The dance of Celeste by Bianca Pasquinelli

79 The dance of Celeste

fiction by Bianca Pasquinelli

In the humid basement where she had been working for two years, Celeste had met a large number of would-be actors. A cordial greeting, a quick flick of the wrist and those sitting in front of the crystal desk dominating the office, began to recount with enthusiasm dreams and projects, putting lively hopes in the interview that the 26-year-old talent agent had granted them. They looked into her black eyes trying to catch any signal, but no emotion could be seen, as if she was watching a landscape seen hundreds of times behind the glass of the same train.

One day, Celeste dragged herself out of an interview with the umpteenth actress who dreamed of becoming the new movie star. She gathered the last fragments of strength and climbed the steps to the outside world. Through the blanket of grey clouds enveloping the city, slanting rays of sun fell on the multitudes of people hurrying along the roads. Instead of making the usual tour of the block, she turned to a deserted street and passed by a dropside van parked on the sidewalk, with her head heavy, bent over her smartphone.

Suddenly, a dull sound hammered in her head. A vibration ran through her body. Knees buckled and legs swayed for a few moments in an absolute darkness that encompassed everything. Something had slammed hard against Celeste’s head.

“Are you okay?” said a voice from behind.

She opened her eyes and turned. Two workmen stood on the back of the van were staring at her. At their feet hung a wooden beam, jutting out into the street. Celeste ran away in embarrassment. How could I bump into such a huge beam? Why don't I look where I'm going?

Guided by the instinct of her steps, she began to walk quickly to recover from the impact, as if, after having a hangover, she had to dispose of an excessive amount of alcohol in the body. The traffic noise and the sharp smell

of smog faded and her reserved and cold demeanor dissolved, as she went along. Feet moved fast through the streets of the city, giving her the impression of walking suspended in the air. She walked in that particular state for more than an hour, without thinking about anything: neither about work, nor about herself. The hive of thoughts and worries that had abusively invaded her brain in the last months had been hit, and the bees inside it had flown away in fright, giving her a temporary relief. Now on the ground, only an empty hive was lying.

At a crossroads, while she was waiting for the green light, the frightening awareness of all the responsibilities she had to face rose before her. She checked the smartphone left on silent mode: seven missed calls, eight messages. Most came from her boss: "Where are you? Some of our actors have been calling me to tell me they can’t find you. That’s not right, Celeste. Call me as soon as possible!" The outlines of the words on the screen appeared blurry. Taken by a feeling of anguish, she turned her phone off. "I want to live, I have to live", she whispered. And all of a sudden, her entire being was enlightened by the truth of those words.

. . . . . .

The next day, without thinking too much, she left for Pietrasanta, in Tuscany. She would stay in the holiday home inherited from her paternal grandparents, where she used to go every summer with her family. During the train journey, she decided to leave her mobile phone off for a few days, and that gesture, almost of rebellion, made her breathe for the first time in a long time, a yearning for freedom.

As soon as she opened the door of the apartment, the stale air assaulted her nostrils and penetrated her lungs. The cracked walls, the antique furniture, the kitchen rag hanging from a chair: everything was impregnated with an ancient scent and lay frozen in absolute silence. She wandered around the living room to see what had changed since the last time.

An inlaid wooden cabinet that seemed to emanate life from within caught her attention. She tried to open its doors, to no avail, since the key in the lock was jammed, rusted by time. After a few tries, she struck a blow and finally a

80

81 door opened, revealing its contents: ancient volumes and manuscripts, newspapers announcing the end of the Second World War and a photo album of grandfather’s ancestors. Behind the other door, which had remained blocked instead, she glimpsed in a corner what looked like a book. With a tentative hand, she pulled out a leather-bound notebook, covered in cobwebs and dust. She untied the thick brown leather lace that wrapped it and opened it carefully.

It was the diary of grandfather Duccio.

Filled with a threadlike calligraphy and yellowed by time, the pages told of trips, paths and walks taken together with his family in the region of Tuscany, the beloved land where he was born and raised. As she read the diary through in one breath, Celeste heard the warm voice of her grandfather narrating those adventures to her. Leafing through the last blank pages, she found inserted in the notebook the map of the Via Francigena, the medieval pilgrimage route departing from Canterbury and arriving in Rome. The line passed right through Pietrasanta, whose position was marked with a green stroke. However, there was nothing in the diary to testify that her grandfather had traveled the ancient trail.

Sitting on the ground, the map in one hand and the blank pages of the diary in front of her, Celeste felt once again an overwhelming need to walk.

. . . . . .

At the first glimmer of the day, she put on a pair of jeans, running shoes and a cap found by chance in a drawer.It was not exactly the right clothing for walking a stage of the Via Francigena, but the desire to do it was so intense that it swept away any concern. When she left the house, she took a deep breath of crisp morning air, while the nightingales, struck by the first glint of dawn, sang their last warblings. After leaving the village behind, she entered the ups and downs of the gentle Versilian hills.

The fine mists evaporated and the sky became limpid, as if it had been cleared by a crystal wind. The thousand shades of the green olive trees and vines seemed gaudy in the sunlight. The rhythm of the hours of solitary walking was marked by the sound of her footsteps and by the tolling bells echoing from

distant villages.

She kept following the red and white trail marker and plunged into a forest slightly uphill. Primroses and violets scattered here and there announced the arrival of an early spring. As she approached to savor the flowers’ sweet scent, she caught sight of something shimmering under the tall blades of grass. Her tapered fingers brushed a white feather, for a moment finding themselves in contact with something living, soft as velvet and so delicate that her own fingers seemed to become delicate to her.

A subtle chirp broke the silence of the forest. She raised her eyes to the turquoise sky and saw a few sparrows that fluttered, making the treetops sway. They called her, leading her to unknown places. She floated a hand in the air to follow their movements, determined and graceful at the same time. Soon that gesture involved the arm, the shoulder and then the whole body.

Wrapped in a kind of bliss, she began to dance among the trees with ever wider and softer movements. Guided by the singing of the birds, she let her head swing; the ponytail melted, the elastic band that held it tight fell to the ground and the flowing black hair slipped over the shoulders. Eyes closed, she advanced slowly, yet confidently, while a new light expanded inside and out, a light in which there was no longer any fear. In the womb of the forest, she felt welcomed, protected, and free to go back to being herself. She opened her arms to the sides as if they were two large wings with which to embrace that moment of joy, so immense that a burning feeling in her chest rose to become tears in her eyes.

She was no longer watching others pursue their dreams.

Reflected on the glass of the same train, she now saw herself dancing on the stage of life. Suddenly, a little 13-year-old Celeste appeared in a white tutu and ballet slippers. For fear of failing, she had given up the dream of becoming a dancer, devoting herself only to studying and a career in which she did not recognize herself. It took the courage to look inside to discover that dance, on the contrary, had never abandoned her.

82