PERSONAGGI / OUR CHARACTERS
d’argento quel maledetto parassita,
con muso e baffi ancora infarinati si
guardava attorno. Il roditore non aveva
nemmeno il tempo di indietreggiare
che già piombava la mano destra della
surciara che l’artigliava al collo e con
un’abile movimento d’indice e pollice
lo soffocava in un istante. La manovra
mortale durava pochi secondi, sicché
dopo la prima presa si creava un ritmo
particolare, con la sequenza di un
suono metallico, il batter sul tubo, uno
squittio e un ahhhhh prolungato della
vedova che accompagnava l’ultimo
respiro della preda.
I proprietari del mulino erano rimasti
soddisfatti e la surciara aveva risolto
i problemi del pasto quotidiano.
Sulla sua tavola pane e pasta fresca
non mancavano mai e tutte le sante
domeniche dalla modesta casa
s’esalava un profumino d’arrosto
che stuzzicava i nasi degli invidiosi
vicini. Scorticava il sorcio più grasso,
tolte le interiora lo bolliva e infine lo
arrostiva sulla carbonella viva, con
salvia, rosmarino, sale abbondante e
una spruzzata d’olio e aglio pestato.
Una delizia.
sazietà. Non ci potevano né gatti né
trappole con gli ingordi roditori, che
ingrassavano a vista d’occhio. Usare il
veleno in un mulino non se ne parlava
nemmeno, senza contare le visite della
Guardia di Finanza che sarebbero
state sicuramente più frequenti. Così
l’intervento di la za Maria, povera
vedova, sarebbe stato provvidenziale.
Giunta al mulino la surciara s’era
liberata delle gramaglie scoprendo la
pelle illanguidita delle magre braccia e
aveva annusato, proprio come un gatto,
con il naso umidiccio, fra ingranaggi
e sacchi colmi di farina. Il passaggio
dei topi avveniva lungo la coclea
lamierata. Lei aspettava, con pazienza,
i gridi acuti e sottili che annunciavano
la presenza dei ratti. Con le nocche
nodose della mano sinistra batteva sul
tubo, poi si spostava all’indietro, d’un
solo passo, ed ecco che usciva il primo
topo, trippone, ben pasciuto. Sembrava
T
he mice hunter arrived at the
sunset, her head covered by a
black scarf with the corners knotted
under the bony chin and wrapped by a
cotton shawl even darker. Seen from a
distance she looked like a threatening
cloud full of water, but as soon as she
got closer she cleared up: a toothless
smile came out from her white face
and every now and then a grey
forelock appeared on her wrinkled
forehead. With a mechanic gesture,
she put it under the black veil which
framed her pear shaped head.
Her husband had died some months
ago. A bad fall from the kart had
produced a deep wound on his head, a
cut from where some grey matter had
come out. He had died with a death
rattle, bled to death, in the wealthy
countryside of Balata di Baida.
The inhabitants of Balata di Baida
found his corpse and with slow
movements crossed themselves
bitterly saying: “poor uncle Paolo, only
God knows where his soul is”. His soul
wandered nowhere after leaving the
wretched body laid on the ground with
the head mixed with blood and earth.
Don Paolo and donna Maria didn’t
have any sons. The widow had succeed
in selling the horse and the cart at a
good price because the animal was
healthy and knew the way to the mill.
With the proceeds she had enough to
live for the rest of her days and thanks
God, with the house she owned, she
wouldn’t have great problems.
The owners of the mill of
Castellammare, to honour the honesty
of the carter, called for the wife to
entrust her for a particular job.
That was how donna Maria started
again to be the mice hunter, a job she
had inherited from her grandmother
on her mother’s side and once married
had abandoned. For every mouse
caught the miller would have given her
a handful of flour, of the best quality
obviously. That afternoon the mice
hunter had walked to Castellammare
going to the mill to catch the cursed
mice which during the night polished
off flour and bran. Cats and traps had
failed with the greedy rats, which got
fatter and fatter.
As soon as the mice hunter arrived at
the mill she smelt, like a cat, with wet
nose, among the gears and the sacks
full of flour. The passing of the mice
was along the spiral screw covered by
a sheet steel. She waited patiently for
the shrill screams which announced
the presence of the rats. With the
knotty knuckles of her left hand she hit
the pipe, then she moved back, only
one step, and here the first mouse, fat
and well fed, appeared.
The mouse hadn’t the time to turn
back because the mice hunter’s right
hand grabbed its neck and with a
skilful movement of the forefinger and
thumb chocked it immediately.
The owners of the mill were satisfied
and the mice hunter had solved the
problem of every day meal. On her
table bread and fresh pasta were
always present and every Sunday from
the modest house a scent of roast
meat, which whetted the curious
neighbors’ noses, came out. She
skinned the fattest mouse, took off the
entrails, boiled it and then roasted it
on the charcoal with sage, rosemary
plenty of salt and a sprinkling of
smashed garlic.
A real pleasure.
S ea C astle M agazine 23