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.

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.

Prologue

He ran the back of his hand across his brow. It was too hot to be doing this sort of work. He should be in doors with the others, sleeping off lunch, but his wife wanted this done and so it would be done, now.
Rodolfo Fabbroni was not a henpecked or timid man. In the local town and surrounding area he was a known as a man who could get things done. He was not the sort of man who backed down from any situation, but when it came to his wife he found it difficult to refuse her anything.
She did not nag, threaten or cajole, she merely asked and he would look in to those big, almond shaped brown eyes, and he would find himself doing things he had no intention of doing.
This why he found himself rodding the block sewer drain to the silage tank in the heat of the afternoon sun, when he would rather be lying in the cool of the bedroom with his wife by his side.
He straightened up and pulled a grubby yellowing piece of cloth from his pocket. He wiped his face, trying to clear the stinging sweat from his eyes. He had been up since five o’clock this morning. He had already done a full day’s work driving livestock to and from the local market. His back ached, his arms and legs felt heavy. He wanted to sleep, but until he had cleared the pipe no one could use the toilets and so here he was, tired, aching and irritable. Then there was the ploughing to do. That could wait until the cool of the evening. At least there was no rush to get that done.
He shoved the rag back in his pocket, picked up another section of rod and screwed it on to the long section which disappeared down in to the foul smelling pit and off down into the sewer drain which ran from the house.
What ever it was that was causing the blockage, and he had a good idea what it may be, was well and truly stuck. He had attempted to clear it from the end nearest to the house but that had proved fruitless. So now, here he was, standing in a field, at the side of the house, pushing, prodding and poking with a set of old fashioned drain rods.
He had spoken to his father, Adolfo, on many occasions about the need to buy some modern drain clearing equipment but his father would have none of it. Why waste money on new fangled machinery, which was bound to break down when you needed it, when they had a perfectly good set of rods. He had used them; his father had used them, now Rodolfo could use them. He would hear no more about it.
Rodolfo braced himself, as best as he could, against the hard dry earth and pushed, twisting the rods as he did so. He could feel the blockage. He could feel the metal, double helix corkscrew on the end of the rods bite in to what ever the blockage was and then jam.
He straightened up again and swore gently under his breath. Then he raised his eyes heavenwards and apologised. Rodolfo was not a particularly religious man but he felt it was never wise to tempt fate. He was also worried that Prima Nonna Etta would appear and clip him round the ear as she had done when he was a child.
When he was younger he was convinced she was a witch. She could appear and disappear at will. This fear, even though he was thirty-three years old and Prima Nonna Etta was thought to be over a hundred years old, lived with him and he often found himself apologising, flinching and genuflecting several times a day even when he was many miles from home and well out of range of Prima Nonna Etta’s shoe.
He pushed again on the rods, not with any real force, just allowing them to take his weight so that at least it would look like he was doing something should anybody be watching. He could feel the sweat running down his back under his vest. He wanted to shower. He wanted to stand under the jets of cool water, but most of all he wanted to sleep.
He listened carefully; it was silent save for the occasional clang of the cow bell tied round the neck of the old ram in the sheep pen.
There was an advantage to be out here at this time of day. The silence. Normally the farm was a continuing babble of sounds. His children running and laughing; his mother and wife gossiping; his two brothers arguing and Prima Nonna’s radio playing, permanently tuned to any station that was playing the old folk tunes and polkas.
But now all was silent, even the insects seemed to be sleeping. The chirp and hum that had been part of the background for as long as he could remember was silent.
He half heartedly gave the rod a shove and a twist; he looked across the field that made up the majority of the farm and down the sides of the mountain towards the town which lay several kilometres away in the bottom of the valley. Even that appeared to be silent. The distant buildings shimmered in the haze of the hot summer sun. He imagined the quiet, empty streets. The shuttered windows. The silent bars and cafes.
His reverie was broken by Rufus, his favourite dog a large aged Alsatian, who at present was laying in the shade of an olive tree some meters off. Rufus lifted his head off his paws, pricked up his ears and growled deep at the back of his throat. Rodolfo followed the direction of his gaze over to the sheep pen. “Calm down boy,” he said “there’s nobody there.” Rufus dropped his head back on his paws closed his eyes and continued his nap.
The bell around the old rams neck clanged again and the sheep in the pen began to bleat loudly. Rodolfo looked back over to the pen, he called out “Is anybody there?” He was not expecting an answer and did not receive one. Then he noticed something that did worry him. The gate to the pen was open. He was sure it had not been a moment ago. Then he noticed the second thing to cause him worry. The cow bell, which was usually tied about the neck of the old ram, was now hanging over the gate post.
He released his grip slightly on the rods and was about to cross over to the pen, when he realised the sheep were lined up in the entrance of the pen, staring at him. Well, not so much at him as through him and behind. He half turned, to see what they were looking at and saw, too late, what it was. It was the old ram.
What happened next happened at such speed that it took Rodolfo by total surprise. The ram pawed at the dry earth, his gaze fixed on Rodolfo. Like a mangy, woolly bull it dropped its head and charged at Rodolfo. Rodolfo was no Matador and the afternoon’s hard work, heat and large lunch had slowed him down. The ram hit him square in the stomach. Rodolfo made a grab at its horns and missed, he staggered backwards towards the edge of the pit. He managed to turn and lunged at the rod sticking up out of the thick brown sludge. He caught hold of it and it bent slightly under his weight.
He hung for a moment, seemingly suspended in mid-air. His feet looked for purchase on the crumbly edge of the pit. His body hung out over the sludge. His already tired arms and hands fought to keep hold of the smooth wooden rod. He hoped that if he could walk his hands back up the rods he would be able to pull himself upright.
Slowly, one hand at a time, his feet scrabbling at the disintegrating edge, he began the ponderous process. Then it happened. The thing he had been trying to do for the past hour. The blockage gave way. The rods jerked forward. Rodolfo, his hands scrambling upwards, tried to steady himself. The rods stopped, slide forward slowly and then gave way, disappearing at great speed in to the brown sludge.
As Rodolfo tumbled towards the mire he caught, out of the corner of his eye, a familiar figure leaning against the fence of the sheep pen. His slicked back hair and leather box jacket gleaming in the bright afternoon sun.
Rodolfo was not sure, but the figure seemed to be smiling.