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.