The story of the village
The village I mention in some of my stories is a shimmery shabby place. One where chandeliers hang from large trees and peach trees grow all year round; where velvet reigns in every drawing room and dining room, and the walls in every house, shop and garden are carved with intricate moulding that summons the past.
The dreary weather and the silver branches; the cobble stone pavements and the grey and deep blue hues tingeing the village instil melancholia and nostalgia in all of those who inhabit it. Every one of the villagers has a story, read in their eyes and imbued in their composure.
The villagers here walk in the middle of the street, while cars are nonexistent. It is a place where women wear haute couture to buy bread and milk, and the men wear suits and cashmere to catch fish or sell meat. There’s a librarian who has lived a thousand and one lives and a flower hoarder who has shut herself in her house, after having given up on the village. Men and women meet on the benches of the piazza, lounging in pleated shirts and dark lipped pouts, recounting gossip stories about the latter and about everyone else.
Gypsies have crossed through the village and gave hope to the villagers as the ones who could take unwanted memories away from them but memories here still inhabit drawing rooms and gardens, while ghosts pace the same cobble stone streets the villagers walk through, disturbed only by a nod of good morning and good evening by the latter who pass them by.
Story credit: Givenchy Haute couture 11/12 (for all the images).