Aunt Jole's attic

By Rita Salvadori

“Aunt Jole’s attic is a magical, light, delicate, and profound tale. An emotional journey dedicated to art and beauty. This is a color novel in which each color represents a narrating voice and each narrating voice reflects a particular state of consciousness.
Aunt Jole, Joseph, Jeremy, and Annie, seem very distant from each other at first glance, as if they belonged to completely different sensory worlds; when in fact, their lives are masterfully intertwined in a single painting: the colorful image of love.
The novel, which ends with a surprising twist, is a puzzle of feelings and emotions outside of space and time, yet enclosed in a frame of passion and love.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rita Salvadori
• Release date: Sep 24, 2018
• ISBN: 9788829514908

Book preview

AUNT JOLE’S ATTIC

A COLOR NOVEL

Rita Salvadori

© 2018 Rita Salvadori

Dedicated to those who paint

their own pictures

in the colors of brotherhood

To Jole and Wanda,

who have filled my world

with music and beauty

THE FRAME OF MANY COLORS

The characters in this story, from seemingly distant places, have been looking for each other for a long time. By following their colors, you will become a part of their painting’s magical frame...

Aunt Jole, the red voice

Joseph, the green voice

Jeremy, a voice in two colors

Annie, the black voice

This novel is made unique by its use of colors, which actually characterize the different narrative voices and are indispensable as the reader follows the plot of the story.

The colors are waiting for you...

AN INFINITE FRAME

I stand at the window of time in a delicate and transparent place. From here, I can see all the colors of the world and I can flit back and forth, moving the clock hands through the years and memories at my leisure.

The story that is knocking at your door, asking to come in, resembles the waves of the sea. Merging, overlapping each other as they reach the water's edge.

More and more voices join the chorus in this delicate harmony that simply refuses to stop being sung, and that, like a choir, loves them as a whole.

The harmony of the whole cannot be achieved unless each individual part has previously experienced the error of discord, leaving the enchanted and rarefied flow of the piece’s perfected performance. I, Jole, a voice outside of the chorus of false life, but essential to the restoration of the old balance created by love, once upon a time, painted magical pictures of light and shadow.

Annie and Jeremy, two souls so dear to me, lost in the stormy sea of ​​hatred and bitterness, have been searching for each other through the colors of my frames...

A MASSIVE WOODEN FRAME

Please listen to me, whoever you are. I need to talk to you, for the weight on my heart is so heavy I cannot breathe. They say you are the Father of us all, so today, please, listen to one of your many children. I know I have lost my way; my notes no long carry harmony, the water in my river no longer flows. My gaze holds only opaque hues enclosed in a frame of increasingly narrow and suffocating solid wood.

I drive a very expensive car, I wear designer clothes, I'm a successful man, and I frequent London's most fashionable circles. Yet, I need you to explain why I feel such failure; perhaps it is because I haven’t used my heart since I left them to run away.

I don’t think I can ever forgive them for what they did to me. Almost thirty years have passed since I cut all ties with Annie, Aunt Jole, and that damned attic. Thirty years of black rancor, of bitter physical detachment from those I once considered a part of myself. I was convinced that when I left Ashmore Village and my childhood memories behind, I would be able to erase everything. Unfortunately, the memories stick to my life like a powerful glue, like honey on my fingers. Memories, an image superimposed on my face, reflected upon the shattered surface of a mirror. Sharp pieces of me that cause nothing but pain.

Jeremy, that is what others call me, but I don’t really know who I am anymore. I am out driving, on this cold night, without a precise destination. I am confused and resentful. Annie, my beloved little sister, should never have offended me so. And it was essentially Aunt Jole, a mother to me, who ripped this great tear between us.

You, Father, how do you explain all of this? Do you not answer because you are merciful, or because you do not exist? Perhaps it is because you do not exist, since you don’t give me any signs.

If I accelerate, I have the feeling of being even more powerful than you are, and faster than all my acidic thoughts. I'm running away on the wings of speed; overtaking all the cars that go in my direction without a thought for the crazy images that speed past me. It’s like a video game. All the whiskey I drank before starting this journey clouds my sight, but it gives me the pleasant sensation of being immersed in a sort of mental fog that prevents me from clearly seeing how things really are.

How are things really?

I don’t know anymore. Before today, I firmly believed I was in the absolute right, blaming Annie and Aunt Jole for my suffering. Now, though, I begin to feel the effects of the anger I have nourished, and that has nourished me, through all these long years. Hatred is a food that has poisoned my soul day after day, corroding even the unread pages of my book.

I wonder if I will ever purify myself of this feeling. Can I ever paint my picture again with radiant and clean colors? Yes, but only if I use understanding and tenderness towards them.

But here it comes! The inexorable and overwhelming wave of anger. I cannot do it, I cannot resist it. I'm overwhelmed. I'm totally at its mercy.

The night is getting darker and colder on this highway; I am tired of driving, the fog of alcohol lays a white sheet across my vision; I accelerate to avoid stillness, to feel omnipotent, just like you, the almighty puppeteer!

Now my gaze fills with strange images...

Annie and me, sitting in front of Aunt Jole's enchanting cottage... The calm waters of the pond, beyond that white wooden gate...

The dusty country lane beyond the hedge trimmed with care by Aunt Jole...

Dear Annie, my little sister...

Thirty years away from our candid dreams.

How could you both exclude me like this? Why did you turn your backs on me? Since I left Ashmore Village, you never once tried to track me down, even though you knew my London address. I thought you would get in touch with me, at least to apologize and clarify a few things, but instead...

It's cold here, Annie. Where are you and where is my heart?

I am tired. Maybe I should pause at that rest stop to sleep for a while. I fight with my eyes because I sometimes catch them closing. I fight against myself for a lifetime. I'm tired. I look at my face in the rearview mirror and the image that comes to me is that of a handsome man in his fifties, at least so say my acquaintances.

I lean closer to the mirror, but all I see is a tired look, frowning and full of regret.

I could close my eyes forever...

A long sleep, that's what I need now.

The car no longer follows my commands, it seems possessed! A long sleep, Father, at least until I understand your strange plans.

And so sleep it is, I want to trust you this time.

The time to close the circle has not yet come, Jeremy...

THE FRAME OF JEREMY'S JOURNEY

I watch them. They rush to my car with their hearts in their mouths, terrified to see me lying on the ground after being thrown out of the car, senseless. My last thought: how strange my destiny is, exactly like that of my parents many years before.

I don’t understand why the strangers care so much about me. The sirens are so noisy, they disturb my peace. I see myself from above as if I were sitting in a cinema, watching my own film, absolutely detached from my body, emotions, and thoughts. Around me, only silence and light... I'm not afraid and I feel weightless.

The waters of my lake are calm and I can finally rest and remember.

Turn off that annoying siren, please. Goodbye world, goodbye misunderstandings, goodbye confusion of languages.

A PURE AND ANCIENT FRAME

The frame becomes ever more pure, subtle, and refined. The blinding tones of the other life are fading imperceptibly, creating the feeling of being in a postcard that has arrived directly from the past; a past that I always imagined in black and white.

On this