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finalelocandina

Since the official page is in Italian only, you can there see the video, photographs and illustrations but I’ve thought of translating the story for you, right here ! So go ahead and read it, then check out the whole project at the link below !

Inspired on a novel by Paul Auster – Brooklyn Follies, 2005 – in which he tells of a man who tries to relieve the pain of a kid who had lost her doll, giving life to a daily mail pretending to be the same doll and telling her many adventures.

IlCaravaggio Production has therefore created The Last Missive, to share a possible interpretation of an alternate ending in which the doll, after taking life, feeling abandoned and forgotten, tries to take revenge.

 

The air was heavy, the walls dark and moldy. There was no window in the room and the only light source was coming from underneath the door, a fire segment which has burnt her eyes every morning for months. There was just a little space, walls were so close they were almost touching their selves, squeezing her in an icy grip. She was alone, in a little corner forgotten by everybody. Besides her, in the room there were only an old broom and a big crucifix made of wood. Every little bit of hope was long gone. The doll had been closed in there for too many days to be counted; she didn’t know who put her in there: she was sure she felt asleep with Sara, her kiddo, but when she opened her eyes.. the unknown darkness of this room. She didn’t get scared right away: she thought it could happen to a doll to be moved and put in a closet for mistake. She surely wasn’t happy but never would have she imagined her imprisonment could last so long; she was sure Sara would have looked for her. It had been so long she felt like she grew up: at the beginning, she used to stay snuggled between the bristles to feel less cold, now she could move the broom and use it with her hands. Days, months, years passed and in the room no freedom sign; just a few times she could hear steps right outside the door. Sometimes they were so close that the light stopped coming in through the underneath of the door. A few times she heard a man voice calling: “Dora!”.

Dora. Dora Dora Dora. She had never heard of any Dora. This woman became her everyday thought, her torture and the only thing which was keeping her interested in the world outside that door. Did she close her in there? If so, why? Who is she? And who’s the man calling for her? “Dora!”. It was a particularly dark and silent day. Suddenly, the door opened. She could only whisper “Dora”. Wrapped into a soft and dazzling light,  she saw just a shape more than a woman: she couldn’t see a face, couldn’t see if she had long hair or a veil but she was sure she never saw her before. She was sure it was Dora tho. Her torturer who now became her savior. The doll was so happy she fainted; when she woke up again she realized how much she did grow up: by now she was as tall as a person and Dora didn’t look so big anymore. Dora moved from the dazzling light so the doll could see she was a nun, wrinkles rippling her face and the black veil gently falling on her shoulders. They were in a church, on the benches’ sits for the faithful; the church was small and a lot of Jesus’s faces were old and rotten. The doll was thirsty of knowledge but she waited for the nun to speak and explain. Dora told her everything: Franz closed her in there, a sombre and taciturn man, who said he found the doll in a bush, in the park. Dora initially thought there was no problem, “it’s just a doll”. This church was in the countryside and nobody was visiting it anymore, Franz was the only one. He used to get there almost everyday and used to sit in the portico writing, writing and writing. Everything got clear: the doll was Sara’s, and Franz used to meet her every morning at the park to give her a letter each day, written by a doll that had to leave. Sara was glad to hear her doll was fine so she was happy about receiving these letters. She did have no suspect of what was going on with her real doll and with Franz keeping her as a prisoner. This letters thing couldn’t last too long so Franz stopped it and Sara accepted it. Franz, instead, kept writing those letters, imagining far places, thinking someone might care about this imaginary doll’s adventures. It was years now, Dora almost forgot about the doll’s episode. At a point tho, Franz went to the churh and waited for Dora asking if he could confess. Few words with the priest too but Franz gave him a package of letters of which he wanted to get rid. The priest gave them to Dora who read everything and thought of the doll, closed in the closet of the church.

The doll didn’t say anything, Sara, her kid, who didn’t say a word about her missing and passively got used to it, Dora, who waited so much to open that door and then Franz, who kept her as a hostage for so long for a selfish whim. She couldn’t either fell sorry nor forget him or understand him, especially if she thought of all the time she had to spend closed in there. She would not let him geta way with it. Dora was still talking but she wasn’t listening anymore. She was thinking her revenge. Dora told her she could stay in the church because she jsut couldn’t go back to Sara or the normal world; she ensured her Franz would never get back: once he gave up the letters he could have been able to get over it. She nodded and said “thanks”. Dora was right, Franz did not show up anymore. Months passing and she was still hoping for her revenge to come true. She thought of a strategy and so used the card of catholic mercy: she told Dora she got over the rage, being ready to forgive Franz, and that she wanted to meet him to tell him in person. Dora was glad to hear that and she set a meeting right there, at the church. Franz came on a cloudy and foggy day, the fog was so heavy you couldn’t see further the church in those fields around it. The doll was waiting, she was sitting in front of the altar with a gun on her right leg, under her dress.  Dora and Franz got close so she got up and looked at Franz right in the eys. Dora wasn’t expecting anything similar to happen. She pointed her gun to his forehead and said “now you’ll have beutiful stories to write!”.

Check out the whole project at: ilcaravaggioproduction.it

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