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Raffaelina is Sad

When I awoke from a deep sleep I recalled my encounter three years ago near the Spring of Nitrodi with an old woman named Raffaelina. She sang a song in a dialect that was rarely heard on Ischia.

I clearly remembered that song. It was about a devilish little girl who brought her father joy, but too often made him clench his teeth in frustration. One day his little girl disappeared. He and the rest of the villagers looked everywhere, but could not find her. He was consumed with grief because she might have fallen into the sea, and swept away. But, three days later, the little girl reappeared. She had merely been hiding.

The song concluded with her father musing, “What do you do with a girl like that?”

Then came a flash of a thought: Perhaps if I went back to the ancient spring Raffaelina would still be there. She might know something about my Vittoria, where she actually came from, who she really was.

I got on the bus. It’s about a 45 minute ride from Forio to Buonopane. On the way, three men in casual civilian dress came onboard. They positioned themselves at the vehicle’s three doors. Then they pulled out their identification cards, and asked passengers to show their validated tickets.

Now, a game many Ischians like to play is to see how many free bus rides they can get. The trick is to check out all the passengers and try to figure out if any of them are SEPTA workers in mufti. If you spot one, you just stick your ticket into the orange box on a post to get it date & time stamped.

One of the SEPTA agents was a tall, deeply tanned muscular guy in a soft white polo shirt, bleached jeans. On his handsome face was a moustache, and Gucci sunglasses. He asked two teenaged girls to show him their tickets. They did. The agent inspected them closely, shook his head, and pointed to the orange box. Get your tickets punched, he said. The girls giggled nervously. He said watch it, I might not be so lenient next time.

But three gangly boys in their new 200 Euro sneakers and smart designer outfits with the Nike swoosh emblazoned all over them didn’t do as well. They searched their pockets, came up empty. The SEPTA agent told them the fine was 40 Euros. Each. The boys—with stricken looks on their faces—got out their wallets and extracted 50 Euro notes. The SEPTA agent took the money, gave them change, and wrote them all receipts.

The rest of us—law-abiding validated ticket holders—watched the boys’ public humiliation, then turned to the windows. The sun shines, and God smiles down upon us. Ah, righteousness!

I descended the steep steps down to the Nitrodi spring. And there Raffaelina was, as before, sitting on a stone ledge. She recognized me.
“Signora,” I said, “do you remember the song you sang me about the little girl who ran away from her father?
“Si!” Raffaelina replied.
“As it happens, I know a girl who ran away, as your song described. Now the poor girl has just learned that she was adopted. Her name is Vittoria. Do you know anything about her?”

Raffaelina turned away. “I am sorry,” she whispered. “I can not help you.”

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I love that photo. The lines of life on the woman's face. The scarf covering what I imagine to be wonderfully long thick white hair. Her eyes. Looking off into the distance. Remembering a time not part of today.

Thanks! It's the last image of the book...

I love reading hwat you write here along with your pictures ... it all seems so magical, like things I dream of.

Many thanks for your appreciative comments...

you've used that photo before.

No, I used two others that were taken at the same time. One of her singing, one of her smiling directly into the camera, and then this one, the third of the series, of her looking away.

Which reinforces the theme of the following entry which says:

She sings.
She smiles.
And then she turns away.

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