S'Attittu
An unexpected visit home. A family loss, that brought light to these eyes. The sunny weather and the unusual warm winter were penetrating my cold skin. The silent walk of time, the discrete celebration of the New Year, everything whispered, in respect to the dead and her distraught family.
Someone very close to me was dead, but the part of me who stays the student, the curious cat, the little girl who looks at things like new discoveries, she was looking at the event like something totally fascinating and powerful. My auntie was there, lying on her bed. Her dead body dressed up, as if for an important function, as tradition decrees. Her hands were joined together, holding the white, mother-of-pearl, beautiful rosary. Over her was a sheet of white tulle, with an embroidered cross on the top. She was wearing the best jewellery she owned, her nails were perfectly painted and she looked almost happy, with her mouth drawing a Monnalisa smile: a smile of contentment, a smile of painless sleep.
What happened next, when all my other aunties and other female family members came, is what in Sardinia is called "S'Attittu". Literally the meaning of the word would be the one of breast-feeding while singing lullabies to a newborn baby. From that primitive and natural act, comes this other one, which is a singing that accompanies the person to death.This is a very old traditional way of mourning the dead loudly, crying, praying, and theatrically discussing how good the person was in life and the things she did, sometimes in a dialogue between each other, some other times even in rhyme. The rhyme would be the original and oldest way to “attittai”.
For example, one of my aunties who lives in Milan, Teresa, came that day and, because unaccustomed to the Sardinian dialect she started her Attittu in Italian. “Sorella mia, sorella mia, come sei bella. Che mani fredde che hai, come te le vorrei scaldare. Queste mani, queste mani laboriose! Quante cose facevi con queste mani!”1 And then she started in sardinian asking “Ta bella chi sesi tottu cuncodrada, sorri mia! A innui deppisi andai?”2 and her husband answered crying “Deppidi andai a unu matrimoniu!”3. Teresa started again
“Ohi sorri mia, sorri mia de su coru, biau chi t’ada biri tottu bistida beni po su matrimoniu! Biau Antoi e Giulliu ca ti pointi basai immui, sorri mia! Ohi sorri mia, ta gellosa chi seu, ca immui dis’ preparasa is parafrittusu ai gussusu! Cummenti fadeusu immui sorri mia? Tanti gia é nudda cussu chi é pedrendi pobiddu dúu. Tanti gia é nudda sa mamma chi ci pedrinti is fillus tusu. Ohi sorri mia de su coru, giai ‘nd’asi fattu setti cosas bellas cun custas manus! No potteis frorisi, ca tanti no tindi praxianta, oh sorri mia! Ca tanti no di teniasta su giardinu sempri bellu. Sempri curau cummenti obiasta tui! Manus bellas pottasta sorri mia, poi coxinai e po curai sa dommu! Ohi sorri mia addio sorri mia, addio.”4
I felt distraught for the death of my auntie, and felt terribly guilty for not being there the day the Angel took her; and these passionate words were making everyone cry even more. But deep inside, after I realized I was looking at Attittusu myself, I felt I was taking part in a tradition that’s almost disappeared even in Sardinia, and that deserves at least the comment of a city writer.
After Teresa, the other sisters did pretty much the same; Giovanna gave my auntie a white rose, saying that she had to do her a big favour:
“Sorry mia, faimmí custu prexeri, ta bella chi sesi
Deu du sciu ca tui ses bona, deu nau ca middu faisi
Custa rosa esti po pobiddu miu
Naraddi a Sriviu de pregai po nosusu
Ca issu du bidi, deu du sciu
In sa condizoi a ca seusu.
Naraddi itta é aspettendi
Ca esti de meda ca du seu preghendi.
Naraddi de pregai po is fillasa, pregai po Cicci
Every Attittu was a prayer, a flower, a rhyme and a tribute to the dead. Every single one was, especially, just like my guilty thoughts, a personal reflection on life and a wish to ask her. Pina came too, and she asked the dead to thank God for her son, affected from Down syndrome.
“Ca deu d’appu prantu sa dí ca é nasciu; no du scíia ca deppia arrí. Poitta Deusu m’iada arregallau sa forza, sa forza mia!”6
It might look like this piece of experience from a Sardinian funeral does not have anything to do with writing the City. Nevertheless, I felt that if we can’t talk about our origins, if we can’t recognise the treasure that we have in our ancient cultures, what can we say about the city? What can I understand about Michelangelo if I can’t listen to the old Sardinian song that my uncle used to write based on the Bible? What can I see in the works collected in the British Museum or in the Tate Britain, if I can’t see the big events of my everyday life like works of art? After all, before cities, the popular culture emerged: this does not apply to a smaller or bigger space because, like art and history, it's made by people.
4“Oh sister, sister of my heart, lucky is the one who will see you all dressed up for this wedding! Antonio and Giulio (other brothers who passed away years before) are lucky because they can kiss you, sister! Oh sister, I’m so jealous that you’ll be preparing doughnuts for them! What can we do now, sister? What a big loss for your husband! What a mum your sons are losing! Oh sister of my heart, how many good things you did with these hands! Don’t bring flowers, she didn’t like them, isn’t it sister? Didn’t you have a beautiful garden that you looked after always, always in your way! You had good hands sister, to cook and to look after the house. Oh, sister good bye, my sister, good bye.
5(in rhyme)“My sister, do me this favour, how beautiful you are; I know you are good and I believe you will do it to me. This rose is for my husband, tell him to prey for us, because he sees, I know, the condition we are in. Tell him, what he’s waiting for? I’ve been praying him for ages! Tell him to prey for his daughter, especially for Cicci; how do we go ahead like this?”
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