THE LONG SHADOW OF VESUVIO
1.
AD 79
What do I remember about those last days? Who can describe the horror? I knew my life was about to end. I knew it was a misfortune decreed by the gods. A fateful day. First, a strange sight, a rising cloud shaped like a tree. Then the afternoon sky darkening, heavy with ash. The sun covered, burning rock raining down on our houses. Our village in flames. Panic. Some fleeing by sea, but we were not so lucky. With nowhere to escape, my children and I fled, ran into the open fields. Abandoned our home. Watched our village go up in flames. Hoped against hope we could outrun it. That river of fire. That shower of stones and cinders. That terror. That darkness. But no. Lava. Ash. Engulfed. Encased. Molten. Immobilized. Immortalized. They say Fortuna favors the brave. But I say no. Not that day.
2.
AD 1961
She almost fell into the crater that day. It was our Neapolitan year, the year we lived in the shadow of Vesuvio, where Zio Peppino parked cars for tourists. It was the year of Lina and Lenu, their names and lives immortalized years later in stories for the world to read. Our Neapolitan story unwritten, our lives still steeped in silence even now, back home in The States. The day she almost fell into the crater is a dim memory perhaps, but a child doesn’t forget those things. Maybe the mother felt the crater’s pull, stepped close to the edge knowing the rock under her feet might give way. Maybe becoming one with the volcano was her secret wish, the only way she could think of to leave the life she hadn’t chosen, the life decreed for her, not by the Fates, but by the men who decided such things. And there she was, perched precariously on the rim of the volcano, her children looking on. At long last, she would be the protagonist of her own life, of her own Neapolitan story. In this new chapter, the husband would rise to this singular occasion, play the unlikely role of hero. He would grab the wife’s arm, snatch her from the jaws of danger, avert her slide into Vesuvio’s waiting mouth. In the next chapter, on surer footing back home in the States, she would declare that traveling abroad with the children had been a waste: they demonstrated such poor recall of events. The year living in the shadow of Vesuvio concluded, the family never travels abroad again, the Neapolitan story is put to rest, and the volcano disappears from view, seemingly forever.
3.
AD 2022
After all these years, I still haven’t mastered leisurely passeggiata speed. Today, as I walk up Via Foria toward the museum, my pace gives me away. No disguising it: a fast-walking americana, woman with a mission, a destination. Up ahead, I spy the stately stucco façade of the MANN, the Museo Archeologico Nazionale di Napoli, a Neapolitan temple of my familiar. Some days I stop in, commune with Isis and her confidantes, these donne d’altri tempi, women of bygone days. Sybils and sirens, priestesses and prostitutes, now immortalized, now immobilized and on display. But today I don’t stop. I duck straight into the Museo metro station, punch my ticket and descend the infinite flights of stairs that end on what seems like a platform designed by Hades, cavernous and underworldly. First the train to Mergellina, then the 140 bus up to Posillipo. At the fifth stop, Spiaggia delle Monache—the Nuns’ Beach—I descend the hidden stairs. Past the sdraie, the lounge chairs with their attached ombrelloni, past the always-animated ristorante and snack bar, down the ramp to the spiaggia libera that exacts no charge in exchange for no amenities. I climb up onto the shoals above the crowded sandy cove, search for the familiar depression in the rock I have claimed as mine and pray that today it will be merciful to my body. With the volcanic sight across the Bay of Naples as my compass, I extract the turquoise striped Turkish towel from my pack, unfurl it and angle it carefully. Turning my back to the volcano, I spy Vesuvio reflected in the windows of the now-abandoned convent, imagine the Sisters in their heyday before they dispersed to other lives with other views, picture them putting on their wimples as they gazed across the bay. Those nuns sure got it right, I think, as I lower myself onto the Turkish towel and prepare to disappear from view—but not before I genuflect, center the crater as my object of contemplation and make my vow: if I ever convert and take up holy orders, it will be to live out my days here, in this place, in the shadow of Vesuvio.
Gina Sconza is a California-born Italian-American with roots in Sicily and Calabria, and family dispersed throughout the Italian South, Brazil, Canada and the U.S. She has a passion for language and culture, expressed through her writing, teaching and travel. Her writing focuses on cultural memory and addresses both the richness and complexities of her linguistic cultural heritages. She lives between the San Francisco Bay area and the Italian South.
OVUNQUE SIAMO 