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.

Chapter Five

The villa Fatiscente Dear Reader, as I have tried to explain, has over the years grown, evolving to cope with the members of the Fabbroni family that inhabit it. It reflects the family themselves for theirs is a complicated history; too long and too complicated to explain in a few short paragraphs here. I hope it will become clear as our tale unfolds. What you do need to know, at this juncture, is that Prima Nonna Etta was Papa Peppe’s second wife.
Papa Peppe’s first wife, Assunta, bore him three children, two sons, Adolfo and Lorenzo and a daughter, Giuseppina. Assunta died shortly after the birth of Giuseppina. It was not the strain of children birth that caused her untimely demise, but a stray ball during an enthusiastic and heated game of Bocce. His second wife Giorgetta, now known to all as Prima Nonna Etta, bore him three sons, Tommaso, Ricardo and Arrigo. Adolfo we have already met, the others we will find along the way.
Come Dear Reader and join me as the Family, their friends, associates and the plain nosy, gather at the Villa Fatiscente.
Giacomo slowed the little car down as he and his brother approached the Villa along the dusty road. It looked as though half the province had turned out, vehicles of all ages, shapes and sizes were parked along the verge. Giacomo turned on to the olive tree lined dirt track that led down to the farm.
The court yard was packed with more cars, those of the family and close friends. He drove round to the back of the house and parked up. As they climbed out of the car their Zio Maso, Adolfo’s step brother Tommaso, walked over to greet them. He was a short, balding, well dressed, energetic man in his late fifties, who always had a smile on his face. Amongst the elder members of the family he was known a Masaccio, a nickname that had stuck since childhood.
“Ciao Ciao, my little ones”. He walked towards them, arms out stretched, a cigar in one hand, and a plastic cup of red wine in the other. Musso and Caesar were trotting along at his heels. The two brothers greeted him, kissing him on both cheeks.
“Ciao Zio Masso,” said Giacomo “you just got here?”
“About half an hour ago, we drove down from **** to **** yesterday”. Zio Masso lived in Switzerland but kept a small apartment in ****, His Wife’s family village a few kilometres away.
“Are your family here?”
“Yes, yes, we’re all here **** and the girls are helping in the kitchen, **** and **** are entertaining the kids. You two had better go and change, your mama has been looking for you”.
Giacomo and Dino made there way to the front of the villa, greeting family and friends alike, pausing briefly to catch up with those who they only saw at these occasions, the births, deaths and marriages.
They went up to their rooms to change, their mother scalding them for being late as they went. When they emerged, sometime later, it seemed the rest of the province had turned up, and so it continued for the next hour, the hugs, the handshakes, the cheek kissing. Condolences exchanged, gossip caught up on.
Some chatted in groups; others sat by themselves, jokes and memories exchanged. Liona and her daughters moved through the throng offering food, topping up drinks. Rita watched and conducted the proceedings, checking and re-checking making sure everything ran smoothly. No shame or dishonour would be brought upon the family by a simple mistake in the etiquette of Italian family life.
At the appointed hour a long black hearse, its consignment festooned with flowers drew up at the entrance to the farm.
After much crying and many raised voices the long procession of cars set down the mountain on the journey to the church. The sun was high in the sky and the cortège of hot packed cars drove slowly down the dusty track. Liona and her daughters stood in the courtyard and watched as they disappeared in the heat haze and then went inside to finish the preparation for the meal that would greet the mourner’s on their return.
The cortège passed swiftly along the dual carriageway, passing by the outskirts of the town and then turning off at the southern exit. It drove through the twisting quiet streets that led to a small square and the church of saint Anthony of Padua
Father Jonathan stood on the steps and as the cortège pulled up he walked down to greet it. Signore De Cesso, the undertaker, stepped out of the hearse and greeted the priest, “Good morning fatha.” Signore De Cesso was an anathema amongst his fellow undertakers. A large jolly round man with rosy cheeks, his personality was as big as his stomach. It seemed that at any moment his tightly fitting morning suit would give up under the strain and explode at the seams.
“Congratulations Signore De Cesso, only twenty minutes late.” Said Father Jonathan pointedly looking at his watch.
“You know how it is fatha; ya can’t rush the dearly departed.”
“True, but you could chivvy along the living.”
The two men parted and set about their duties. Father Jonathan approached the second car. The driver opened the rear door and he was greeted by a wall of tears and sobbing. An argument was in full swing as the elder family members tried to decide the best methods to extricate Prima Nonna Etta from the vehicle, honour dictated that Prima Nonna should be the first out but this was impossible as she needed at least two people to steadier her, help her from the vehicle and to her feet.
Father Jonathan stood and listened to the raised voices. He had come to learn, after living for so many years in Italy, that to interfere in a family quarrel was to put ones life on the line, for as much as they argued amongst themselves any outsider was seen as a common enemy and they would unite against their new foe as quickly as they had first split.
He had also come to realise that everybody had the perfect solution to any problem, but that their solutions or ideas always differed. If more than two people were involved in a task there would be at least three ways of completing it. Currently the six members of the Fabbroni family wedged into the back of the car had come up with nine different ways of removing Prima Nonna Etta. The driver of the vehicle appeared to be quite content to let this situation continue. He had made himself comfortable and was leaning against the boot of the car, rolling a cigarette.
The mourners in the flowing vehicles, unsure about the etiquette in this situation had rolled down their windows and had begun to argue amongst themselves, a few of the drivers from the vehicles, now stuck in the increasing traffic jam in the side streets, had left their cars and were stood in the entrance to the square loudly discussing the cause of the problem and possible solutions. Father Jonathan glanced at his watch again, the service should have started half an hour ago and there was still no sign of anyone emerging from the lead car.
Then the solution presented itself in the shape of Zio Ricardo’s wife, Maria. At first Father Jonathan had been unaware of her presence; she seemed to arrive suddenly, like a Tasmanian devil, from the row of cars parked around the square. She moved quickly, her short legs a blur under the black dress, pushing Father Jonathan aside, she lent into the open door of the car. She quickly summed up the situation and with a few swift well chosen words silenced the vehicles passengers.
She prodded the driver, who was now fiddling with a small MP3 player and nodding rhythmically to some unheard dance track. He was sent to find her husband Ricardo and his elder brother Tommaso. After some moments they were found and the task of extracting Prima Nonna Etta from the car got underway.
The two brothers, under the sole guidance of Maria, carefully lifted their mother from the car and placed her in the wheel chair, which had been fetched from the boot. Finally the real purpose of the day, the public display of grief, could begin.
The rest of the family steeped out of the vehicle. Adolfo, stoical and silent, Rita, supported by Giacomo and Dino and finally the grieving widow, Monica, at her side Tina and Little Peppe. She held them close, pulling them in towards her, her hands on their shoulders.
She was a tall slender woman, her body taught and muscular, her skin a deep olive brown. Today her body looked frail, her skin looked pale, and her usually long dark brown hair was pulled back tight in a bun and her normally smiling eyes, now full of fear and sadness, where hidden behind a black veil.
The men of the cortège gathered in groups, smoked, chatted and passed around small flasks of grappa. The women gathered around the small family group and began to fuss and ****. They displayed their sorrow openly, each trying to outdo the other of shows of grief. Tears gave way to sobbing which were lost in the sea of wailing.
Giacomo’s coffin was removed from the back of the hearse and placed on a wheeled bier. Father Jonathan stifled a gasp and then dug his thumb nail in to the palm of his hand to in an attempt to subdue the giggle that was in danger of exploding from his lips. He thought that he had seen everything in his many years in this parish, but the sight before him surprised even him.
To call the casket ornate would have been kind. It was made of larch wood and stained a deep rich red to bring out the fine grain. Its shape followed the traditional raised lid style but that is where style abandoned the scene and bad taste took over. It was not the inscribed brass plaque with its scrolls and fancy twists. It was not the richly carved and cast brass lion head handles. It was the casket itself.
Father Jonathan was quite use to seeing coffins with carved panels. Normally on the lid and on the sides of the casket there would panels with carved boarders, perhaps with a religious symbol in the centre. This particular coffin had taken the idea to the extreme.
On the left and right hand sides of the coffin were large central panels, their boarders edged with fine carvings. It was these panels that caused Father Jonathan to stare in amazement and were the source of his amusement. They were decorated with a carving depicting Da Vinci’s Last Supper in basso rilievo.
Signore De Cesso stood beside Father Jonathan, he smiled and said, “It’s a work of art is it not Fatha?”
“It’s definitely different.” Father Jonathan replied, biting his bottom lip.
“We had to send to Roma for it.”
“Really, well it was worth it. I can honestly say I’ve never seen anything like it before.”
One of the undertaker’s assistants stepped forward and a football shirt in the colours of Inter Milano, Rodolfo’s favourite team, was neatly folded and placed on top. Adolfo stepped forward and placed a small wooden cross, which he had carved from a branch of the olive tree he leant against every day, on top of the shirt. Then Monica, her two children by her side, was lead forward and she lay a single white rose across.
Those mourners, who could, mainly close family and friends, crowded into the small church. When he was sure all was ready Father Jonathan, who was standing by the main door nodded to an unseen organist and the wheezy strains of Ave Maria stunned the congregation into silence.
Father Jonathan flinched as the off key chords squealed there way down form the organ loft. It was always Ave Maria; whatever the occasion he could guarantee that that dreadful dirge would make an appearance. He winced as Signore Rottodita, the aged organist, reached a particularly difficult passage. The notes stumbled and faltered, tumbling over each other as they escaped from the pipes.
Father Jonathan could not hide his disgust, he closed his eyes. Signore Rottodita had been playing that piece at least twice a week for the past forty years and still he could not get the fingering of that section right.
At the bottom of the steps the pall bearers moved in to position. The group of six consisted of Giacomo, Dino, Tommaso, Ricardo and two of Rodolfo’s closet workmates **** and ****. There was some discussion over the best position for each man. There was etiquette and tradition to consider and the disparity in the men’s heights. Eventually they found an arrangement that satisfied all parties even though it meant that the coffin did slope forward and to the left slightly.
Slowly, and with as much dignity as they could muster, the men started the walk up the steps and down the central aisle of the church. The little procession was led by Father Jonathan intoning De Profundis.
“De profúndis clamávi ad te, Dómine: Dómine, exáudi vocem meam. Fiant aures tuae intendéntes: in vocem deprecationes meae. Si iniquitátes observaveris, Dómine: Dómine, quis sustinébit. Quia apud te propitiátio est: et propter legem tuam sustinui te, Dómine. Sustinuit ánima mea in verbo ejus: sperávit ánima mea in Dómino. A custodia matutina usque ad noctem: specret Israel in Dómino. Quia apud Dóminum misericordia: et copiósa apud eum redémptio. Et ipse redimet Israel, ex ómnibus iniquitátibus ejus.”
A young boy in robes swung the incense burner that filled the already stifling atmosphere with a thick sickly sweet smoke. They were followed by the remaining members of the family to a position just outside the Sanctuary in front of the Alter, were a set of trestles was awaiting the arrival of the coffin. There Rodolfo’s body was placed, his feet, as was traditional, facing the Alter. At last, and well behind schedule, the service began.
The service followed the traditional pattern; it was at these times that Father Jonathan was in his element. Now he was in charge and he led the congregation through the rituals of the Requiem Mass. The prayers, the readings, the granting of absolution; he was a conductor and these people were his orchestra.
As the first prayers got under way Giacomo quietly slipped out of the pew and quietly made his way outside. There was something about the heat in the church, the smell of the incense, the readings, the pleas for absolution and the prayers for deliverance from hell that made him feel uncomfortable. He should stay, ask for forgiveness, confess his sins, but he could not. He stepped out in to the bright sunlight and breathed in the fresh air.
He scanned the faces of the people present looking for a familiar face, then he spotted him, leaning against the bonnet of a large black car. He lit a cigarette and crossed over the square and joined the small group that had gathered large man, “Pleased to see you made it Mario.”
“Of course I made it; I told my word is my bond. Have you seen my wife?”
“I think she’s inside.”
“Oh yes, she loves a god funeral. Says they’re better than a marriage. She’ll be in there waiting for the eulogy.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes, she reckons you can learn more about a family from a eulogy than you could by living with for a month. Here” He offered Giacomo a small bottle of grappa. Giacomo took it, had a swig and passed it back. Mario took a swig and then continued, “There were to fellas looking for you a little while ago.”
“Did you tell them where I was?”
“Didn’t have to, the spotted you carrying the coffin in to the church.”
“Where did they go?”
“No idea, they just wandered off, said they’d be back later. You look worried.”
“No, no its nothing, they’re probably just friends, you know what its like on a day like this, people want to offer their condolences, to show they care.”
“They didn’t look like mourners and they didn’t look like the sort of guys who care.”
Giacomo dropped his cigarette to the floor and looked around the square. Mario placed a large hand on his shoulder, “Come with me, lets find somewhere quiet for a chat.” He led Giacomo over to a small group of trees and they sat in the shade on the wall outside Father Jonathan’s house. He took out the grappa and took a drink, “What’s going on Como?”
“Nothing Mario.”
“Nothing. Nothing he says. You sit there shaking like a like a dog expecting a thrashing.”
“Those men…” Giacomo lit another cigarette.
“I recognised one of them. I didn’t want to say anything in front of the others. It was Big Paolo.”
“Oh…”
“Oh indeed. Last I heard he was working for Pancrazio Sicario. Why would two goons who work for that bastard be looking for you?”
“He wanted to pass on his commiseration?”
“Bollocks, the man never says sorry even when he’s chopping your fingers off. How much do you owe him?”
Giacomo took a last drag on the cigarette and flicked the stub across the pavement, “Who says I owe him anything?”
“You do. Look at you, that’s why you wanted to make sure I would come today, to have a little muscle around in case anything happened?”
“No, I thought as an old family friend, as a friend of Rodolfo…”
“Rodolfo hadn’t spoken to me since last year when that truck of sheep his was driving disappeared.”
“That was you though, wasn’t it?”
“No. For once I was telling the truth. Stop changing the subject. How much?”
Giacomo took the grappa from Mario and took a large drink, “Ten thousand Euros.”
“Ten thousand? Jesus wept boy.” He crossed himself without thinking; it was a reflex action from years of living with Signora Franchino. “Cards?”
“Some of it, then I borrowed some money to invest in a business idea, thinking I could use the profit to pay off the gambling debts and the loan.”
“Oh, Como my boy,” Mario grabbed him round the shoulder and pulled him in close to him, “Neither a borrower nor a lender be. I should know, I’ve spent too many years persuading people like you, to pay back the money they owe to people like Sicario.”
Giacomo pulled away from the big man he hated it when Mario treated him like a child, “I’m going to pay it back. I just need a little time to raise the cash.”
“If I had a Euro for every time I’ve heard that line…?”
“Don’t take the piss. I told you because I thought you might have some Ideas.”
“You could ask for more time, but that’ll just mean you’ll have more to pay. You could beg for mercy, but in my experience that just makes their job more fun. You could run, but then they’ll just go after your family.”
“Shit… this is such a mess.” Giacomo began to pace up and down.
“Sit down. Walking never solved anything and if they come back you’ll be too knackered to run.” Mario’s pistol shot laugh echoed round the square and reverberated off the front of the church. Giacomo stopped pacing and glared at the large laughing figure. Mario stopped and said, “How long you got?”
“Two weeks.”
“Two weeks? Then why are you worrying, in my experience that’s a life time.” He stood up and pulled a fat cigar from his top pocket, “Today we will mourn the loss of your fine brother and tomorrow we will sort out your problems.”
“But…”
“But nothing… come on, the service will soon be over and they’ll be one short carrying the coffin if you don’t go back in.”
The two men walked back across the square and made their way up the steps and in to the church. As they did so a figure stepped out from behind the small group of trees, and smiled. A tall, thin, harsh faced young man, he carefully zipped up his flies and climbed back over Father Jonathan’s wall. He smiled to himself, smoothed back his dark, well greased hair and then he too headed off towards the church to join his family on this sad day.
So Dear Reader, we will, for the moment, leave the Family Fabbroni. We will allow them to grieve in private for a little, but we will return in time for the interment in the family crypt.
Our attention is required elsewhere, many, many miles from this town, in fact, many, many miles away from the heat of an Italian summer.
Follow me.

Chapter Four

We will return now to the Plaza di Mille fiori. The daily market is now in full swing. The Housewives of Suoloduro are out in force on this hot summer’s morning. They are here to shop, to buy the daily provisions so important to family life. The fresh fruit and vegetables, the meats and the cheeses, they will prod and poke, haggle and barter, moving from one stall to the next looking for the ripest tomatoes, the choicest cuts of meat, the elusive bargain.
Most importantly they come to gossip. To swap stories, to catch up with the news. The market grapevine, if they do not know about it, it has not happened.
Just on the edge of the hubbub, keeping out of the crowds, away form the noise, the colours, the smells and jostling, sits a young man, on the steps of the cathedral. He is doing his best to stay in the shade. This is Giacomo Fabbroni, youngest of the surviving Fabbroni brothers.
His dark wavy hair is greased back. He is dressed to emulate his film heroes. The Made Men of the American gangster movie. Black leather boxed jacket, white T-shirt, tight black trousers, white socks and Gucci loafers. Heavy gold chains adorn his neck and wrists, large gold rings encircle his fingers and a pair of mirrored Aviator sunglasses sits perched atop his head.
His frame is thin and wiry and his drawn face, the ashen pallor of those who prefer the hours of darkness to the harsh glare of the sun.
Let us join him.
Giacomo spoke animatedly into his small silver mobile phone. His free arm curved eccentric patterns in the air as he gestured his feelings to the unseen person on the other end of the call. He rocked backwards and forwards as he sat on the steps as if riding an invisible bronco. His brow furrowed, his eyes filled with panic, he spoke quickly pausing briefly as he listened to the voice on the other end of the phone.
Then he stopped. The arm stopped waving, the body stopped rocking, the face fell blank. After a moment he took the phone from his ear, snapped it shut and slipped it into an inside pocket. He sat for a moment, elbows on knees, head cupped into his hands. Then quite suddenly, as though the decision had been made for him, he stood up, slipped his sun glasses back down on to his nose and began to make his way through the market.
When Giacomo had an idea, he had an idea, and what he needed now was an idea. He needed to think, and to think he needed a drink, and to buy a drink he needed some money, or some one foolish enough to buy the drink for him. He knew just the man.
He pushed he was through the crowded market, avoiding the gaze of those who wanted to offer there condolences. He was in no mood for their pity and their sorrow. They only did it to feel better about themselves. If they wanted to impress God they should go and light a candle. That way they would be happy, God would be happy and he would be left alone.
He had almost reached the edge of the square when a hand gripped him by the arm. He span quickly around, fist raised, ready to strike his assailant. He stopped himself just in time, “Sorry Father, I didn’t realise it was you.”
“I didn’t mean to startle you Giacomo,” said Father Jonathan, “were you expecting some one else?”
“Err… no Father; it’s just that, well…” Giacomo looked down at the floor, “with my jewellery and such like… you know… a man can’t be too careful. Some of the lads round here… you know… they get jealous like”
“Perhaps then, it is not so wise to display your wealth and success so openly.” Father Jonathan looked at the young man before him dressed in fake designer labels and market stall jewellery, “Pride is a sin,” he continued, and then added under his breath, “I think.”
“Yes Father. But so is envy.”
“Yes, yes. You could be right about that. I thought envy was one of the Ten Commandments, but you’re probably right about it being a sin as well.”
Giacomo glanced up at Father Jonathan, “Sorry Father I have to, err…” he pointed vaguely in the direction of the Villa Fatiscente.
“Yes sorry, you’re probably in a bit of a hurry. I understand. Today will not be an easy one, but with the Lord’s help you’ll get through.”
“Thank you Father.” Giacomo turned to go.
“Tell me Giacomo, how is you mother coping?”
Giacomo stopped and turned back towards the priest, “She’s bearing up Father, she’s a veritable tower of strength to us all.”
“And your father, Adolfo? I don’t see at church as much as I would like. How is he doing?”
“He’s fine Father. He has his sheep. He keeps himself occupied.” Giacomo made to leave again.
“And Monica and the children… err…?”
“Tina and Little Peppe,” Giacomo turned back and took several steps towards Father Jonathan, so that the two men were only centimetres apart, “Monica has not got out of bed for two weeks, she refuses to eat and says that God has deserted her. The children are confused and miss their father, but they’re children and they bounce back quicker than the grown ups. Little Peppe did get in to a fight at school the other day, some nonsense and teasing from the other kids saying that his dad wouldn’t go to heaven because God wouldn’t want a man who smelt of shit.” He spat out the last word and a fleck of spit landed on the cheek of the startled priest. “Now, if you don’t mind Father, I have to be going.”
“Yes, of course, well I’ll see you at the service. Erm… goodbye and God Bless you my son.” The last few words were accompanied by a half hearted sign of the cross. He left the flustered priest wiping spit off his face, and headed off down one of the many little streets that fed into the Plaza di Mille Fiori. He knew the man he needed and he knew exactly where to find him.
Giacomo left the noise and bustle of the market far behind him, he pressed on in to the warren of streets that made up Il Prato dell'Acqua which, despite its idyllic sounding name, was the poor quarter of Suoloduro. It was known to all as La Cucina dei Ladri and only its inhabitants, and the foolhardy, ventured in to its streets. Giacomo fell in to the latter group.
La Cucina dei Ladri was home to the flotsam and jetsam of Suoloduro society. The poor, the needy and the unwanted could all find a home here in its crowded apartments. The streets, barley wide enough to drive a car down, were hemmed in on both sides by the tall, four and five storey buildings. In the tiny, airless rooms survived those too poor, or too deviant, to go anywhere else. What little sun there was, that made it down to street level, was more often than not blocked out by the lines of brightly coloured washing strung across the street, between the buildings.
The streets were quiet, the inhabitants of La Cucina being occupied by other matters. The women were out cleaning the homes of the middle classes, or trying to a little extra money on the packing lines of the few remaining local factories. The men were sleeping off the excesses of the previous night. A narrow set of steps led up to the dingy entrance of each apartment block. As the day wore on these steps, and the pavements in front of them, would fill with the residents as they tried to escape the heat and claustrophobia of their tiny rooms. There they would sit, watching each others lives. The births and deaths, the affairs and the fights, the arguments and the vendettas, each a player in one another’s soap operas.
Giacomo walked quickly, not from fear but because time was of the essence. In a few short hours his brother’s body would take its place in the family vault in the cemetery at Treso. He rounded a corner and entered a once magnificent, in the mind of the designer, square. What little sunlight that could, fought its way between the closely packed buildings and glistened off the greying marble and green stagnant water of the fountain that stood in the middle.
He crossed the square to La Bara, a bar on the far side. As he had hoped, and on his long walked prayed, the man he sought was seated outside, at his usual table, arguing with a young man, who was standing next to him. Their voices carried across the silent square and echoed off the buildings. “But papa,” the young mans voice was imploring, “mama says that if I don’t take the job with Mr Cappella she will throw me out of the house.”
“Then take the job.” The man seated at the table took a swig of his beer and chomped at the stub of the fat cigar that seemed to be glued into the corner of his mouth.
“But I don’t want the job.”
“Then leave the house.”
“That’s not fair; you can’t ask me to make that choice.”
“I’m not asking you, your mother is telling you. Take the job or go. Personally I’d take the job.”
“But it’s in the abattoir, it’s… it’s…”
“It’s mopping up blood and carrying a few carcasses about. I’ve done worse things.”
“Why do I have to get a job?”
“Because you are the eldest,” he raised a great paw like hand in greeting as he saw Giacomo begin to cross the square, “look… will it make your mother happy?”
“Yes…”
“Then do it… if your mother is happy, then I’m happy, and if I’m happy… you don’t get slapped into next Sabbath… now go… it looks as though I have business.”
“Yes papa…” the young man turned and started to go.
“And go straight to see Mr Cappella, tell him you’ll take the job.”
“Yes papa…” with that the young man turned the corner by the bar and disappeared.
Giacomo approached the table. The man looked at him, and smiling, held out both of his broad arms. “Como, my boy, sit…”
Giacomo sat and looked at the man opposite him. The man continued, “Tell me how are your family?” Mario Franchino, a large, balding man, lent forward and drained his glass. In his youth he had been a boxer. He was a good one by all accounts, but the lure of alcohol and the easy money to be made by using his skill for less noble causes, had turned his body flabby, but beneath there was still the frame of a prize fighter and the heart of a proud man.
“They are coping, what else can you do? Life goes on… but it is not easy.” Giacomo took off his sunglasses and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Of course not… They say Monica has taken it hard.”
“She has, I don’t know how she will cope, she loved my brother more than I thought it was possible for a woman to love a man.” He pulled a handkerchief from a pocket and began to dab at his eyes. He noisily blew his nose.
“We should have a drink,” Mario turned and looked back in to the dark recesses of the bar, he waved a hand at some unseen person, turning back he continued, “a man should not have to face his brothers funeral without a drink inside him.”
A young barman, in jeans and a stained white vest, appeared at the door to the bar, “Yes?”
“Two more of the same, for me and my young friend here”
“And who is paying?”
“Paying? Is that all you think about, money? This poor boy buries his eldest brother today and you ask about money. Fetch the drinks, show a little respect. Money, on a day like this.”
The barman disappeared back into the darkness. Mario turned back to Giacomo, “so my young friend, what brings you to La Cucina.”
“Nothing in particular… I just needed to walk, to clear my head. To… be alone…”
The barman reappeared and placed two beers and two brandies on the table. Mario nodded his thanks and waved him away. “Como, look at me, do I look stupid. Nobody, just goes for a walk, through here…”
“I… I wasn’t really looking where I was going…”
“A blind man with no sense of smell would know to steer clear of La Cucina.” He picked up his brandy, dunked the cigar in to it and then took a drink. He wedged the cigar back in to the corner of his mouth.
Giacomo picked up his glass and stared down into it as he swirled round the foul smelling brown liquid, “It’s nothing. It’s just that… Rodolfo’s death…”
“I know, it can be hard when you lose some one you are close to, especially some one as good as your brother.”
Giacomo knocked the brandy back in one, his knuckles white as he gripped the glass. “My brother was…” he glanced up and caught Mario's eye, “…he was a good man, a family man. It’s just that…” his voice trailed off and he picked up his beer.
“Don’t worry, when you’re ready, you will talk, and I will be here. I’m always here, where else would a man want to be.” He laughed a short, sharp laugh. A laugh that echoed round the square like a pistol shot. He finished his brandy slammed the glass down, on to the metal table, with a clang and picked up his beer up. “A toast…”
“A toast?”
“Yes a toast to your brother,” Mario removed the cigar from the corner of his mouth, stood up and held his beer out in front of him. He looked down at the seated Giacomo and indicated that he too should stand. Giacomo dragged back his chair and stood, and after some more nodding and eyebrow raising from Mario, held out his beer in front of him.
Mario cleared his throat, “To a fine man; a good farmer, a great father and a hell of a truck driver, Rodolfo, God rest his soul.” He tipped his head back and drained the glass in one; Giacomo took a sip of his beer and sat back down.
Giacomo waited while Mario ordered two more beers, argued with the barman about the bill and finally sat down, “Are you coming to the funeral Mario?”
“The funeral? No disrespect to your brother, but… well… funerals…”
“I would be honoured if you came…”
“I would like to but… you know how it is…”
“That is a shame; my mother was up at dawn preparing the Agnello con Cicoria,” he watched as Mario’s eyes widened, “and of course, there are the Zeppole…”
“Who made them?”
“Liona, she arrived early this morning with four trays, piled high with them…” a faint smile appeared on Giacomo’s face as he saw Mario close his eyes and lick his lips.
“I would be honoured to come. As a friend of both you and your brother I feel it is my duty.”
“I am touched by your friendship and your kindness. I will meet you at the church?”
“Of course my boy, of course… which err… church are we talking about?”
“Saint Anthony of Padua, you know it of course?”
“Yes, I know it. My wife works for that English man, Father… Father…”
“Father Jonathan.”
“That’s the one. Why they had to send us an English priest I’ll never know. Are there not enough Italian boys wanting to join the church?”
“Probably not, what about your family, you have enough son’s, hasn’t one of them received the call?”
“If they have they’ve almost certainly slept through it.” Again his laugh echoed off the buildings.
Giacomo looked at his watch, “I’d better get going, I have to collect Dino. If we are late back there will be another two funerals to arrange.” He took a gulp of his beer.
“How is Dino?”
“Dino? Dino is Dino. I don’t think he’s even noticed that Rodolfo isn’t around.”
“Really, has he got that bad?”
“No… he’s just a bit…”
“Dino..?”
“Yes…”
“He was always a bit… slow, no offence meant, but he always seemed a few cards short of a scopa.”
“No it’s not that that. He’s okay, up here.” Giacomo tapped his temple with a finger, “It’s just that he’s a bit of a dreamer.”
“Not the sort of guy you want running the farm then?”
“No…”
“So who? You?”
“Me…? I have plans, unlike them I have ambition. I intend to get more from this life than calloused hands and a bent back.”
“Another dreamer…”
Giacomo shot him a look. Mario smiled and then said, “You’d better go. I don’t want your mother blaming me.”
Giacomo stood and took Mario’s hand, “Ciao Mario,” he lent forward and kissed him on both cheeks, “You will be at the service, won’t you?”
“Of course, when Mario gives his word he sticks by it. Your mothers Agnello con Cicoria…? of course I’ll be there. Now go find your brother. Ciao, my boy, ciao.”
The two men parted. Mario ordered another drink, his laugh following Giacomo for several streets as he retraced his steps back to the Plaza di Mille Fiori. Giacomo re-entered the square. The crowds had thin slightly now and he made his way easily across, to a side street were he had parked his car, a rusty white, late nineteen sixties Fiat Cinquecento. His elder brother Dino was waiting for him, he was leaning against the side of the car. His tall and skinny frame dwarfing the tiny vehicle. As Giacomo approached he looked up from the note book he was writing in, “Where have you been?”
“No where… just walking… get in the car, mama will kill us if we’re late.”
The two men climbed in to the vehicle, Dino almost folding himself in half in his attempt to fit in, the engine spluttered in to life and they headed out of the city and back to the Villa Fatiscente. They travelled silence, neither knowing what to say to other, two brothers separated by grief.
The hour of the funeral nears dear reader and we will leave these two brothers lost in their own thoughts, the next time we meet them they will be preparing to bury their brother.

Chapter Three.

So, we begin our journey back to Villa Fatiscente, but before we do let us pause awhile. Do not fret dear reader, we have time. It is time to consider the geography of the area in which our tale is set. Yes, dear reader it is that time, time for some exposition.
I ask of you not to skip over it. I will keep it as brief as possible and hopefully you will find it of some interest. It may even help you with the wider understanding of the story. Pay attention, there may be questions later.
If we stand here, in the square outside Father Jonathan’s house, and face north you will see that the church is on our left and Father Jonathan’s house is to our right. Now let us rise straight up, come on follow me, up, up we go until we can see the city of Suoloduro below us and the valley in which it lies stretched out before us.
Imagine if you will that the valley is shaped like a flint arrow head, its pointed tip aiming north. You will see that a river meanders its way along the valley bottom from the tip of the arrow to its base. At the base it flows into a larger river that runs from west to east. It is here that the original settlement, that eventually became the city below us, started. I am sure that if you read on carefully we will discover the full history of Suoloduro and so, dear reader I will not trouble you with it here.
The western side of the valley was formed by volcanic activity and consequentially the soil is rich and fertile. Lush green woods and flourishing farms smother its slopes. The eastern side of the valley was pushed up many millennia ago as plate pushed against plate and earthquakes helped to shape this country. The soil is poor and thin, rocky out crops scar the landscape. This is where we are heading now, for this is were the Villa Fatiscente stands.
As we head back down to earth let us look at the Villa Fatiscente. We will merely concern ourselves with its layout at present, its history we will try to unravel as we go along. The building is a long, partly, two storey affair. Part house and part farm building. It has been not so much built, over the many years the family have lived here, as evolved. The front of the house faces south west, looking down the length of the valley and down on to the City ten kilometres away. It has been said that is has one of the best views in the valley, looking out as it does down on to the city and across to the lush green slopes of the western side.
If we stand in the yard and face the building we will see that the majority of the ground floor is of the local stone and consists of four large cool rooms. The first, on the furthest left, is where they keep the dairy cattle. This is being generous; the herd at present consists of two old, Italian Brown, cows and a small, bull calf. The next room along is piled high with the detritus of the years. Old farming implements, broken prams, bicycles, toys and the assorted odd and ends you no longer need, but one day may come in useful. The last two rooms are used as above ground cellars, the entire building having been built on a rocky outcrop. The walls of these rooms are thick, the windows small and the doors heavy, they are more than a match for even the sunniest day.
The right hand end of the building is a more modern affair having evolved over the last twenty years. Within its walls it contains, a large kitchen, a living cum dining room, a family bathroom, store rooms and a large garage and workshop. The main door leads out to the area in which we are now standing.
From just outside this door, and rising from right to left, is a concrete staircase which leads to a balcony that runs the full length of the stone built section. Along this balcony, with its brightly painted iron railing and its rusting corrugated iron roof, are the bed rooms and more private areas for the family. We will discuss those at a later time, for the moment all you need to concentrate on is the far left hand end of this balcony, this is the domain of Prima Nonna Etta.
Most days she can be found, sat on an old wooden chair, outside the door that leads to her apartment. She is lucky; she has her own small kitchen, a living room, bedroom and bathroom. Today is no different and she sits, crocheting, watching the farm, and despite her advancing years, hearing and seeing all.
There are a few other structures of interest. If we turn round you will see that we are standing in front of a large, brick built, wood fired, bread oven, still warm from its mornings work, baking the bread and pizzas for the coming funeral. Over to our left is the large, wooden framed, corrugated iron covered barn. In the farms heyday it would be full to the rafters of drying tobacco, now it is home to a tractor, the rabbits and a large colony of spiders. Next to it stands a patio area with a, home made, brick and stone built barbeque. Down the slope and to our right is the chicken run and further round the sheep pen with its low stone built shelter where the small flock spend most of their day.
As you look around you will notice that the whole place has a slightly run down feel to it. Like a film star whose career has faded, man and nature appear have to given up on this little farm. The world is moving on, but has forgotten to tell the inhabitants of Villa Fatiscente.
Now dear reader we must step back. Our tale is about to continue.
Rita Fabbroni made her way slowly back across the yard. Now seventy years old she had moved to the farm upon her marriage to Adolfo. She had lived here now for fifty three years now and today was a day she was not expecting to see.
As she walked she rocked slightly from side to side, her hips worn and tired from years of working the fields, her legs bowed from childhood rickets. She was a short woman, barley a metre and a half tall, Adolfo himself was only about twelve centimetres taller, together they resembled the little figures who popped in and out of a barometer. Her skin was a rich nut brown and deeply lined by years of sun and worrying. She had a thin, light frame, not through lack of food, but from constant hard work and sacrifice. In her hand she held a white enamel bowl in which she had taken the scraps to feed the poultry, a young cockerel, half a dozen capon and a dozen hens.
“Rita. Rita.” Prima Nonna Etta’s thin harsh voice cut through the silence.
Rita stopped her slow progress across the yard and looked up to where Prima Nonna Etta sat, like an ancient vulture, outside the entrance to her apartment, “What is it now Prima Nonna?”
“Come up her child, I have something to show you.” Seventy years old and her mother-in-law still insisted on calling her child.
“Can it wait Prima Nonna? I have so much to do. There is a lot to organise today.” Rita started walk towards the entrance at the end of the house, “People will be arriving soon and I have to help Monica with Tina and Little Peppe.”
“Come child, come.” Prima Nonna Etta lent forward in her seat, gripped the balcony railing and pulled herself as upright as she could. “Your mother-in-law does not ask much of you. Can you not humour an old lady on the day she buries her eldest grandchild.” She turned and headed through her door.
Rita placed the bowl at the foot of the stairs and began the painful ascent. As she reached the top step Prima Nonna Etta reappeared, she beckoned Rita towards her and carefully sat back down in her chair. Rita could see that she had something on her lap, but the old woman kept it covered with her hands.
As Rita drew close Prima Nonna Etta looked up at her, “Here,” she moved her thin, arthritic hands and revealed what lay beneath them, “I thought you might like these.” On her lap lay a small set of old, yellowing, hand crocheted baby mittens and booties. “They were his, do you remember; he wore them for the christening.”
Rita reached forward and picked up the mittens, “Of course I remember Prima Nonna. You made them for him.” she turned the mittens over in her hand; she had forgotten how tiny he had been when he was born. No one thought he would survive the month, born six weeks premature in the middle of a terrible thunder storm, prima Nonna had said it was a bad omen. They had had him christened within the week, just in case.
“I had to send to Napoli for the pattern and the wool. It was so complicated it nearly drove me mad. See.” She held up the booties, Rita took them from her. She had forgotten about the fine filigree stitching around the edge, so delicate, like a spider’s web on a bush on a frosty morning.
“They’re beautiful,” said Rita “I didn’t know you’d kept them.”
“Well,” Prima Nonna Etta reached up and snatched back the booties and mittens, “I didn’t want to see them go to waste. I know you Rita Fabiola Piacquadio; you’d have let the children play with them.” She picked up a wrinkled brown paper bag and placed the delicate items inside. “You’d better be getting on, you’ve lots to do if you want to bury my grandson properly.” With that the old woman pulled herself up and went back in to her apartment.
Rita made her way back along the balcony and down the stairs. Prima Nonna Etta only called her Rita Fabiola Piacquadio, her maiden name, when she was angry. The only time Prima Nonna Etta was truly angry was when she was embarrassed. The only time she got embarrassed was when she let her feelings get the better of her.
As she reached the bottom of the stairs she saw her two grandchildren, Assuntina and Giuseppe the son and daughter of Rodolfo, over by the rabbit cages, they were feeding them weeds and grass through the chicken wire mesh.
She called them over, “Tina, Little Peppe, do your old Nonna a favour and go and fetch Nonno Adolfo. He should be back by now, people will be arriving soon.”
The two children set off across the yard, towards the path at the back of the house that led up to the pasture. Last month they would have run, laughing and joking, arguing and bickering, excited at the prospect at telling off Nonno Adolfo. But today they walked, holding hands, afraid to release their grip should one of them disappear and not return. Their footsteps were heavy for ones so young, their heads bowed, and their voices silent.
Rita stood and watched them until they had gone out of view around the corner of the house. They were so young, too young to loose their father, Little Peppe barely nine and Tina thirteen in a month’s time. She was going to be confirmed the Sunday after her birthday and her father would not be there to see it. He would not be there to see his children graduate from school. He would not be there to help guide them through the problems of first love. He would not be there to offer a hand in times of trouble. He would not be there to walk his daughter down the aisle. He would not be there to drink a toast to his first grandchild.
Rita Fabiola Piacquadio sat down on the hard concrete steps. She hugged the white enamel bowel to her breast, the breast she had suckled the tiny baby at, and for the first time since they had pulled her sons lifeless body from the silage pit, she began to cry.
She cried not just for the loss of her son but for the loss also of a father, a husband, a grandchild, a brother, an uncle, a cousin. She cried for the loss of a man who meant so much and who meant so many things to so many different people.
She cried for the man, who at heart was the little child she had held in her arms and who she had nursed day and night for those first few weeks. She had sat by his crib to watch over him whilst he slept, not daring to leave his side for fear that he should die alone.
This was the little child for whom Adolfo had walked, eight kilometres in the storm, to fetch the doctor. The doctor had sent for the priest and she had lain there, in her mother-in-law’s large wooden framed bed, the tiny infant cradled in her arms as the priest had performed the Last Rites.
To anxious to sleep the doctor had sedated her. She fell in to a fitful sleep full of dark visions. When she awoke the next morning the storm had past and as they opened the shutters on the bedroom window she was greeted with a beautiful late summer’s morning. The tiny child had survived the night and she knew then that he was a fighter.
“Mama?” the voice was soft and concerned. Rita wiped her eyes and looked up, it was her daughter Camilla. Camilla had arrived a little while earlier by car from Roma. She took her mothers hand and helped her to her feet, “He was a good brother.”
“He was a good man.” Replied Rita, dabbing at her eyes with a piece of tissue, “come on girl, we have much to do. We have no time to stand in the yard gossiping.” She headed towards the main entrance to the house, Camilla trailing after her.
The two women entered the kitchen. The heat from the large wood fired range filled the room and the steam from the various pans boiling away on top of it gave the atmosphere a heavy humid feel.
“How are we doing ladies?” said Rita addressing no one in particular. The four women seated around the old Formica kitchen table did not look up but continued in their task of rolling out and shaping the Casarecce. The group consisted of the mother, her two daughters and daughter-in-law; they all lived on the neighbouring farm. Liona, the mother, and her daughter-in-law had been over two days previously to help lay out Rodolfo’s body, and now she had returned with her family to help prepare the food for the meal after the funeral.
Liona stood up; she was a large lady in all senses. Her chubby face was red and ran with sweat from the heart of the kitchen. She laid a damp tea towel over a wooden tray piled high with Casarecce and carried it through to the cool of the store room just off the kitchen. “How is Monica today?” she asked as she returned.
“No better,” replied Rita, stirring one of the sauces that bubbled away on top of the range, “she still hasn’t eaten. She says she has not the strength to attend her own husband’s funeral. This sauce, did you add the oregano?”
“Yes, stop fussing woman. Me and my daughters have everything well in hand. You will not be shamed.”
The two women looked at each other. They had been through so much together over the years. No more needed to be said. Liona spooned a little of the sauce, from one of the pans, in to a bowl and placing it on a tray with a spoon and two slices of bread she turned to the women seated at the table, “Giacinta,” her daughter-in-law looked up from her work, “take this up to Monica, tell her to eat. Perhaps she will listen to an old friend; she certainly won’t listen to the advice of two old ladies.” She looked at Rita and gave her a wink, “lets leave the work to the youngsters, they can cope for a moment or two without us oldies. I have some of Gustavo’s Grappa in my bag, let’s go and drink a toast to your son and I can tell what I heard about young Tito Iannuzzi.”
The two women, friend for more than forty years headed out of the kitchen and out into the yard. They sat in silence for a moment on the wooden bench, which Rodolfo had made, on the patio area by the barn.
There dear reader we will leave them. Two friends suffering the grief of ones loss. Two women who have seen so much together. Two women who over time have grown as close as sisters.
Time for us dear reader is moving on as the hour of the funeral approaches. When we next come back to the Villa Fatiscente this house will be filled with the ones who loved a man who died too young. The yard will hum to the voices of the people who miss him. But there will be others here. For there are some who will not mourn his passing, for there are those within our story who are not unhappy to have seen Rodolfo die. Those who can only see what advantages that his death will bring for them.
We will meet them, you may not notice them at first, but they will be there, hiding there true feelings, skulking in corners, waiting for their moment.