The Sleeping Nymph, page 44
He wrapped her in her blanket, never tired of feeling her weight over his heart.
He handed her to the woman standing in front of him now and watched her take the baby in her arms with an instinctive and immediate love that would never cease to amaze him. It seemed to be a feeling that transcended memory and required no experience.
After all the months he’d spent with her, he’d thought he’d found out all there was to know about her, but when the woman looked up at him, he was surprised once again by what he saw in her expression.
There was a phrase he’d been thinking about a lot recently, though he couldn’t remember where he’d heard it: where there is a helpless creature to be nurtured, there you will find a mother.
He had proof of it now, standing right in front of him.
The past didn’t matter. Age didn’t matter. The life she had chosen, the life she had not chosen, none of that mattered. Teresa Battaglia was—and would always be—a Mother.
[. . .] For I am the first and the last
I am the honored one and the scorned one,
I am the whore and the holy one,
I am the bride and the virgin,
I am the mother and the daughter,
I am the members of my mother,
I am the barren one, yet many are my sons,
I am a wife and I have not taken a husband,
I am She who births and who has never borne,
I am the solace of labor pains,
I am the bride and the bridegroom,
And it is my man who nourished my fertility,
I am the Mother of my father,
I am the sister of my husband,
And he is the son I have rejected. [. . .]
[. . .] Honor me always,
For I am she who brings Scandal, and she who Sanctifies [. . .]
—“The Thunder, Perfect Mind,” a hymn to Isis,
The Nag Hammadi Library, VI.2; Egypt; third century BC.
Author’s Note
The Sleeping Nymph, with its interconnected stories and its backdrop of history, has been with me for many years, ever since the day I stumbled upon an article about Val Resia. Although the valley isn’t far from where I live, I didn’t know much about the origins of its people. I’d heard that people there spoke a kind of Russian dialect and that all Resians looked a bit alike. On the former point, I mistakenly believed that the Cossack invasion during the Second World War must have left behind some kind of cultural legacy. And as for the supposed recurrence of certain specific physical traits, resulting perhaps from the valley’s geographical isolation—which had molded its people, its culture and its landscape—it may perhaps have once been true. But that ancient inheritance had certainly been diluted with the influx of new genetic material brought about by the valley’s opening up to the world. The same can’t be said of the origins inscribed in the Resian people’s DNA, however, which tell us of a history that spans across centuries, of journeys from and to faraway lands.
If I have been able to tell at least part of the story of the Resian people, I owe it to the patience and kindness of Gilberto Barbarino, custodian of the valley’s historical memory, who let me into his home, passing on his knowledge and sharing his childhood memories with such enthusiasm. I “stole” one such memory and turned it into one of the paintings in the novel: as a boy, Gilberto was present when a partisan’s rifle fired a bullet that hit the bridle of a horse that had been taking a German soldier to the bakery in San Giorgio. Luckily, the Germans’ response wasn’t as bloody: only volleys of machine-gun fire into the village, and fear.
It wasn’t my intention to wade into the historical and political debate raging among Resians on the question of their origins. I listened to one version, the majority’s version, and I found it to be uncommonly persuasive. To all Resians, I would simply say to take care of their identity—whatever they think it might be—because the cultural legacy and natural landscape they are called upon to preserve is extraordinary, and widely admired. But all this, they already know.
I filled real places with fictional events, but the opposite is also true: in addition to the story of the origins of the Resian population, there are many other truths nestling between the lines of The Sleeping Nymph.
We have a Black Madonna in Friuli. She is kept in the Sanctuary of the Blessed Virgin in Castelmonte. Of course, she is very different from the Virgen Nigra described in the novel, and as far as I know, she isn’t hiding any secrets. Or perhaps they simply have yet to be revealed.
Blanca and Smoky are real, and they are called Cristina and Ice. I am deeply grateful to them for introducing me to the fascinating world of HRD. All that is written in The Sleeping Nymph about their work is true (so much so that Cristina was a little worried about giving away professional secrets), and in the explanatory passages of the novel I have tried as much as possible to preserve the exact wording used by my source. Any deviations are down to narrative imperatives or my own lapses. And when I say it is all true, I mean all of it: even Mr. Skinny and his adventures in the pot (a pressure cooker acquired specifically for that purpose, using supermarket vouchers).
The figure of Christian Neri owes much to Cristian Copetti, a friend in Udine’s gendarmerie, working in the unit devoted to the preservation of cultural artifacts. He was the one who first told me, and with such great pride, of the database of stolen artifacts, which contains the “identity cards” of millions of works of art thus made accessible to law enforcement officials throughout the world.
When I begin to write about a story that I care deeply about, I often find myself meeting people whose own experiences—so generously shared—enrich and elevate my work: that is what happened with Gilberto, Cristina and Cristian.
But there are also people who contribute to the writing of a novel unknowingly, and yet their contribution, too, is fundamental. The Sleeping Nymph owes a great debt to writers such as Daniele Zovi (whose book on consciousness in the plant kingdom, Alberi sapienti, antiche foreste, has been illuminating), Marija Gimbutas (author of The Living Goddesses and many more, whose theories on ancient Europe and on the Great Mother are the central inspirations for this novel), Morena Luciani (author of Shaman Women), Leda Bearnè (The Ancient Virgins), Massimo Recalcati (to whom we owe Massimo Marini’s beautiful thought: “A mother is formed every time a helpless creature is taken in and nurtured”) . . . and of course Plutarch, that extraordinary philosopher, writer, priest and biographer, whose testimony still has the power to extend our knowledge—and my imagination—far back across the millennia of human history, his descriptions so vivid as to create burning, glimmering scenes in our minds.
So he writes in his Isis and Osiris:
They say that the Sun, when he became aware of Rhea’s intercourse with Cronus, invoked a curse upon her that she should not give birth to a child in any month or year; but Hermes, being enamored of the goddess, consorted with her. Later, playing at draughts with the moon, he won from her the seventieth part of each of her periods of illumination, and from all the winnings he composed five days, and intercalated them as an addition to the three hundred and sixty days.
In these days of light won in the name of love, Osiris was born, and Isis was born, and “Isis and Osiris were enamored of each other and consorted together in the darkness of the womb before their birth.”
Acknowledgments
Iwill never tire of saying that writing a story is a private and solitary act, but to have it published requires the work and the efforts—and often the patience—of many people. To all those people goes my deepest gratitude: thank you for having loved The Sleeping Nymph.
Stefano and Cristina Mauri, who have been so much more than just publishers, and who have put their heart into this.
Giuseppe Strazzeri, a strong and gentle guide who has always known how to comfort me when tiredness seemed about to get the better of me.
Fabrizio Cocco for his friendship and the extraordinary professional skills he has devoted to my stories, for having believed so strongly in getting Teresa Battaglia to her readers, for continuing to believe in her—and in me. And most of all—and I quote—for the “customary verbal sobriety” with which he knows to encourage me when I need it most.
Viviana Vuscovich, who has sent Teresa far and wide into the world. For her kindness and her sensitivity, and her contagious enthusiasm. A friend.
Elena Pavanetto, for her support and the beautiful words she has written about Flowers over the Inferno and The Sleeping Nymph.
Raffaello Roncato, Tommaso Gobbi and Diana Volonté: the exceptional press team who has helped me to overcome barriers that existed only in my own mind.
Antonio Moro: thank you for the scrupulous care you have taken over my stories.
The amazing Graziella Cerutti, Giuseppe Somenzi and all the other agents at Pro Libro, who believed in Flowers over the Inferno from the very beginning and who have now shown the same enthusiasm—and fondness—for The Sleeping Nymph.
Thank you to all the international publishers and editors who have embraced my words and my dreams around the world, and to the translators who have lent me their voices.
A heartfelt thanks to Gilberto Barbarino: it’s been a long wait, but “our” Nymph has finally seen the light!
To Cristina and Ice, for their kindness, for their openness, for all the laughter—and for their emotion now in seeing the novel published. I hope I have managed to render at least in some measure the special bond that unites you.
Thank you, Cristian Copetti, for allowing me to add an important element to the story, and to Tiziano Quaglia for his invaluable help in matters concerning the Resian language.
To Michele Scoppetta, who has always been there, ready to banish any doubts, and to all of my friends who never tire of supporting me.
A loving thanks to my family, for the emotional—and logistical!—support.
Thank you, Jasmine and Paolo, for your love and your patience, and for accompanying me on this crazy adventure.
And finally, thank you, with all my heart, to the booksellers, the bloggers and the readers who have made all of this possible.
Ilaria Tuti, The Sleeping Nymph
