a guy, I think they know each other and I return to my own fantasies.
Suddenly I felt the door.
Astounded, I see a good looking hunk, a man of about forty years of age at the most who is holding in his hands the most beautiful bunch of celery that I have ever seen. My daughter stands behind him with a brazen look upon her face.
“I beg your pardon, Ma’am,” he goes speaking strictly in Italian, my name is blank blank (I can’t remember his name) and then slipping into Sicilian he adds “I understand you are a learned lady(???) and I am uneducated, but seeing that I have never dared to appear before a lady this way, may I be allowed to offer you with all my heart this gorgeous bunch of celery? Your daughter said that you like them very much.”
He held that green bunch of celery as though they were “baccarat” roses.
I was perplexed. I did not know which way to go, but thinking he may have been a deranged person, I went along.
“Thank you, thank you I accept it as though they were lilies,” and I grabbed that strange present.
The fellow seemed most pleased and moved away saying good bye. We left. That scoundrel of my daughter, as soon as we had gone twenty yards hugged the steering wheel and started laughing so hard she got the hiccups while I still stunned by what had happened said: “What happened? Who was that man?”
When she was able to she wiped her eyes (she had laughed so much that tears streamed down her cheeks as if our cat had died—in our house that would be very real drama—. Then she began to speak.
“Dear Mommy (when she says “Mommy” that is the time move away from her) you really struck the heart of that poor fellow who is now madly in love with you.”
Stunned I dare not open my mouth.
“”When he saw you in the car, he said to me, with his eyes out of their sockets: ‘But who is that beautiful woman? I love to go insane and since I am still single, I would like to settle down with her.”
“She is my mother,“ I replied.
“Your mother? And is she still single?”
“Ma si ci staiu dicennu chi è me matri!”
“Ah, allura è propiu veru: li megghiu si l’acchiappanu subitu.” “Subitu? Taliassi bonu, nun è acidduzzu a primu volu, avi sissant’anni.”
“Sissant’anni? Nun pari e poi, chi mi ni futti di l’età: megghiu na fimmina chiù grannuzza e bedda di una picciotta e crapa.”
La me signura figghia, ni sugnu sicura, si stava addivirtennu assai. “Comunqui, lei mi l’avi a prisintari, nun si sapi mai e ci vogghiu purtari, pi bona crianza, na cosa chi ci piaci: li miluna comu fussiru?” “Speciali, me matri nesci foddi pi li miluna”. (Veru).
“Chiamau lu jarzuni: Mariu, comu semu misi a miluna?” “Malamenti, l’ultimi dui li vinnivi chi avi picca.”
“Purcazza miseria, ora comu fazzu? — Si taliau ntunnu e: “Di l’accia frisca frisca chi ni dici?” “Chi gran pinzata! (la birbanti) Idda si ni mancia un mazzu ogni jornu pi ristari sempri accussì bedda sicca. “ “Bonu, bonu!” dissi—e zicchiatu lu chiù pampinusu mazzu d’accia chi potti truvari, si lu misi ‘n vrazza e vosi essiri accumpagnatu pi la prisintazioni.
“Iu chi putia fari?” Taliarila ‘n facci mi facia veniri manciu nna li manu. “Mammina, (arrè), curaggiu, vidi quantu piaci ancora?” Ristava sulu di mittirisi a ridiri e chissu fici.
Comu n’arricugghiemu ‘n casa, subitu me maritu: “Si pò sapiri chi aviti tantu di ridiri, matri e figghia chi mi pariti dui scimuniti?” A manu a manu chi ci vinia cuntata la storia la facci si ci stracanciava. “Ma talia chi gran pezzu di fissa, ma pirchì nun si metti l’ ucchiali?” Iunti chi fomu a “Nun si sapi mai”, appizzau a fari ddi famusi scunciuri chi ponnu fari sulu l’omini!
A la fini nun ci la fici chiù e scattau a ridiri di cori puru iddu.
A ssu puntu, mi ponnu cuntari qualunchi stranizza, ma ju sugnu sicura d’essiri la sula fimmina a stu munnu chi fu curtiggiata c’un mazzu d’accia!
“But I just told you that she is my mother!”
“Ah, so then it’s true that the best are always taken quickly.” “”Quickly? Look again! She is not a little bird learning out to fly. She is sixty years old.”
“Sixty years old? She doesn’t look it and what do I care about her age. It’s better to have a woman who is older and more beautiful than one who is young and ugly.”
My darling daughter was enjoying herself a lot, of that I am quite sure. “At any rate, you must introduce me to her, one never knows… I want to give her a present, as a sign of my good manner, something she likes. What about a melon?” “Wonderful! My mother goes simply mad for melons.” (That ‘s true!) “He called the vendor: ‘Mariu, what’s the situation with the melons?’” “Bad! I sold the last two a little while ago.”
“’Darn it, what am I going to do now?’ He looked around and said: ‘What do you think about fresh celery?’” “A great idea (the sly scoundrel!). She eats a bunch of them every day so she can always remain as thin as she is.”
“’Great, great,’ he said and choosing the most gorgeous bunch of celery he could find, took it in his arms demanding that I accompany him for the introduction.”
“What was I supposed to do?” As I looked at her my hands began to itch.
“You see, Mommy, (again with Mommy) how attractive you still are.” At this point, all that she had to do was to start laughing, which she did.
When we got home, my husband quickly said: “Can I find out what is so funny? The two of you, mother and daughter, look like you’ve lost your wits.”
As the story was related to him, his face kept changing expression. “The guy must have been an idiot. Why didn’t he put on his glasses?” When we related the part about “one never knows,” he started to coin those famous epithets that only men can say.
In the end, he could not hold it any more and burst out laughing along with us.
At this point, people can tell me all kinds of tales, but I am certain that I am the only woman in the world who was courted with a bunch of celery!
Arba Sicula XXXII
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