Vincenzo Bellini
Norma

Mariella, and Vincenzo

The first warning is that this story is a bit long. And it talks about things you probably won't read about on Facebook. Or that you will talk about tomorrow while drinking coffee. That one always has to think about that moment, when drinking coffee, in the morning, and it has to be the thing you know last, the last joke, the last nonsense, is something I have never understood. Mainly because I don't particularly like coffee. No, I just don't like it. It doesn't mean anything to me. Exactly like the small talk at eight in the morning while drinking coffee. I - I know I'm strange - when I drink coffee, I stay silent. And usually, I don't even listen either. I sing songs in my head. Being strange is something I don't think I need to explain to you.

Mariella was born in Imperia. On an April day. The year won't be mentioned. She's a beautiful girl. A beautiful Italian girl. One of those girls that make you proud to be Italian. Because there's no doubt, let's admit it, French girls make your head spin. Scandinavian girls are blonde and generous. But girls like Italian girls, who smile at you and you say I know what paradise is, there aren't in any other place. Mariella is not shy. But she knows her place. She has her ideas, her things, her preferences. But she'll tell you if you're in confidence. Not in the morning when drinking coffee. She - as much as she can, in the morning at eight, doesn't go to drink coffee. In general, they also invite her. She's a beautiful girl, and as we know, Italians... But she - as much as she can - doesn't go. And if she goes, she goes and sings a song in her head. Only she hears it. She doesn't share confidences with just anyone.

Vincenzo was born in Catania. In November. I can't tell you the year. His special feature is being incredibly handsome. (oh, it's a story, the kind you tell. The protagonists are charming. It's known. Otherwise, people change the channel). Well, that's the way it is. He's a really good-looking guy. And shy. Someone who, like at eight in the morning, when others go to drink coffee, he doesn't talk. And he doesn't listen either. He - in his head - sings songs. Just like maybe someone you know. Only that he is really charming. So charming that - for Catania - as soon as girls see him, they run after him. And - as only Italian girls can, they smile at him. And when they smile at you, they let you know what paradise is. But not him. He runs away. He's busy singing a song in his head. Let them hear it? No, come on. I'm embarrassed. I don't even know if you can understand how I got there.

Both of them are successful. And they achieve it immediately. As soon as they decide to share some confidence with someone. She decides to make her voice heard. He decides to let people hear the music in his head. Everyone loves it. Of course. It's a story. One of those for which people buy tickets and enter. And they are beautiful, young, and talented. Mariella and Vincenzo. Like all stories, eventually, paths diverge.

Vincenzo writes music. He must flee through the streets of Catania. Girls chase him. But he - instead - must finish this thing on his mind. Nothing else matters to him. This thing spins around his head. Not just at eight in the morning, during the coffee ritual nonsense. It's a strange and beautiful thing. It's a fixation. He must get it out. He wants to understand what it means. He wants to know where it leads him. This thing, many years later, a German whose name I can't recall, will call it a leitmotif. And it will become famous. And full of women. Even if he was much less charming, much less interesting than Vincenzo. But it doesn't matter.

Mariella sings. She sings with a gorgeous voice. A voice that's like the smile of an Italian girl. You hear it and you know what paradise is. And everyone wants her. In every way. And it's easy, for someone with a voice like hers, to get what she wants. But Mariella doesn't. She simply doesn't share confidences. She gives her smiles to those she chooses. And nothing else. She has a song to sing in her head.

Vincenzo is successful. He's called everywhere. They give him money. Lots of money. And work. Lots of work. He writes beautiful things. And in his head, that thing continues to play. That thing that many years later will be considered unprecedented. People quickly forget you. Even if you are young, charming, and talented. And unlucky.

Mariella, on the other hand, only sings what she wants. In a world where a short vocal range can make you a diva, and start making demands, she thinks of something else. She gets married, lives her life. When she feels ready, she sings. When she sings, she sings like an Italian girl smiling at you.

Vincenzo is called to Paris. Paris means the pinnacle. And he goes there. Few and messy luggage. And French girls make your head spin. The head, which continues to hear something, a song. In Paris, he's hosted by a friend. That friend is married to a beautiful French girl.

At some point, Mariella decides enough is enough. She decides that life has been sweet to her. It gave her a voice like the smile of an Italian girl. She decides that now it is no longer the time to share that confidence, that voice.

Vincenzo almost joins the club of 23. Actually, he's 33 years old. When he dies. In Paris. Due to a strange intestinal problem. Which was never really understood why. Perhaps the jealousy of the husband of that beautiful French girl.

Mariella, on the other hand, is seventy years old. And continues to be gorgeous. But she decides enough is enough. And to say it, she goes to Venice. She sings an opera. An opera in which her character says goodbye. As her last word. Before going up to the scaffold.

Venice, La Fenice, everyone is waiting for her. When she enters the stage. Beautiful as only a seventy-year-old Italian girl can be. And everyone is waiting for one thing.

They are waiting for Casta Diva. Vincenzo wrote it more than a hundred years before. I can't tell you what Casta Diva is if you don't know it. I can only say that I envy you. I can only tell you it's as beautiful as the smile of an Italian girl. I can only tell you that if such a thing starts spinning in your head, then you won't care about anything. Not about girls chasing you, not about money, maybe not even about that beautiful Parisian girl that perhaps cost you your life, everything.

Everyone is waiting for that thing. And they know it. The theater will collapse. It will be the last thank you. For being so beautiful. She, Mariella. And he, Vincenzo.

I already know how it went.

I heard it on the radio. You - along with me - can see it tomorrow. On a very nice website called https://operavision.eu/en from tomorrow at seven we'll have the honor of watching it (don't worry, it's free).

I already know. And I won't tell you. That would also be a story to tell. But then it all becomes too long, the attention drops, that's how things go. And then the coffee break ends.

I wrote all that for just one reason.

Because I imagine Mariella and Vincenzo. In some place. Hidden, in Venice. Drinking coffee. And staying silent. They have a song in their heads. And they don't need to tell each other. That the song is the same. They don't need to say anything to each other. They look at each other. And that's enough.