A powerful sound wakes me up: it is the horn of a truck.
"It must be late!" I think; I have no watch and I do not know what time it is.
Grandma's and Uncle Ferdinando's beds are empty and made; I call, but no one answers me.
I get up, and in panties, undershirt and barefoot I go down the wooden staircase and go to the kitchen; there is no one but the door is open.
Outside, I hear the roar of the engine of a truck in maneuver: I already know this loud and powerful noise.
It is right in front of the house that the truck is maneuvering, with the driver in turn supported in the maneuver by a powerful voice that gives him indications on how to place the vehicle: I see it through the silk curtains of the American parachute.
Meanwhile, I keep calling to find out if anyone is home but, once again, no one answers me; maybe it must be the noise made by the truck that prevents me from being heard, and therefore I scream louder.
Finally, Aunt Lina replies: she was upstairs, redoing the rooms on the upper floor.
Sooner or later, I'll go up there: I've never gone up there, I've never seen that part of the house, and this intrigues me.
Relieved not to be alone, I run to the bathroom to wash my face; it is on the left, next to the door, and it is a small toilet: only the cup and the sink with a tap; there is only cold water, and there is no boiler for hot water.
There is a small peephole for ventilation, and once inside, and with the door closed, it is dark; you have to turn on the light from a pear switch hanging from a brown wire, one of those twisted, and you have to do it before entering, otherwise you will remain in the dark.
Fast and still wet, I run up to get dressed: I want to see the truck moving.
Luckily, I am in time: the truck is finishing to position itself in the direction of the mill of Ciccotta (nickname of the owner), right next to it, which is a mill artisanal, and that when it is in operation, I heard it as soon as I am arrived, it emits a slow, constant and intermittent noise, that of the grinder: clap-clap... clap-clap...
The truck is like my father's, but red and without a trailer.
When the engine was switched off, the driver, holding on to the handle of the steering column, gets out backwards and slowly closes the door; with a handkerchief he dries the sweat, lifting the flat cap with the left hand, on the forehead and then on the neck.
A typical gesture that I have seen my father do too; it must be a gesture common to all truck drivers after a maneuver which, even in favorable conditions but with the truck loaded, is always tiring.
With those maneuvers, the sweat drops were bigger, he told me my father.
There are four porters nearby, all strong, and one in particular has prescription glasses with very thick lenses.
Lowered the banks, these, two above and two below, began to unload the heavy sacks of grain, bringing them inside.
The two underneath has worn, on their heads, an empty sacks folded like a hood, which falls on the back: this serves to get as little dust as possible, and helps to prevent the heavy sacks being transported from slipping.
************
The operation takes place as follows: the porter above, places the full sacks on the edge of the platform, making it tilt outwards as far as he can, while the one below, from behind, grabs it on the upper corners bringing his raised arms back and, loading it on his shoulders, lifts it and takes it away, to unload it in the mill storage.
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Foxes Hill
सामान्य साहित्यIn this novel, I try to lead the reader into an engaging account of a life lived, with an abundance and precision of episodes and experiences etched in my memory. Mine is a journey into a bucolic landscape and environment, which have marked me throu...
