Calypso of the Appenine Way

I have just finished writing a novel with the above title. I think it's not bad and, intermittently, I'm going to post a few sections on this Blog. The first is below.



Prologue

The first time I met Eleonora, I was walking along Via Mazzini with Howard Verity. Howard had a way of suddenly darting into a moving wave of people, extracting a person from the crowd - invariably a woman - and kissing her on both cheeks in the Italian way. Usually, the people singled out in this manner were middle aged, often friends and acquaintances of his wife. On this occasion, however, the recipient of his attentions was a young, and very beautiful, red-haired girl.





I took the girl’s hand, and in her eyes I saw that look a man recognises so well in a woman’s glance. It was obvious that she expected me to kiss her in the same manner - but I didn’t do so. A multitude of conflicting thoughts pushed through my mind in the space of a few seconds, and I decided, even in those moments, that this was something to be developed in the future. Even the natural warmth of her hand held special electricity for me - as if very strong positive and negative energies had suddenly been forced together.





How to describe Eleonora? How should I describe this girl who, in the course of just a few years, was to bring me so much that was very wonderful, and yet misery as well? What are words? How should we use them? What is their power?





If I could think that, theoretically at least, a pen could have the power to capture reality, and hold it in some beautiful guise for all time, then a half-page description of this girl would be a worthy lifetime’s work. But words are sometimes treacherous, subtly shifting their meanings, and undermining perfection at the most unexpected moments, imparting only sad shadows of those significant events which have transfused and enriched our lives, like melancholic photographs, recording all the humdrum narrative of every-day without any further significance or meaning.



Eleonora was beautiful by any standards - but I have known many beautiful women, and none of them were like her. Her power lay more in a combination of simplicity, intelligence, and beauty: and your knowledge that finally the emotional truth would always prove most powerful in her relationships with the world.





Like most desirable people, she possessed an innate sense of her own uniqueness and beauty, and through this quality, created desire in others. When I first met her, she would have been about twenty-five, and in the prime of all her gorgeousness: though, in any case, I do not think that a beauty such as hers - rare and simple - would be susceptible to the aging process.





She was very proud of her hair. On that first occasion we met, it fell, tumbling thick and beautiful, all fiery red - even approaching orange in color - over her perfect shoulders and breasts. the cut of her face in its strong, almost masculine, symmetry was reminiscent of bold profiles taken straight from Italy’s Roman past. Below her high, strong cheekbones, was a geometrically structured aquiline nose, and a strong, voluptuous mouth, which was shaped like a bow with a final and triumphant upward turn at each extremity of her lips. Her chin was perfectly proportioned, and suggestive of great strength of character and independence of mind. the searing green eyes were set in that great, fine head like emeralds in a golden vault, and her spiritual and emotional life was clearly to be discerned in their constantly changing aspects. The beautifully classic and symmetrical face was lightened and made more sympathetic by a gently endearing shower of soft, red freckles.





The lines and proportions of her body were, in a word, perfect. Her dress sense enhanced her obviously very clear sense of personal identity. On that particular day, I remember, she was wearing a bright yellow cardigan, which provided a bold and gorgeous contrast to the thick red hair falling all over it.



Generally speaking, it would be accurate to say that Eleonora dressed in a diversity of classic styles, though often with great ebullience of form and colour. She occasionally surprised me, and I still vividly remember the sight of her striding down the road; lovely strong legs eating the distance, in the shortest of short, tight black miniskirts. Her long, thick - at that time, almost waist-length - flaming-red hair, falling and blowing around her perfect breasts and thin, thin waist. Never have I known a girl whose outward form more accurately indicated her inner spirit; and maybe in this simple and truthful combination of beautiful things lay the secret of her continual fascination.