The Sicromazia suite seems suspended between the trees and the sky. Located in a restructured building that probably used to be a convent, it faces east, on the centennial forest of oaks. Nature breaks through the windows and the great bay window; faced with the rustling of the leaves and the wind moving the branches, you get the impression of being enveloped in a dazzling sea of green, that slowly changes color with the passing of the season and of the day. With its 42 square meters, this room was thought to offer great comfort in a place where time may even stand still. Floors in stone with nuances of amaranth, high beamed ceilings that slope symmetrically on each side, a delightful old fireplace in white marble, antique night lights from Murano that create seductive plays of light, counter pointed by touches of color and contemporary items. The grand bathroom, with a bathtub and a shower equipped for chromo therapy, lined in green ardesia stone and gravel of the same color – a subtle recall to the green sea of Umbria.
The chronicles of Mister Alfredo de Projestiinis Euroleis narrate the legend of Sicromazia, the reign of the curious princess, in the section dedicated to the countries of substitute desire.
Once upon a time there was a kingdom, a small one to say the truth, but prosperous and peaceful. It was the kingdom of Sicromazia. The king and queen were – incredibly! – very loved and respected by their people, industrious and placid people, happy with their simple routine, letting the days pass slowly one after another, knowing their tomorrow was safe and certain that nothing bad would ever happen to them. The inevitable end was not contemplated and the hours, what am I saying, the minutes rolled by calmly, and they didn’t have a thought in the world. The people of Sicromazia never seemed to be touched by fears or frenzies and continued their lives with the calmness of those who don’t fear the unexpected, but also with the lack of fantasy of those who can’t seem to imagine that just outside their door a precipice might open or a fig tree might suddenly grow. They had traded their curiosity, their love for the unknown and their thirst for knowledge for their tranquility. Desire had slowly disappeared. That authentic desire, that has nothing to do with will, the desire that brings fulfillment, that intimate aspiration for something we do not possess had vanished and had been substituted with the necessity of a never-changing environment. No doubt, the pictures of painters became postcards to send to the elderly and novels became magazines about domestic economy, but nobody saw anything wrong in that. Who would exchange imperturbability with the Sistine Chapel?
But the inevitable happened: the youngest daughter of the king demonstrated from a young age, a particular interest in knowledge. She couldn’t finish a sentence without putting at least three “why’s” in it, with at least the same number of question marks – but she was never satisfied by the answers that were given to her and she kept asking for explanations and clarification, unheeding the dogmatic laws that, according to her father, the king, were more than enough to explain everything and silence any doubts. Actually, the word “doubt” had been cancelled from the dictionaries of Sicromazia: What could be better than having the road already traced and ready for use, perfectly in order? The poor man couldn’t believe, that his own flesh and blood had to be marked a rebel and of what measure! That his own daughter was the only one who, in so many years, wanted to change the pre-existing order of things, to distrust the continuous and rigorous application of rules, who wanted to start new enterprises and – worst of all – dream a world with less demented people and more exploration.
In the end, tired of the petulant and obsessive questions of the young girl, the narrow-minded parent surrendered and decided to send his best men to look for a teacher willing to come secretly to Sicromazia. Who knows if this would finally satiate the unquenchable curiosity of his blessed daughter!
The answer was no. On the contrary: those good professors did nothing more than add wood to the fire and foment the unrest with which the little child had been born. Once she had been taught philosophy, history and even geothermics, the little rebel wasn’t satisfied with what was given her, but the desire to see those places in person blossomed inside her. She wanted to see what was outside the boundaries of the kingdom. It was unheard of! It had been over three centuries since anybody had felt the need to leave Sicromazia! What heresy! Seeing as she had been well instructed even in the art of oration and because fatherly love is boundless, her father, after arguing with her for a few days, gave in. He agreed that his daughter, in disguise and well escorted by one of the best squad of dragoons, could leave the kingdom. He planned the itinerary, the routes, the timing and the stopovers.
In the two years his daughter was absent, the king found himself missing that extravagant member of his household, although, he slept more soundly.
But the devil, it is well known, makes pots not lids. The young girl came back more passionate than ever before, if that were possible. She asked her noble father to give her permission to go to see the sea. The sea? Absurd! Sicromazia was a small Kingdom between the mountains of Licenstano and the planes of Strazia, so far away from the sea that the whole life of the fastest knight wouldn’t be long enough to reach it! Oh my! What to do? Because one thing was certain: the young lady would not give up.
So the king called himself an idiot and a moron: was it not his fault if his daughter could not calm down? Oh, if he’d only been stricter, if only he had decided that the dreams of his daughter had to be eliminated by spanking her! But it was too late now.
But, upon thinking about it, the king had an epiphany: if one could not reach the sea from Sicromazia, well, the sea must come to Sicromazia! He constructed a beautiful room in the middle of a centennial forest, where the rustling of the leaves imitated the sound of the waves, with an enormous bathroom completely lathered in lapis lazuli and in grit to represent the oscillation of the currents. He called his daughter and gave her the keys. She was finally speechless, and decided that she could not ask more of her poor father. She even spent her wedding night in that room: she had married the descendant of a family of fishermen, who had come to Sicromazia, who knows how, more than a century ago.
