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.