In Pontescuro the Italian struggle for political unity at the turn of the 20th century and the concept of patriotism give way to the human need for connection and acceptance. That connection then aligns with fear and indifference, when the citizens of a tiny town are faced with a common enemy. It is the kind of fear that lurks along river banks, in the enveloping fog, and the hopelessness that dwells in their hearts and minds. The charm of the story is in the voices beyond the narrator. The river has a command of language, with a lovely ability to observe, analyze, and predict outcomes. The fog, the blue jay, the cargo boats, the bridge, even the cockroaches, join in the compassionate oratory woven into the drama of the murder of a young temptress. Dafne, the provocative daughter of the village’s detached and authoritative padrone speaks to us after she is already dead, and provides perspective on her unusual need to control the lowly village by way of seduction. The inhabitants cling to the moral structure the church provides, which keeps them humble, ashamed, compliant. The story of the bridge itself is one of an evil curse, making the bridge off limits to those who believe. Catholicism then provides the justification for judgment and shame and blame and secrets. The priests themselves are living with their own secrets of sex and overindulgence, and this underscores the hypocrisy of the whole situation.
Most notably, Pontescuro was nominated for the Strega Prize in Italy in 2019. Luca Raganin is a prolific novelist, lyricist, playwright, and has published on a multitude of subjects too numerous to mention. He considers Pontescuro to be the most Zen of all of his publications, and wants readers to experience its natural poetry, without calling it a murder mystery. The crime is merely a container for the larger story of a world where human dignity is crumbling like the houses of Pontescuro.
I see Pontescuro attracting readers who seek to better understand our human condition through metaphor, and through the resounding truths in the voices of nature that surround us. The spirituality rooted in Luca Ragagnin’s prose decorated with the suggestive illustrations of Enrico Remmert would attract fans of poetic prose who appreciate the universal connections found in authors like Antoine de Saint-Exupery, L. Frank Baum’s love of a fairy tale like adventure, and Argentinian author Adriàn N. Bravi who gives flight to our imagination. The setting of the Po Valley and its mysteries would attract Italophiles and readers interested in foreign cultures at the turn of the century that endured the psychological damage of war, poverty, oppression, and fear. The fog provides a metaphor for the confusion created by the femme fatale of the small community and the consequences of being female in general, with discourse that invites this book into feminist literary circles, with female protagonists who are victimized by the social constructs of religion, class, and gender roles. Female sexual freedom is unacceptable, and our main character utilizes her sexual prowess to manipulate and ultimately oppress the local male population, like a counterattack on the established rules and attitudes. The context of dream-like scenes in a timeless community, moral double standards, and blatant patriarchy echo feminist essayists like Rebecca Solnit, and the memoir of Annie Ernaux.
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