Chapter Two

Come with me now dear reader, down the mountain, past the farm and back in to town. Follow me, if you will, in to the ancient, narrow streets of Suoloduro. We have not long, so quickly, if you please. We are heading to the southern end of this once magnificent city.Along the way you will notice the higgledy-piggledy buildings. Ancient and modern stand side by side, along the main streets. Down the side roads the older buildings bear the scars of the years. Man and nature have taken their toll on this city. Earthquakes and war have left their marks. We must hurry along these well travelled streets. On in to the heart of this ancient city, with its wide tree lined central avenues and narrow, claustrophobic side streets. Following the main road we pass by the Roman Triumphal Arch and enter the grand market square, the Plaza di Mille Fiori. Making our way through the stalls and groups of early morning shoppers who fill the square, we will pause, just for a moment, to take in the sights, sounds and smells that surround us.The smells of the fish and meat, the hams, salamis and cheeses, the fruit and vegetables from all over this tiny province, fill or nostrils. The continuous murmur of people haggling, gossiping, laughing and arguing fills our ears.To our right the square is dominated by the façade of the great cathedral. This building has looked out over these people for over seven hundred years. Like an old relative it face is pockmarked and covered with the scars of the many battles it has witnessed. The beautifully cast bronze doors glint in the early morning sun.It is interesting to note that this square, the Plaza di Mille Fiori, acquired its name in the fifteenth century, when heretics and witches were tortured, in public, on the steps in front of the cathedral. The phrase can be found in the writings of an unknown monk who chronicled the events.He wrote, “The flames, which so consumed their bodies and cleansed them of their sins and their blood, which ran down the steps of our great cathedral and formed rivers and pools in the market square made me raise my voice to heaven and praise our Heavenly Father. For it reminded me of the fields in spring as a thousand blooms open their faces and raise their heads to the heavens in praise of the God who had created them.”We must continue now dear reader, we must move on quickly for the man we seek is about to rise. On we go, through the warren of side streets that make up the densely populated residential area. Apartment buildings, old and new together, their balconies hung with washing. Every available flat sunny surface is strewn with pots and tubs bursting with the colours of summer, tomatoes, peppers, chillies aubergines and herbs. The smells drift down on the still, warm air.We eventually come to the southern outer edges of the city. Where ancient and modern battle for space; factories jostle with small farms and old villas. Warehouses nudge up against the ruins of the Roman amphitheatre. It is here, down a narrow side street that opens out on to a small square, that we will find an old church. Its white marble portico stained by years of pollution and neglect. The once glorious front of the church echoes the Roman past of the city. The steps, leading up to the large oak doors, are worn smooth and hollow by the footsteps of the penitent. It would be nice to enter and spend some time studying the frescos but our attention is required on the other side of the square. There a large white villa stands in immaculate gardens. This is the home of the parish priest, Father Jonathan Makepeace Cutbill, an unusual name, you might think, for a parish priest in an Italian town and you would be right.Let us step out of the heat of the rapidly rising morning sun and step in to the cool interior of Father Jonathan’s vicarage.Follow me, quietly please.Father Jonathan lay beneath the white silk sheet, the soft feather pillow pulled up tight around his head in a effort to block out the noise of the bells. Not the bells of his parish church we lay just across the square and whose tower he could see through his balcony window. They had been silenced in nineteen forty four, when the church had been nearly hit by a stray mortar shell, in the battle for the city. The force of the blast had shook the bells loose and sent them crashing to the floor of the tower. They still lay there, cracked and broken, blocking the access to the stairs. He had been promised they would be fixed next year. He had been promised they would be fixed next year, for the past eleven years.The bells he was trying to block out wound down and stopped. He released his grip on the pillow and turned to look at the antique style alarm clock which stood on the walnut veneer bedside table. It was a little after six and he knew he really should get up. Mrs Franchino, his elderly housekeeper would arrive soon and start banging around in the kitchen. He knew she did it on purpose; it was her way of showing her disapproval for his rising. She was an old fashioned lady with old fashion values. She believed a priest should rise before the sun and start his devotions to God. Father Jonathan believed she should mind her own business.He climb out of bed and caught a glimpse of his naked body in the oak Victorian wardrobe mirror. His years in this parish were taking there toll. His once taut and athletic body now sagged and bulged. He realised that his hips and stomach were now wider than his shoulders. The flesh was the milky white of an English tourist, his face pink and bloated from the sun and fine wines.He cupped his hands to his chest, it confirmed his worst fears, and he was developing man breasts. His parish was poor but the many years of dining with the richer members of the community and the more influential members of the city council were starting to show. There were still enough people who thought that the way into heaven was through the local priest’s stomach.He sat on the edge of the bed. The steel frame and springs of the brass bed frame creaked slightly as they took his weight. The sun had continued on its slow arc and a beam of brilliant light was crawling its way across the white walled bedroom. It found its target, the thin patch of hair a top Father Jonathan’s head. His heart sank as he caught his profile reflected in the dressing table mirror. The glare from the shiny white skin of bald patch bouncing from his head, it put him in mind of one of the saints on the icons in the recess of his small church. His sudden elevation to the halls of hagiography did not comfort him. He raised his eyes heaven ward ‘thank you God, you certainly know how to make a middle aged priest feel even older’.He pulled on the soft hand stitched slippers, which had been a present from Paulo, a young Spanish gentleman he had met on his trip to Tunisia last year. He stood up and pulled on his Kimono. As he did he heard the thud of the back door. Mr Franchino had entered the premises with her usual grace. She liked to announce her arrival so that there was no danger of her catching Father Jonathan naked, as she was often to be heard saying, ‘if God had meant me to see a naked priest he would have called one of my sons!’He made his way across the landing; the polished dark wooden floor creaked as he walked. He opened the heavy oak door at the far end and entered the white tiled, marble floored, well equipped bathroom.And there, for the moment dear reader we shall leave he, for even a priest like Father Jonathan deserves some privacy. We will head down the wide wooden staircase with its intricate wrought iron balustrade, cross the cool marble floored hallway and head to the back of the house, where we shall join Mrs Franchino in the kitchen.Mrs Franchino was a small framed elderly woman of indeterminate age. To look at her would give no clue. She could be any where between 70 and 170, but she moved with the grace and energy of a woman in her twenties. She seemed capable of lifting and shifting loads that would make a young man buckle under the weight.She moved around the kitchen like a wasp in a jam factory. She was small in the way that only old ladies can be. Her back bent from years of long shifts in the surrounding tobacco factories, and from the burden of bringing up her eight shiftless sons and work shy husband. She dressed in the traditional thick layers of widow’s black from head to foot, even though her husband Mario was still very much alive, and could be found most days outside of his favourite bar playing Bowles.Her once long thick black hair was now streaked with grey and pulled tightly back, it nestled in a bun on the top of her head like a cowering Magpie watching, waiting, ready to strike anything foolish to come too near.She tutted loudly as she surveyed the mess in the kitchen. Three empty wine bottles and half finished bottle of gin stood on the wooden table which dominated the centre of the large kitchen. Used glasses, some smeared with bright red lipstick. Beside them stood two plates with the remains of a late supper of bread and cheeses, meats and anti pasta.She turned the cold tap on full and listened to the shocked screams of Father Jonathan from up stairs. Through the ceiling she could hear father Jonathan shouting. The few words of English she had learnt from the G.I.’s after the war did not include the ones he was using now, but she could recognise swearing in any language. She crossed herself and under her breath mumbled her own curse.She turned off the tap and set about the task of clearing away the signs of last night’s debauchery. She scraped the remains off the plates and in to a small, lidded, white enamel bucket that she kept by the sink. Her two fattening pigs were always grateful for the extras. She shivered at the thought of the amount of food that Father Jonathan wasted.Looking around the kitchen, packed with its modern hi-tech equipment and oak panelled units, she failed to understand why a man of the cloth, such as Father Jonathan, would want such things. She had no need for half the things in here, and Father Jonathan rarely, if ever, cooked. ‘I have brought them to make your life easier.’ he had explained. It had not made her life easier; it had merely meant that there were more things to clean. Any way, she thought, if God had meant her life to be easy, she would have been born a Protestant.She moved the dirty dishes over to the sink and started to wipe down the large oak table which dominated the middle of the room. When she had finished she set about cleaning down the fitted units with their slate work surfaces.As a child she, like many in the area, had been brought up a small stone built farm house. There she had lived, with her parents, grandparents, brothers and sisters, until she had married. She remembered how proud they all had been when, after many years of scrimping and saving, they had ripped out the wooden cupboards with there cold slate work tops and had had the new Formica covered units fitted. She remembered how people would make excuses to call on them just so they could come in to the kitchen and see the new units. Nowadays, people she considered her betters, the clever and the rich, were desperately trying to turn their kitchens in to some thing their parents and grandparents had strived so many years to get rid of. They want the country look. They wanted the rustic feel. They wanted all of the style with none of the discomfort.She gave the kitchen a cursory glance to make sure it met with her approval. It did. It always did. She was not a woman who cut corners, especially if those corners could be seen. She knelt in front of the sink, opened the cupboard under it and reached back behind the collection of chemicals and paste Father Jonathan though necessary to keep a house clean. Her hand felt around the back of the shelf until it found its prize, she pulled out the tall glass bottle, half full of a viscous yellow liquid. She unscrewed the cap and took a sip; the Grappa warmed her mouth and then made its way down her throat and started its job of gently warming her stomach. She replaced the cap and put the bottle back in the cupboard, moving a few of the cleaning bottles so that you would not notice it unless you were looking for it. She closed the cupboard and slowly struggled upright. She had heard Father Jonathan leave the bathroom and head back across the landing to his bedroom. She began to fill the sink with hot soapy water and slid the plates in. She could feel the one piece of equipment she truly despised, glowering at her from her side. The Dishwasher. She did not trust it, how can a machine get pots and pans, plates and cutlery as clean as she could ‘but it will save you time’ Father Jonathan had explained. If time was meant to be saved then there would be a bank on ever corner. Time was there to be filled with hard work and good intentions. It stopped you sinning.She quickly worked her way through the pots and placing them in the chrome plated draining rack as she did so. Under her breath she mumbled the verses of the Catechism. It was not for her benefit. It was not her soul that needed the forgiveness. Father Jonathan entered the kitchen she muttered something under her breath he had not even bothered to dress, again. He was wearing that brightly coloured woman’s dressing grown and those silly flip flop slippers, “Good morning Mrs Franchino and what a beautiful morning the Lord has rewarded us with this day.” “I wouldn’t be knowin’ anything about that Fatha.” she took a soot blacked, two piece, aluminium, espresso coffee pot from the cupboard by the stove and set about filling it.Father Jonathan shot a glance at the Krupps Espresso coffee maker which sat gleaming on the work surface in front of her. She saw his stern look but choose to ignore it. She slammed the coffee pot onto the stove and set about fiddling with the myriad knobs, buttons and switches, after several attempts the ring under the coffee pot came on. Father Jonathan was standing by the plate cupboard or ‘Welsh Dresser’ as he insisted it should be called. He was sorting through his post. Mrs Franchino stared at his back, there was something different about him this morning he looked, taller. No, not taller straighter and he looked as though he was thinner. His hair looked odd as well, thicker not more of it but thicker as though it had paint on it.She watched as he walked over to the table and sat down. He walked as though he had a rod where his spine should be and she noted the way he carefully lowered him self into his seat, leaning on the table and using his arms to support his weight.“Are you right there fatha?” she raised an enquiring eyebrow.“Yes, yes I am fine Mrs Franchino. Why?”“It’s just that you look like you be after hurtin’ ya back.”“No, no my back is fine.”The coffee pot on the stove sizzled into life and a jet of steam shot from the spout.“Just coffee and toast if you please Mr Franchino.”Mrs Franchino looked at him quizzically like a cat that had just been presented with a bicycle to play with. Father Jonathan hated it when she did this his Italian was perfect. After 15 years in this country it should be. On many occasions he had been complimented on his accent and told on more than one occasion that he spoke the language like a native, especially in the bars and clubs around the port in Napoli. Mrs Franchino seemed to gain pleasure in misunderstanding him ‘its ya accent’ she would exclaim, ‘I can’t understand ya funny accent’.Father Jonathan repeated himself slowly “Toast. And. Coffee. Only. Today. If. You. Would. Be. So. Kind. Mrs. Franchino.Mrs Franchino frowned, moved to a cupboard on her left and took out a large, round loaf. A quarter section had already been cut from it She carried it over to the table, thumped it down on to the chopping board and attacked it with the bread knife. After some moments the bread ceded to her struggle and yielded up to lumps of what could kindly be called sliced bread. She crossed over to the main work surface, by the stove, and wedged the bread into the only piece of equipment she seemed to have grasp the workings of, the toaster.She took the espresso pot off the stove and placed it carefully on the cork mat just in front of, but out of reach of, Father Jonathan. He noted that she knew better than to thump and slam about with boiling liquids.The toaster clicked, but no toast appeared, only a steadily increasing cloud of blue smoke. The smell of charred bread filled the kitchen, the smoke alarms piercing scream spilt the silence. Mrs Franchino stood for a moment undecided about what to do, her eyes widened; her mouth slowly opened and closed, as though she was chewing at an invisible candy floss. It was not something Father Jonathan had seen before, a flustered Mrs Franchino. It unnerved him; the fact that he was unnerved by the sight of a flustered Mrs Franchino shocked him. Had he come to rely on this woman, this harridan, so much that her indecision scared him? If she did not know what to who would. Before the thought had developed any further Mrs Franchino snatched up a glass of water and advanced on the smoking toaster.“No.” Cried Father Jonathan, but he was too late. Mrs Franchino threw the contents of the glass at source of the smoke, which was rapidly filling the kitchen. There was a loud bang, a blue flash and then a pathetic fizzle. The shock of the sudden and, as far as Mrs Franchino was concerned, unexpected explosion caused her to release her grip on the glass, it fell to the floor, bounced twice and then shattered on the flagstones. Mrs Franchino stood for a moment, immobile, like a rabbit caught in the spotlight of her husbands truck just before he loosed both barrels of his twelve bore and sent it on its way to the dinner table. Then, as though nothing of the last few minutes had occurred, she calmly reached forward, unplugged the toaster and then began to clear up the shards of broken glass. Neither of them said a word.Father Jonathan stood, slowly, walked over and opened the back door. Then, with great effort, he climbed on to a chair and reset the smoke alarm.“Just coffee I think, this morning, thank you Mrs Franchino.” He said as he climbed down.“As you wish Fatha. I’m sure ya know what’s for the best.” She stopped sweeping for a moment and poured him a small cup of espresso. She crossed over to the welsh dresser and took down a bottle of Anis. She poured a liberal measure in to the coffee, “for your nerves Fatha. A sudden shock can be a terrible thing. I should know, I lived through the war.”“Thank you Mrs Franchino.” He picked up the coffee and headed towards the kitchen door, “I’ll be in my study, if any one should need me.”Mrs Franchino waited until she was sure he would not be returning and then poured herself a coffee. She stirred in three heaped teaspoons of sugar and added an even larger measure of Anis to the cup. She raised her eyes heavenwards, “For the shock Lord.” She drank the coffee in two swift gulps, then she poured some more Anis in to the empty cup. She swirled it round, and drained the cup in one.Father Jonathan entered his study and sat down in the leather executive office chair he had recently taken delivery of. He had had to order it from Roma; none of the office supplies shops in Suoloduro carried such an item. It was styled to match the Corbusier chaise lounge which sat in the bay window. He ran his hand over the warm, soft, black leather and then over the cool, highly polished, chrome. Was it a sin to enjoy the finer things? Probably, he thought. He would have to bring it up with the Bishop when he went to confession next Wednesday, if he remembered.He drank the coffee and then, taking a small key from his kimono, unlocked the bottom draw of his desk. He reached in and took out a bottle of fifteen year old Laphroaig malt whiskey. He poured some into the cup, sat back in the chair and sipped at the smooth, peaty, amber liquid. If he was still in England he would have considered the act of pouring himself a drink at this time in the morning, the first sign of a drinking problem, but here in Italy it was a way of life. There was no wrong time or right time to have a drink, it more a case of did you fancy a drink. If so, then have one. If not, then do not. It only became a cause for concern when you could no longer stand unaided. He heard Mrs Franchino move along the hallway outside the door. He quickly gulped down the whisky and put bottle and the cup in to the draw, realising his mistake took out the cup and shut the draw. Mrs Franchino passed by and he heard her start her ascent up the stairs. He breathed a sigh of relief. She would be busy now for the next half an hour at least, vacuuming and dusting her way through the upstairs like a Tasmanian devil.He looked over to the clock on the wall. It was now just past seven o’clock; on other days he would be making his way across the small square, with is defunct fountain, and entering his parish church. There he would ready the church and himself for mass at seven thirty sharp, but over the years the congregation had dwindled to such an extent that he now took Tuesday and Thursday mornings off. No one seemed to mind. As little as one hundred years ago the house, the square and the church had stood at the centre of a bustling village, but as Suoloduro grew it had swallowed everything in its path. The causes for the decline in congregation were plain to see around this little impoverished parish he was forced to call his own. In Father Jonathan’s opinion the root of the problem was threefold.Death was an overwhelming factor. The stalwarts, the old ladies who would turn out for their daily fix of sacrament and gossip, come sun, rain, hail or thick snow, were slowly dieing out. Their daughters were not following in their footsteps and like a lot of young woman when they married they moved out of the area. This led on to the second problem. As industry demanded more and more space the old, closely packed, densely populated, apartment blocks were knocked down and replaced with factory units and warehouses. Later, as the tobacco companies moved their business to other countries, these closed and Father Jonathan found himself slowly surrounded by failing companies and empty buildings. No workers. No congregation.The third, and in Father Jonathan’s opinion the biggest cause for decline in his parish, was to be found not two and a half kilometres east from where he sat now. Father Emmanuelle Bernini.Father Emmanuelle, or Father Manny as he liked to be called, had taken over the next parish. In father Jonathan’s judgement he was the worst kind of priest; one whose faith in God was immutable, and whose enthusiasm for worship was unbounded. Father Manny was part of the new wave of evangelical priest. Guitars, tambourines and clapping all made regular appearances at his services; he even liked to use Power Point slide shows as part of his sermons.Father Jonathan had managed to keep hold of the few remaining traditionalist and those members of his parish who could not be bothered to travel the extra few kilometres to Father Manny’s modernised church. It may be a sin thought Father Jonathan, but thank God for sloth. But each month the attendance figures got lower and the collection plate got lighter. The Bishop was beginning to ask questions.For the present, at least, there was enough to keep him busy. Well enough to make it appear that he was busy. There were the day to day duties of a parish priest. Those little things that nobody can avoid. Birth, marriage and death.It was death that occupied his thoughts this morning as he picked up a small scrap of paper, on which he had scribbled a few notes. He gave it a cursory glance and then swung himself round in his chair and in to position in front of his computer. He poured himself another measure of the Laphroaig, took a sip and then hit the space bar on the keyboard. The computer hummed gently from standby and in to life. There were a few emails waiting for him and so, for want of any thing better to do, he decided to look at them before setting about the arduous task of writing a eulogy for a man he hardly knew. There was the usual junk mail. Spam offering various pills, lotion and potions which promised to increase the size of his penis and offers of friendship from large breasted women. Neither offer held much interest for him. He was more than satisfied with the size of his penis and the woman, well they held no allure. There was one from, Private Pharmaceuticals Inc, which did gain his attention. They were pleased to inform him that his order for Viagra had been dispatch and should arrive with him in three to five working days. He calculated the dates involved and made a mental note to keep a close eye on the post. Letters and parcels had a nasty habit of accidentally opening in the hands of Mrs Franchino.The final email was from his mother, who still lived in England. He opened it, fearing the worse. His mother was nearly eighty years old and he was never sure what news a missive from her email address would bring. The file opened and as he scanned the first few lines his fears were confirmed. She was in fine health. He sighed under his breath. She was old and yet she still refused to be ill or even take one step closer to deaths door. Friends of his had buried both of their parents by now and were happily spending their in heritance. His mother though, seemed determined to out live him, and also appeared to be spending as fast as she could.Looking at the size of the file he realised there must be six or seven closely typed pages. It would be the usual inconsequential nonsense, gossip and news from home. He closed the file. He would save the dubious pleasure of reading it until latter, in case he had trouble sleeping tonight. He moved the cursor across the screen and opened a new Word document. He sat for a moment, elbows on the desk, hands clasped in front of his chin and eyes closed. The stark white screen gave his skin an ethereal glow. To any one viewing the scene they would have seen a devoted priest, perhaps at his daily devotion, perhaps praying for guidance from the Lord. What he was actually doing was trying to remember if he had saved some where on the hard drive, an old eulogy that he could use again. In his long list of ‘Duties I detest as a Priest’ this particular task definitely made the top ten. It was not that he found it difficult to find the words, or that he found it sad to be mourning the passing of one so young. He simply found it tedious, spouting of platitudes and the expected clichés about a person he hardly knew.There were the expectations of the family and congregation to consider. They would carefully listen, trying to find the double meanings and discover what had been left unsaid, in the hope that it would uncover some family secret. He minimised the window and double clicked on another icon. A game of Mine Sweeper opened on the screen.In the game of life Father Jonathan was a master of procrastination. If a job was worth doing it was worth saving until later.There, dear reader, we must leave Father Jonathan, clicking away at the little grey squares. There we must leave Mrs Franchino, cleaning her way through the upstairs of the house and tutting her way through the unlocked, and locked, drawers. We must return to the Villa Fatiscente, it is now eight o’clock in the morning and the small farm has sprung in to life. The rest of the family are well in to there daily tasks, which they must complete before the funeral later today. Death comes to us all, but life must continue on around it.
Follow me dear reader.