As the oil lamp burns

By Adriana Giudice and Vittorio Belfiore

This story paints the vivid image of private life in the intense yet unchanging island of Sicily. All around the narrator, traditions and legends take shape among a people torn between faith and superstition, set against the backdrop of a harsh and bewitching land where passion defines the course of life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Youcanprint
• Release date: Mar 18, 2022
• ISBN: 9791220396424

Book preview

Back when oil lamps were still used, that closed off world in which the flame of existence burned slowly like the slow wear of the wick, it was customary that, in the evenings, women would recite the Rosary.

Without neglecting for a single moment the sacred chaplet, the women, with utmost femininity, would conduct the ritual, intertwining the sacred with the profane. It was thus that the Hail Mary ended with the announcement of a son born to the priest’s unmarried niece, and the Glory be was defiled by the throwing of a nut and a barrage of insults towards the cat, who had strayed too close to the cupboard. The sound of the ora pro nobis¹ combined with the acrid odour of smoke awoke my grandmother, who had fallen asleep and let her shawl slip into the basin.

My family’s home, given to my grandfather together with a few hectares of land for his faithful service undertaken for his Lordship, occupied the inner corner of a courtyard of an old baronial palace. The poor old man, not believing his luck, had proudly taken care of the lands he had received as if they still belonged to the Baron. Although advanced in his years, his careful and expert eye had allowed my father to build himself a solid standing.

With the exception of the window of my parents’ bedroom, which looked out over the main street, the rest overlooked the inner courtyard, which was embellished by a portico of columns containing a series of classical busts. The windows of the external façade were decorated with garlands of flowers, while the main gate, accessed only during religious holidays, boasted a lavish iron balcony dominated by a heraldic coat of arms. The Baron’s heirs had reluctantly accepted this generous bequest and found our presence in a wing of their palace somewhat irritating. We children, however, cared little about those scowling and haughty faces. Among those frescoed walls, softened by flowers, cherubs, and reassuring nymphs, we felt like princesses, and between hope and modesty we built our lives.

On December 13th, as every year in honour of Saint Lucy, the kitchen table was replete with plates of cuccìa¹ which my mother wrapped one by one with a white placemat before deciding where their ultimate destination. I took the first plate to our neighbour, a prematurely aged woman who had been left a widow just a few months after her wedding. She inhabited two small rooms with her only son, who at two years of age had been rendered disabled by an illness.

The first room was