Laureen
Laureen
was feeling satisfied, as if in Heaven. She was in bed with the man of her
dreams: passionate and gentle, manly and romantic. She would like to murmur his
name, sin that escaped. Not to talk
about the location then… Through half-closed eyelids she had glimpses of the
comfortable luxury that surrounded her. She was sure it was winter outside and she
was feeling so good. Suddenly an
unpleasant noise, at first far away, in the fog of sleep, then closer and
closer. Nagging, frustrating, irritating. An alarm clock. Her alarm clock. She
had tried to select some sweet melody, but Enya
had accompanied her into a deeper sleep. Finally she had given up and chose the
insistent sound of a rooster, the most useful. Usually she was difficult to
wake, but the rooster cry tore into her sleep. It achieved its goal of waking
her up. With awakening came also the ongoing everyday reality. Her lover was
gone, vanished, trapped in the dream and its bedroom. The location well, nothing had to do with opulence but it
was nice, intimate, a mansard which had once seen her play carefree. It was
part of the large villa overlooking the Naviglio
canal, something precious, in memories of a rich and loved girl with her
special large space to play, to invite girlfriends for endless afternoons of
drinking tea with dolls. But outside that door there was the “true”
house, where finally, after two stairways, down in the living room they drank
hot chocolate. She never would have thought that her magical place would become
the only roof for her survival. A few months after the tragedy, Laureen and her
mother were forced to close the living rooms with their venetian ceilings and
ancient floors. Sheets mercilessly aseptic had covered the only precious
furniture unsold, as they had doggedly clung to the illusion of being able to
recover their happy past or, at least, act as an anchor of hope.
Her
mother finally fell into the abyss of depression and anorexia. Laureen had
thought she would react in another way. One day, if she had children, she wouldn’t
leave them to their fate, she would fight with them until the end. She felt
guilty about these thoughts. A human being is a person with individual
character and becoming a mother does not automatically change this.
She
returned to the present.
Some
draft coming through the old windows contributed to lowering the temperature
of that dank winter, but now this was her home and she could not
complain. Inside the room there was a lovely bathroom. Along the narrow
corridor were three doors: one led into the small but cheerfully kitchenette,
another into a closet and the third into the living room with exposed beams,
surrounded on three sides by wide windows, which offered a view of the large
park that was cared for by the old Armido, as best he could. He and his wife
Clelia were in the service of her family from immemorial time, before her birth.
They had remained close, as faithful watchdogs, paid by accommodation on the
ground floor, the produce of the little vegetable garden and a small pension.
Clelia had been her nanny before, then the housekeeper and, by virtue of her
past in noble Venetian families, had taught her how move into the high society,
because in life one never knows. Nowadays,
with a few more wrinkles, but a body still slender and with a quick wit that
shone in her dark eyes, she was a rock for her, a shelter, almost a mother.
Third
ringing alarm.
Fully aware she realized it was Sunday and she did not have to go to the
factory, so she decided to pamper herself a bit, before going on working about
her plan.
The wonderful dream lover had left only a thin nostalgia and indeed in that
important moment in her life, she had no time for love. Better to say sometime
there are things which are not going in a right way such as with Davide. She
had been bound with him for two years, arousing envy and jealousy of the high
and middle-class coastal women who had now marked her as a poor girl, forced to
get her hands dirty for living. She was the daughter of irresponsible and
deranged man, from which she must have inherited a bit of madness to reject Davide’s
proposal of marriage.
The cut had occurred two months earlier. They were a couple after they
met in a nightclub in Venezia where she was celebrating Simona’s birthday, the
only true friend she had. To be honest, their relationship as it evolved had
become a nonsense. He was attractive, wealthy and seemed to love her. She had
never had any problem attracting boys when she was very young, nor men later. But,
to be honest, she hadn’t yet find the right
one. Maybe she missed opportunities. So she joked to herself. “Yes, I’m just
like Cinderella now, I’m only house and factory”
She also thought if it’s destiny she’d find her man anyway, but she also knew that fate should be helped. It is not as if one fine morning you wake up and find the Blue Prince had parachuted directly into your bedroom. She smiled at that idea, imagining Davide coming down from the ceiling dressed in that way. He was not really that kind of man!
However even this was not her priority. After the death of her father first and her mother then, she had other to think about. Something took up most of her time: her handmade furniture factory. Built from nothing by her father more than eighteen years before it had slowly grown until it became a business employing fifty people, passionate and experienced in their work. The furniture was so unique that pieces were sent to all parts of the world to furnish wealthy homes. A classic made in Italy, millions of light years distant from the Ikea stuff.
She also thought if it’s destiny she’d find her man anyway, but she also knew that fate should be helped. It is not as if one fine morning you wake up and find the Blue Prince had parachuted directly into your bedroom. She smiled at that idea, imagining Davide coming down from the ceiling dressed in that way. He was not really that kind of man!
However even this was not her priority. After the death of her father first and her mother then, she had other to think about. Something took up most of her time: her handmade furniture factory. Built from nothing by her father more than eighteen years before it had slowly grown until it became a business employing fifty people, passionate and experienced in their work. The furniture was so unique that pieces were sent to all parts of the world to furnish wealthy homes. A classic made in Italy, millions of light years distant from the Ikea stuff.
She had no close relatives and since the past five years it was all on
her shoulders. She had to leave her studies at the Faculty of Philosophy and
she found herself faced with the decision whether to sell the building and the
land around at a bargain price. The area had been targeted by anonymous people
with large capital to develop a big shopping centre.
Laureen had strongly resisted in her father’s memory and for the good of her workers. So, at seven o’clock, six days a week, she went to her factory to keep the accounts, take care of shipments and to help rub beeswax into the finished products. She kept up hopes of the men and women in the factory who had worked with her parents. In their eyes she saw a question. Without her, there would be no work for them, nor many other job opportunities. So she gritted her teeth and somehow had pulled ahead.
Laureen had strongly resisted in her father’s memory and for the good of her workers. So, at seven o’clock, six days a week, she went to her factory to keep the accounts, take care of shipments and to help rub beeswax into the finished products. She kept up hopes of the men and women in the factory who had worked with her parents. In their eyes she saw a question. Without her, there would be no work for them, nor many other job opportunities. So she gritted her teeth and somehow had pulled ahead.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The location
North-east of Italy
The Naviglio is navigable by river boats, whose best example is the famous Burchiello, which once used to carry Venetian noblemen from Venice to the countryside and Padua and is now a tourist attraction.
From 16th
to 18th century many Venetian aristocratic families built their beautiful
villas here (like Villa Pisani in Stra, Villa Ferretti-Angeli in Dolo, Villa
Widmann-Foscari in Mira, and Villa Foscari a.k.a. La Malcontenta in Malcontenta):
they are indeed known as Ville venete, Venetian villas. Noblemen
used to re-invest their trade profit in big agricultural complexes. They were
not just countryside manors, but real and self-sustainable production centres:
they add fields all around, stables, barns, and the villages of the peasants. The
villa was the name of this kind of complex, but it today refers to the manors
only. Some of them have also beautiful gardens, with small woods, fountains,
mazes and small lakes. The villa veneta is typical of all the region of Veneto, but the Riviera
del Brenta is place to some of the most beautiful and famous.
Fiil free to contact me whatever you need: infos about the novel, questions, curiosity, travelling and moreover. Beg your pardon for mistakes, someone is doing the dirty work to edit it :)
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