Paradiso: Utterly gripping and emotional historical fiction (The Paradiso Novels Book 1)

by Francesca Scanacapra

  Signora Marchesini didn’t carry anything. She stood by the open door of her car and watched us unload, then followed us over to the house and waited on the step as we piled the packages onto the trestle table which my mother had erected especially.

  ‘Won’t you come in?’ said my mother.

  ‘Thank you, but I must get home. Can I remind you to deal with the white and yellow set first? That is the only one which is urgent.’

  ‘Of course. I can have it ready by the end of the week.’

  ‘If I am not at home, you can leave it with my domestic girl, Fiorella.’

  ‘Don’t you wish to collect it?’ asked my mother hopefully, casting her eye over the enormous quantity of bedlinen.

  ‘I am very busy, Signora Ponti. It would be best if you could deliver it.’ The woman then turned to leave, tip-toeing through the gravel to protect her heels, the pearl on her silver hatpin flashing in the sun.

  As the car pulled away, my mother said scornfully, ‘Very busy, indeed! I would love to be as busy as her. She has a car and all day to do nothing at all, but is quite happy for me to have to get on my bicycle to deliver her spare sheets.’

  Although I could understand my mother’s point, I was pleased. That meant I could go back and see Gianfrancesco.

  So excited was I about going to deliver the linen that I checked on my mother’s progress and counted the days. In my mind, visiting Cascina Marchesini was like visiting a foreign country, with a different language and customs. I had enjoyed my afternoon with Gianfrancesco so much that I could think of little else but going back.

  ‘Mamma, can I help you with your work?’ I enquired, thinking that the sooner the sheets were repaired, the sooner we could go back to deliver them.

  ‘Help me? This is work I’m to be paid for, Graziella. It’s not something you can do.’

  I had often played at sewing before on little scraps of cotton cloth, making irregular stitches in an attempt to form patterns and flowers, but my childish attempts bore no resemblance to my mother’s expert embroidery work.

  ‘Can’t you teach me? Please, Mamma?’

  My mother was surprised at my keenness, but not displeased, although she had no idea as to my motives.

  ‘All right,’ she said, ‘but you must concentrate. And whatever task I give you, you must complete it. I won’t spend time teaching you for you to run off to play after ten minutes because you’re bored.’

  I promised that I would be an exemplary student. For my first lesson my mother drew straight lines in pencil on a cotton off-cut, which I was expected to embroider neatly with lines of running stitches of equal length. She let me choose any colour of thread I wanted. I chose a vivid pink.

  ‘Watch carefully and pay attention,’ she said, wetting one end of the thread between her lips and passing it through the eye of the needle. ‘You have to learn to rely on both your hands. One hand stays on one side of the fabric, the other on the other. Push the needle down through the fabric nice and straight. Leave enough tail on the thread to wrap your next stitches around it because you can’t tie knots. Your work must look the same on both sides of the fabric.’

  I did as instructed, but it was not as easy as my mother made it look. In fact, it wasn’t easy at all. I stabbed my needle upwards several times, missing the line each time. When I finally pierced the line, the stitch was too long, but after a period of trial and error, my hands grew accustomed to the feel of the needle and thread, and by the end of the morning I had produced a respectable selection of straight lines and lattice patterns. My mother inspected the work on both sides and seemed quite pleased.

  Before long I could do running stitches in lines, curves and even more complex patterns. Once my mother was satisfied that I was competent enough, she taught me backstitch, split stitch, stem stitch and chain stitch. By this time I was eager to work on the Marchesini linens, but my mother still refused. Instead she suggested that I should try embroidering a handkerchief.

  ‘Try this one,’ she said, pointing to a daisy motif in her sketch book, a simple combination of stem and chain stitch, but I had more ambitious ideas. I decided upon a cherry blossom design which I had seen my mother embroider on an antimacassar. I liked it because of the rich crimson and pink blossoms and the deep brown crooked bough.

  ‘That one is far too difficult for a first attempt,’ she said.

  ‘Please Mamma, let me try.’

  She considered this for a moment, then said, ‘If you start this, Graziella, I will expect it to be finished, and finished well. Are you sure?’

  Embroidery made my neck and shoulders ache and my eyes grow tired, but I thought it best not to complain. It taught me great respect for my mother’s craft, for her concentration and her stamina. It also made me understand her insistence on pristine hands and a clean work area. When I’d finished, the only thing I was scolded for was the shadow of a thumb-print on the edge of my handkerchief.

  My mother was evangelical about cleanliness around her work. She steered clear of anything which might sully her fingers, such as working in the garden or chopping onions, and regularly soaked her fingers in lemon juice to bleach out any stains and neutralise unpleasant odours.

  My cherry blossom handkerchief took far longer than I imagined it would. In my mother’s experienced hands, it would have been completed in a few hours. In my amateur, fumbling fingers it took nearly three days, but I was determined to do a good job.

  The finished result passed my mother’s inspection with very little criticism, which was in itself praise enough. My father, on the other hand, applauded my work extravagantly as I presented my precious handkerchief before him on the table.

  ‘How lovely!’ he exclaimed, then turned to my mother and said, ‘This is very good. How your work is improving, my dear.’

  My mother did not take part in the joke.

  ‘It was me who made it, Papá,’ I said.

  He gave a loud, theatrical gasp. ‘You?’

  ‘Yes, Papá.’

  ‘No, it’s impossible. How can it be? There isn’t a little girl in the whole world who could make something as beautiful as this.’ He clapped his hands in joy. ‘How clever you are! I am so proud. Those cherries look so good I could eat them.’

  *

  The day before we were due to return to Cascina Marchesini I awoke to the sound of loud, excited chatter in the yard outside. I knew it was very early as the dawn chorus was in full voice and the light glinting through the gaps in the shutters was dim. There was a strong burning smell in the air. My mother was not in bed. Most mornings I was aware of her getting up. I would roll over into the imprint of her body and burrow into the warmth, but that morning when I reached across, the dent left by her body was cold. I sat up, trying to discern the conversations being had outside.

  I found my mother, my father and my aunt in the yard, still in their nightshirts. Pozzetti, Salvatore and several men from the village had gathered around them. The burning smell was intense.

  ‘What’s happened?’ I asked.

  ‘A train has come off the tracks,’ my aunt explained, ‘and it’s on fire.’

  A freight train carrying tobacco had been ambushed just outside Mazzolo. One of the robbers had fired a shot to scare the driver, and a spark from the bullet had set the cargo, which was by definition highly flammable, alight. Nobody had been hurt, but the train had derailed.

  News of the calamity had spread as quickly as the thick cloud of smoke, and within the hour men and boys from all the adjoining villages had raced to salvage what they could. Pozzetti set off on his bicycle. Instead of carrying my father, today the trailer was piled high with sacks and boxes.

  I don’t believe I had ever seen a policeman in the village before that day, but suddenly they were everywhere. I stood by the gate with my father and Salvatore, watching as police bicycles, motorcycles and other vehicles streamed back and forth. It was not long before we had news that there had been arrests, not of the robbers who had held up the train, b
ut of local men and boys who had gone to loot it.

  My mother said she was glad my father was not able to go. Rita’s mother, who had also heard news of the arrests, was tight-lipped. She stood in our yard, balancing a baby on her hip, and said that if her husband was arrested, she would skin him alive.

  Pozzetti returned later that morning. Fortunately, he had not been caught. With him, he brought a bag of tobacco for my father: it was a kind gift, albeit an impractical one as Papá did not smoke.

  ‘We can sell it,’ said my mother.

  ‘And who do you think will buy it?’ my father replied. ‘Everyone has sacks of the stuff now. The whole region will be smoking for free for years.’

  ‘So what are you going to do with it?’

  ‘I’m going to smoke it myself.’

  ‘But you don’t smoke.’

  ‘Only because we can’t afford it. It’s not because I don’t want to.’

  ‘It’s a wretched habit and it can’t be good for you. People who smoke get coughs.’

  ‘My dear, considering everything else I have to deal with, a little cough is not going to bother me. Anyway, it only causes a cough because it clears the lungs.’

  ‘Well, you’ll have to smoke outside. I don’t want you stinking out the house with it, especially with all those fine Marchesini linens in there.’

  And so my father was exiled to a bench outside my aunt’s kitchen. I watched as he sat in a grey cloud, spluttering and spitting, alternating between drags of his inexpertly-rolled cigarettes and sips of medicine. My mother locked the door and would not let him in until he stripped off outside and hung his clothes in a tree, where they stayed all night.

  By the end of the week my mother had repaired the embroidery and laundered two sets of sheets and a tablecloth. She wrapped them carefully in brown paper and secured the parcel to my aunt’s bicycle with string.

  We set off along the road, balancing the bicycle between us. The smell of burning tobacco still hung in the air and intensified as we approached Cascina Marchesini.

  My mother rang at the side door, as before. Fiorella opened it immediately.

  ‘I am returning some of the Signora’s linens,’ announced my mother.

  Fiorella gestured for us to come in and said, ‘Wait here.’

  After a few minutes, Signora Marchesini appeared. This time she was wearing a pale blue dress, fastened around her wasp waist with a broad satin sash. She had on yet another pair of shoes.

  ‘Good afternoon, Signora Ponti.’

  ‘There are two bedding sets,’ said my mother. ‘The yellow set, as you requested, and another set with little lilac flowers. And the linen tablecloth. All repaired, laundered and pressed.’

  ‘Thank you for being so prompt,’ said Signora Marchesini. ‘May I see, please?’

  My mother opened out the brown paper and the delicate scent of soap burst forth.

  Signora Marchesini inspected the embroidered edges carefully. ‘Excellent,’ she said at last. ‘When will the other sets be ready?’

  ‘I can have them all done within about three weeks.’

  Signora Marchesini nodded and said, ‘That would be perfect. I will see you in three weeks’ time, Signora Ponti.’

  My mother hesitated. ‘When can I expect payment for the completed work?’ she asked.

  ‘I thought it would be when all the work was finished,’ said Signora Marchesini. ‘But if you are in need of money and wish me to pay as you finish each set, I can do so.’

  ‘That would be preferable,’ said my mother.

  ‘Come back on Monday and I will have your money. If I am not here, I will leave it with Fiorella.’

  We were ushered out briskly. My mother grabbed the bicycle and wheeled it off at some speed. I had to run to keep up.

  ‘Monday!’ she spat. ‘I have to come all the way back here on Monday! She can collect the rest of her damned sheets when they’re done. And she can bring the damned money with her!’

  It was clear that my mother had no wish to speak on the way home. She cycled so fast that I do not know how I held on. I was deeply disappointed that I had not seen Gianfrancesco.

  Chapter 11

  Thanks to Salvatore’s hard work at Paradiso, Zia Mina’s vegetable garden had quadrupled in size and he had plans to extend it further the following season. The crops now no longer just fed us. There was a surplus to sell at the market. Before Salvatore’s arrival my aunt’s only income had been from renting out the fields behind Paradiso to a neighbouring farmer.

  Salvatore had created cosy lodgings for himself. He had partitioned off a section of the barn under the old hayloft and acquired various items of furniture. Pozzetti had helped him to install a little stove so he could be warm in the winter.

  Zia Mina allowed him to take a bath in her tub once a week, providing she was not home at the time. Salvatore’s bath-times had to be arranged with prior consent and had to last no longer than an hour.

  My aunt would always check that he was out of the bathroom and dressed before re-entering her house. Being on the same premises as a naked man, even if he was upstairs and completely out of sight, was too improper for her.

  Salvatore would often tease Zia Mina about her prudishness. One particularly hot summer’s day, he had removed his shirt and was busy working in the garden, stripped to the waist.

  ‘Salvatore, I don’t want you half-naked in my garden!’ my aunt said.

  ‘My apologies, Donna Mina. I didn’t mean to offend you. Come and help me out of my trousers so I can be fully naked for you.’

  My aunt told him to behave himself and poked him with the handle of her rake.

  Salvatore’s good humour rubbed off on Zia Mina. They had an affectionate respect for one another. Although they sometimes bickered light-heartedly, like an old married couple, there was never a truly irate word between them.

  Salvatore would consult Zia Mina on any matter which he considered might require a woman’s judgement, and my aunt sought and respected Salvatore’s opinions on most subjects. Throughout her life she was prone to dark and melancholy moods, but he could lift her spirits in a way that nobody else seemed able to do. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement.

  Salvatore still sang about Carmela, his old sweetheart. Her photograph was still his bookmark.

  ‘How did you meet Carmela?’ I asked.

  ‘Her family ran a restaurant two streets away from mine in Naples and I’d seen her pass by my door many times carrying flowers,’ he replied. ‘But I was young and didn’t have the courage to speak to her. Then one day I saw her outside the Church of Santa Maria del Carmine and she came to speak to me.’ He shook his head. ‘What a young fool I was. It turned out she had been going past my restaurant to try to attract my attention. The flowers were for the church. She would offer them to the Madonna del Carmine and pray that I would notice her. Criatura, I fell in love with her straight away, but I was too shy to tell her. We’d been meeting to talk for over a year when she said, “Salvá, what have I got to do to make you kiss me?” Well, all she had to do was to ask! And that was how our story started.’

  The problem was that Carmela’s family had never liked Salvatore’s family and had been so disapproving of their relationship that they had threatened to kill him.

  ‘In the end, they sent her away,’ he said. ‘One day she was there and the next she was gone.’

  ‘Did you look for her?’

  ‘Of course. I made inquiries, but nobody knew - and if they did, they wouldn’t say. And it was not long afterwards that my restaurant was bombed and I was left with nothing. Even if I had found her, I couldn’t have given her a good life. But I was glad she wasn’t in Naples when the bombs fell. Her family’s restaurant was destroyed too and several of them were killed. I prayed she was somewhere out of harm’s way. Perhaps it was for the best.’ He sighed heavily. ‘I think of her every day and I pray that she is happy. But I like to think that we are still connected in some way, so I pray to the Madonna del Carm
ine to keep her safe, and I hope that when my Carmela prays to the Madonna that perhaps from time to time she thinks of me too.’

  *

  Salvatore’s swarthy southern looks and approachable demeanour meant that he was not without female admirers. Since his arrival at Paradiso he had attracted the amorous attentions of two ladies, Rosalina and Bianca.

  My aunt sold her produce at the market in Pieve Santa Clara on a Tuesday and at the market in Mazzolo on a Thursday. Salvatore pushed the barrow of fruit and vegetables to and from each market and minded both stalls. He had caught Rosalina’s eye in Pieve Santa Clara and Bianca’s in Mazzolo.

  Although Salvatore was not tempted by their advances, neither lady seemed willing to take no for an answer. He had expressed some relief that his two admirers lived in different villages and frequented different markets on different days. He said he feared that if they met, there would be ructions.

  Rosalina was a wholesome girl with a pretty, gap-toothed smile and a mellifluous giggle. She smelled of soap and seemed to shine with cleanliness. Her clothes were always starched and pristine. She had replaced the laces of her boots with ribbons to match her hat, something which I thought was truly inspiring at the time.

  Rosalina had taken to walking back from Pieve Santa Clara to Paradiso with Salvatore every market day. There was no reason for her to do this other than wanting his company. She lived on the other side of the village, where the North Road became the South Road. Accompanying Salvatore caused her a detour of over two and a half kilometres.

  Every time they arrived at Paradiso I would watch her pause and linger in the hope that Salvatore would offer more than a courteous goodbye, but she would be left disappointed each time.

  Bianca’s method of trying to win Salvatore’s affections was altogether more direct. She was conspicuously buxom and always wore clothing which displayed her ample assets, and it seemed that whenever Salvatore was near, her top buttons would pop open spontaneously. She would stand with her body arched suggestively and throw her head back as she laughed, flirted and chatted with Salvatore, who did his best not to be too distracted by her plentiful bosom, which spilled out over the top of her brassiere as though it was fighting to escape.