Chapter Ten

Chapter Ten

So Dear reader, here we are, thirteen hours and thirteen and a half thousand words to go. Do able? I have no fucking idea, sorry for my language Dear Reader, but panic has now set in. right back to the story. Where were we? Ah yes, young Giacomo was spark out on the floor. Shall we wake him up? Shall we find out where he is? Okay, let’s go for it.
Giacomo felt the cold water hit his face. At first he had no idea what it was, when he had worked out that it was indeed water, he could not understand where it was coming from. Some where, through the ringing and fuzzy hum, buzzing through his ears he could voices, quiet voices, not whispering, but lowered, concerned, almost sympathetic.
Slowly he tried to open his eyes. At first it seemed as though he had forgotten how they worked, his brain kept sending them signals but the eyelids refused to obey. The voices spoke again, still fuzzy, still muffled, not so concerned, more urgent. He listened carefully trying to make out the words, occasionally he caught one, ‘alive’, ‘breathing’, ‘hit’, ‘hard’, and the brain tried to remember their meanings.
More water hit him in the face and he gagged and spluttered as it filled his nose and mouth, his eyes remembered what that where for and the lids decided that they could open after all.
Giacomo looked around, his brain searched for clues in they blurry shapes and the fuzzy colours that surrounded him. slowly, very slowly his brain took control of his eyes and started to work on focusing. Again he looked around, the brain trying to put the collection of objects that it could see in to some sort of order. Slowly it realised where it was. It was in the alley way, surrounded by the boxes and bins that Giacomo had thrown about earlier. How much earlier, seconds ago, minutes, hours, how long had he been unconscious, why had he been unconscious, why was he half lying half sitting against a wall in some rubbish strewn alley.
A large pink blob presented itself before him, the eye’s tried to make some sense from it, tried to find some point on which to focus, to find something recognisable in the mass of pinkness and shadows.
A voice spoke, “See, I told you he’d be okay.”
A dark hole appeared in the pink blob and another voice spoke, “I think it was more luck than judgement, I told you Signore Gangster did not want him hurt.”
The first voice again, “I only gave him a tap.”
The pink blob, “If that is your idea of a tap, god preserve us if you ever hit anyone properly.”
Giacomo’s brain suddenly and quite unexpectedly decide to join all the little clues together, pain, alley way, two voices, big pink blob. It remembered what had happened, it would have been a lot better for Giacomo if it had not. The brain decided, against the better judgement of the rest of the body, that there was danger again and that it needed to get Giacomo as far away from here as possible.
Surprisingly to Giacomo and the two men watching him, he leapt to his feet, grabbing at a wooden crate as he did so and swinging it at the pink fuzzy blob in front of him, he felt the crate make contact, heard the thud of wood on skin and bone and saw the pink blob disappear sideways. He turned and saw a tall dark shape moving towards him, Giacomo sprang forward and again swung the wooden crate. He heard the wooden crate make contact but this time the shape did not disappear side ways. It remained in his path and it seemed to have control of the wooden crate. The crate came swinging back towards him, it made contact on the side off his head, and he spun round and found himself face to face with the pink blob. His brain had begun now to make sense of the shapes and sounds and chose this moment to inform Giacomo what it had found out. The pink blob moved closer and Giacomo recognised it as the face of Little Paulo, Giacomo didn’t see the punch coming but he felt the blow hit his stomach making him double over forward, he felt the second one strike his jaw and send him reeling backwards towards the bins and boxes, he felt the kicks and blows raining down on him, he could hear Little Paulo’s voice repeating the same words over and over, “We were going to do this nicely, we only wanted a chat, Signore Gangster had an offer to make to you, he had a way for you to pay off your debt, he was going to offer you a job”
The blows and shouting stopped suddenly, Giacomo lay for a moment curled up in the foetal position, then something started happening, not to him, but around him. There was shouting and scuffling and the sound of blows being exchanged and then footsteps disappearing in to the distance. Giacomo lay for a moment, unsure of what to do, too scared to move, too scared not to, he braced himself, ready for the blows to start again, he flinched as he felt a hand on his shoulder and then he relaxed as he heard a familiar voice, “Como my boy, are you okay?”
Giacomo began to uncurl, he took his arms away from his head and uncovered his eyes, he was happy to see the concerned face of Mario kneeling beside him.
“Come on boy,” Mario continued, “let’s get you cleaned up.” Mario helped Giacomo to his feet and supported him as the two men made their way across the small square and to the bar.
He sat Giacomo on one of the rusting chairs and disappeared in to the blackness of the bar. Giacomo gingerly touched his face, he winced as he found a particularly tender spot just below his left eye, he drew his hand away and looked at it, the tips of his fingers were covered in blood. His brain, having done it’s best to protect him up to this point, decided to inform him about how the rest of his body felt. It felt bad. Muscles burned, joints ached, ribs cried out in pain, even the back of his eyeballs hurt.
Mario reappeared from the bar carrying a bowl of steaming water, some slightly grubby looking tea towels were draped over one arm. Behind him walked the young waiter carrying a tray containing two glasses and a large bottle of brandy. Mario indicated to the waiter to just leave the tray on the table and then he set about the task of cleaning Giacomo up.
Giacomo was surprised, Mario’s touch was soft, his movements and actions gentle. Giacomo looked at Mario and saw the concentration and concern in his eyes. After a few moments Mario spoke, “You won’t need any stitches, they’re not deep cuts, but you’re a skinny little runt and they’re right on the bone. I wish I had some tape, I could stop this bleeding in seconds if I had some tape, here, hold this.” Mario guided Giacomo’s hand up to his cheek, “Pinch the skin together here, don’t let go.”
Mario dipped the towel in to the water again and started to clean the cuts on Giacomo’s free hand, Giacomo watched as Mario worked, “This is not the first time you’ve done this?”
“No.” Mario said without looking up from his work.
“It’s a useful skill to have.” Giacomo said.
“Useful, necessary, there’s world of difference.”
“You were a boxer weren’t you?”
“That was a long time ago. It was in a different age, in a different world”
“Tell me about it,” Giacomo winced as Mario cleaned a graze on the palm of his hand, “Why did you give it up?”
“I’d rather not. It’s not something I like to talk about.”
“Please Mario; humour a young man who is in great pain.”
Mario stopped cleaning Giacomo’s wounds and looked at him, he sighed heavily, laid down the cloth and then sat down. He began to pour two glasses of brandy, “I don’t think I actually ever gave it up,” he said handing Giacomo a glassful of the dark heady liquid, “I think it gave me up.” He settled back in the rusty steel chair, took a fat cigar from his breast pocket and stuck, unlit, in to the corner of his mouth, and then he drained the glass of brandy in one and began to pour another.
“I was born at the arse end of World War Two,” Mario said, swirling the brandy around in his glass, “not far from here actually, a little apartment in the Via Di Compact Recorder.”
“Compact Recorder? That’s all factories.”
“It is now, they cleared the apartments in the early seventies, cockroach infested slums they were, rats the size of cats, but it was home and we loved it. I was the seventh of nine children, I don’t remember my youngest brother and sister, they died before I was four years old and so technically, like you, I was the youngest, the baby of the family.” He pulled out a Zippo lighter and lit the cigar, “I was always in trouble as a kid, as soon as I could walk I was in to every thing. The day I found out how the latch on the front door worked, my mother cried.
By the time I was seven every policeman in Suoloduro new my name and where I lived. My Nonna was convinced I was possessed by the devil, my zia’s suggested sending me to a children’s home and my Zio Frangipani suggested putting me in a sack and dropping me in the Vestavia River. By the time I was ten I was uncontrollable, my mother had given up on me and my papa, well my papa, somewhere in between the beatings I could tell he had not given up, I could see he still had hope, that he could see in me a spark, a spark of what I don’t know, but he saw something.”
Mario lent forward and poured them both some more brandy, “On my eleventh birthday he came home from work and said ‘son I have some thing for you, come with me’, well I tell you, I got ready to run. When ever my papa said he had something for me it usually meant a another beating.” He smiled to himself and took a long a drag on his cigar, “He took me by the hand and led me, down the dark narrow stairs, and out of the apartment block, I was quite scared, shit I thought, this is going to be such a beating he doesn’t want the rest of the block to hear it. Then I thought that perhaps he was going to give me away, I hadn’t noticed before, but I realised that he was carrying a brown paper parcel tied with string, I bet that contains my clothes, I remember thinking. It wasn’t a very big parcel, but then again I didn’t have very many clothes.
We came through here, passed right through this square, it seemed a lot bigger when I was a kid and of course in those days the fountain worked. It ran day and night with cool clear fresh water, channelled down here in pipes from the springs up in the mountains. The women of the area would come each day to fill buckets and pans, it was a time to gossip and catch up on the local news. We all had stand pipes at the back of our apartments but nobody trusted them, the water was pumped in from the river and we all knew what went into the river, mainly us kids from the bridge in the middle of town.” He laughed his pistol shot laugh and it echoed and reverberated of the buildings.
“Anyway,” Mario continued, “we walked down through here and made our way through the side streets and alley ways until we came out in another little square, another little square a fountain. He gripped my hand tighter as we made our way across and I thought, this is it, he’s going to give me away or put me in the children’s home. He stopped outside the church of St Anthony of Padua, you know, the little church we went to the other day?”
Giacomo nodded and sipped at his brandy, the liquid was warm and soothing but had a nasty habit of finding the cuts and sores in his bruised and swollen mouth.
Mario looked at Giacomo for a moment and then continued, “Anyway, there we were stood outside the little church, me, well by this point I’m thoroughly confused, I’m thinking to myself, is he going to beat me and we’ve come here so that he can ask forgiveness, is he going to give me to a family the priest has found, is he going to leave me here and let the priest take me to the orphanage, or is he going to put me into the church, perhaps they’re going to have me trained as a priest or a monk.
After a moment or two, Father Dominic appears at the main doors and makes his way down the steps, greeting my papa like an old friend, that’s it; I’m starting to cry now, great big, hot, fat, tears running down my face, and I start to plead with my papa, ‘don’t leave here papa, don’t send me way, I’ll be good papa, please papa, don’t let them take me away’. Big bubbles of snot are exploding from my nose and now I’m gripping my papa’s hand, holding on as tight as possible. If they want to take me away they are going to have to cut my hand off to get me away from my papa.
The priest is standing in front of us now and he shakes my papa’s hand and say’s ‘well Franco, is this the little fella?’ my papa looks down at me and I can see the tears in his eyes and he doesn’t say anything, he just nods. He kneels down and wipes the tears from his eyes and then starts to clean my face, wiping away the tears with his big white hanky that always smelt of engineering oil and making me blow my nose. He looks at me straight in the eyes and says the words I been dreading, ‘ciao Mario, I want you to be a big brave boy and go with Father Dominic.’ He kisses me on the cheeks and then on the forehead, stands up and passes my trembling hand to the Father.
Well, I thinks to myself, if that’s how it’s going to be, then that’s how it will be, if they no longer want me, I no longer want anything to do with them. I stood next to that priest like a soldier at attention; I drew my self up as tall as any eleven year old has ever been and even though inside I wanted to scream and cry and beg for one last chance, not a tremor or a tear appeared on my face. My father handed the parcel to the priest and said, ‘these are for the boy’, then he looked at me one last time, ruffled my hair with one of his big strong hands, turned and without ever looking back, walked off.”
Giacomo wiped a tear away from his eye and took a swig of his brandy, and then he cleared the lump in his throat and said, “Was that the last time you saw any of your family?”
Mario looked at him, “whose story is this?”
Giacomo looked down at his brandy.
Mario continued, “Then let me tell it at my own pace.” He topped up their glasses and took another puff at the big cigar, “The priest looks down at me and then kneels, so that we are looking at each other eye to eye, but I can’t take my eyes off that parcel, which the priest now has tucked under his arm, ‘Look at me Mario’, he says, I suddenly noticed how soft and quietly spoken he was, not something I’d heard in a priest before, the Christian Brothers who taught at my school were always shouting and screaming, I don’t think they could manage anything below a yell. So I looks at him, straight in his steel blue eyes and he says, ‘Your papa says you’re a bit of a tearaway, that he and your mama don’t know what to do for the best any more, they’re hoping that I might be able to set you on the right path, before it’s to late to save you. Come with me lad’. He stood up and, gripping my little hand, he led me off around to the side of the church.”
He lent back in his chair and stared in to the darkness of the bar, “Hey, Marco,” he called, “bring me and my young injured friend some snacks, all this talking is making me hungry.” Mario turned back to the table, “Down the side of the church was a wooden hut type affair, it’s not there any more, I think it fell down years ago, it was big, well it seemed big to a little lad like me, I guess it was about twenty, twenty five feet wide and about forty foot long (I know dear reader I been doing measurements in metres but I can’t be bothered to do the conversion at the moment that’s what second drafts are for) it had little windows high up all the way around and at the front a couple of concrete steps leading up to a set of wooden double doors, above the doors was a sign it read, ‘Saint Anthony of Padua Boys club’, that meant absolutely nothing to a kid like me, I just assumed it was the name for the children’s home, my little legs were shaking like a jerry built apartment in an earthquake, as we got to the bottom of the steps Father Dominic stops and sits down on the bottom step, he patted the space next to him, and relieved to get the weight off my little frightened legs I sat down. He placed the parcel on his knees and turned to me, ‘do you understand why your mama and papa have sent you to me?’ I looked down at my feet, I remember saying something like ‘They don’t want me no more, they want you to find me a new family’, I can remember his laugh to this very day, a gentle rolling laugh, like, like a spring stream at the height of the thaw bubbling and babbling over the rocks, I looked at him and remember thinking, what a bastard, laughing at me because my mama and papa don’t want me no more, he could obviously see the fear in my eyes cause he suddenly stopped laughing and looked at me all serious like, ‘did your papa not tell you what this place was?’ I shook my head, again he took my hand, tucked the parcel under his arm and pulled me to my feet, ‘come on lad, I think your going to like this’ he said as he dragged me up the couple of steps and through the doors.
In side that hut I found my second home, in there was what I had been searching for all my short life. ‘The saint Anthony of Padua Boys Club’ was a boxing club, for the next five years in that hut I learnt what it means to be a man, I learnt lessons that have stayed with me to this very day.
Father Dominic took me in to the room and showed me around. The Weight training equipment, the punch bags, the speed ball and finally the ring, a place I was to get to know very well. We stopped at the bottom of the steps and Father Dominic sat down again, he placed that brown parcel on his knees again and held it as though it was a small injured animal, ‘shall we see what’s in here then’, I nodded my head, not daring to take my eyes off the parcel, Father Dominic took out a small penknife and cut through the rough string that was holding it together, slowly, to me painfully slowly, he peeled the brown paper back, inside was perhaps the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. A pair of dark rich brown boxing gloves, they weren’t new, but they were mine, not those of an elder brother, but mine, bought for me by my papa. I learnt later that he had been putting a couple of Lira away each week until he could buy them from Signore Lender the pawnbroker.
‘lets see if they fit’ said Father Dominic and I held out two trembling hands and he slipped them on an laced them up. I remember that feeling, they were tight, not nasty tight, but safe tight, comforting tight, as though they had been made for me, as though they were already part of me, ‘do you want to give them a go?’ I didn’t say anything, I don’t think I even nodded, I just stood and grinned, a big stupid grin, we climbed up the steps and I clambered through the rope and in to the ring.
It was the greatest thing I had ever seen, it was only four post with ropes strung between them and a wooden, sprung floor covered in a grubby, stained, canvas, but it looked and smelled as an arena should, of fear and bravery and hard battles fought and won. Father Dominic walked me to the centre of the ring and knelt down beside, ‘would you like to give it a go lad?’ this time I did speak, I spoke loud and clear, ‘oh yes Father.’ He called over another lad, I can’t remember his name, now there’s a shame, my first opponent and I can’t remember his name, father Dominic turns to me and says, ‘I hear your quite a scrapper lad, lets see how you do against young Giovanni here,’ Giovanni, of course Giovanni Calbresse, any way I looks at this lad, he was twelve, maybe thirteen years old, a couple of inches taller than me, but I thinks to myself, I’ve licked kids twice his size, this should be a piece of piss.
So father Dominic says ‘right Mario, your in the boxing ring now, not on the street, so you’re only allowed to use your fists, no grabbing, no biting and no kicking, do you think you can do that’ I nodded not taking my eyes of Giovanni, ‘okay he says, all you have to do is try and hit young Giovanni here, and he’s going to try and hit you, right lads, someone ring the bell.’
I learnt a very valuable lesson that night, never under estimate your opponent. That lad danced me all over the ring, I don’t think I laid a glove on him, by the time he’d finished with me I’d got a lose tooth, a black eye and a bloody nose. I was the proudest I had ever been, I knew what I wanted to be in life, I wanted to be a boxer, I wanted to be able to dance around that ring and control my opponent like Giovanni had.
My dad came to collect me three hours later and despite the aching muscles and the sore ribs I walked home feeling taller than I ever had. That night I fell asleep dreaming of being in that ring, I was as good as gold at school the next day, I was too busy thinking about boxing to think of trouble to cause and that afternoon, straight after school, instead of going in to town and finding trouble with my friends I ran all the way to that hut, I couldn’t wait to get back in that ring again, I even got there before father Dominic, I had to sit on the steps and wait.”
He smiled at Giacomo and drained the brandy glass, then wiping the tears from his eyes he said, “Damn cheap brandy, makes your eyes water.”

Chapter Nine

So Dear reader here we are desperately trying to kick start the plot. I do not hold out much hope. But at least I have an idea about what should happen in this chapter and hopefully, I say hopefully, my characters will behave themselves long enough for them to actually move the story on somewhat. Okay, here we go, deep breath and action.
The sun had not been up for long and even though the sky was a bright clear blue, the air was chill. Giacomo blew into his hands to try and warm them, it helped for a moment but the effects did not last long. He opened the small boot at the front of the car and pulled out two large battered brown suitcases. He didn’t like mornings, he was not a morning person but he had to start earning some money if he was to have any chance of paying (gangster) back.
He locked the car and carried the two suitcases across to the market. The regular stall holders were beginning to set out their wares and Giacomo looked around until he spotted small officious looking gentlemen in a grey suit, which had seen better days. The man was consulting his clip board, tutting and mumbling and pointing around the market with his black fountain pen. A few long strands of hair were combed over the top of his head. Over his shoulder and across his chest was a tricolour sash of red, white and green to which was pinned an elaborate medal.
Giacomo approached him, waited whilst the man finished arguing with a stallholder over the position of three boxes of melons, then put down his suitcase and spoke, “Good Morning Signore (Marshall).”
Signore (Marshall) was a council official, he considered himself the counsel official, it was his job to uphold the smooth and efficient running of the market. He loved his job, he loved the by laws, he loved enforcing them. Tucked under his arm was a stick, not just any stick, it was his stick, made of ebony and tipped on either end with a silver cap it was exactly one metre long, sliver bands around it indicated the ten centimetre marks, thinner brass bands indicated the five centimetre marks in between.
It was a symbol of his office and was used to settle the various disputes between the traders, and any infringement of the by-laws. Every day he would make his rounds, measuring the size of each of the pitches, checking the space between the stalls, enforcing the width of the walk ways and the overhang of the awnings. Mussolini made sure the trains ran on time, Signore (Marshall) made sure the market conformed to the rules and regulations as laid out in the small paperback booklet he had in his inside pocket.
Signore (Marshall) finished making a few notes on his clipboard and then looked up at Giacomo. “Good morning Signore Fabbroni, and what can I do for you at this hour?” He looked at his watch and made another note on his clipboard.
“I was wandering Signore (Marshall) if there was a stall available this morning?”
Signore (Marshall) looked at Giacomo and the two suitcases by his side. “Do you have your licence?”
“Of course Signore” Giacomo reached into his pocket and pulled out a slip of paper. “I would not trouble such a busy and important man as yourself without having the correct documentation.” The words almost shocked Giacomo but he knew that flattery in the case of Signore (Marshall) did get you somewhere.
Signore (Marshall) looked over the piece of paper checking the date and the official stamps, even holding it up to the light t check on the watermark. Giacomo wondered if there was a big market in counterfeit street trading licences. Signore (Marshall) flicked through the papers on his clipboard, he liked to keep people waiting, and eventually he spoke, “What’s in the suitcases?”
“My stock Signore”
Signore (Marshall) looked at Giacomo and raised and eyebrow.
“Sorry Signore” Said Giacomo, “I mean watches, jewellery, and perfume”
“Stolen?”
“Signore, you insult me, I have never dealt in stolen goods”
“Counterfeit then?”
“No Signore, I will admit that some of my goods may bear a physical resemblance to the more well known brands, but they are all clearly marked and only a fool would think they were the real thing”
“Very well” Again Signore (Marshall) checked his clipboard, “Number 32D, over there.” He pointed with his pen “Fourth row along, the stall on the far end”
Giacomo began to protest, “But that’s...”
Signore (Marshall) looked up form his clipboard
Giacomo smiled and then continued, “That’s fine Signore (Marshall) I thank you for this great favour”
“Perhaps if you attended a little more regularly I could find you a better slot”
“I will have to try getting up in the mornings”
Signore (Marshall) looked past Giacomo, “I must go now Signore Fabbroni.”
Giacomo turned to see what Signore (Marshall) was looking at. Two of the fruit sellers were arguing animatedly. Signore (Marshall) tucked his pen into his top pocket and his clipboard under his arm with his cane and strode off in their direction.
The stall Giacomo had been allocated was down the far end of the market, it was an overflow area almost not in the market itself but on a small paved area by the entrance to one of the side streets. It was usually only used at the weekends and this morning Giacomo was the only person setting up. The other stalls around him stood empty he was either going to have to work very hard or be very lucky to make any money today.
He placed the two suitcases under the stall and headed back to his car to fetch the rest of his stock. It took him three more journeys before he had fetched everything from the small vehicle and he was ready to start laying out his stall.
He unfolded and spread out a large white cotton sheet and had taken out form the linen box that morning and knew that hen his mama found out she would bend his ear, but it was worth the risk. He moved round to the front of the stall and looked at it. It looked flat, it was flat. He took a few of the empty smaller boxes and placed them under the sheet at the back, he smoothed out the sheet and moved around to the front again, pleased with the effect he began to lay out the goods.
He arranged the perfumes and aftershaves along the make shift shelves at the back, moving and adjusting the arrangement until he was happy with their layout.
In front of this he set out the watches, ladies boxed on the side, gentlemen’s boxed on the other, he looked at them and then shuffled them to form two gentle arcs, and in the gap in the middle he placed the unboxed watches.
At the front he laid out the jewellery. Necklaces, bangles and bracelets, trays of rings and earrings, finally he took some small pieces of cards and began to make up the prices of some of the items. Not all of them, just some of them, enough to raise a bit of interest, to let people know they were going to get a bargain but not enough for them not to have to ask as soon as they asked he had them, the haggling and the salesmanship started. That was the bit Giacomo loved, some people loved hunting, and some loved fishing Giacomo loved the battle of wills between buyer and seller. It was an art, a skill, something he was good at.
Within the first few words spoken Giacomo knew how much he was going to ask and how much he was going to get. He could tell whether he could start high and let then beat him down to a bargain or whether he should start within a few Euros of the eventual price and keep the transition simple.
He could spot the difference between a buyer and browser, a punter and a time waster before they had even opened their mouths. He stood back and admired his handy work, for he moment he had done all he could, he checked his watch, the market would start to come alive soon, then the hard work would begin.
He moved back round to the rear of his stall, at least for the moment he was in the sun and the air had begun to warm slightly, he could feel a little of the warmth radiating from the grimy white stone wall behind him. He looked around and noticed that a few of the stalls around him had also been taken. He was pleases to see he had no direct competition.
There was a toy stall, mainly second hand by the looks of it. An elderly couple selling kitchen and household goods who had filled two stalls to the point of collapse with their wares and were now putting boxes on the floor, Giacomo was surprised that so much stuff could be fitted into such a small Citroen van.
The only other stall to be taken was being set up by a man that Giacomo knew as ‘the mad English man’. he had a few oil paintings on stands, none of them recognisable as being of anything in particular, they were just dabs and splashes of colour, he had also set out some small ‘sculptures’, bits of piping, wire and old bicycle parts welded together. Giacomo smiled to himself, no competition there then.
The main body of the market had begun to fill and Giacomo looked across hoping to catch someone’s eye. He took one of his suitcases, moved round to the front of the stall, up ended the suitcase and sat down, at the near corner where he could loo down the walkway and see the approach of any likely customers.
Two elderly women looked his way; he stood and raised a hand in greeting, “Ciao Ladies” he called, “And what a fine morning it is.” The women started at him, he continued, “You ladies look like you know a bargain when you see it.” They began to move off.
“Don’t go without even having a look. How do you know I haven’t something you need, if you don’t even bother to take a look?”
The elderly couple still setting out their stall stopped and looked at the young man opposite then, shouting at customers across the stalls, then they turned and looked at the two old women who had begun to make their way towards his stall.
Giacomo stepped to one side and held out a hand, like a magician presenting a particularly spectacular effect, “I’m sure I have something here of interest to two lovely ladies such as yourselves”
The two women gave his stall a cursory glance, and then the elder one spoke, “You’re Rita Fabbroni’s youngest, Giacomo?”
“I am indeed Signora; now let us see what I can find for you.” Time wasters thought Giacomo.
“Terrible business with your brother.”
“Yes, it was a sad loss to us all, let’s see, I bet you have some birthdays coming up.”
“Your mother must be heart broken”
Giacomo saw his opening, “She is, but we are doing our best for her. Rodolfo was the main bread winner, but you know how it is a family must try to carry on, to suffer the burden of such great a loss, each of us is doing our best to fill the void left by our brother.” He looked at the women, the women looked at him and then back at the stall, they were beginning to weaken.
The younger one began to inspect the earrings at the front of the stall. “It’s my daughter-in-laws birthday next month”
“Then” Said Giacomo reaching to the back of the stall, “I have the thing,” he picked up a bottle of perfume, “All the rage in Roma at the moment, it looks dear enough to show you care but no, it’s not pricy enough to dent the house keeping”
She took the bottle from him, removed the lid and sniffed.
“They wear this in Roma?”
“Oh yes Signora”
“How much?”
“To you, ten Euros”
The old lady put the lid back on and started to hand the bottle back.
“I tell you what” Said Giacomo
“As you know my mother, to you, and don’t go spreading this about, Seven Euros fifty”
The old lady hesitated, looked at the bottle, then to Giacomo, “Okay.” She said after a few moments thought, “Does it come in a box?”
“Of course” Giacomo reached for a boxed bottle of the perfume, “Look at that she’ll think you made a special trip to Napoli to buy it.”
The two women looked at each other and smiled. “I take one for my niece, it’s her birthday soon.” The older woman said.
“A wise Choice Signora” Said Giacomo, he dropped the boxes in to two brown paper bags. The deal was struck, the monies paid and his first satisfied customers of the day set off to complete their shopping. “I’ll give your condolences to my mother” Said Giacomo, to the two elderly women as they left. He smiled to himself he had not considered the sympathy angle, but it worked. This was going to be a good day.
The woman on the stall opposite eyed Giacomo suspiciously. Giacomo smiled and tucked the first of the day’s takings in to a small leather bag tied around his waist. He fetched two more of the little perfume boxes from the suitcase behind the stall, rearranged the selection on the back row and then sat back down.
The mad Englishman had set up a folding chair by the side of the stall, he had found an empty crate and was sitting with his legs stretched out and resting on the crate. He settled down, an open bottle of wine and a glass by his side on the stall. He produced a newspaper and began to read.
The next couple of hours passed slowly. Most people only ventured as far as the far end of the little row of stalls, looked at the three stalls from a distance and then moved on. Giacomo tried his best to tempt them in, but despite his earlier success his takings remained low. By nine o’clock he had only sold three pair of earrings, a child’s watch and a cheap bottle of men’s aftershave. He worked out that at the currant rate he would take barely enough to cover his pitch fee and petrol money. Guido was right, he thought too small, he would end his days, not bent double on the farm, but like the old couple opposite. Rising at the crack of dawn to supplement a meagre state pension with what they could make working all hours on a market.
The main body of the market was full now and Giacomo could hear the cries of the traders and the haggling of the buyers, but back where Giacomo was, in the little backwater for life’s losers, all was quiet. The couple opposite looked to Giacomo as though they had accepted the hand that fate had dealt them. They appeared to be quite happy to sit there, nibbling at the bread and cheeses they had bought with them for breakfast and drinking the coffee the woman had prepared on the small gas ring.
The Mad Englishman appeared to be asleep, his eyes were closed, his head had flopped back and his mouth gaped open. The newspaper lay across his chest, his left arm over it as though he were protecting it from theft. His right arm dangled limply by his side. Giacomo watched the Mad Englishman carefully, he could not see if he was breathing or whether he was dead. After a few minutes curiosity got the better of Giacomo and he stood up and approached the inert figure. The old man at the kitchen stall had also noticed the apparent corpse and pantomimed to Giacomo that he should give the body of the Mad Englishman a poke. Giacomo looked around then shrugged his shoulders, the old man pointed to a stack of long, garden canes at the end of his stall. Giacomo smiled, took one of the canes and edged slowly forward.
When he was about two and a half metres away he reached forward with the cane and gave the hand of the Mad Englishman a gentle prod. Nothing happened. Giacomo prodded again, a little harder this time, the limp, dangling arm swung slightly, but there was still no sign of life. Giacomo looked at the old man, the old man signalled that Giacomo should give the hand a hard tap.
Giacomo edged forward again and when he judged himself to be close enough he flicked the cane, as though he was fly fishing, against the back of the Mad Englishman’s hand. The hand shot out and tried to grab the unseen assailant. The Mad Englishman grunted and snorted as the hand groped around for a moment searching the air, then he fell silent, after a second or two he settled again and started to snore lightly.
Giacomo turned to the old man and the two smiled at each other. Giacomo started to replace the cane when a familiar voice spoke behind him, “Going fishing Giacomo?”
Giacomo did not have to turn round to know who was standing behind him. It was Little Paulo. The old man was looking past Giacomo and up to where Giacomo knew Little Paulo face would be. There are times when life presents you with two very clear choices, no ambiguity, no areas of grey, just black and white. This was one of those times. Giacomo’s choices, Should he turn and talk to Little Paulo, or should he run like a boar in the hunting season?
His legs made the decision for him. He moved forward and turned slightly to his left, as though he was about to replace the cane, then he quickly spun on his heel to the right and ran for the main body of the market. He glanced round on caught a glimpse of Little Paulo and tall guy, running after him.
The market was packed, but Giacomo work his way through the crowds quickly, moving left and right, dodging between stalls, customers and traders alike. He looked behind and could see Little Paulo pushing his way through the crowds, he was quite a way behind and Giacomo knew that once they were out in the open he would definitely be able to outpace the big, lumbering man.
Giacomo burst through the crowd and in to the relative peace at the edge of the square. It was then that he realised his mistake, he had been watching for Little Paulo and had not concerned himself with where the tall man was, he soon found out.
The tall man appeared as if from nowhere, he stood directly in Giacomo’s path, blocking his route to his car. Giacomo looked back and could see Little Paulo getting ever closer. He was back to those two choices again, stand and hopefully talk his way out of any situation or run, run like a rabbit in a field full of dogs. Again his legs made the decision for him.
Giacomo darted to his left and sprinted across the steps in front of the cathedral. He headed for one of the many narrow side streets that led off the square. Behind him he could hear the nearing footsteps of the tall man and the lumbering, thundering steps of Little Paulo. He turned in to the side street and nearly lost his balance on the wet slippery cobbles. The women of the apartments along the short narrow street had been out cleaning their front steps, a daily ritual, that allowed them to catch up on the local gossip and prove how much more house proud they where than the other women. This is beginning to make no sense but what the expletive deleted. Giacomo skidded and managed to steady himself against a dustbin. He glanced up and saw the tall man round the corner, he too nearly lost his footing but steadied himself and ran towards Giacomo.
Giacomo grabbed the bin and threw it in the tall mans path, the tall man neatly jumped the bin and carried on advancing towards him. Giacomo turned and started running again, he could here the soft long strides of the tall man getting ever closer. From a window, some where above, them a woman’s voice cried out, she cursed and swore, she screamed and shouted moaning about the noise and the bin on its side, its contents spread across the little street. Giacomo turned down another little street making his way deeper in to the thieves kitchen, at every step he could hear the tall man drawing closer. The streets where quiet, save for the occasional voice calling from a window above, shouts to be quiet, cries of encouragement to Giacomo, cries of encouragement to the tall man, cat calls and curses, laughter and jeers.
Giacomo could feel his heart pounding in his chest, he had considered himself quite fit, he played football in the Sunday league, he occasionally went to the gym, albeit to look at the women and try out new chat up lines, but now the years of smoking where beginning to show. His lungs screamed out in pain, his muscles begged for oxygen, his racing heart leapt up and tried to claw its way out of his throat, his mouth was dry and full of bitter tasting adrenaline. His body wanted to give up. To sit down where it was and recover. Every fibre, every sinew, every muscle, every cell was begging him to stop. But there was a bit of him screaming the loudest, urging his body on, and spurring on the tired muscles, asking the aching sinews for one last effort, the bit of his brain that dealt with fear.
The survival instinct is very strong and was, at that moment, proving exactly how strong it was, by driving Giacomo on when he should have sat down and collapsed. Without realising it his brain was doing its best to save him, from what it did not know, it just knew that if it allowed the body to stop it would be in danger. How great the danger was it had no idea, but any danger was enough to keep the legs moving, the muscles pulling, the heart pumping, the lungs dragging in air.
Giacomo turned down a small alley way and as he ran pulled over the bins and boxes, that lined one wall, in an attempt to block the path of the tall man. Somewhere, deep in his brain, he realised where he was heading, his brain was taking him to a place of safety, a place where it knew he could come to no harm. He turned in to the small square on the other side he could see the small bar and the rusting table and chair outside it on the pavement, he could see, he could see that the chair was empty.
His brain made its first mistake, it stopped to think. The legs stopped moving, the muscles noticed how tired they were and how much they ached, the lungs realised how much they burned and how little oxygen they were taking in. the body realised in how much pain it was and it let the brain know. The brain decided, without considering the outcome, to tell Giacomo.
It was the disappointment that hit him first, the fact that Mario was not where he should be, that he had been let down by someone he thought he could trust, someone he thought would be there for him. The pain followed a very close second; every tissue of his body screamed and cried out in agony. It was the tall man who hit him thirdly, a large, solid fist catching him on the side of the head.
It might have been the exhaustion, it might have been the heat, it might have been the blow to the side of the head, whatever it was the effect was the same, Giacomo crumpled and folded, he fell to the floor, hitting the pavement with a sickening thud and lay there like a heap of abandoned laundry.
So Dear Reader we will leave poor Giacomo unconscious on the pavement. There are now about thirteen hours to go and I need to move this story on and will therefore start a new chapter. It will be a big chapter, it will make no sense, it will wander and meander it will be a desperate attempt to reach the word count, a futile task I know, before midnight tonight.

Chapter Eight

So, Dear Reader, time has moved on. Night has moved in to day. The Villa Fatiscente and its inhabitants are returning to their lives, for life must go on even in the midst of death. Adolfo has taken the sheep up to the pasture, Rita has packed her grandchildren off to school and has even manage to persuade Monica to get up and help with the laundry. Dino is back at Signore Cappella’s showing young lad called Franchino the ropes and Giacomo is down on the market, trying to convince the ladies of the town that the perfume he on sale today is as good as if not better than the original. All is right with the world. Well almost.
Father Jonathan revved the engine of his little car and slammed it in to second gear. The engine screamed in protest and the front wheels spun, kicking up clouds of dust as the tyres tried to find some purchase on the steep gravel track. The car lurched forward a few metres and then slid sideways, Father Jonathan fought with the steering wheel and tried to get the car back on course, the tyres dug in and the car began to crawl forward. “Thank you.” Said Father Jonathan to no-one in particular, no sooner had the words left his lips than the car began to slide backwards down the track, loosing him what little progress he had made, he instinctively grabbed the hand brake and pulled it on as hard as he could. The engine stuttered, juddered and then stalled. The car ground to a halt at an angle across the narrow track.
Father Jonathan sat for a moment, his hands on the steering wheel, his eyes closed. Then calmly and carefully he opened the car door and climbed out. The dust had begun to settle and he walked around the little car, summing up the situation.
After a moment he stopped, lifted his cassock slightly and ran at the back of the car, “Impudens est leno,” he screamed as he took a swinging kick at the rear bumper, “es mundus excrementi,” he kicked again, “es stercus,” another kick, “canis filius,” and another, “cunnus.” This last one seemed to do the trick, not for the car, but for Father Jonathan. He stepped back and brushed off what dust he could from his cassock; then he went round to the side of the car and climbed back in to the driver’s seat. Releasing the handbrake he let the car roll back down the slope and reversed it in to a small pull in about half way down the slope. He stepped out of the car, locked the doors, put his sunglasses and biretta and set off on foot up the track.
It was a hot morning and he was not dressed for strenuous exercise, not that he ever dressed for exercise, not that he ever exercised. After about ten minutes, which seemed more like half an hour to the overweight, red faced and panting Father Jonathan, he sighted his goal, a white washed farm house with red terracotta tiled roof, on the brow of the hill. He glanced at his watch, it was just after half past eleven hopefully the occupant with be up.
He entered the court yard and a few chickens scattered in his path, clucking as they went. The yard was littered with odds and ends, a rusting car, its doors hanging open; a pile of junk that consisted of old bicycles, steel and copper pipes and tangles of wire. Against the front wall of the house were stacked various boxes and crates filled with empty bottles.
He walked across the yard to the front door and tried the handle, the door as he expected it would, opened and he stepped in to the cool interior of the kitchen.
The sight that greeted him did not surprise him, he had seen it many times before, but it still made him shiver. The room was a mess; it had actually gone beyond mess and seemed to be heading for tip via clutter, chaos, confusion and disarray. Every available surface was covered in empty pizza boxes, dirty plates, used mugs and glasses. Those that were not covered in the general detritus of daily life were covered with equipment, artist’s materials.
Half finished canvases, some no more than daubs and splashes of colour, lent against the cupboards. Jars and pots filled with drying, hardening brushes stood amongst the crockery. Wooden palettes and a few of the plates were smeared with patches and blotches of colour, some blobs were raw and straight from the tube, others were mixed together.
Father Jonathan picked his way carefully through the shambles; he winced and shuddered as his foot stuck to a particularly nasty patch of something on the floor. He avoided looking too closely at what ever was growing in one of the mugs on the kitchen table. He eventually reached the bottom of a narrow set of stairs that led up to the first floor; he stopped and called up the stairs, “Dan, Dan…?” He stepped up on to the bottom step and tried again, “Dan, Daniel?”
“Yes Father Jonathan?” the voice came from behind him and Father Jonathan nearly fell off the step as he spun round.
“I thought you would still be in bed.” Father Jonathan steadied himself against the wall and then stepped back down in to the kitchen.
“No Father, I was up at the crack of dawn, well about an hour ago anyway.” Daniel Wakefield stepped out of the doorway and in to the kitchen, he spotted a gap on the table and plonked a dirty enamel bowl in to it, “I was just sorting out the goats.”
Daniel made his way round to the sink, picked out two of the least dirty glasses and began to rinse them under the tap. Father Jonathan watched him closely; Daniel was in his early forties and might have been classed as handsome if he tidied himself up. His longish, curly hair, was almost grey, and his and his unshaven face, deeply lined. He stood by the sink in a paint splattered t-shirt, cut off jeans and a pair of seaside flip-flops, “And to what do I owe the pleasure of your company this morning Father?”
“Signora Marcello.” Said Father Jonathan, he pulled out a dining chair, looked at the seat, and thinking better of it, pushed the chair back under the table.
“Ah, the good Signora Marcello.”
“Yes, the good Signora Marcello.”
“What is the old cow moaning about now?”
“The old… Signora Marcello is rather upset; it would appear that yesterday you… fired her.”
“Did I?” he looked around the kitchen and then spotted what he was looking for. He began to cross the room.
“Yes, apparently she called here yesterday afternoon to collect your laundry and you err… told her to leave and never come back.”
Daniel uncorked the bottle he had spotted and poured some of the red wine in to the two glasses, “Oh I’m sure I didn’t.”
“I’m sure you did.”
Daniel passed one of the glasses to Father Jonathan, pulled out a chair, shoved the pile of drawings on to the floor and indicated to Father Jonathan that he should sit, “No, I would never say that, I would never tell her to leave and never come.” He pulled out another chair and sat down himself.
“Well, no, you didn’t. I believe your exact words were, and I quote Signora Marcello here, ‘fuck off you old witch, fuck off, fuck off. Get your dried up, maggot ridden womb off my fucking land and don’t bother fucking coming fucking back, you fucking old hag.’ I may have missed a fucking or two out there, but I think that was the general gist.”
“That sounds more like me.” Daniel had finished his wine and was pouring himself another glass, “more wine Father.”
“No, thank you.”
“Suit yourself, it’s not bad. Go ahead, try it.”
Father Jonathan took a sip, “Mmm… not bad, where did you get it?”
“I made it; I know I was surprised as well. Claudio helped, showed me what to do, I brought a load of grapes whole sale, but he reckons I should plant some vines, grow my own…”
“Dan, if we could get back to the matter of Signora Marcello?”
“Ah, yes. Look if she says I said that, then chances are I did, but in my defence, the old cow probably deserved it.”
Father Jonathan shifted a couple of the things on the table and put his glass down, “Daniel…”
“If you’re going to go all priestly on me you can fuck off as well. I’ll call you Father, but that’s because I respect you as a friend, not as a representative of god.”
“I’m not going to go all priestly on you; I have more sense than to try that mumbo-jumbo on you. I’m talking to you as a friend.”
“Oh fuck, that’s even worse, your not going to organise an intervention are you?”
“Good god no. If you want to drink yourself in to an early grave, then that is your choice, but you have to remember that you live in my parish and your actions affect my parishioners and if they’re upset they come to me, ‘go sort out your mad Englishman or my husband and sons will.’ So, for my sake, will you stop insulting and firing the women I send over to help you out?”
“Well then, you shouldn’t send over nosey old fucking witches then.”
“I’m afraid that appears to be one of the job qualifications, it goes as they say, with the job.”
“But why do they have to be so old?” Daniel picked up the wine bottle and seemed to be surprised to find it empty.
“Again it goes with the territory and in your case they are the only ones who are willing to take the job, especially with your reputation and on the wages you can afford to pay.”
Daniel had stood up and was trying to pull a crate of bottles from under the table, “There was that one young girl, something Franchino?”
“Ah yes Signorina Maria Franchino, what an interesting little episode that was. That is the only time I have actually feared for my lie.”
“Why?” Daniel uncorked another bottle and began to fill his glass, “You hadn’t done anything wrong.”
“I had in the eyes of her parents. I had left their daughter, their only daughter, their virginal only daughter, in the hands of the mad Englishman.”
“I don’t see what all the fuss was.”
“That’s the problem Daniel, you never see the problem. You leave other people to do that for you.”
Daniel took a drink of his wine, “I did nothing wrong.”
“Nothing wrong, nothing wrong, you asked a sixteen year old catholic girl if she would take her clothes off.”
“I only wanted to paint her, good god I’m in the country that virtually invented the nude.”
“Yes, but the nudes in question are always someone else’s daughter. Not the good daughters of my parishioners.”
“Okay, I’ll admit that might have been an error of judgement, but god she was beautiful.”
“Yes, I know, it’s quite surprising when you consider her parents.”
The two men looked at each other and shared a smile. Daniel hunted around in his pockets and on the table and eventually found his pipe and tobacco. He knocked the pipe bowl on the side of the table and a small pile of ash fell to the floor.
Father Jonathan watched and then said, “Look at the way you live Dan.” He gestured with his arm to indicate the state of the kitchen. Daniel looked around and feigned surprise. Father Jonathan continued, “It’s no laughing matter Dan. Look at this place; you need someone to help keep this place tidy. It’s a wonder you haven’t caught some nasty disease, you’d be safer living on the council tip.”
“Don’t worry yourself Father, the alcohol kills the germs.” He drained the glass and refilled it, “Come on Father, drink up.”
Father Jonathan held his hand over his glass, “As your parish priest I have to show concern for your welfare, as you friend I am truly worried.”
“Well don’t be, I’ve lived this long and I don’t intend shuffling off this mortal coil and joining the choir invisibule just yet.” He lit the pipe he had been filling and the air filled with the foul stench of cheap tobacco.
Father Jonathan’s eyes began to water and he tried to waft the smoke away with his hand, “When the last time you ate, and I mean properly?”
“Err… I think I had a pizza the other day, or it could have been the day before.”
“Right,” said Father Jonathan, standing up, “you’re coming with me. Signora Franchino will have lunch ready soon; we can eat and slag off England and its narrow minded middle class hypocrites.”
“Do I get to call Tony Blair a cunt?”
“If you feel you must.”
“Good, I’m in.” he rubbed his hands together, “I’ll bring the wine.”
“Bring your washing as well; I may be able to persuade Signora Franchino to bung it in the machine for you.”
The two men left the house and walked across the yard, Father Jonathan carrying two black bin bags of dirty clothing and Daniel carrying a wooden crate containing six bottles of his home brewed red wine. Daniel stopped and looked around the yard, “Where’s your car?”
“It’s down at the bottom of the hill.”
“Why didn’t you drive up here?”
“I tried; you really have to do something about that track leading up here. How anyone gets up here is beyond me.”
“That’s one of the reasons why I bought this place. It’s privacy.”
“Well there’s privacy and then there is inaccessibility,”
“Well it certainly stops any unwanted visitors.”
“I imagine it stops a few of the wanted ones as well.”
“Probably, but as you’ve proved, on more than one occasion, if people want to see me they find a way.”
The two men set off down the steep track, the midday sun was hot and the two men walked in the silence borne of a long friendship. On reaching the small car the two men stowed their burdens in the boot. Daniel took one of the wine bottles out of the crate, “This one travels with me.” He reached in to his pocket and pulled out a waiter’s friend, he removed the cork and took a swig from the bottle, “Come on then Father, let’s go and find out what Signora Franchino has prepared for you.”
They climbed in to the car and after some Latin curses Father Jonathan managed to turn the car round and they set back off in to town. They journey did not take long, the roads were quiet. Only mad dogs and two Englishmen would venture out in the midday sun. Soon they were pulling in to the little square and parking in the shade of the group of trees outside Father Jonathan’s house. As they approached the front door, weighed down by their loads, they were greeted by the heady aromas of cooking. They breathed in deeply and let the scents fill their nostrils.
“It smells good.” Said Daniel.
“Dan, will you promise me one thing.”
“I’ll make no guarantees, but I’ll try my best.”
“Don’t upset Signora Franchino.”
“Why would I do that.” Daniel said, raising an eyebrow.
“She still hasn’t forgiven you for the business with her daughter.”
“Perhaps if I offered to paint her?”
“That’s exactly the sort of comment that will cause trouble.”
“Okay, I’ll be a good boy; I’ll be on my best behaviour.”
“Thank you. You won’t have to do it for long; she normally serves lunch and then goes home to feed her own family.”
They entered the house and headed towards the kitchen, they were met in the hallway by Signora Franchino coming out of Father Jonathan’s study. She stopped and looked at the two men. Before Father Jonathan could say anything she spoke, waving a tomato sauce covered ladle at Daniel and addressing all her comments to Father Jonathan, “Why, may all the saints preserve us, is that man in this house?”
“Because Signora Franchino, ‘that man’ is a parishioner and a friend and I, as his priest have invited him to dine with me; and would you do me the honour of calling him Signore Wakefield.”
“The devil has no need of a priest.” She made a big show of crossing herself.
“Signora please, Signore Wakefield is to be treated with respect. He has apologised for the misunderstanding with your daughter, and I would hope that you, as a good catholic, would find it in your heart to forgive him as would our Lord Jesus.”
Signora Franchino crossed herself again, “forgive me Fatha,” She turned to Daniel, “Signore forgive, some times I speak without thinking.”
“It is I who should be seeking forgiveness,” said Daniel stepping forward, “I deeply regret the incident with your daughter, but she has such beauty that I, as a painter, could not pass up the chance to capture her likeness on canvass so that all may have a chance to see it,”
Signora Franchino stood for a moment, hands on hips, and considered Daniels words, “Well, she is a fine looking lass, I’ll give you that. But you had no right to ask her pose… well… like you did.”
“As I said, I’m sorry for that, but I can see from whom she inherited her looks.” Daniel placed the crate on the floor and stepped forward; he reached out, took Signora Franchino’s hand and kissed it. Father Jonathan thought he saw her blush.
“Yes, well…” Signora Franchino said, “Lunch will be ready in a moment.” She turned and started towards the kitchen.
Daniel reached over and took the black bin bags from Father Jonathan, “Signora, if you would be so kind.” He held the bags out towards her.
She stopped and looked at him, “Your laundry I suppose, Signora Marcello had enough of you has she?”
“Something like that.” He replied his best boyish grin on his face.
“Put them in the ‘Utility’ room I’ll sort them out latter.” She turned to Father Jonathan, “Where would you like to eat fatha?”
“In the garden please Signora Franchino.” Father Jonathan was still not sure about what he had just witnessed. Had Signora Franchino allowed herself to be soft soaped by Daniel?
And there Dear Reader, for the moment we shall leave them, because quite frankly I am bored to death of them. They are nice chaps but they really having nothing else to say. I need to try and get back to some sort of plot.

Chapter Seven

Now, Dear Reader, we must return to the Villa Fatiscente. It is early evening; the sun has nearly completed its slow journey across the sky. The heat of the day is fading in to the cool of the night. The food has been eaten, wine has been drunk. The family have broken bread with their friends. Most of the mourners have left; the farm is quiet once more. Those that remain are close family, the women fuss in the kitchen and moan about the men. The men sit out in the yard, putting the world to right. They are gathered around one end of a long wooden table. Plans need to discussed, choices and options put forward, decisions must be made.
As they talk, loudly and animatedly, they drink homemade red wine from large raffia wrapped demijohns, they eat homemade bread, cheeses, dried and cured meats, pickles and olives. They argue and laugh, they eat and drink; they are a family. Let us join them.
Adolfo sat back down at the head of the table. He placed the demijohn on the table, pulled the stopper out and poured himself another glass of wine, “Don’t worry about the tractor, there’s a good few years in it yet.”
Lorenzo lent forward and pulled the large, raffia wrapped jug towards him, “You say that now, what will you do if it breaks down again?”
“Dino knows enough to fix most problems.” The men all turned as one and looked at Dino, who was seated towards the opposite end of the table, writing in a small note book.
He Looked up and put his pen down, the sudden silence had caught his attention, “What?”
Tommaso took a swig of his wine, “Your father says you can fix the tractor.”
“Why, what’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing is wrong with it, at the moment, if it broke down, do you think you could fix it?”
“Yes, I mean… yes of course I could; if I had to.”
Adolfo took his knife and cut off a chunk of the hard, creamy white pecorino, “There, that’s settled then,” he popped a piece of the cheese in to mouth, “You see, we’ll cope.”
“We know you’ll cope,” said Lorenzo, “but that doesn’t stop me worrying about my elder brother.” He reached across and touched Adolfo’s hand.
“There’s still a good few years in me.”
Ricardo, the youngest of the brothers around the table, smiled at his elder half brother, “Are you going to let Dino fix you as well?”
The men around the table laughed as one, as only men who have spent much time together can. As only a family can. They sat in silence for a moment, there was no need to fill the gap, with family there are no uncomfortable silences.
Lorenzo poured himself some more wine and topped up Adolfo’s glass, he looked across to Tommaso and Ricardo, “Have you spoken to Arrigo?”
Tommaso, carefully peeling the skin off a piece of dried sausage, said, “He rang me from Australia this morning; he sends his love and condolences.” He cut a thin slice off the sausage and placed it carefully on a piece of bread, “He says he’s sorry he can’t be here, but that he and Rosetta are going to go to Mass tomorrow morning, they’ve asked for a special prayer.”
“That’s nice, did you see the flowers he sent. Lovely, very tasteful, I bet Rosetta chose them.” Lorenzo laughed at his own joke and took another swallow of wine.
Giacomo appeared from the house and walked over to join the group, he placed a tall, thin bottle of clear yellowy green liquid, on the table in front of Adolfo, “Mama thought you might want this.” It was Sortilegio, the famous, locally produced, liqueur.
“Why would I want that mass produced crap when we have this.” Adolfo reached under the table and produced a dusty wine bottle filled with a clear liquid.
The men around the table cheered and banged their glasses, knives, fists and any other object close to hand, on the table in a round of noisy applause.
Adolfo motioned for them to quieten down, “Do you want the women folk out here?” As one the men fell silent and looked over at the main entrance to the house, “Pass me those plastic cups, this is one of the last bottles me and Rodolfo made together, it’s nearly a year old.”
He poured a little of the clear thick liquid in to each of the plastic cups and passed them round. He stood up and looked at his brothers and sons seated before him, “A toast, to a fine son, brother, husband, father and man, Rodolfo.” The five men seated before him stood, raised their cups and chorused as one, “Rodolfo.” They each knocked back the grappa in one and stood for a moment as the thick, fiery liquid burnt its way down their throats.
Ricardo coughed and said, “Good god Adolfo, if the tractor does break down at least you’ll have something to clean the pistons with.”
Laughing, the men sat back down and once again set about the food laid before them. Lorenzo started to carve thin slices of the home cured Bresaola and pass them around, “What did the doctor say?”
“About Monica?” Said Adolfo, not looking up from the jar of pickled wild asparagus he was struggling to open.
“Yes.”
“The usual,” He passed the jar in to Ricardo’s out stretched hand, “time will heal, she needs to rest, make sure she eats, then he gives her another handful of sedatives and goes home.”
“He’s not a patch on his father.”
“Or his grandfather,” Adolfo took the now open jar from Ricardo and began to fork pickled asparagus onto a chunk of bread, “His grandfather rode on his motorbike, through that storm, the night Rodolfo was born.”
“I can’t see that new one doing that, he gets upset if your illness clashes with his golf.”
“No one cares nowadays. It always seems too much trouble for them.”
“What about that Priest,” said Ricardo, taking the jar from Adolfo, “He seemed a bit odd.”
“Well what do you expect,” said Lorenzo, winking at Tommaso, “He’s from your neck of the woods.”
“My neck of the woods?” said Ricardo, chopping at a large loaf of bread.
“Yes, he’s an Englishman like you.”
The men around the table roared with laughter. Ricardo did his best hurt look, “Very funny… very funny… you old bastard…”
Lorenzo sat back in his chair and laughed. His whole body shock. His laughter filled the courtyard and rolled off down the mountain. A pair of car headlights turned in to the drive, swept across the courtyard and briefly lit up the faces of the men sat around the table. An open topped sports coupe, loud dance music pumping from its stereo, pulled up at the side of the villa.
The men at the table did not turn round, they knew who it was. The music stopped and a harsh faced young man climbed out. He smoothed down his greased back hair and approached the table, “Greetings family.”
Ricardo held up a hand in greeting, “Ciao Guido.”
Guido Fuchs, born and raised in Switzerland, the son of a German father and an Italian mother, was the son-in-law of Tommaso. He lived in Zurich in a small apartment with his wife Fiorella, Tommaso’s eldest daughter, and their new baby daughter, Tommaso's first grandchild. He plonked himself down in the chair at the far end of the table and poured himself a glass of wine.
“New car Guido?” Said Ricardo, glancing over to where the shiny red sports car sat parked.
“Yes,” he took a drink of his wine, “I took delivery of it last week.”
“Looks like it cost a pretty penny.”
“Beauty does not come cheap.”
“What’s it like to drive?”
“Fast and she handles like a dream.”
“Not very practical, for a man with a new family.”
“Practicality doesn’t come in to it. In the property business, image is more important.”
Guido worked for a small letting agency, renting out flats and apartments in the poorer areas of Zurich and the surrounding towns. He lent bank in his chair and took another drink of his wine. “Whose is this? It’s good.” He said after swilling the wine around his mouth and swallowing.
“Your father-in-laws,” said Lorenzo smiling, “a tip from an old married man to a young one, if you want to keep on the right side of the in-laws, learn what the family wine tastes like.”
Guido gave a lipless grin and reached for a piece of bread.
Lorenzo turned back to Adolfo, “There are still things to discuss.”
“What’s to discuss?” said Adolfo, “Everything is settled. Everything will be fine.”
“For the moment,” said Tommaso, “but you can’t go on for ever.”
“Maybe not, but I’ve run this place for years and I reckon I can go on for a good few years more.”
“True, very true brother,” said Lorenzo patting Adolfo’s arm, “but you yourself have admitted that Rodolfo did more than his fair share.”
“Someone has got to help you,” said Tommaso, “and the question remains of who will take over when, well, in the future.”
Adolfo looked at Tommaso, “It will pass to Little Peppe. It is his by rights.”
“Yes, yes, but he is still a child. What you need is help now, especially with the business side.”
“Dino will do what he can.”
“I’m sure he will, but he has his job with Mr Cappella to worry about.”
“And what ever he is scribbling in that little book.” Said Lorenzo. The elder men at the table laughed, whether Dino had heard them they could not tell, he did not look up from his little book.
“What about the boy, Giacomo?” said Ricardo, jerking a thumb towards the end of the table.
Adolfo poured himself another plastic cup of grappa, “He needs to find himself a proper job first. He needs to learn some responsibility.”
Giacomo stabbed at a piece of cheese with a small fruit knife and then looked at his father, “I have a job.”
“What, selling watches from a suitcase on the market and running errands for the likes of Sicario.” Adolfo shook his head and took a drink of the grappa.
“I don’t hear you complaining when I bring my share to the table.”
“Your mother worries about you. These people you mix with, they are not good people.”
“You men they’re not old men and farmers.”
The table fell silent; Adolfo and Giacomo stared at one another.
“You need to learn some respect for your father.” Said Lorenzo, leaning forward in his chair.
“He needs to realise I have ambition. I don’t intend to end my days on this farm bent double and half blind.”
Adolfo laughed, “Ambition? What, to end up in prison or dead in some alley?”
“Even that would be better than this life. You’re an anachronism, a throwback to another time. Scratching away at the hard soil, hardly growing enough to feed the family. The world’s moved on and your sort has been left behind.
You sit there with your sheep and your chickens and you pretend every thing is alright, there’s food on the table and wine in your belly. Well some of us want more out of this life than to share a bedroom with a brother who spends his time off with the fairies and to have to think themselves grateful for being able to drive around in a car that’s a joke.”
Adolfo stood suddenly, knocking his chair over as he did so, grabbing at the buckle on his belt. “I may be an old man but, God help me, I can still teach you the meaning of respect.”
Giacomo stabbed the little knife in to the block of cheese and stood up. Tommaso laid his hand on Adolfo’s arm. Giacomo and his father stared at each other the young buck and the old stag. Giacomo snatched up his glass, drained it, slammed it down on the table and then turned and walked away towards the path that led around the side of the house and up to the pasture.
Tommaso held on to Adolfo’s, “Let him go brother.” Adolfo watched until Giacomo was out of sight, then he began to re-buckle his belt and sat down. Tommaso continued, “It has been a hard day for us all. We all react differently to things.”
Guido stood and picked up a bottle wine and two plastic cups, “I’ll go and talk to him, see if I can get him to calm down.” He left the table and set off up the path.
Lorenzo poured Adolfo another glass of wine, “He’s young brother, perhaps you should let him spread his wings a little. Let him see that the grass is not always greener on the other side.
“That’s not a bad Idea,” said Tommaso cutting at a piece of sausage, “You could send him to England,” he patted Ricardo on the shoulder, “I’m sure Ricci here would look after him, find him a job.”
Ricardo held up his hands, “No, no, no, I have two lazy sons of my own, and a daughter who thinks she doesn’t have to try at school ‘cause she’s going to be a pop star. I love Giacomo as if he was my own son, but I already have enough problems.
The other brothers laughed, more wine was poured, more food was eaten and the tension eased. They returned to discussing the important things in life; food, wine and football.

Guido followed the path around the side of the house and then made his way up the trail that led to the pasture. The sky had begun to darken and ahead of him the first of the night’s stars had begun to appear in the blue black sky. To his left, along the ridge of the mountains on the opposite side of the valley, the sky had turned fire red as streaks of yellow danced on the low, wispy clouds.
He crested the brow and spotted Giacomo sitting beneath the old olive trees the red glow of a cigarette lit up his face as he inhaled. Guido had seen an old photo of Adolfo sat beneath the same tree. The photo was black and white and hand tinted as was the fashion many years ago. Guido was struck by the resemblance between the two men. He had never noticed it before but now, as Giacomo sat beneath the same tree, he realised that father and son were a lot more alike then either would be prepared to admit. Giacomo did not look over as he approached but sat staring at the setting son and the lights of Suoloduro far below.
Guido poured some wine in to the two cups and held one out to Giacomo, “Here.”
Giacomo did not reply and so Guido sat down beside him and placed the bottle of wine and two cups between them, he reached in to an inside pocket, took out a packet of cigarettes and lit one.
“I thought you’d given up.” Said Giacomo, still staring dead ahead.
“No.”
“Really, Fiorella was saying you’d stopped for the baby.”
“No, Ella decided I was stopping for the baby, but I decided I wasn’t.”
“I bet she’s not happy about that?”
“What Ella doesn’t know, doesn’t upset her.”
“She’ll kill you when she finds out.”
“I do a lot of things that she would kill me for if she found out, but she’s not going to find out.” He picked up one of the cups of wine and took a drink, “It’s not bad; you should try it.”
Giacomo picked up the other cup and sniffed at the wine, “Zio Lorenzo.” He said and took a drink.
“You have to remember,” said Guido taking a drag of his cigarette, “they’re old men, this is all they know.”
“But why does it have to be all I know. They’ve had their time; they’ve lived their lives the way wanted.”
“Have they?”
“Yes, papa got the farm, and the others, well, they left here, they’ve got their own lives and families.”
“They may have left here, but they’re still tied to this farm. They still send money for Prima Nonna Etta.”
“I don’t want to end up like that. I don’t want to die like Rodolfo having achieved nothing and remembered as nothing more than a nice bloke. When I die I want people to remember me for a bit more than having drowned in a sewage pit.”
“Then you have to do something, only you can make it happen. Look at me, yes at the moment I’m working for some two-bit property company, but I don’t intend to stay there. I have a plan; within two years I will have my own company, within four I will be a millionaire.”
“I have plans…” said Giacomo indignantly.
“You have little schemes; you’re like the old men down there. You still think small.”
“I do not. I have ambition.” Giacomo took a last drag on his cigarette and flicked the butt in front of him, a shower of sparks exploded on the ground in front of them and briefly illuminated the grass and then died on the ground damp with evening dew, “I may be selling watches out of a suitcase now, but one day…”
“But one day what? You’ll have a market stall, perhaps a little shop in town.” Guido finished his wine, stood up and pointed down in to the valley, “The trouble with you people is that you don’t think any bigger than this valley.”
“I’m not like them…”
“Yes you are. What are twenty three, twenty four?”
“Twenty four.”
“And last year, for the first time, you left Italy. You came all the way to Switzerland for Donatella’s wedding. By the time I was your age I had been to America and Australia.”
“It’s not easy.” Giacomo poured himself another cup of wine.
“Getting what you want isn’t easy. You have to fight for it. If anybody gets in your way you have to go straight through them, even loved ones.” He turned back to face Giacomo, “If you really want success and money and then you are the only one who can make it happen, and you can’t let them down there on that little farm hold you back.”
“If I could, I’d leave tomorrow.”
“You wouldn’t get far. While this farm is still here, you’d still be here. Not down there in the fields scratching a living from the soil, but in here.” He jabbed a finger at Giacomo’s chest. He sat back down next to Giacomo and poured them both some more wine, “The problem is of course, they don’t realise what they’ve got.”
“What they’ve got is memories of better times, a few acres of hard, almost baron soil and a villa that’s like a fairground fun house.”
“You’re thinking like them again. Look, look around you.”
Giacomo stared in to the evening, down towards the farm, on towards the town and across the valley. Then he looked blankly at Guido.
“Good god boy,” said Guido standing and walking forward, he stopped suddenly and threw his arms out wide, “they have one of the best views in the whole fucking valley.” He turned back to face Giacomo, his arms still outstretched. “You don’t get it do you?”
“Well… I…”
“In Zurich I can rent a three bedroom apartment and get about Five hundred Euros a month,” he took at a cigarette, lit it and then squatted down in front of Giacomo, “but I can rent out a one bedroom apartment and get nine hundred and fifty euros a month, why?”
“The rooms are bigger?”
“No.”
“The facilities are better.”
“No.”
“I don’t know; it’s better decorated?”
“No… not even close. It’s the view.”
“The view?”
“Yes, the view. The three bedroom apartment is over looking Hurgen strasse, a main road with factories all down one side; the one bedroom apartment over looks Flugell Park, a beautiful expanse of woods and lakes. People will live in a shoe box if they can look out on to something beautiful.”
“Then those people are stupid.” Said Giacomo, taking a drink of his wine.
“Maybe? But they are also willing to pay, what ever the cost, for there own little piece of Italy.”
“Nobody in their right mind would pay for this little piece of Italy.”
“Yes they would cousin, believe me they would.”
“Why? There’s nothing here but rock and hard earth.”
“That’s what you see, because you’re on the inside looking in. What I see is potential and what they’d see is a little piece of Mother Italy. They see a connection with their roots, a return to simpler times; they want to live like their grand parents did; albeit with on-suite shower rooms, a fully equipped kitchen and a supermarket less than a ten minute drive away.”
“Why?”
“Why, why?” Guido turned round on his heels to face the valley and spread his arms wide again, “Because it’s a dream, an ideal. Trapped in their over crowded apartments they dream of retiring to a little villa they can call their own, with enough ground around it to grow a few fruit and veg, with grape vines up the front and a few chickens out the back. They can be peasant farmers ‘just like Nonna was’, they can moan about the youngsters not valuing the old ways and then tune in the satellite and crank up the heating.”
“People would really pay good money to live here?”
“Of course,” Guido turned back and faced Giacomo, “do you know what Masso is doing at the moment?”
“Probably drinking more grappa and singing an old folk tune.” Said Giacomo, laughing.
“No, not right at this moment; I mean… He is buying a plot of land in Wifesvillage, and do you know what he’s going to do it with it?”
“Build a villa on it?”
“Yes, he retires in two years time and so he’s buying a plot of land and building a villa.”
“But he has a nice apartment in Swisstown.”
“yes he does, but that is not Mother Italy, that is not the land of his birth.”
“Then why doesn’t he come back here and live on the farm.”
“You still don’t get this do you? He, like everybody else, wants the dream, not the harsh reality.”
Giacomo stood up and walk to the edge of the pasture. Down below he could see the lights of the Villa and hear the distorted echoing voices of the men in the courtyard.
Guido walked over to join him and handed him a small flask of grappa, “We all have dreams cousin. Some people spend their whole life chasing those dreams, others grab them at the earliest opportunity and don’t let go until they’ve achieved their goal.”
“And some of us have dreams that keep being squashed by the nightmares.” Giacomo took a drink of the grappa.
“Look at it Como,” Guido took the flask back and pointed down at the villa, “As it is, that place is not even worth the materials it’s built out of, but the right man with the right ideas could turn these few bare hectares in to a gold mine. And anybody who help him would be a very rich man, they’d never have to worry about being in debt ever again.” He slapped Giacomo on the back, “Come on, let’s go and join the old men before they drink all the good wine.”
“Go ahead; I’ll join you in a bit I just need to…”
“I know, don’t worry, I’ll save you a glass or two.”
As Guido made his way back down the path he turned and waved to Giacomo, who was sitting on a small rocky out crop staring down at the villa, the feint glow of a cigarette giving away his position. Guido took a large swig from the flask of grappa, did a little jig and said under his breath, “You’re a fucking genius Guido, a fucking A1 genius.”
There, Dear Reader, we will leave the Villa Fatiscente and its inhabitants. A family united by grief and divided by age. It is time to move our story on, so let us move.

Chapter Six

Come with me Dear Reader, far from the heat, dust and dry air of the town of Suoloduro. For we must travel some fifteen hundred kilometres north west, for the next part of our tale takes place in England. We will head for the city of Leicester in the East Midlands where we will find the next character in our tale. Follow me there to the busy road just off the high street. Follow me from the heat of Italy to where the British summer is doing its best.
She had walked the full length of the street three times before she had spotted it. A small brass plaque screwed to the wall next to a dingy doorway. She checked the address in the letter again, ‘Foster, Allen and Partners’. Despite the appearance this was definitely the place. The wind gusted again and turned her umbrella inside out, the driving rain lashed against he face. She stepped quickly across the pavement and in to the doorway trying to find some shelter. She pushed the glass door with her shoulder and attempted to close her umbrella. The door did not open, it appeared to be locked. She struggled to keep her umbrella under control and looked at her watch, she was a few minutes late but the letter had definitely said ten o’clock.
She stood for a moment, the wind and rain lashing at her, she step back hard against the door, trying to flatten herself as much as she could, to get out of the rain. She looked around trying to decide whether to ring the number in the letter from her mobile or to go back to her office and ring from there. It was then that she saw the buzzer; she had been leaning against it and had not noticed it before. She pressed the black button and the speaker made a fuzzy squelching sound. After a moment a moment a distorted female voice crackled out the small speaker, “Yes?”
She lent forward and spoke into the speaker. “I have an appointment with Mr Foster, my name is…”
“Push the door when you hear the buzzer.”
Behind her the door made a vibrating squeaky sound, she leaned back and she felt the door open. Turning round she pushed the door and step in to the small dark hallway. The air was damp and musty and the walls looked as they could do with a good wash. Cautiously she moved to the foot of the stairs, they rose for about fifteen feet and then turned back in themselves. Slowly she started to climb, unsure of where she was going or what to expect.
The banister was sticky to the touch and the carpet stained and threadbare; she decided it was probably safer to walk up the centre of the narrow staircase than risk the danger of touching anything. The walls and woodwork were painted a dirty magnolia colour; the whole place had an abandoned feel to it. She reached the first small landing and found two doors, both of which appeared to locked.
On the wall, by the bottom of the next flight of stairs, was taped a piece of A4 paper, written on it in thick black marker pen was the message ‘Foster, Allen and Partners Top Floor’. She started to climb again, the stairs got darker, the only light coming from a yellow bulb which hung from the ceiling on the small landing at the point where the stairs doubled back on themselves. She began to wish that she had told some one at work where she was going. She passed another pair of doors and found another hand written sign ‘Foster, Allen and Partners keep going’.
She started to climb again and realised she could hear a faint noise coming from the floor above, even though she did not generally believe in such rubbish she crossed her fingers and climbed the next flight quickly, hoping that it would be the last. At the top of the last flight of stairs there was yet another landing, again with two doors. One of the doors was slightly open and appeared to be small and very dirty toilet. The other had yet another hand written sign, ‘Foster, Allen and Partners’.
She moved forward and tapped on the door, a female voice, the same one as on the entry phone she assumed, said some thing that she took to be enter or come in. She turned the handle and pushed open the door. The sight which greeted her was partly what she had expected after the climb up the stair case but it still came as a shock.
She stepped in to a small, dim, airless office. The only source of light came from a window which was set in the sloping roof above a desk that was placed near the back wall. The room was full of filing cabinets and yet every available surface was piled high with stacks of buff folders and manila files. Seated behind the desk, just visible behind the ancient computer monitor and piles of paper work, there sat a blonde haired young woman. She was talking animatedly in to a phone, which she had tucked hard between ear and shoulder, her hands flew backwards and forwards, sometimes attacking the computer keyboard and at others grabbing files, flicking through them and returning to the precarious piles that surrounded her.
The young woman looked up and smiled as she entered the room and then pointed in the direction of a wooden dining room chair that was wedged between two of the filing cabinets. Taking that as a signal that she should take a seat and wait she crossed to the chair and sat.
The office smelt of stale coffee and even staler cigarette smoke. She looked around in the hope that she might find some clue as to why she had been called here. The young woman but down the phone, looked across, smiled and said, “Mr Allen will see you now.”
“Oh, sorry I’m her to see Mr Foster, my name is…”
“No dear, Mr Foster is dead, has been for several years, but as he’s the senior partner all appointments are arranged through his diary and it is then decided which of the partners will deal with your case.”
“Oh…” she assumed there must be some logic in there somewhere.
“Just knock and enter.” The young woman pointed at a door on the far side of the room, partly concealed by yet another filing cabinet.
She nodded her thanks to the young girl, crossed the room, tapped on the door and pushed it open.
The scene that greeted her was only slightly better than the room she had just left. It was lighter, due to the large window that ran down the furthest wall. It could have been lighter still if the net curtains that hung across them had been clean and not a dirty, light blocking, nicotine yellow. There were fewer piles of paper on the desk and the computer monitor was a flat screen rather than the box that the young woman had sitting on her desk. The man behind the desk was not what she had expected either. He looked as though he was in his late twenties, his straight, mousey brown hair was long and shaggy and he was wearing a combat green t-shirt with the iconic Che Guevara image, beloved by students across the world, printed on the front.
As she entered he looked up from the file in front of him, he stood and offered his hand, “Do come in, take a seat, Cup of tea or coffee?”
She lent forward and shook his outstretched hand, “No, thank you.” She picked up the small pile of manila folders from the seat, handed them to him and sat down.
“Right, okay… down to business,” He placed the files she had just given him on top of a large pile of paperwork on the floor next to him. “First, the formalities, I take it you’ve brought the forms of identification, as requested in the letter.”
“Yes I have, but I’d like to know what all this is about?”
“I’m sorry… legal stuff, I can’t tell you anything until you can prove who you are.”
“Why should I prove who I am, if you’re not willing to tell me what this is all about?”
“I know this all seems very odd, all very cloak and dagger, but unfortunately there are legal hoops we have to jump through before we can go any further. As Julie, my secretary, explained to you on the phone, it is information to your advantage.”
“You don’t look much like a solicitor. You seem a bit young.”
“I can assure you this is not some elaborate con. If I was going to do that I would have made sure I had much better offices. The original Allen of Foster, Allen and Partners, is my uncle but he retired last year, I’d just graduated and decided to try and keep the firm going.
Bit of a one man band at the moment but business is steady and I’m building up a regular client base. Mainly pro bono work at the moment, you know the sort of stuff, legal hassles with dodgy landlords, sorting out issues with loan sharks etc. I ask people to make a donation to the running of the practice, if they can. Occasionally some thing like this comes along,” he tapped the file in front of him, “a bit of paying work that helps to pay the phone bill.”
She had been watching him closely while he spoke and her years of experience told her he was telling the truth, she reached in to her bag and handed over a small pile of documents. He began to go through them, “Good they all seem to check out,” he began to tick things off on a little list which he had on top of the file, “passport, birth certificate, driving license. Excellent, excellent.” He looked up at her, his face now more serious, “and now just a couple of questions, formalities really but we have to go through them. You are Carla Josephine Finchley of…” he opened the file and read the top sheet, “…of Colney Hatch Lane, Muswell Hill, London, N10?”
“Yes… Now what…?”
He held up a finger to silence her, “and your parents are David Peter and Margaret Anne Finchley?”
“They were, they both died in a dolphin swimming accident on holiday last year…”
“Oh I’m so sorry…”
“But they weren’t my biological parents, I was adopted.”
“Oh good.”
“Sorry…?”
“I mean, oh good, you know you were adopted, not, oh good they weren’t your real parents. I don’t mean that…”
She silenced him with a look. He cleared his throat, shuffled some papers and then continued, “What I was trying to say is that I’m pleased you know you were adopted. I’ve been worrying all week about how to break that piece news to you if you didn’t know.”
“Okay, we’ve established I am who you think I am, now can you tell me what all this is about?”
He closed the file in front of him and sat back in his chair, “How much do you know about your biological mother?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
“You never had any urge to track her down, find out who your real family are?”
“My parents are…” she stopped herself, she still found it hard to think of them in the past tense, “were my real family. My biological mother didn’t want me, why go chasing after someone who gave you away. You’re not going to tell me that after all these years she wants to see me?”
“No, I’m afraid not. There is not nice way of putting this,” he lent forward and rested his arms on the desk, he was doing his best to look warm, open and sympathetic just like they had showed him in the workshops, “she died six months ago. I, on behalf of the estate, have been trying to trace you since then.”
Carla sat for a moment unsure of how she felt; she had just lost her mother, again. But this was a mother she didn’t know. This was a mother she had only ever thought about as abandoning her. Now she really had abandoned her. There was no chance to ask why, no chance to find out what she had done so wrong, no chance for, she winced as she thought it, closure. She stared across the desk at the young Mr Allen, she could see he was has as much difficulty dealing with this situation as she was, “Her estate?”
He grabbed at the opportunity to get back to legal matters, “Yes, estate in the legal sense, not the landed gentry’ way,” he flicked through the folder “Though there is some land involved I believe. All the details are in here.” He handed across the manila file, “I think it’s probably best if you take that away and read through it, it pretty much explains everything. If I could just get you to sign here and here,” Carla lent forward and numbly signed her name where he had indicated, “I’m sure you’re bound to have lots of questions. Read through the file and then call back here at, shall we say three’ish, I’ll try and answer what I can and those that I can’t, I’ll set Julie the task of finding out for you.”
She did not remember leaving the office, or the walk down the flights of dark, dirty, narrow stairs. She could not remember stepping out in to the street and feeling the cold hard rain on her face, or the diesel fume filled air filling her lungs. She had no idea how far she had walked or even where, in this grey, sooty city, she was.
She did remember going in to the small tobacconists and buying a packet of cigarette and she did remember lighting the first one. She remembered feeling dizzy from its effect as the smoke filled her lungs for the first since she had stop smoking three years ago. Now she found herself seated on a mock Victorian bench, sheltering from the rain under the portico of, what appeared to be, the local museum and art gallery. She wondered, for a moment, whether she was still in the city centre. The museum was located on a long pedestrianised, tree lined walk and it was hard for her to believe that she was still in the middle of such a busy city. Then over the sound of the wind and rain she heard the familiar sound of traffic.
She lit another cigarette and inhaled, the dry, acrid smoke filled her lungs. She looked at the file which lay unopened on her lap. The name, type on to the white label stuck to the front, read ‘Giuseppina Assunta Fabbroni’.
Was that her? Was that who she really was? Or was that her mother’s name, her biological mother, her real mother. Her mouth filled with a strong metallic taste as the adrenaline coursed around her body. In her chest her heart fluttered and thumped and the acidic bile churning in her stomach made her feel sick. She looked around and saw the A-frame sign with arrow indicating that there was a café inside the museum. Perhaps a strong coffee and a sandwich might make her feel better.
The museum was quiet, bright and warm. She followed the signs, through the various exhibitions, towards the café. She liked museums and art galleries. They reminded her of childhood, the hours spent on her own wandering through the rooms and galleries of the local museum. She was not a lonely child; she just preferred to be alone. This had carried on in to adulthood and now, with the death of her parents she thought she was alone. There was an aunt, her father’s sister, who lived up in Wakefield, but she rarely saw her.
Now, in this folder, there was possibly a whole new family. She had not really thought about her biological since she was a child. She did not in real sense exist for her, but the news of her death had made her real, had put flesh and bone back on to those ghostly childhood nightmares. Now, before she had a chance to get to grips with the fact that she did have a real mother she had yet again gone away, abandoned her.
She found the café, more by following the smell than the signs and bought a cup of strong coffee. She gave the food a wide berth, pre-packed sandwiches and muffins in cellophane wrappers was not what she was hoping for. London had spoilt her; freshly prepared food had obviously not reached the provinces. She found a quiet table in the corner of the brightly lit room and sat down, placing the still unopened file on the table in front of her.
She stared at the name again, ‘Giuseppina Assunta Fabbroni’. Yesterday afternoon she had known exactly who she was, she was Carla Josephine Finchley, the sign on the door of her office at The Home Office said so, her driving licence said so, her birth certificate and passport said so, and even her travel pass said so. She had left her home, in north London, yesterday afternoon and caught the train up here and when she had stepped off the train and booked in to the hotel she had been Carla Josephine Finchley. when she had gone down to breakfast, this morning, the waiter had called her Miss Finchley. When she had entered the offices of Foster, Allen and partners, she had been Carla Josephine Finchley. But now?
She added three packets of sugar to the coffee and stirred around the dark liquid, slowly. She looked around the café; it was surprisingly empty for a rainy day. There was a young man, in his early twenties Carla guessed, reading a large, glossy, hardback book and making notes on a small pad. Over by the window there was a elderly couple, drinking tea and sharing a large piece of chocolate cake, they spoke in hushed tones and would laugh occasionally and try to feed each other spoonfuls of the cake. How could life carry on as normal when her world was falling apart? She knew how, she was a psychologist; this was all a matter of perspective.
She took a quick mental stock of here life. She had been alone, and then the Finchley’s had adopted her. They had died and she was alone again. Now her real mum, this unknown mum had died and she may not actually be alone. There may be a family out there. But where? The name looked Spanish? Italian? South American. She took a drink of the coffee and wished that she had decided to do this in a pub instead, a large whisky would have been helpful right now, even though she could not stand the stuff her dad had always made her have a whisky in times of stress or shock.
She ran her hand over the front of the file and the quickly, as though she was ripping a plaster off a particularly hairy piece of skin, she pulled it open.
The top piece of paper was a letter from the Office of the Crown giving instructions to Messer’s Foster, Allen and Partners to proceed with a search for any living relatives who may have a claim on the estate of ‘Giuseppina Assunta Fabbroni’. It detailed her last known address and the contact address’s of her executors.
Carla breathed a sigh of relief and took another drink of coffee, she was not this ‘Giuseppina’, that was her mother. That did not answer the question of who she was and why she had been put up for adoption. She began to read.
The story contained in the file was, in its own way, a sad tale, of a young girl sent many miles from her home in Italy, to earn money to send back to her family. Who had found herself alone in England in the early sixties and who, in nineteen sixty seven, had given birth to a girl. Alone, and catholic, she had put the child up for adoption rather than face the scorn and shame it would bring upon her family name.
As sad as it was, Carla could not forgive the woman who had abandoned her. Who had forced her to spend the first four years of her life in a catholic orphanage until she was adopted by a couple, a couple considered to old to adopt a baby, but who could have a toddler. A woman who had allowed her to live for over thirty years thinking she one thing and then had appeared from nowhere, from the grave, to tell she was some one else.
She read and re-read the file, hoping that it would suddenly make sense. But it did not. She had started the day as Carla Josephine Finchley and was ending it as Carlotta Giuseppina Fabbroni. Did she feel any different? She was not sure. She was still thirty seven years old, she still lived in Muswell Hill, she still worked for the Home Office, and she was still unmarried. But now it appeared she was Italian and that somewhere out there, there was a family. A family that may or may not know that she existed and who, given the circumstances may not want to know her.
She leafed through the sheaves of papers; there was talk of bank accounts and life insurance policies and mention of land, something to do with a family farm. She needed to think and she needed another cigarette. She looked out through the far window, the rain had stopped and it looked as though the sun was trying to break through. She gathered up the papers, closed the file and shoved it in to her bag.
Outside the air was cool and fresh, the wind had dropped and so she slipped off her heavy rain coat and draped it over her arm. Perhaps this was a good sign, a omen. She lit a cigarette and began to walk along the tree lined avenue. The buildings, like the museum, were mainly Victorian houses and she guessed that at one time it had been a quite residential area just off the city centre. Most of the buildings had now been converted to offices and looking through the windows she played her usual game of people watching, trying to decide what the firm inside did and who the people were just from the brief glance she got as she walked by.
She had no idea in which direction the city centre was and so she just started walking, in the hope that she would find a main road and possibly a sign. After a few hundred yards she saw her second omen of the day. This was not good, she hated being superstitious. There, in front of her, stood a large and imposing church, its fine stone work dulled and dirtied by the years of pollution it had had to endure. She knew instinctively, without even looking at the sign, that it was a catholic church.
She had been raised in the catholic faith by her parents. As a child they had attended mass every Sunday. She had been confirmed at the age of twelve; she still had, on the mantle piece at home, the photograph of herself in the long white dress and veil, her parents standing proudly by her side. As was the way with teenagers, she had drifted away from the church, and her relationship to it now could be described as cold at best.
She surprised herself when she realised she was walking up the wide stone steps and entering the vestibule. She almost went in to shock when, on entering the nave, she spotted the cross above the Alter, genuflected and made the sign of the cross. Then she saw what she knew had drawn her here. She walked down the side aisle to a small chapel, just to the right of the Alter, and lit a candle. She stood for a moment watching the flame flicker and dance and then unconsciously she lit a second candle. She turned and started to walk back up the side aisle, then she stopped and sat in a pew, four rows back from the front. She pulled the file from her bag and held it on here lap.
She had no idea how long she had been sitting there, or even what she had been thinking about. Here mind had raced form one thing to the next. Ideas and images crossed over, mixed together, separated and found new thoughts to join.
She became aware that some one had sat next to her. She glanced furtively to the right, not sure if she wanted this person to know she was aware of their presence. She was surprised to find herself looking at a young monk. He himself seemed to be in deep contemplation, staring straight ahead at the crucified figure of Christ above the Alter. Without taking his eyes of the cross he leaned slightly towards her and said out of the corner of his mouth, “Worry can be a terrible thing, especially when you keep it bottled up.” His voice was soft and well educated.
Carla turned her head to face him, “What makes you think I am worrying about some thing.”
He turned in the pew to face her, “The fact that you’ve been sat there for half an hour, staring straight ahead. I wouldn’t have troubled you usually, we like people to come and talk to us when they’re ready, but I was worried.”
“Why, do I have the look of a suicide victim or something.” She regretted saying it as soon as the words left her mouth, they were harsh and sarcastic.
“No. It’s just that if there is anything important in that folder, it’s not going to be readable in a moment.”
Carla looked down at her lap. The file was slowly concertinaing in her grip. She always thought that she was a logically minded, rational person, who could control her emotions and yet despite her efforts her body always gave her away. Her assistant, at work, said that he could tell whether she was in bad mood even when she had her back to him.
The young monk slide along the pew, closer to her, “Is it bad new?”
“I don’t know.”
“Not plucked up the courage to read it yet, then?”
“No I’ve read it, several times. I’m just not sure if it’s good or bad news.” She smoothed the folder out, “What’s your name Father?”
“It’s Brother, Brother Dominic.”
“Dominic?” She turned back to face him, “Were you christened Dominic?”
“No, it is the name I chose when I entered the order.”
“You get to choose your name.”
“Well, yes. You have to choose it from a list, but yes you get to choose.”
“How important do you think a name is?”
“To us, quite important. It symbolises the start of our new life. Many of us choose a name that reflects the characteristics that we feel are important. Some choose on the basis of who influenced them.”
“A new life, I don’t know if I want a new life, I’m quite happy with the old one.”
“When is the Wedding?”
“Wedding? Oh good grief no. This is… This is… I’m not who I thought I was.”
“Who did you think you where?”
“I thought I was Carla Josephine Finchley, but it turns out that I’m Carlotta Giuseppina Fabbroni.”
“A rose by any other name… What makes you, you?”
She thought for a moment, this was the type of question she usually asked, it felt odd to be on the receiving end, “Well, my work, my beliefs, my friends…”
“Your family…?”
“That’s the problem. This morning I woke up with no family, my parents died last year and apart from an old aunt there is no one else, but now,” she held up the file as though the very act of waving it about would explain everything.
“You’ve been tracing your family tree?”
“Oh god no, sorry Father… Brother. It’s complicated.”
“Try me; I’m a surprisingly good listener.”
She told him the tale, the abandonment, the adoption, the death of her parents, the coming to terms with being alone in the world. Then she explained about the arrival of the solicitor’s letter, the discovery this morning that her real mother had also died and that far from being alone, there was probably a large family out there.
“And you can’t decide whether this is good or bad news?” he said as her story came to an end.
“Over the past year I have come to accept that there was just me, Carla Finchley, but now… but now I find there is this other woman, this other me, this Carlotta Fabbroni who has grandparents, aunts and uncles, nephews and nieces, cousins and a farm somewhere in Italy.”
“Why does that thought scare you so much?”
“It doesn’t scare me,” she began to smooth the file on her lap again; “I’m just a bit shocked. You have to admit it’s a bit confusing.”
He watched as she pummelled the file in front her in to submission, “And scary, what if they don’t want to know Carla Fabbroni? What if they don’t like Carla Finchley? What if they abandon you as well?”
The tears exploded suddenly. She had felt them building since she had left the solicitors, but she had manage to hold them back, to control them. She hated crying, it was weak, when you cried you made yourself vulnerable to attack. It was something that could be used against you. Brother Dominic reached under his scapular and produced a small packet of tissues he handed them to her, “This is an opportunity, a marvellous opportunity. God has given you a chance to meet a family you never knew existed, to become part of that family, remember, ‘In every conceivable manner, the family is link to our past, bridge to our future’.”
She wiped at her eyes and blew her nose, “Corinthians?”
“No, Alex Haley.”
“The guy who wrote Roots?”
“Yes, I’m reading his biography, I couldn’t think of anything appropriate from the Bible.”
Carla smiled and wiped her nose again, “So the Bible doesn’t have the answer to everything then?”
“Oh it does, I just couldn’t think of one off the top of my head. Give me ten minutes and I’ll find you one if you want me to.”
“No, your okay,” she smiled and laughed quietly, “I’ll stick with the Alex Haley.”
“Look at it this way. If you don’t contact these people you’ll never know how they feel about you, but that’s the easy option and you don’t strike me as someone who likes to take the easy option.”
“No. if there’s an easy way and a hard way, I’ll take the hard way every time. Nothing easy is ever worth achieving.”
“Would you like me to sit and pray with you for a while?”
“No, I don’t, err… well… I don’t really know why I came in here, I’m not…”
“You were looking for guidance. For some one to confirm that you had made the right choice. You knew what your answer would be even before you asked the question.”
Carla looked back down at the file, she noticed the time on her watch, “How far away from the centre of town, am I?”
“You’re in it, just walk back up that way,” he pointed behind him, “and you’ll find yourself back on the main road.”
“Thanks Father… Brother Dominic.” She stood up started to leave, “Thanks again.”
“I’ll say a prayer for you.”
“If you feel you must.”
Outside the summer had plucked up the courage to put in an appearance and she walk back to the office of Foster, Allen and partners with a plan of action in her head and a good feeling deep down in her heart.
On the train, back down to London that evening, she once again read through the file. There had been an address in Southend-on-Sea and she had left instructions with Mr Allen to make contact with the Ricardo Fabbroni named in the documents. She did know whether he was an uncle, a cousin or even a brother, but at least it was a start and at least, she hope, he would speak English.
So Dear Reader, we will leave Carla Finchley or Carlotta Fabbroni, travelling back to her home in Muswell Hill. A woman orphaned twice in the space of one year. Tomorrow will bring a new day and perhaps the start of a new chapter in her life.