Sardinia, alastair macleod [whitelam books txt] 📗

SARDINIA

The land was sparse, dry, covered in Maquis shrub; juniper, myrtle, dwarf pine, wild rosemary. They were all more all or less aromatic, the beating sun releasing a heady scent into the air. He walked down the track, his boots crunching on gravel. In the bay below, the sea, a bright Mediterranean blue lazily caressed the cliffs. He was searching for geckos – sunny days brought them out to bask. Cold rendered them inactive. He thought of his wife. She was like that. Back in Manchester she’d been a different person, morose, taciturn, cynical. Here she just flowered out. It was the sun. Briefly he pondered on a theory of weather as a treatment for mental states. The hyperactive should go to the cold places and those sluggish depressed souls to the sun. He could name it after himself, McKinnon’s theory.
Every scientist secretly longed to have something named after them, a comet, an effect, a rule, a theory. A gecko darting round a boulder brought him back to the task in hand – he raised his camera. Back at the villa his wife Mary was putting the finishing touches to lunch – a simple Mediterranean one of Orecchietta with greens. She loved the little ears of Orecchietta pasta. She chopped the spring onions, garlic and chard and put them to sauté. Then she mixed them with the cooked pasta. She’d sprinkle the lot with gorgonzola, parmigiano, and peccorino.
“Beats Lancashire hotpot” she thought. “No, revise that, “she said to herself. Warming food for cold climates was right, even here it got cold in the winter, a bit of soup was welcome. But she didn’t miss Manchester, the rain, the cloudiness, the crime, clubbing. When you were a student maybe – looking for excitement, searching for a mate but not now, she was happy here. This afternoon she was going to start on a new piece, well, not this afternoon, she meant this evening. There had to be siesta. It was impossible to think in the afternoon heat. The evening was warm but tolerable. Her work had changed, not only the vibrant earthy colours of her glazes but her pots and amphora were more, well, fecund, rounded, pregnant, as if they were ready to split open like pea pods and explode seeds into the undergrowth.
Of course she was pregnant- it was coming out in her work.
What was it, the heat or the light? She’d read that light quickens the growth of plants even more than the increasing warmth.
The light had struck in the eye like a physical blow when she had arrived in Sardinia. As an artist, but also just as a physical being, it seemed to penetrate her. She giggled, thinking of how the warmth had made her body come alive and respond to Scott’s. Now they were more evenly matched in desire. Yes, this was the right move for them.

Text: alastair macleod
Images: alastair macleod; "cala canone beach, sardinia "purchased from dreamstime royalty free photos
Editing: alastair macleod
Translation: title typeset in ankehand
Publication Date: 12-23-2012

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