Bury Me

The coastal road meandered along the Italian rocky hill, keeping me on the edge with every turn. My journey was now in its final, loneliest stage. Many times in my life, I was told the sky is darkest before dawn, but even though my destination drew near, dawn seemed decades away as I drove through the pitch-black night, like a white feather diving into a bottle of tenebrous ink.

A flight of steep steps carved into the side of the hill caught my eye by the left of the road as my headlights illuminated a curve. It led down to a narrow, sandy beach that weathered the ebb and flow of the Mediterranean water. This was it. I pulled over and carefully walked to the top step with the urn nested in the crest of my elbow, my high heels struggling to find their footing among the dry grass that reached up to my ankles. Surely, I could have brought pumps instead. The situation showed poor planning on my part.

Before heading down, I pulled the letter from my pocket one more time and read it over to make sure the bizarre scene that was about to unfold indeed found roots in reality.

Dearest Diana,

You may not know me, but I have been thinking of you every step of the way since the very day of your birth. How ecstatic I was upon learning another girl had finally been born into our family. I was the first woman to bear the Bianchi name in three generations. Naturally, your grandfather must have spoken very little of his sister throughout the years. If you are reading these words, then I’m afraid it is too late for us to meet.

Growing up with seven brothers turned out to be a very isolating experience, especially after my mother died. The only thing that kept me sane were these long, delightful walks on the beach, where I could lose myself in thought with complete abandon and forget the world even existed beyond the foamy sea.

While walking, I ceased to exist. Loneliness became solitude, the kind that soothes your psyche and enlightens your soul. This solitude was taken from me when we moved to America at the onset of the War.

In New York, I had to learn English. I had to get used to tight living quarters. Most difficult of all, I had to forget about the sea of peacefulness that shielded. My health quickly deteriorated, and at eighteen they sent me to Ostruk. I knew nothing good could come from this institution the minute I stepped through its threshold. They claimed to want my wellbeing; they lied.

Perhaps you heard of me as “the crazy one” or the “mad woman.” If that is so, please know these words were written by your great-aunt while in full control of mind and body. It’s my understanding you have achieved much success with your company, and I am so proud of you.

You’re the only one I can trust with this task. I have enclosed the location of the beach from my youth hoping you can travel there sixty-seven days from the day I died, one day for every year spent away from it. There, at midnight, someone will come bring you what is rightfully yours.

With love,

           Your great-aunt Giulietta

I stood on the first step, motionless and confused. Indeed, grandpa had never spoken about a great-aunt locked up in an institution. On one hand, this might not have been the type of conversation one has over Christmas dinner. On the other, if this was true, everything I knew about my family had been brought into question. How could my grandfather, whom I held in such high esteem, be capable of such disdainful treatment towards his own sister?

Even though I did not fully believe the story told by Giulietta in the letter given to me by her notary, something compelled me to make the journey. The math added up: it was almost midnight, precisely sixty-seven days after her death, and I would soon know whether the whole story had been made up or not.

I grabbed the shovel from the trunk of my car and went down the steep stairway. This was of course my first time digging a grave, and it turned out to be more of a challenge than I imagined. The night wind surging from the Mediterranean Sea batted against my hair as I sank the shovel into the sand, over and over again, with the zeal of a young archeologist on the hunt for a lost treasure. Amidst the whizzing of the air around me, no other sound could be heard. In periodic flashes of terror, I turned left and right, haunted by the idea someone might creep up and viciously attack me. How foolish it was to have come here alone. The letter could have been a hoax written by a murderer in search of an easy prey, and what an easy prey I was indeed.

While I did find success with my clothing company at first, sales had been more difficult this year. The industry had changed, and bon chic bon genre garments no longer dominated the retail world. In the age of thrifting, my clientele had slowly melted away. The providential promise of great-aunt Giulietta’s mysterious fortune clouded my judgment. Everybody dreams of a surprise inheritance from a distant relative in times of need, but in that the moment the risk being taken to earn what was allegedly ‘rightfully mine’ outweighed the benefits.

Soon enough, I hit a rocky surface with the head of the shovel. This was as far as I could dig. I carefully positioned the urn at the bottom of the hole and threw back the displaced sand upon the ashes of my ancestor, fear still tearing at my heartstrings. The porcelain ornament vanished beneath the dirt. I glanced at my watch: it was now five past midnight. There was no one around, the absence both a relief and a disappointment. No inheritance loomed on the horizon, but no murdered lurked to kill me either.

With weak, drained steps, I walked back up the stairway, then gasped: a shadowy figure leaned against the hood of my car.

“Miss Bianchi?” said the dark man, his voice deep and raspy.

I could not reply, for every inch of my body was paralyzed. A petrifying terror permeated my muscles, preventing me from moving from head to toe. He approached, his chiseled jaw becoming clearer as he crossed the sliver of moonlight that filtered through the clouds over the hill.

“I believe this is yours,” added the dark stranger, presenting me with a jewelry box. Realizing I still could not move, he opened it for me: inside was the most beautiful emerald necklace I had ever seen. A piece of paper hung from the top of the box, fluttering in the wind.

Dearest Diana,

Against all odds, you honoured me. This is proof that a connection exists between us, in spite of the distance and the generations that kept us apart. My mother gave this to me before she died, and I kept it hidden from my brothers ever since. Now I give it to you, woman to woman. Know that I am with you, always.

With love,

Your great-aunt Giulietta

My hands carefully grabbed the necklace and wrapped it around my neck. The green gems shimmered in the moonlight. For a brief second, I thought of its worth. Surely, selling it would solve all my financial issues and put my company back on track, but this was not an option. Somehow, I knew a daughter would one day come into my life and take ownership of the jewel. Business comes and goes, but the ties of family bind forever.

As the dark stranger walked back to his vehicle, I caught a last glimpse of the narrow beach before the moon vanished behind the clouds, plunging it into darkness. I would be back in the morning. Not to bury the dead, but to take a long walk in solitude.