Dream Sequence Italiano

This is an elaboration on a dream that I had back in October... It was quite magical and I felt like I was watching a movie. The only additions are the distinct dialogue and thoughts.

He was going to come out to speak soon. We all knew it. Voices around me lowered, and yet grew in intensity. All stood there, in elegant silk and taffeta gowns, pearls, and perfect up-dos - the men in sharp tuxedos and cumberbunds - as if attending a ball. This squared grid of narrow stone pathways was filled with their bodies in dress shoes and high heels, all bordering dark squares of water, each containing a wide gondola where couples sat. They were more priveleged than those who stood, though they were just as excited, and did not have a greater view of the stage of stairs before them all.

 

At the edge, and the precipice of this grid, a long narrow step stretched wide across, as if a standing boundary line. More of these sandstone steps descended, perhaps yards, until a large flat expanse of the flooring stretched out, leading to the grand display: a gargantuan and wide grand stairway, laid neatly with a giant red carpet. And all this, outside under the starry night sky, somewhere in the drawling city of Venice.

 

I kneaded my hands in anticipation. Dove è Ronaldo? He should have been there by then. I sat alone in one of the gondolas, waiting for him to find me. My strapless green wrap gown held me tightly, sprawling over the little boat's wooden hull. A delicate choker of pearls laced my neck, like so many other ladies that night, along with dangling pearl earrings that graced my earlobes. My hair was pulled up into a french twist, held tightly in place by too many bobby-pins to count. I resisted biting my French manicured nails. Dove è?

 

Through the legs of the men standing in front of me, I saw a small group of elderly men walk out into the spotlight. Yes, the spotlight, which was trained on a center spot on that grand staircase. Two microphones were set up on those steps. The elderly men chattered amongst themselves, though none of us could hear what they were saying. Everyone's breath had nearly caught in their throats when they had descended the stairs to this spot, but now their excited whisperings intensified all the more.

 

Suddenly a warm hand caught my shoulder. My body jumped a little, and I turned to see Ronaldo's smiling face. It was chiseled and tanned, and he had a thin layer of unshaven hair on his face, the stylish "5 o' clock shadow". A thick, wavy head of dark brown hair was combed to perfection. He, too, was dressed in the exquisite tuxedo and cumberbund, though it would seem he was not very comfortable in it. So greatly relieved, I let him help me to my feet and from the gondola onto the stone, and from there we slowly and carefully picked our way through the others towards the front, that great front step that led down to the stage of stairs.

 

Voices lowered, then "Oh!"s and "Osservi!"s resounded throughout the crowd, though still in hushed tones. There he was - the man we had all been waiting for. The elderly but charismatic American, who did not speak our language, but inspired us all, was coming down the steps now, dressed in a most elegant and old-fashioned suit and cravat. Everyone fell silent as he stepped up to the microphone, and began to speak. We did not understand what he said, but next to him a younger man stood at the other microphone, translating into it, and further into small earpieces which we had received as we had arrived.

 

"Buona sera, signore e signori. Vengo a voi questa notte dall'America. Ho veduto molte cose svilupparmi intorno al nostro mondo, che sia stanno incantando che disturbando. Ma sono qui dirlo: non sia scoraggiato. Se ci uniamo insieme potremo sormontare quello che aumenta contro di noi."

 

The speech continued on as such, and there were teared eyes and nods all around. Ronaldo and I held hands and looked at each other, then back at our speaker. We felt quite priveleged indeed to be able to see him and hear him speak such inspirations. Ronaldo squeezed my hand, smiled, leaned his head down to my shoulder and whispered, "Ti amo, Violetta."

Author's Note

Note: This will be entered in the current "Dream Drones" writing contest, to end September 1, 2008.

Reviews

[JohnL]

Very well constructed piece. It is not easy to write lucidly about dreams, which are by nature less that realistic. You construct an atmosphere very well and have avoided any attempt to be needlessly spectacular, while still offering a slightly unworldy ambience. May I make a personal comment? I do not like the phrase 'off of the gondola'. Either get rid of the 'of', or say 'I let him help me from the gondola onto the stone'. Of course, I am English and there are usage differences, but please think about it. Lovely work, thank you,
John