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.