santa caterina
I was 21 when I returned to the villa, it was late
afternoon and the gardeners had finished watering. the
smell of hot geraniums enveloped me in childhood...the
marble stairs waited, white,
cool, smooth below the whisper of my feet.
in the salone the golden cherubs still shone..nothing had
changed, the room shimmered around me like shifting
reflections, finally settling into familiarity, and as
the days assumed a drifting pattern, I was taken by the
current,
and each perfect day was a pearl added to my necklace ...in
the dusk there would be drinks on the terrace,or if it was
windy, inside, where we would sit on the old guilded chairs
covered in faded crimson,and the richness of persian rugs,
the huge bowls of flowers on the ancient polished tables
cast a shawl of content, blocking the past years that
lurked below
the surface of our delight...conversation depended on the
houseguests...artists,writers,actors,churchmen,counts/contessas
racing drivers..meals at the villa were long lazy affairs,
we dined outside, on a terrace, under a rich tangle of
vines, there would be candles which glinted on silver and
glass. jugs of wine from the estate stood on the white
cloth... later some of us would wander down to the casino.
set on spectacular rocks, almost floating on the sea, which
seemed to glow from below. the glamour was breathtaking,
long dresses, jewels, white suits, chandelieirs...and the
click and clack from the gaming tables.
after this we would seek the cool of the beach,
mysteriously shadowed and eeirily alien, we swam, naked,in
that magic time just before dawn, the lapping sea echoing
the duck egg blue of the sky, shone,
irredescent on our skin.
Pim Claridge