![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Anastasio Attanasio alias Ricky and the Forest of Montegufo - chapter one
Anastasio Attanasio, alias Ricky, was the youngest of five children, each born a few years after the other. Some had left home and rarely returned; and when the youngest, Maria Alba Caterina (or Ketty), boarded the Zeppelin for Beauxbatons, there was nobody to keep an eye on him when his father was at work.
Inevitably, what followed was a week of highly surprising and different homecomings. Alberico tried to talk Ricky into some sense, twice got him to promise to behave, but night after night he came home weary from work only to find things that needed fixing. His patience, though long tested (he had, after all, four other children), had a limit; and that limit was well and truly exceeded the day he came home and found all the poultry in the formal living room, legs tied together and scared out of their wits. And busy leaving reminders of their presence all over the furniture and the precious carpets.
When one found Ricky in that sort of situation, Alberico Attanasio had long since learned, there was no point in asking for an explanation. It would always be confusing, and it would never do much to prevent the next outburst. He transported the unfortunate birds back to their coop, Banished their fetters, and irritably set his son to clean the stains on the furniture. An order he promptly countermanded when the first stain to meet Ricky’s clumsy wand started giving a distinct smell of burned wood.
It had been a tough day, and Alberico Attanasio, Minister for Magic in Turin, was not prepared to try and make an eight-year-old see some sense, let alone train him in cleaning spells. He sent him to his room without any supper and fell into an armchair.
The next thing he knew it was one o’clock in the morning, the fire in the hearth had nearly burned itself out, and it was cold. And dark. The Minister got up, aware of unrested weariness in every bone in his body, threw some wood on the dying fire, and watched it slowly grow. Then he forced an Invigorating Charm into himself – he really did not want to, but he could not afford to have Ricky wake up and see the living room still uncleaned. The boy would get entirely the wrong kind of message, he felt. He got rid of all the bird-stains he could see and Transfigured the spot that Ricky had burned back into unburned mahogany. He knew he would pay for it when the Charm wore out in the morning, but then, chi se ne fregava? Who cared? He could always have a nap in his office. He was in a mood to tell everyone to get lost. And then it occurred to him that if he did and it became known, that damned man Caragiorgio would certainly make a fuss in the Council.
This could not go on. This just could not go on.
………………………………………………………………………………………….
When morning came, Ricky came downstairs rather nervously. He was worried about his father’s anger, but he knew that staying in his room would not improve it, and besides, he was ravenously hungry. A large breakfast spread out on the kitchen table, with a slice of cake to go with the usual caffelatte and biscuits, made his spirits rise – his father would not have ordered their house-elf to abound if he were still furious with him. Unable to wait a moment more, he sat down and started eating – actually, the proper word is scarfing – without waiting for anyone.
It was only when he had got to the bottom of the whole biscuit tin – and the cake was no more than a distant memory – that Ricky became aware that he had been hearing his father’s voice all along. He was in his studio, next door, speaking with someone – this was clear – through the house fire. Ricky had seen him do it hundreds of times. Ricky carefully cleaned his mouth with a napkin (it would not do to get Dad started on cleanliness just now) and went over, leaving the breakfast remains to the house-elf.
As he walked into his father’s studio, the voice got clearer. “…So if you think it can be done without too much trouble, I would consider it a favour.”
“Of course,” answered the voice from the hearth, “and quite frankly I don’t think there is any problem.” And now Ricky knew the speaker: he was the neighbourhood Healer, a middle-aged wizard called Cassio Quinto Giraudo, who had a few children of roughly his own age. “Do you, dear?” said Healer Giraudo, turning to someone unseen.
“That’s good then,” he went on, turning back to his father. “Shall we say in an hour?” Alberico just nodded. “In an hour, then.”
“Many thanks, Healer Giraudo.”
“Please, Minister, it’s nothing.” And the head disappeared from the flames.
“All right,” said Alberico, turning to Ricky as if he had always known he was there, “you heard that. In an hour, Maria Cassia Giraudo and Lapo d’Amalfi will come pick you up and take you with them to spend the day at the Aleramo’s. And from now on, that is what will happen every week day.”
Ricky was horrified and near tears. “But DADDY!!”
“Daddy what?”
“Maria Cassia is awful! And you said yourself that the d’Amalfis are all one big bad mob! I don’t WANNA go with them!”
“There is an alternative, of course.” Ricky looked up: this sounded hopeful. “I can always lock you up in a steel cage before I leave home, order the house-elf to feed you through the bars, and only release you when I come back.”
Now Ricky was shaken to his core. He took this seriously, and his eyes filled with tears; he did not manage to speak.
“Oh, good God! Listen, Ricky, I did not mean that. It was a joke. I wasn’t being serious!” The boy stopped blubbing. “But you have to understand that I can’t spend my days at work wondering whether I shall come back to find the farm burned down or a plague of giant pandas galumphing through it. This really cannot go on. The Aleramos will look after you, and you will find children your own age among them.” This clearly was the last word.
“Now, march! Go upstairs, get washed, get changed. Maria Cassia is coming here in an hour to pick you up.”
Inevitably, what followed was a week of highly surprising and different homecomings. Alberico tried to talk Ricky into some sense, twice got him to promise to behave, but night after night he came home weary from work only to find things that needed fixing. His patience, though long tested (he had, after all, four other children), had a limit; and that limit was well and truly exceeded the day he came home and found all the poultry in the formal living room, legs tied together and scared out of their wits. And busy leaving reminders of their presence all over the furniture and the precious carpets.
When one found Ricky in that sort of situation, Alberico Attanasio had long since learned, there was no point in asking for an explanation. It would always be confusing, and it would never do much to prevent the next outburst. He transported the unfortunate birds back to their coop, Banished their fetters, and irritably set his son to clean the stains on the furniture. An order he promptly countermanded when the first stain to meet Ricky’s clumsy wand started giving a distinct smell of burned wood.
It had been a tough day, and Alberico Attanasio, Minister for Magic in Turin, was not prepared to try and make an eight-year-old see some sense, let alone train him in cleaning spells. He sent him to his room without any supper and fell into an armchair.
The next thing he knew it was one o’clock in the morning, the fire in the hearth had nearly burned itself out, and it was cold. And dark. The Minister got up, aware of unrested weariness in every bone in his body, threw some wood on the dying fire, and watched it slowly grow. Then he forced an Invigorating Charm into himself – he really did not want to, but he could not afford to have Ricky wake up and see the living room still uncleaned. The boy would get entirely the wrong kind of message, he felt. He got rid of all the bird-stains he could see and Transfigured the spot that Ricky had burned back into unburned mahogany. He knew he would pay for it when the Charm wore out in the morning, but then, chi se ne fregava? Who cared? He could always have a nap in his office. He was in a mood to tell everyone to get lost. And then it occurred to him that if he did and it became known, that damned man Caragiorgio would certainly make a fuss in the Council.
This could not go on. This just could not go on.
………………………………………………………………………………………….
When morning came, Ricky came downstairs rather nervously. He was worried about his father’s anger, but he knew that staying in his room would not improve it, and besides, he was ravenously hungry. A large breakfast spread out on the kitchen table, with a slice of cake to go with the usual caffelatte and biscuits, made his spirits rise – his father would not have ordered their house-elf to abound if he were still furious with him. Unable to wait a moment more, he sat down and started eating – actually, the proper word is scarfing – without waiting for anyone.
It was only when he had got to the bottom of the whole biscuit tin – and the cake was no more than a distant memory – that Ricky became aware that he had been hearing his father’s voice all along. He was in his studio, next door, speaking with someone – this was clear – through the house fire. Ricky had seen him do it hundreds of times. Ricky carefully cleaned his mouth with a napkin (it would not do to get Dad started on cleanliness just now) and went over, leaving the breakfast remains to the house-elf.
As he walked into his father’s studio, the voice got clearer. “…So if you think it can be done without too much trouble, I would consider it a favour.”
“Of course,” answered the voice from the hearth, “and quite frankly I don’t think there is any problem.” And now Ricky knew the speaker: he was the neighbourhood Healer, a middle-aged wizard called Cassio Quinto Giraudo, who had a few children of roughly his own age. “Do you, dear?” said Healer Giraudo, turning to someone unseen.
“That’s good then,” he went on, turning back to his father. “Shall we say in an hour?” Alberico just nodded. “In an hour, then.”
“Many thanks, Healer Giraudo.”
“Please, Minister, it’s nothing.” And the head disappeared from the flames.
“All right,” said Alberico, turning to Ricky as if he had always known he was there, “you heard that. In an hour, Maria Cassia Giraudo and Lapo d’Amalfi will come pick you up and take you with them to spend the day at the Aleramo’s. And from now on, that is what will happen every week day.”
Ricky was horrified and near tears. “But DADDY!!”
“Daddy what?”
“Maria Cassia is awful! And you said yourself that the d’Amalfis are all one big bad mob! I don’t WANNA go with them!”
“There is an alternative, of course.” Ricky looked up: this sounded hopeful. “I can always lock you up in a steel cage before I leave home, order the house-elf to feed you through the bars, and only release you when I come back.”
Now Ricky was shaken to his core. He took this seriously, and his eyes filled with tears; he did not manage to speak.
“Oh, good God! Listen, Ricky, I did not mean that. It was a joke. I wasn’t being serious!” The boy stopped blubbing. “But you have to understand that I can’t spend my days at work wondering whether I shall come back to find the farm burned down or a plague of giant pandas galumphing through it. This really cannot go on. The Aleramos will look after you, and you will find children your own age among them.” This clearly was the last word.
“Now, march! Go upstairs, get washed, get changed. Maria Cassia is coming here in an hour to pick you up.”
no subject
I do still think it would be worthwhile for you to do the dialogue writer's equivalent of sketching from life: get a notepad and find some discrete corner in a busy place where you can transcribe bits of the conversations around you. Or at least close your eyes and listen mindfully.
The essential thing -- in writing just as in the visual arts -- is observation. Every aspect of that which we write or draw is either a recording of something immediately observed, or else is (largely unconsciously) pieced together from observations we have stored away for ourselves in the past. Failing any more specialized practice, I'd at least suggest finding some writers who are particularly good at writing dialogue for the sort of characters you're interested in writing, and spend extra time reading them, to round out your observational store.
no subject