Chapter One.

The boy zigzagged through the early morning shoppers milling around the street markets in La Forcella. Many meters behind him he could hear the shouts of a chasing policeman and the lady whose bag he had just snatched. He ducked under the grabbing arm of a market trader and turned sharply, diving between two fruit stalls. Instinctively his arm shot out and he picked up an apple. He had eaten nothing since last night and his tired legs began to buckle under him.
He felt a tug on his T-Shirt; adrenaline pumping through his veins, he turned slightly and saw that an old lady, in the traditional black of the catholic widow, had managed to get a handful of material. Twisting fiercely he managed to pull free. The voices were closer now, his heart started to beat harder, he gasped, trying to fill his lungs with much needed oxygen. His lungs filled with the smells of the market, a mixture of fish, coffee, rotting vegetables and sweat. He wanted to sit down, to give in, to let them take him, but his legs, as weak and wobbly as they were, would not stop.
He dodged left, narrowly missing a young girl on a scooter, her helmet swung from her arm and her long hair billowed in the breeze as she swerved to avoid him. He could hear her calling after him, cursing him and his family, but he did not dare look back. Then he saw it, his escape route.
Despite his tiredness he quickened his pace and whistled loudly through his teeth. On the corner, about one hundred and fifty meters away, a young boy nodded, spat out his cigarette, climbed lazily on to his scooter, started the tinny motor, and kicked the scooter off its stand. He clunked it in to gear and slowly rolled forward. As he did so, the bag snatcher, now less than a meter away, leapfrogged over the back pannier and onto the waiting seat. The driver throttled back and the two disappeared in to the maze of side streets that made up La Forcella.
Constable Nardone rounded the corner just in time to see them vanish. He half stood, his hands supporting his weight on his knees, sweat dripping from every pour, his lungs bursting, his heart pounding and watched as the two boys weaved there way expertly through the crowds and off down a side street.
Three weeks from retirement, he decided that he was definitely too old for this and was only half listening as the woman, whose bag had been snatched, caught up with him and started to berate him, his wife, his mother, his father and any one even remotely connected to him. He was sure that at one point he heard, through the roar of the blood pumping in his ears, the Pope’s name being mentioned.
He sat down on the side of the road, lit a cigarette and began to day dream about the small villa he and his wife had just purchased, many kilometres from here and the dirty streets of Napoli.
But, dear reader, for the moment we must leave Constable Nardone, for this is not where our story begins. To find our tale we must leave the crowded narrow streets of La Forcella, with its citizens of every nation and all life, and death, on every corner. We must even leave the beautiful city of Napoli.
To find our narrative we must head north east and travel some fifty kilometres, as the crow flies, in land. If we were to drive our journey would be nearer a hundred and twenty kilometres and would take us through the volcanic foot hills surrounding Napoli and on upwards towards the mountains of the Southern Apennines.
Eventually, one hundred and thirty metres above sea level, we would reach the town of Suoloduro. A once glorious town of the Roman Empire, it is now a faded shadow of its former self.
We will not pause here, for we will be returning for a closer look at the town later in our tale, but we will continue our journey onwards and upwards, heading north out of the town on the new dual carriageway until we see a small turning on the right. It is easy to miss, looking as it does like a dirt track, but we will take it and follow it. As we follow it we will become unsure that we are on the right road, but then, some ten kilometres out of town we will reach our destination, the Villa Fatiscente.
Again we will not stop here either, for the man we are seeking is not here. From here we must travel on foot, following the well trodden path up the mountain to the pasture were our story will start.
We climb up higher into the mountain until at last we reach a sloping plateau and with that our journey is nearly over. We have reached our goal.
Up there, a little further up the slope, is the character we have been seeking. See that old man seated in the shade of that old olive tree? He is where our story will begin.
Follow me dear reader.

#

Adolfo Fabbroni shifted his weight slightly, he could not get comfortable. He had sat here, beneath this tree, on this stone worn smooth by the passage of time, every morning for the past sixty five years. This morning though something was different. The walk up here had taken longer than usual. His knees ached from the effort; his breath had begun to come in short, sharp pants; for the first time in his memory he had become irritated with his small herd of sheep. He had even struck Caesar, the old ram, across the flanks, something he had never done before.
He realised, for the first time, that he was getting old. For the past seventy seven years he had lived on this farm. For the past sixty nine years had worked this land; and for the past sixty five years he had risen at sunrise and walked the sheep, up the old path, to the pasture.
Even when the winter snows lay thick on the ground, and the roads in to town were blocked, he and the herd made their way up here so that the sheep could graze on the coarse leaves, of the few evergreen shrubs, which poked their sharp thorny branches above the blanket of white.
His mind drifted back to when he was twelve and his father, Papa Peppe, had first told him that he was now old enough to have some responsibility. The herd had numbered over sixty then and the money from the sale of the wool and meat had seen the farm through some lean winters. But now he had only a dozen ewes and Caesar. All of them, like him, where past their prime. All of them, like him, were a throwback to better times.
His eldest son, Rodolfo, had suggested, on more than one occasion, that they got rid of the sheep. He had shown his father the figures; it was costing them more to keep the sheep than they made from the sale of the lambs. They had argued that day, over lunch. Rodolfo had called him an old fool, but Adolfo knew that to get rid of the sheep would mean the beginning of the end for him.
Him and the farm.
They had finished lunch in silence. A family divided by age and attitude. Rodolfo had wanted to move on, to modernise; Adolfo was worried that change would mean the end. They had parted in bad humour, each man convinced he was right. Each mans pride making it impossible for him to back down.
After lunch Rodolfo had gone to clear the blockage in the drain to the silage tank. The next time Adolfo had seen his son was when his two younger sons, Dino and Giacomo, had pulled their elder brother’s lifeless body from the foul smelling pit.
Now he sat here, under the old, gnarled olive tree, waiting to bury his son. They were right; no parent should have to bury a child.
It had been two weeks since Rodolfo had died. They had had to wait while the local magistrate had investigated. The coroner had declared that Rodolfo was probably unconscious before he hit the sludge. He had a large contusion on his forehead where he had hit the side of the pit as he fell. Adolfo had had to ask what a contusion was, when the clerk had explained it Adolfo had wondered why the coroner could not simply say bump. Progress, it got you nothing and simply confused matters.
The magistrate had declared it an accidental death. No one could account for the bruising on the upper thighs and it was assumed he had been hurt, at work that morning, whilst moving livestock.
Adolfo shifted his weight again. The rock, smooth and shiny from years of sitting, now felt cold and hard. The tree, its bark worn to match the curve of his back, now seemed sharp and jagged. It dug in to his spine at strange angles. It poked at his kidneys. It snagged at the material of his suit.
The suit. His wife, Rita, had made him put it on. It was the day of their son’s funeral and she had insisted that he wear it to show respect. She did not want family and friends to turn up to the farm and find him, Adolfo, wandering around in his work clothes. He had tried to explain that he was going to take the sheep up to the pasture, but there was no arguing with her this morning. He found it hard to disagree with her most days, but on this day, this day they both should not be around to see he did not have the heart to point out the foolishness of her wishes.
The material of the suit was thick and heavy and even though the sun had barely been up an hour he was already beginning to sweat. It looked as though it was going to be a hot day. Late July was always hot, but today it looked as though the sun was going to make an extra effort to make the day even more uncomfortable.
The stiff, white collar of the shirt dug in to his neck. He tried to ease a short stubby finger, calloused by years of manual work, into the gap between flesh and cloth. He pulled and stretched at collar but it would not ease. He dare not loosen the tie and undo the collar stud, Rita had struggled for nearly half an hour before she was happy with them both and he was allowed to get on with his mornings work. Her warnings, to stay clean and be back before the cars started to arrive, had echoed up the path as he had made his way up here.
Here, his favourite spot on the entire farm. Here, where he could usually find a little peace and solitude. Here, where he would let his mind wander. Here, where he would sit with his sheep and let the world pass by with out him. Here, where all his troubles were a kilometre down the mountain.
Today he could find none of these things. The sheep seemed especially loud, particularly Caesar, whose clanging bell and bleating had brought them all outside on that fateful afternoon. Now their incessant noise did not calm him but annoyed him. He wanted to stand up and run at them shouting and screaming. He wanted to drive them away. Perhaps Rodolfo had been right. Perhaps they were more trouble than they were worth.
His thoughts kept returning to the death of his son. The world, in the shape of his stiff suit with its odour of mothballs and stale lavender, had followed him up here. His problems and worries had not stayed back on the farm, but had followed him here and were demanding his attention. Normally he would have eaten his breakfast and then napped as, knowing that his old Alsatian, Musso, would keep an eye on the flock. He would sit and think, think and doze, doze and dream of better times, as the sun traced its slow arc across the sky towards noon.
Today though, he could not eat. The small cloth wrap which contained some bread, cheese and prosciutto, sat unopened by his side. He opened it and took out the meat. The colour was deep and rich, its texture fine with a streak of soft, pure fat running through it. He and Rodolfo had prepared it two summers ago and it had aged beautifully. He wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve as the tears welled up in his sparkling steel blues eyes.
He took a long bladed pocket knife from his trouser pocket. The wooden handle was deep brown, its surface smooth and glossy from the years of handling. Papa Peppe had given it to him on his thirteenth birthday; it marked his entry in to manhood. He had hope to leave it to Rodolfo, it was not much, but it was one of the few things he could truly call his own. Now that small pleasure would be denied to him. He stared at the knife for a moment; perhaps he could give it to Little Peppe, Rodolfo’s son. Little Peppe, they still called him Little Peppe even though Papa Peppe had died shortly after the boy’s birth. Little Peppe would be thirteen in fours years time. He would give it to him then.
He opened the knife up and carefully cut off a thin slice. Beside him Musso opened an eye and sniffed the air expectantly. Adolfo laid the thin slice carefully across his knee. Reaching into his jacket pocket and took out a small, battered silver flask. He flipped open the lid, picked up the slice of meat and held both towards the heavens, “To you boy, may we see each other soon.” He took a bite of the salty dried meat and quickly washed it down with a swig from the flask. The home made Grappa bit at the back of his throat and again tears welled up in his eyes.
Musso was now sitting in front of him, waiting patiently, his tail wagging across the dry earth expectantly. “There you go then lad,” Adolfo held out the remains of the thin sliver of meat and Musso took it eagerly. He patted the dogs head and then stroked him under the chin. Musso tilted his head sideways and looked at him, “No more boy, not today. I’m not going to spoil you to make myself feel better.” Musso moved back round in to the shade, lay down and seemed to go immediately to back to sleep.
Adolfo settled back against the tree, still trying to get comfortable, and looked down the slope to where the herd were grazing. Perhaps Rodolfo had been right. They were a poor example of the ovine family. They were thin, their spindly legs stuck out, like downwards facing twigs, from the mass of straggly yellowing wool. They looked as though they had been made by a small child who had never seen a sheep and only had it described to him by another child.
Adolfo glanced at the pocket watch, which hung from chain across his waistcoat, it had never worked but he liked the look of it. He felt it gave him an air of class. He had found late in nineteen forty three, he had just turned fifteen. The allies were fighting they way from Napoli up towards Rome. He had been out collecting firewood when had spotted a burnt out German halftrack. He had seen a dead body before, but that had been laid out in a coffin, cleaned, combed and brought to life with thickly applied make up.
The first German looked as though he had fallen asleep by the side of the road. He lay on his side, eyes closed, one hand under his head. The only indication, from the front, that all was not right, was the dark stain on the front of his chest. The other two Germans were not at first recognisable as human. Their charred twisted corpses looked almost like parts of the vehicle. To this day he does not know why he was drawn towards them, but he was. Fascinated by the burnt and charred flesh, the limbs twisted and contorted by the heat. The flesh on their faces was shrunken back to reveal wide and permanent smiles. Their empty eye sockets stared off into the distance as though they were looking for their rescuers to come over the horizon.
Then he had spotted it, clasped in the hand of the driver, the glint of gold in the evening sun. He had tried to pull it free, but the hand refused to give up its prize. He had taken his long bladed pocket knife and carefully cut through the man’s fingers. His efforts were rewarded with the pocket watch and its fine gold chain.
His first thought was to sell it to buy food on the black market, but when he rubbed it against his jumper and had cleaned off most of the burnt skin and thick black soot, with clumps of damp grass, he had realised it was only plated steel and not even worth, at the current prices, a loaf of bread. So he had decided to keep it.
When he returned home that evening Papa Peppe had asked him where he had got it, he lied, saying that he had found it laying next to an abandoned vehicle. He had never told any one the real story. It was not that he felt ashamed by what he had done; he just knew, deep down, that others would not understand. He slipped the watch back in to his waistcoat pocket.
Down past the farm, towards the floor of the valley, a cloud of dust rose up as a vehicle turned off the duel carriageway and onto the track which led up to the Villa Fatiscente. He realised that soon they would be expecting him back, ready to greet the many callers who would be paying their respects on this, the second worse day of his life.
He pulled out the flask and took another swig of the fiery liquid, and then he settled back against the tree and tried to clear his mind of the thoughts which filled it. He kept returning to the problem that had been plaguing him the most over these past few weeks. Who would take over the running of the farm?
For the past ten years he had left most of the day to day decisions to Rodolfo, anything major they had discussed and then decided between them. For all intents and purposes Rodolfo had run the farm, but now where did its future lay?
By rights the farm would pass to Little Peppe, but he was only nine years old, until he was old enough someone else would have to take charge. He could not trust his other two sons. As much as he loved, and he loved as much as any father could, he had to admit they were both, well, idiots.
The youngest, Giacomo had watched too many American gangster movies and seemed to be determined to became a “made man”. The boy was a fool. The only organised crimes in Suoloduro were the Grappa stills hidden away in every cellar, barn and hen coop. Then there was Dino, his middle son. A gentler kinder man you could not whish to meet, but he was, well he was Dino.
From down below he heard the beep of a car horn as it pulled in to the yard outside the house, its arrival heralded by another large cloud of dust. He closed his eyes. If they wanted him they would fetch him. He had time to sit. Time to sit and think. Time to sit and think and doze. There was no rush. He knew Rodolfo would not mind, he was never in a hurry to get anywhere and Adolfo was sure his son would not want to hurry this final journey.
And so, for the moment dear reader, we will leave Adolfo with his thoughts, with his fears and his problems. For our attention is required elsewhere.
Follow me.