The Pelanconi Flower by Jon Krampner

The Italian Renaissance is one of the crowning glories of western civilization. In Florence, Venice and other cities, men like Leonardo da Vinci shook off the centuries-old slumber following the collapse of the Roman Empire and blazed new trails through the intellectual firmament, sparking a fire in the minds of men and women that continues to this day. But even as they did so, village life continued much as it had for centuries. Our story concerns the remarkable events that took place in one of these villages.

Ventifiatro was a small town in the foothills of the Ligurian Alps, about 20 leagues west of Genoa. Rosanna was the prettiest girl in town. She had a sweet disposition and a ready smile with striking green eyes, her hair a cascade of auburn ringlets. She loved Rocco, the village strongman, whom she hoped to marry and whose children she longed to bear. But Rocco, for reasons neither she nor the townspeople could discern, did not love her. He would go to the forest each day, chop down trees and haul them to the local lumber mill. Then he would return to his small, well-furnished hut, have a bowl of pasta in olive oil with a few sprigs of cilantro and knock off for the day.

Rosanna had many admirers, the most persistent of whom was a minstrel named Eustacio. Minstrels were the singing-telegram messengers of their day, but their importance to the life of their villages was enhanced by their combining the roles of newspaper reporter, printer of legal notices and all-around yente. But Rosanna forsook the attentions of the bookish Eustacio, pining for Rocco’s strong embrace. Every morning, Rosanna would put herself in Rocco’s path as he strode in his simple country garb past the fountain in the village square on his way to the woods.

“Rocco,” she would say, “You are so strong and so handsome. Don’t you think I would make for you the good wife?” He would just smile and say “Good morning, Rosanna. I am off to the woods to cut down many trees and earn many lira.”

Rosanna would trudge back to the two-story house she shared with her mother. Her father had died during one of those plagues that periodically swept through the village like the Carthaginian army  long ago, Hannibal and his elephants galumphing through the Ligurian Alps on their way to sack Rome. Now Rosanna’s mother ran a weaving factory on the ground floor, making woolen goods much prized throughout the region. The factory employed several village girls, including Rosanna. It was there, in front of the other girls, Rosanna often had to endure the attentions of Eustacio the Minstrel.

Dressed foppishly, he would head to Rosanna’s house near the village square, blow on a bugle and proclaim, “Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye, one and all. I, Eustacio the minstrel, do proclaim my love for the fair Rosanna, Wilt thou marry me, Rosanna, that I might make thee my lawfully wedded wife and happy thereby?”

The girls she worked with would titter and tease her.

“Your Prince Charming has arrived.”

“You can’t say no.”

“He’s a much better catch than Rocco.”

Rosanna would sigh and lean out the window.

“Eustacio, you are not a bad person,” she would say. “But I do not love you. My love is only for Rocco. Please find another girl on whom you can lavish your attention.”   

Rosanna sought the advice of her mother, who told her to talk to the village priest and herbalist, saying “Perhaps Brother Vittorio Domenico can find a solution to your problems of the heart.”

Soon Rosanna paid a visit to Vittorio Domenico at his cell hard by the local monastery. Kindly and humble, he was loved by the villagers, whom he put at ease by saying “Just call me Vito.” She explained her problem and his face lit up.

“My dear,” he said. “What you need is the pelanconi flower.”

“The pelanconi flower, holy father? What is that?”

He explained that the pelanconi was a flower with six thick, fuzzy white petals. The centers of alternating petals had a bright gold stripe with clearly defined edges. Interspersed between them were petals on whose white background were washed-out, pale blue splashes with ill-defined edges. The crushed petals of the pelanconi, when combined with baking soda and a virgin’s tears, would make the person on whose eyelids they were placed fall madly in love with the first person they saw.

At this, the holy father uncomfortably cleared his throat.

“You are a virgin, yes, Rosanna?”

Rosanna nodded, although not quite as demonstratively as the holy father might have liked..

“Holy father,” Rosanna asked. “Where will I find the pelanconi flower?”

“In meadows such as those on the slopes of  Punta Marguareis, the highest mountain in the Ligurian Alps,” he said. “Just below the timber line is a meadow where the pelanconi flower grows in profusion. There is one problem, though.”

“What is that, holy father?”

“The pelanconi flower is invisible to the human eye.”

“Then how shall I find it?” she asked, curling her auburn locks around her finger.

“To render it visible,” he said. “Run through the meadow, twirl around and sing ‘The hills are alive with the pelanconi.'”

“And then they will appear?”

“Yes, my dear. Pick 10 healthy specimens and bring them to me. I will create the paste that will bewitch this young man.”

Rosanna was thrilled — at last, Rocco would be hers and she would be the happiest girl in all of Ventifiatro. The next afternoon, she climbed the slopes of Punta Marguareis and did as instructed, harvesting the requisite number of pelanconi flowers. Unfortunately, during her descent, she was caught in one of the freak summer snowstorms that sometimes buffet high altitudes on Punta Marguareis and she developed a bad case of hypothermia.

For weeks, she lingered at death’s door. Her mother and the girls she worked with nursed her attentively. Almost everyone in the village came to visit during her convalescence. Sadly, one of those who stayed away was Rocco. But as Rosanna’s health returned, she knew he could not evade her augmented charms much longer.

One day after leaving her sickbed, Rosanna returned to work at the weaving factory downstairs. Then she paid another visit to Brother Vittorio Domenico.

“Here is the paste I have made for you, my dear,” he said. “Just be sure you are the first person he sees after you apply it.”

“Oh, I will, holy father,” she said. “Thank you!”

The next morning, as Rocco headed to the forest, Rosanna intercepted him as he strode mightily through the village square.

“Rocco,” she said. “I see that your face is sunburned from all the time you spend outdoors. Let me apply this salve, which will protect you from the ravages of the sun, so you can cut down many trees and earn many lira.”

“That is very kind of you, Rosanna,” he said, closing his eyes so she could apply the paste — lightly to his face overall, but generously to his eyelids.

Rosanna was rapt with anticipation — her triumph was at hand. But then disaster struck.

At that moment, Eustacio entered the square and, seeing the object of his affection, blew his bugle and cried out.”What ho, my dear, I have found thee! Come away with me, your own true love!” Curious to see what the fuss was all about, Rocco looked at Eustacio and his fate was sealed. Initially puzzled by Rocco’s attentions over the following weeks, Eustacio finally accepted Rosanna’s rebuffs and decided the big lug wasn’t so bad after all. He moved into Rocco’s small but well-furnished hut, where they lived happily ever after.

But Rosanna was not happy. Legend has it that she was so shocked by this turn of events that she never married, although many village swains wooed her ardently.

Rosanna was the last person to learn of the pelanconi flower from Brother Vittorio Domenico. But her wits became addled by the misfortune that befell her. So when the kindly priest and herbalist died, there was no one left to pass on the knowledge of this wondrous plant and its amatory powers throughout the Ligurian Alps.

But because you have read this, you know. The next time you watch “The Sound of Music” — and if you have an adolescent daughter, believe me, you will — look at the screen carefully and see if you can spot the pelanconi flower. If there is someone in your life who does not return your affection, go to the nearest alpine meadow and seek out this magical flower with its white, blue and yellow petals. You now possess its secret. Go forth and be happy. But for God’s sake, be careful.

Jon Krampner

Image by bess.hamiti@gmail.com from Pixabay – Mountain meadow with alps in the background and flowers and grass in front.