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

by Francesca Scanacapra

  Zia Mina declared that she thought it was an excellent idea. As Salvatore could not write well with his left hand, he tasked me with creating an advertisement in my best handwriting. Maestra Asinelli had even given him white and yellow chalk sticks.

  My writing was much admired, but Salvatore suggested that I should include illustrations to make the advertisement more eye-catching. Unfortunately the quality of my artistic efforts did not match the clarity of my handwriting. My peaches just looked like misshapen childish circles.

  My father, who had a certain talent for drawing, offered to help. He drew a beautiful frame of peaches around my words. They were fabulously rounded and expertly shaded in white and yellow.

  We all stood back to admire the board. There seemed to be some joke between my father and Salvatore, who winked and smirked at each other.

  ‘What do you make of those peaches, Salvatore?’ asked my father.

  ‘They’re perfect. Full and fleshy, just as God intended,’ he replied.

  ‘Yes. Thank God for lovely plump, ripe peaches.’

  When Zia Mina came outside to look at our efforts, she scolded them both. She said there was nothing wrong with my writing, but insisted that I should rub out the peaches immediately because they looked like ladies’ bottoms. My father should be ashamed of himself, she said.

  Salvatore mumbled an excuse and went back to the vegetable garden. My father said nothing. I did as Zia Mina requested.

  At some point later that day the illustrations reappeared, only this time they were drawn even more voluptuously. The resemblance to ladies’ bottoms was unmistakable. My aunt sold every peach she had.

  Chapter 12

  At the end of November 1947 I heard news that Amilcare Marchesini had caught pneumonia and died. I felt a deep sorrow in my heart for Gianfrancesco. I could not imagine how it would feel to lose my father.

  His funeral cortège passed our house. I had seen many coffins leave Pozzetti’s workshop before, always carried on the shoulders of men, or sometimes on a cart, but I had never seen a rich person’s funeral before. Two black horses with plumed headdresses pulled a black and gold hearse, behind which Signora Marchesini, smothered in black veils, and Gianfrancesco, white-faced and solemn, trudged in silence. They were followed by two dozen farmworkers and Fiorella. Behind them walked a long procession of villagers and strangers.

  My father would have joined them if he had been able to walk the distance and had not been occupied waiting for Amilcare Marchesini’s arrival at the cemetery. My mother said she saw no reason to attend the funeral. Zia Mina shut herself away and hung a string of rosary beads on her door, muttering something about a curse.

  I stood by the gate and watched them go by, but Gianfrancesco did not see me. He kept his gaze fixed straight ahead.

  When my father returned from work he said that Signora Marchesini had been inconsolable and had fainted from crying. Even my mother had to admit that she felt sympathy for her.

  Although I had only met Amilcare Marchesini once and our meeting had been brief, I had liked him very much and thought of him often. Something compelled me to go and pay my respects.

  Pieve Santa Clara’s cemetery was built over a plague pit, so burials below ground were forbidden. This was not a rule specific to our village. There were strict laws throughout Italy. The pollution of the ground and poisoning of the water by the decomposing dead had long been understood.

  Instead, coffins were placed in a system of pigeon-holes in the walls, then sealed with a slab bearing the deceased’s name. Some had brackets with little vases attached for flowers. The newer tombs displayed a photograph. It was an efficient and space-saving way of housing the departed; like apartment blocks for the dead, stacked six bodies high.

  Amilcare Marchesini had not been laid to rest in an ordinary pigeon-hole tomb. In the very centre of the cemetery, within its own fenced garden, stood the Marchesini mausoleum. It was a monumental thing, built to look like a Greek temple, complete with Corinthian columns and an intricately carved tympanum. It was as grand on the inside as it was on the outside. The words In Paradisum Deducant te Angeli – May the Angels Lead You into Paradise - were carved into the floor, along with a representation of the family coat of arms.

  ‘I like it in here,’ I said to my father. ‘It’s like a small house. I’d rather be buried in here than in a pigeon-hole.’

  ‘Don’t think about that, my little one,’ he replied.

  The names of several generations of Marchesinis were inscribed on the back wall. To the left were the ossuaries and to the right the newer tombs belonging to Amilcare Marchesini and his father, Carlo.

  ‘Amilcare Marchesini didn’t like his father. He was infamous,’ I said.

  My father frowned. ‘Where did you hear that?’

  ‘Gianfrancesco told me when I went to Cascina Marchesini with Mamma.’

  ‘Well, let’s hope they’ve reconciled their differences now that they’re resting here together,’ said my father. ‘We can’t choose our families. We just have to do our best to get on.’

  ‘Why doesn’t Zia Mina like the Marchesinis, Papá?’

  ‘That’s Zia Mina’s business,’ replied my father and ushered me out.

  We sat together on the steps of the mausoleum with the sun on our faces.

  ‘Do you get sad, working here?’ I asked.

  ‘Sometimes,’ my father said. He pondered for a moment. ‘I get sad when the people who come here are sad, when they’ve just lost somebody they love. But then gradually I see them come to terms with their loss and they’re not so sad. Death is a part of life, my little one. It comes to all of us eventually. We just have to pray that it doesn’t come too soon, when we still have things to do in our lives.’

  ‘Like Amilcare Marchesini?’

  ‘Yes. Just like Amilcare Marchesini.’

  ‘And Ernesto.’

  My father sighed. ‘Yes,’ he said quietly. ‘Even more so for him.’

  I had often been to Ernesto’s tomb with my aunt, who visited it almost every time she went to the village, and always after church on Sunday. The epitaph read: Ernesto Ponti, died 22nd October 1944, aged 12. Beloved son. Rest with the angels.

  ‘Ernesto would have been sixteen years old now. Almost a man,’ said my father.

  ‘Do you think he would still have been naughty?’

  ‘I’m certain he would always have been spirited,’ my father replied with a smile, then added, ‘Do you want to meet my little friends?’

  ‘Who are your friends?’ I looked around.

  ‘Watch this,’ he said, and made a noise which was somewhere between a kiss and a whistle, then took a crust of bread from his pocket and ground it between his fingers. Within an instant a dozen sparrows had flown down and gathered at his feet.

  ‘Hold out your hand very slowly,’ he whispered. ‘And don’t make any noise.’ He sprinkled crumbs into my palm. ‘Now keep still and wait.’

  One by one the sparrows hopped onto my hand to feed. The sharp taps of their tiny beaks tickled my palm. As soon as the bread was finished, they flew off.

  ‘They share my lunch every day,’ said my father. ‘And now you’ve met my friends, you should come and meet the family.’

  I helped my father to his feet. We walked slowly along the length of one wall, hand-in-hand, reading names and epitaphs. The sun reflected off the tall walls of tombs and scattered dappled patches along the gravel paths ahead of us. After a while my father stopped and pointed to a tomb on the third storey.

  ‘That’s my mother, your grandmother. Your grandfather is next to her. My aunt is just below them. And my uncle is just across there, right beside my cousin and his wife. And close by is Ernesto’s father, my dear brother, Augusto.’

  My father rubbed his back, took a sip of his medicine and said, ‘I could tell you something about almost everybody here. That’s the wonderful thing about being born in a little village like ours. Everybody knows everybody and there are so many stories. Somet
imes I think about writing them all down, although I wouldn’t know where to start.’

  ‘You could start with you,’ I suggested.

  ‘I’m not dead yet,’ he said. ‘But I suppose I could. Maybe when you’re older I’ll tell you all the stories and you can write them down.’

  I looked up and down the length of the wall. ‘It would be a very long book.’

  My father smiled and took another sip of medicine, joking, ‘Well, my little one, at least if I go to heaven I won’t be short of company.’

  At the far end of the cemetery was a little rose garden with small stone and marble plaques and the occasional stubby cross set into the ground.

  ‘This is the Garden of Little Angels,’ explained my father. ‘This part is for the little children who were taken too soon. Only babies can be buried in the ground here because their graves are shallow.’ He pointed to a row of small grey plaques and said, ‘Here, see if you can read these.’

  I read out: ‘Odetta Ponti, 1927; Oreste Ponti, 1928; Saverio Ponti, 1932; Marta Ponti, 1933.’

  ‘They were your cousins. Ernesto’s brothers and sisters.’

  It took me a few moments to process what he said. It was too much to take in.

  ‘All Ernesto’s brothers and sisters died?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But why did they die?’

  ‘Life was hard then, my girl. Much harder than it is now. Lots of babies died if they were a little bit weak.’

  I stood staring at the graves of my tiny dead cousins until my father squeezed my hand and led me further through the garden. Several rows behind my cousins was a much older grave, marked with a rusted metal cross.

  ‘My own sister is buried here,’ said my father.

  ‘I didn’t know you had a sister, Papá. Why did she die too?’

  ‘She was born lifeless,’ he said quietly. ‘And when she went to heaven, she took our mother with her.’

  ‘That’s so sad.’

  ‘It wasn’t unusual then. I’m lucky to be alive myself. I was born too early and my mother couldn’t make milk to feed me, so Pozzetti’s mother wet-nursed me. That’s why Pozzetti and I grew up like brothers. We are brothers in a way, milk brothers.’

  I put my arms around my father and rested my head against him. He stroked my hair and placed his hand on my cheek.

  ‘I’m glad you survived,’ I said.

  ‘I did. But only just. My sister’s grave was meant for me.’

  *

  There had been a noticeable decline in the number of worshippers in church. Don Ambrogio had found himself entirely alone some week-day evenings and had been obliged to send the sacristan home and cancel Mass. Even the main Sunday service attendance was shrinking.

  ‘Don Ambrogio’s in quite a state about it,’ my father told me one day. ‘The tally for the collections is right down. The belfry’s leaking and the front steps are subsiding. And the bullet damage has never been repaired properly. I’d offer to do it myself, but I don’t think I could. Don Ambrogio has no idea how he’s going to pay for it all. He’s asked for more funds from the diocese, but everybody’s in the same position. The bishop said there isn’t enough money coming in.’

  ‘It’s all very well Don Ambrogio bellyaching about a diminished congregation,’ Salvatore piped up, stroking his clawed hand, ‘but I don’t see him doing much to rouse his flock. His sermons send me to sleep. By the end, nobody’s listening - that’s if they were paying attention at all in the first place.’

  ‘You’re not wrong.’ My father nodded in agreement.

  ‘The thing is,’ Salvatore continued, ‘the law doesn’t oblige anybody to go to church. People have to want to go of their own free will. People didn’t come to my restaurant just because they were hungry. They came because they knew they were going to have not only good food, but a good time too. It’s the same principle for the church. People want a sense of community, to be uplifted. All they’re getting now is a boring sermon and then whining about money for repairs. Don Ambrogio has to understand that the more people enjoy themselves, the more willing they are to spend.’

  ‘I don’t know how Don Ambrogio would feel having his church compared with a restaurant,’ my father grinned.

  Salvatore shrugged. ‘Nourishment of the body and nourishment of the spirit are not that dissimilar.’

  ‘What would you suggest then?’

  ‘Something to bring the community together, like a festival.’

  ‘We do have the yearly procession for Santa Clara,’ said my father.

  ‘Oh yes. I forgot about the procession. And so did most of the village last year! The turn-out can’t have been more than thirty and the average age must have been sixty. Young people don’t want to follow a statue twice round the piazza.’

  ‘I suppose not.’ My father took a sip of his medicine.

  ‘In Naples in the summer you can’t move for festivals. Pieve Santa Clara could do with some entertainment. There should be a fête, a market and there should be good food and a dance in the evening. And fireworks too. Something to bring the community together and something which appeals to all the generations. And it’s the fun and sense of community which should be the main focus. Not just handing out the begging bowl for the church repairs.’

  Within half an hour Salvatore had set off to find Don Ambrogio.

  The following Sunday Don Ambrogio announced that a day of festivities was to be held at the end of May. During the day there would be a fête with stalls and games and a football tournament open to teams, not only from Pieve Santa Clara, but from all the surrounding parishes. This would be followed by an open-air feast in the evening where entertainment would be provided by a band. The fact that it had been Salvatore’s idea was not mentioned.

  It was the talk of the village during the weeks which led up to it. Posters appeared in windows and on noticeboards advertising the great day and declaring that everybody was welcome.

  Don Ambrogio could be seen bustling from house to house drumming up support. He seemed to be everywhere. Even those who tried their best to avoid him couldn’t help but run into him. He arrived at Paradiso early one evening with a large notebook tucked under his arm and greeted my aunt rather more warmly than usual.

  ‘Good evening, Signora Mina. It is a fine evening, is it not? May I say how splendid your vegetable garden is looking this year.’

  My aunt nodded and replied, ‘It hasn’t been the best spring. We could have done with more rain.’

  Don Ambrogio seated himself at her table under the vines and opened his notebook.

  ‘As you are aware, being regular and diligent in your attendance at Mass, I am organising a most marvellous day in an attempt to unify and reconvene some members of our precious congregation.’

  ‘Of course I’m aware,’ replied my aunt. ‘It was Salvatore’s idea.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Don Ambrogio, then licked his index finger and turned to the appropriate page in his book. ‘It will not surprise you therefore that I am here in my capacity as a most humble servant of the church to request a pledge towards our special day. Firstly, could I ask whether you will be reserving a place for a stall?’

  ‘A stall?’

  ‘The first part of the day will be given over to a fête to be held in the garden beside the church, and if more space is required due to the high demand, space will be made in the piazza.’

  ‘What sort of a stall do you have in mind?’

  ‘The choice would be entirely yours, Signora Mina. Perhaps a game involving fishing for prizes? Or a lucky dip? Both could be very popular.’

  My aunt frowned. ‘I think there are others better placed to organise that type of thing,’ she said briskly.

  ‘Very well,’ replied Don Ambrogio, turning to another page. ‘If not a stall for games, perhaps one from which to sell your fine produce?’

  ‘I already sell my produce at the markets in Pieve Santa Clara and in Mazzolo.’

  ‘But this would be different, Signora
Mina. This would be for the benefit of the parish. As you are aware, we are using this event to raise money for some much-needed repairs to the church. Unfortunately, everybody insists on being paid for their work nowadays. It’s a sad reflection of the material times in which we live.’

  Don Ambrogio sighed and looked wistfully into the distance, then turned back to my aunt.

  ‘We are asking that each stallholder contributes 1,000 lire for their pitch and fifty per cent of their proceeds from the sales.’

  My aunt raised her eyebrows and coughed.

  ‘A thousand lire and fifty per cent on top!’ she exclaimed. ‘I’m not sure about that.’

  ‘Very well,’ replied Don Ambrogio. ‘I quite understand that you might need time to think about it. I’ll put you down as a maybe.’

  My aunt crossed her arms and frowned as Don Ambrogio wrote in his notebook.

  ‘However, Signora Mina, I would recommend that you don’t spend too long thinking about it as spaces are limited.’

  ‘How many pitches have been reserved?’

  Don Ambrogio leafed back through his book and ran his finger down a long list.

  ‘Three definites. Twenty-two possibles at present. But things can change very, very quickly, so I would encourage you to think about it this evening and supply your answer tomorrow. I would hate for you to be disappointed.’

  The priest took a handkerchief from somewhere in the folds of his cassock and ran it across his forehead.

  ‘The second matter for which I need your consideration is that of the feast which is to be held in the evening following the fête and the football tournament. It will be quite an occasion, Signora Mina! We expect capacity attendance and are looking forward to not only our stomachs being satiated, but also our ears entertained by a local band of excellent reputation whose musical services have been enjoyed as far afield as Mantova and Piacenza.’

  My aunt said that sounded very nice, but she wasn’t really very interested in hearing a band.

  ‘I fully understand, Signora Mina. I expect your musical tastes to lean more towards the Arcadian folk era of our childhoods. But unfortunately, the younger generation do not care too much for our wonderful old canti popolari. And it is the younger generation in particular whom we are hoping to encourage back into the fold.’