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“È un pazzo inglese,” were the last words I
heard from Gioia’s red lips as, driven by my fate,
I sprang up the Phoenician steps to Anacapri.
Half-way up I overtook an old woman with a
huge basket full of oranges on her head. “Buon
giorno, signorino.” She put down her basket
and handed me an orange. On the top of the
oranges lay a bundle of newspapers and letters
tied up in a red handkerchief. It was old
Maria Porta-Lettere who carried the post twice
a week to Anacapri, later on my life-long friend,
I saw her die at the age of ninety-five. She
fumbled among the letters, selected the biggest
envelope and begged me to tell her if it was not
for Nannina la Crapara[1] who was eagerly
expecting la lettera from her husband in America.
No, it was not. Perhaps this one? No, it was
for Signora Desdemona Vacca.
“Signora Desdemona Vacca,” repeated old
Maria, incredulously. “Perhaps they mean la
moglie dello Scarteluzzo,”[2] she said
meditatively. The next letter was for Signor Ulisse
Desiderio. “I think they mean Capolimone,”[3]
said old Maria, “he had a letter just like this a
month ago.” The next letter was for
Gentilissima Signorina Rosina Mazzarella. This lady
seemed more difficult to trace. Was it la
Cacciacavallara?[4] or la Zopparella?[5] Or la
Capatosta?[6] Or la Femmina Antica?[7] Or
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