WIND OF MADAGASCAR

PREMISE

My name is Sveva, and I can’t exactly define my character. The events that I will tell you took place during the twenties of this century, and concern my life as a woman.

I have many, melancholy memories inside of me, in my golden casket, where I keep the most affectionate thoughts of my entire existence closed. And what I am going to tell you now is only a part of myself.

In my red Bugatti, I retrace the romantic road that leads from Yverdon to France.

I leave behind me dreams, thrills, fleeting wishes, lost illusions, castles consecrated to the immense, and, perhaps, ghosts. I see the big old trees, my beloved horse chestnuts, the lakes. I smile, the beautiful curls in the wind, the red lips, made to give wishes to anyone who gives me his dear looks.

And if you want to read my words, written with red pencil on my diary of the past, I will tell you about the enchanted mysteries of a lake, of burning passions, born to burn and turn into ashes, of legends, and of a distant island. , called Madagascar, where my happiest thoughts run.

One day, I visited the capital, Tananarive, a wanderer among the wayfarers, a passerby among the passers-by, dressed in a dress made of shells and palm leaves, and a colored veil.