• Rating:
Few things have the ability to soothe me like a fruit-bearing tree.
The most illustrative image of every natural sign, complete for man in all five of his senses. Whether they are slender emerald greens or rough golden apples, where my hands cannot reach, just a glance, delight with the mind and the light scent can push every troubled lip or grim thought to be ashamed and leave.
“Nu prufumo accussì fino
Dinto ’o core se ne va”
Stories linked to citrus fruits have been told for millennia: they were associated with stars and gold, dragons were faced, and even skies were held up for them. They were a reason for vanity and excessive beauty in Arabian and European lands, to the point of completely changing the concept of gardens, acclimatizing every city perimeter into an orchard.
The tree and the fruit, among palaces and gulfs, therefore stain themselves with arrogant seriousness.
Because yes, beauty sometimes, with its pompous appearance, seems to mock the true essence of things, depriving them of their earthly origin, not knowing, or perhaps forgetting, that only a tip of the tongue is needed to taste the sweetness.
Besides that, stories where one can get their hands dirty are plentiful, but I would prefer to start from the origin of everything.
In the beginning, there were only citrons, pummelos, and finally, mandarins. Over time, amid genetic conflicts and environmental circumstances, they modify, develop, intertwine, diversify, and eventually, pummelos and mandarins making love give birth to the orange, just like that, en plein air.
I don't want to delve into other polyamorous relationships, those are their matters.
Then man's interference comes in, and everything becomes faster and bigger, so much so that from China one passes through Greece and Sicily, from there goes to Spain and Portugal to reach Brazil and Abkhazia. Abkhazia?
Yes, Abkhazia.
I discover that among protective mountains of adverse icy winds and mitigating seas, there is a small region rich in fertile plains made of forests and citrus groves.
Here lives Ivo, an Estonian full of wrinkles and white hair, busy building various crates for the upcoming tangerine harvest along with his friend Margus. However, in that autumn of 1991, war breaks out in Abkhazia, with Chechens and Georgians, orphans of the Soviet dissolution, contending for the land and everything insignificant within it for ethnic reasons.
All this seems to matter relatively to Ivo, even with bombs and ever-ready loaded rifles, he doesn't really feel like leaving.
I believe it's precisely because of the tangerines and their fragrance.
Whether ripe with a sweet and warm fragrance or unripe with a fresh and pungent scent, it will surely trigger some memory that can influence his choices, even at the cost of his own survival. After all, nothing is more identity-giving than a friendly scent, a keeper of memories and emotions dear to us. Imagine how intense it can be if multiplied by every tree cultivated by Ivo and Margus.
Places, people, or moments perceived, if only for moments, thanks to the rubbing of those leaves and fruits.
Amidst a war, at 70 years old, I wouldn't know what else to cling to.
Beyond dirt, Ivo will stain his nails with blood too.
Following a clash right outside his home, he decides to help the only two survivors, both from opposing sides. Ivo, with the simplicity and effectiveness of a farmer, marked by few words and precious gestures akin to the highest poetry, will try to cleanse souls, smoothing out the ideological differences between the two soldiers.
The end.
The other story, however, is simpler, it begins in the 1800s, in the garden of a monastery in San Salvador del Bahia in Brazil.
On a bitter orange tree grows a single branch capable of producing large, sweet, and super juicy oranges. Fifty years later, a Presbyterian missionary noticed them and sent parts of that branch to the United States, where they were grafted onto other orange trees to propagate a plant. This new variety will arrive in California, giving rise to the first great citrus industry, making navel oranges the most cultivated worldwide.
The end.
Can a single branch and a single man be so similar?
And you, would you have the courage to flee from radiant green fields made of orange blossoms and tangerines?
“co’ fiori eterni eterno il frutto dura,
e mentre spunta l’un, l’altro matura”
Loading comments slowly
