With the red suede notebook well hidden in her bag and Anna's words still echoing in her ears, Belinda returned home that afternoon. It was as if she had brought with her not just a small book, but a piece of Sicily's ancient heart, a fragment of her ancestors' knowledge, a breath of that "respiration" she now felt resonating within her. Like a distant echo within a cave.
In the following days, her daily life resumed its usual rhythm between Azzurra and domestic duties, but there was a new urgency, a secret fire burning. Whenever Azzurra was at daycare, or Elia was at work, Belinda would take out the notebook. Not out of fear of being seen by Elia, but from the need to be alone with herself. The antique paper pages, smelling of cardboard and mystery, opened to reveal Anna's handwriting. The prayers were long, convoluted, dense with words in an archaic dialect that sometimes eluded her, mixing the sacred and the profane in a chant that seemed more like an incantation than a supplication.
To read those words in peace, a calm and familiar place was necessary, a place Belinda always had nearby, we could say right before her eyes: the sea with its slow sway, the beach made of pebbles and sand, the fishing boats moored on the shore waiting to set sail. These were visions of quiet for Belinda, who often and willingly went down the iron stairs leading to the beach. Even though it was December, in Sicily, especially in the morning, the weather was mild and the sun was warm; it was pleasant to visit the beach. The winter sea was not always stormy; in fact, heavy seas occurred at measured intervals throughout the year, every year. Although fishermen, by observing the moon and the sea, could predict storms, it was not difficult for local residents to make predictions. Belinda, for example, knew that every first Sunday of September, after the sea procession of the Madonna della Catena, the sea would rise, and the waves could be very high for a few days. Even beach resort managers knew about the periods of rough seas, and now cunningly hastened to dismantle their lidos; it could happen that some of them, before learning to know the sea, lost the earnings of an entire bathing season in a single storm. Because the sea can be impetuous; it doesn't care if tourists are still there in September, if it still feels like August; nature and the elements do not follow rules dictated by man, who, however much he tries to harness such forces, finds himself helpless before its impetus.
Belinda descended the stairs leading to the beach; that morning there were fishermen fishing from the shore and others preparing for the next evening's boat fishing, going out to sea with their nets, a sign that the sea would be calm. She moved away from the fishermen and walked along a stretch of beach to be in solitude. She sat down and began to read. Her hand still trembled as she traced the lines, feeling the weight of that knowledge. They were powerful words, words that her mother Caterina and her grandmother Linda, and finally her mother-in-law Anna, had pronounced countless times, words imbued with ancient intentions and beliefs: "Venerdi santu, sabutu santu, domenica di pascqua stu malocchiu a mari mi casca, o di bona o di mala vuluntà stu malocchiu a mari mi sinni va" (Holy Friday, Holy Saturday, Easter Sunday, may this evil eye fall into the sea, whether of good or ill will, may this evil eye go into the sea). Belinda repeated those words; she allowed me to transcribe only a part. She felt the need to understand them, to make them her own, but above all not to forget them. The fear of losing even a syllable, of betraying Anna's trust, or, worse, the memory of her ancestors, pushed her to repeat them to exhaustion. As she repeated and chanted the prayers, the sea rippled, the seagulls cried; it was as if the energies around Belinda were shifting.
The red notebook had become her faithful companion, an almost sacred object. She hid it under a pile of old sheets in the wardrobe, a place only she would check. From time to time, she would take it out to caress its soft cover, to touch the intricate key hanging from its laces, as if that contact instilled in her some of the wisdom and strength she needed.
As she immersed herself in this solitary study, Belinda began to notice small changes. They weren't flashy magical feats, but subtle alterations in perception, as if a veil had lifted from her senses. The scents of the surrounding countryside seemed more intense, the colors more vivid, the birds' song more melodious and meaningful. One evening, while preparing dinner, she only had to think of a recipe to find it immediately in her mind, with all the ingredients and steps clear as if she had always known it. Was this perhaps the beginning of a heightened intuition?
One morning, with the sun high in the sky and the wind whipping in discontinuous gusts, as if the house had been built on a ship or a lighthouse, Belinda was about to hang out the laundry on the balcony. Suddenly, the shadow of the black blackbird with a yellow beak glided past her, perching on the branch of a lemon tree directly above her. It was no coincidence, she was certain. The bird stared at her with its dark eyes, almost as if wanting to communicate something. Belinda remained still, as she had the first time, feeling a shiver of recognition. She had no fear, only a deep emotion, almost of gratitude. The blackbird had returned, a silent messenger confirming the validity of her path, an invisible thread connecting her to something ancient and wild. Anna had said: "Look, the fire speaks to you." And the blackbird, now, what was it telling her? Was it a warning, an encouragement, or simply further confirmation that she was not alone on this new path? Belinda decided it was an encouragement. The prayers, the notebook, the blackbird: everything was converging towards that crucial moment, Christmas Eve.
The approach of Christmas brought with it a mix of festive anticipation and secret trepidation. Elia's family usually gathered for Christmas Eve and Christmas lunch. Belinda knew it would be difficult to carve out a moment of solitude amidst so many people, but she was also aware that the ritual, to be effective, had to be performed in secret, with the utmost concentration.
She thought of the dream of the bull and her grandfather Giovanni. "You're not dressed in red," her grandfather had said. Now she possessed the red notebook, the color of passion, of courage. Christmas Eve would not just be a religious celebration, but a true rite of passage, her personal attempt to cross that invisible bridge, to reclaim the inheritance her grandfather had tried to deny her.
Christmas Eve arrived in a flash; dinner took place at Anna's house, the mother-in-law who had taught her those words. The air was filled with the smell of the typical holiday fried foods. Anna had prepared her very traditional "Pisci stoccu a ghiotta" (stewed stockfish), Tango meowed loudly in an attempt to get a piece. Then there was nougat, almonds, mandarins, dried figs with walnuts; the table was laden as befits the best Sicilian families. After dinner, between one toast and another, Belinda approached Anna and, while everyone was distracted, busy playing cards, the two women sat in front of the fireplace fire, and Anna said to Belinda: "Vidisti chi era distinu chi sta sira aviumu agghessiri assemi?" (Did you see that it was destiny that we should be together tonight?). The lights were dim, the other relatives and diners had moved to the living room to play cards. It was time.
She opened the notebook, found the pages with the prayers, and began to recite them, whispering them with a trembling but firm voice. The words, finally, flowed smoothly; the rhythm had entered her. She felt the breath of her ancestors accompanying her, an invisible but tangible presence filling the room. As the last syllables dissolved into the air, a sensation of warmth spread through her chest, not a physical heat, but a subtle, deep energy that filled every fiber of her being. It was not an explosion, not a blinding flash, but a silent, powerful awakening. It was there, in the dead of night, with the outside world celebrating a divine birth, that Belinda felt her earthly rebirth. The fireplace fire glowed ever more brightly. Anna and Belinda took each other's hands as if to seal a tacit pact of sisterhood.