The Di Cessano’s were legendary for their parties: porcini-stuffed wild boar roasted over flaming coals; the swirling, operatic tones of Flagstad and Melchior’s defining duet from Tristan und Isolde drifting out into the sultry, Tuscan night air.
Back then nobody knew about the fault line. Overnight, the house in the valley became the house on the hill.
If you drive past today, you may still catch a glimpse of Madame Di Cessano dancing in her silken gowns; defiant strains of Wagner echoing through the rugged, overgrown hillside. The parties may have stopped many years ago, but the memories linger on.
These words form my entry into this week’s Friday Fictioneers photo prompt challenge.