Tales on the way home - Contos de tzilleri

By Mario Bua Capitta

Memories are signs of the time that has been, shortcuts to ever living feelings and emotions. The sound of an old soul’s memory tale, transports you on a magical carpet to often unknown spaces in time. You can feel, touch and taste the colours and flavours in it and as your senses get so deeply involved, that memory, feeling and experience becomes yours. So, let the sound of his words take you through this kaleidoscopic maize of remote memories soaked in phantasmagorical daydream, And enjoy gliding on its stream, wherever it may take you.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Editrice Taphros
• Release date: Dec 28, 2020
• ISBN: 9788874322114

Book preview

L’apo ‘ idu tucchende e saludadu pro esse’istadu isse...

(I saw him leaving and greeted him, as if it were him...)

The vision of a man becomes a story thanks to the contribution and encouragement of two women. My wife Naima, who has continued to support me, even after having understood about her journey back to God in January 26,

and my daughter Elena, who broke all taboos and freed herself, in meeting the intimate soul journey of a man, her father.

Mario Bua Capitta

Born in Oschiri in 1959, resides and lives in Olbia since 33 years, where he works as an airport officer at the Costa Smeralda. For more than thirty years he has directed the Amistade association, which in Olbia deals with the organizing of cultural events, aimed at enhancing the Sardinian language and culture. With this novel, inspired by real travel stories, the author intends to contribute directly to the normalization of the use of Sardinian language in all its variants and different life contexts, as a small contribution to the liberation of a people, Sardinians.

Nàschidu in Oschiri in su 1959, istat in Olbia dae trintatres annos, inue trabàgliat comente funtzionàriu arioportuale, in s’arioportu connotu comente Costa Smeralda. Sòtziu fundadore de Amistade, cun custu contadu comintzat unu viàggiu de s’identidade, suggeridu dae esperièntzia de vida, bisende de podere ajuare su recùperu de un’impitu normale de sa limba sarda, no solu intro ‘e domo, ma puru in su trabàgliu, in s’iscola, sa creja e totu sas fainas de sa vida nostra, pensende gasi de pòdere resessire a donare un’ajudu minore a sa liberatzione de unu pòpulu, su nostru.

Mario Bua Capitta

Tales on the way home

Contos de Tzilleri

ISBN 9788874322114

© Copyright 2020

Editrice Taphros

Typography Sotgiu Srls

07026 Olbia (SS)

Headquarters: Via Corea 48 · Tel. [phone]

Editorial office: via Antonelli 15 · Tel. [phone]

[e-mail]

www.taphros.com

The stories are the result of the author’s imagination and any reference to real people or facts is purely accidental.

Editing in Sardinian language by Vanna Sanciu

Editing in English by Francesca Cossu

All rights reserved to the author and publisher. Reproduction, even partial and with, is prohibited any means, of texts and drawings, except through the written permission of the author and / or the publisher.

Mario Bua Capitta

Tales on the way home

Contos de Tzilleri

The tale Titone

is written by Antonio Meloni

Memories are signs

By Francesca Khushi Cossu

Memories are signs of the time that has been, shortcuts to ever living feelings and emotions.

The sound of an old soul’s memory tale, transports you on a magical carpet to often unknown spaces in time.

You can feel, touch and taste the colours and flavours in it and as your senses get so deeply involved, that memory, feeling and experience becomes yours.

So, let the sound of his words take you through this kaleidoscopic maize of remote memories soaked in phantasmagorical daydream.

And enjoy gliding on its stream, wherever it may take you.

A work of fiction is like a hollow tree

By Mino Mereu

A work of fiction is like a hollow tree into which as children we descend.

I have known Mario for a long time now and I know and appreciate his art. Once poetic and now fiction. Some aspects struck me at a first reading, like the linguistic aspect, often typical of sardinians. The book was born in sardinian language, translated into Italian and English since its conception. Technically we can speak of mixed narrative. Traditional but also modern rhythms.

Synthesis of time plans reminds of short Stories. The intertwining of past and present, with characters who are independent of time and live together, recalls something of a dream, where these encounters are possible and usual. Then there is the theme of travel, the physical and psychological path, experience and learning. Nervous style in a good way. Quick, not very flowery. Like some modern English fiction. Anglo-Saxon and Sardinian mix seems somehow too tight. I don’t know... but in music for example it happens and it works. Mario has also suffered, but not passively of a cultural influence. Please pay attention: like many of our generation, we looked out of our Sardinia not because we refused it. We were looking for more. Culture never goes into subtraction. It goes into addition. You don’t stop being Sardinian, just because we became Italian and we don’t stop to be Italian and became English or European. We are Sardinian Italian English European. A sum of all this, in our new itinerant culture.

Hallucinated tales on the way back home

By Mario Bua Capitta

The following story has some autobiographical inspiration on which the author has drawn. Born in Sardinian language, it is ideally addressed to the friends of the tzilleri, the Sardinian pub.

The crow of Pedra Majore (meaning the most massive stone or highest mountain of the territory) is the narrator, the creature that, from above, watches the scene, prisoner of nostalgia for his land. Those who are far away from home can fully understand the value of land and roots, and share a desire impossible to satisfy, which is returning. This frustration wants to become the guiding thread of the stories, inspired by real travel.

Rook, one of the native crows of London Tower, simply hosts and accompanies the king of Iskiria (Oschiri), the author’s birthplace. The crow, as it is known, plays a leading role in British culture. The day the crows disappear from the tower, the British kingdom might end. The crow of Pedra Majore is the guardian of the soul of Iskiria and commits himself, to look for opportunities to meeting Sardinian people, under the London Bridge of the WasteLand.

People from Iskiria, living abroad, maintain the link with their culture, they hardly know how to adapt their golden age identity to the decline of the City and modern times.

Nannedu, Barore and Pedru are three tramps, they all come from Iskiria and met by chance under London Bridge, in search of a place to sleep for the night.

The meeting awakened the infinite desire to go back to their village. Everyone begins to tell his own story of the journey that has removed the roots from their mother land. The repressed desire of an impossible return brings to memory stories and characters of the village, awakening the unwritten history of simple people. The tales offer no answers, they leave the reader with an impalpable sense of defeat, just like the crow of PedraMaiore, impotent spectator of a tragic human comedy. However, the final makes room for a ray of hope, breaking through the darkness.

Presentada

Su re de Pedra Majore, tucadu a Londra intro de una gàbbia pro servire sa reina, dae sa turre, inue faghet su dovere sou de corvu, bardat a Nanneddu e a totu sos cumpanzos acudidos dae sa ’idda sua, ascurtende sos contos issoro cando chircant de trampare sa note. A inie acudit puru Titone, chi aiat coladu sa vida sua in unu viàgiu continu pro fuire a su remursu de àere mortu a Camone, s’inzenieri chi li cheriat furare sa terra pro bi fàghere colare un’istradone mannu. Sa mantessi terra chi l’aiat dadu su pane de onzi die s’est infusta e imbrutada de su sàmbene de unu babbu de famìlia a su servìtziu de unu sistema chi non podiat cumprèndere sas rejones de Titone. Totu si sunt postos in viàgiu, calecunu b’at lassadu sa pedde, e chie si l’at iscampada at bagamundadu chirchende de isòlvere sos arrennegos de s’ànima.

***

S’autore, in custu viàgiu chi nos contat, nàvigat e afundat pius de una ’orta, andat e torrat, ca in donzi logu li mancat carchi cosa chi at lassadu in s’àtera ’idda. Su logu no est mai pretzisu cando si bi torrat, ca divessu est su tempus, totu mudat in su mentres, finas sa pessone. Unu viàgiu in su viàgiu, una metàfora de sa vida in donzi tempus e in donzi logu. Partire, pro fàghere esperièntzias, pro iscobèrrere sa cultura de àteros pòpulos e pro esplorare s’ànima sua e de sos òmines de un’àteru mundu. Torrare, pro chircare sas raighinas e pro iscobèrrere chi subra b’ant fraigadu palatos chi non si nde podent pius imbolare. Restat solu una renchènnida de carchi cosa chi forsis no est mai esìstidu, una maladia cun sa cale si podet bìvere e chi donzunu de nois curat comente podet, cun sa poesia ’e sa paràula chi addurchit e isolvet sa dòlima de su tempus coladu ’e sa timòria de su tempus benidore.

Vanna Sanciu

Terranoa, austu 2020

Su viàgiu comintzat sempre dae una chirca de carchi cosa de divessu dae su connotu, pro dimustrare a su mundu e a nois mantessi chi si podet acatare su menzus pro achietare sas dòlimas e pro torrare rispostas a milli preguntas.

Istèrrida

Su contadu naschet in limba sarda logudoresa, dae madrighe oschiresa, abberta però a paraulas, leadas in prestidu dae totu sa variantes sardas. S’idea est de faeddare, gasi comente si faghiat antigamente in su foghile, a sa zente chi oe abbojat a su tzilleri. Contos de vida bera chi si faghen Paristòrias, pro resessire a rupare cun s’anima, sos rios in tempesta de sa vida nostra.

Su corvu de Pedra Majore iscurtat a sa cua e donat boghe a sos contos intesos suta su ponte. Guardianu de s’ànima ischiresa, isse istat in sa turre de Londra, dipendente de sa Reina in pessona e vivet in cumpanzia de Rook, mere de su logu. Narant chi sa die chi morint totu so corvos at a ruere su Regnu Unidu. Pro cumprendere e amare sa terra nostra, a bortas devimus jumpare su mare. Su problema, chi at unidu totu sos contados, est cussu de resessire a torrare a domo. Atesu, in logos istranzos, creschet su desizu de furriare a bidda, malu a cumprire, forsis impossibile. Su re de Pedra Majore, oramai in pensione, passat su tempus isperiende dae punta ’e sa turre, sa passizada subra su ponte de sa Waste Land, su London Bridge.

A s’andalitorra, in sa ’ia ’e sa City, passant omineddos, chi mudados a festa, colant donzi die e a conca bascia, abbaidendesi so botes lùtzigos, nieddos e a fiagu ’e pedde morta. Cando s’omine mudat s’àndala, caminende a conca alta, tando isse est istranzu in Londra. Forsis diat pòdere èssere de ’idda. Emmo già est isse, Nanneddu, bestidu che unu peddone, istat inoghe dae una vida. Su re de Pedra Majore che lu connoschet dae atesu. Non fit una die calesisiat. Fit un’ispantu. Chentza l’ischire, abbojeint a su ponte puru Barore e Pedru. Totu chirchende unu logu inue trampare sa note, unidos dae s’ammentu e dae unu desizu repressu e tramposu: torrare a bidda!

A serantina, suta su ponte, cuados dae sa nèula, achicheint unu fogarone e a bidda bi furrieint a beru, contende unu viàgiu, chi tucat semper dae unu logu, Ischìria. Su corvu, tra timore e isperu, s’acùrtziat a iscurtare, pro pòdere iscobiare totu o guasi.

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Under the London Bridge

Unreal City,

Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,

A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many.

T. S. Eliot (from The Waste Land)

Everything seemed terribly close to the end, including anguish, when I perceived, in a confused way, that something was moving towards my direction. It was the awaited moment, the one dreamed of, pursued and intuited for ever and ever and finally forgotten. That day the fog was so thick and heavy that London Bridge seemed to have fallen into the belly of his mother, together with the dead gentlemen, pinstripes walking on the way to the City of London. For me, fortunately and also by the grace of Saint Demetrius, and perhaps also due to some forgotten merit of mine, in spite of my age, I did not miss my good eye, or ear and, even less, my memory. One hundred years before, locked in a sturdy iron cage, I left the high rocky peak of the mountain that dominates my village, Iskiria, Pedra Majore, to relocate to another stone, the Tower of London. Only for the queen I did it! Let me be clear, just for you! You know what it means for a poor crow to be part of the big family. And you know it best of all, my dear Rook, you were born here and you remember well how many crows came from all over the world. Each one with its own language, with a different bearing. After learning English, everyone forgot about home, everyone except one, me. Yet I was given freedom with an official ceremony! Kings, princesses, heads of state, industrialists, even famous footballers, honored me with their presence. Since then, every night I dream of returning to my country. And the thought takes place in a cowardly way, now more than ever, in the long days of my boring life as an old retired ruin. Maybe I could go back. True! Indeed, certainly. But fear is stronger than me. I am afraid of finding my loved ones who are now dead, of not being recognized or even worse of having been forgotten. Then I spend my time watching the passage of people on the bridge, from the tip of the Tower, where Rook, my great love, follows me silently.

 I see many humans walking along, all days and at all hours, always going in the same direction. Tall, thin, they all wear dark clothes of the same brand, all equally curved, with their eyes turned off, perpetually turned downwards, attracted by the light of their cell phones, guided by the same smell, like the dead skin of their shoes. The vain hope of seeing some known face, an image of my childhood, remains my desire and has become my vain, constant resistance. I’ve never seen it curved. Nanneddu walks undulating, with the shepherd’s step that looks straight to the horizon. I could recognize him even among one hundred or even thousand people. Today he seems happy, surely he found some good cardboard to make a nice bed, where to spend his night. At the touch of a hand on his shoulder, he turns very frightened. He certainly thought about the police. When he sees Barore he gets excited and pretends to attack him: «Ancu ti diant sa ‘e Camone». Hope they’ll give you a shot, like they did to Camone.

Barore replies: «Ancu tias fagher s’andada ‘e Titone!!!». May you go out just like Titone did, who has never returned to his own home. And the blasphemies seemed true, before the long embrace. Together they look for some isolated place, in order to speak better, away from strange ears and metallic noises.

«How I would like to be able to share a nice fire...» Suggested Barore timidly. Nanni immediately rejected the idea: «Are you crazy or what? They’ll throw us into jail, you know?» But he could not finish the sentence, interrupted by another voice, which echoed powerfully in the stone of the bridge: «Here is the cagasotto!!! He had always been afraid of the fucking carabinieri!». It did not seemed true at all. Pedru had also arrived! In the beautiful company of a big bottle of red wine. «We were back in Iskiria. Really». He approaches to offer a drink, and immediately proposes: «You may light the fire, no problem. I’ll take care of unwanted visitors…If I notice strange movements, I’ll give you a good whistle, or rather better three».

Together, they collected all the combustible stuff around, to light a real old-fashioned fire, rubbing two stones that Barore always carries inside his saddlebag.

The smoke merges with the thick evening fog. The fire is nice and the old friends seem to get into it.

«When I see a fire burning like this»,