The Last Son’s Secret

by Rafel Nadal Farreras

  Ricciardi had taken a seat in a corner of the room, in the shadows, and was weeping silently, unable to control his rage at the cruelty of the situation. Then he got up decisively, kissed Donata on the forehead, took the boy in his arms and carried him to Francesca.

  From her bed, Donata could hear how the baby began to settle in his new mother’s arms. The doctor stopped pacing and went into the kitchen. He occasionally heard the baby’s cries. He also thought he could hear Donata’s sobs in the distance. Finally, the house having fallen silent, he took a nap in a chair. When he woke up, he washed his face and prepared Francesca for her imminent birth. Donata had stopped crying and, when Ricciardi went into her room to make sure everything was all right before tending to Francesca, he discovered that she had slipped out of the house while he was sleeping.

  Francesca gave birth at around six in the morning to a girl. Later that day the town got the surprising news that the widow Convertini had had twins. A week later, Father Felice, the family priest, officiated at a very solemn ceremony at the baptismal font of the church of the Immacolata and christened the two little ones: Vitantonio and Giovanna Convertini.

  Zia

  AFTER THE BIRTHS, Donata spent all her time at Francesca’s house, so much so that when the ‘twins’ began to talk, they soon started to call her zia, auntie. In actual fact, they grew up with two mothers, who secretly shared all the work of raising them. When they breastfed the babies, Donata tended to pick up Vitantonio, her own son; Francesca, on the other hand, usually chose Giovanna. Every once in a while, though, they switched, and that way the children grew accustomed to their two mothers: Mamma and Zia.

  At Francesca’s house in Bellorotondo they were able to enjoy both the convenience of living in the centre of town and a more rural life. The main façade looked out on to the Via Cavour, but behind the house there was a small courtyard backing on to the square and the church of Sant’Anna. So the neighbours, when they didn’t call it the Widows’ House, referred to it as the house on the Piazza Sant’Anna. From the upstairs back window, they had an exceptional view over the olive groves and the trulli huts of the Itria valley, all the way from the hills of Alberobello to the slopes of Cisternino. Seen from a distance, Francesca’s house stood proudly smack in the middle of the majestic skyline of Bellorotondo, the circular town on top of a hill, like a watchtower always ready to defend the most fertile valley in all of southern Italy for its modest farmers. If the house on the Piazza Sant’Anna had been a bit taller, Donata and Francesca might have seen, to the south, the homes and palazzos of the town of Martina Franca, which clung to its own hill, the first one beyond the Itria valley.

  The Widows’ House was ideally situated, but the two cousins longed for more. They missed the sheep herding they’d done outside Matera when they were girls. In a bid to combat their nostalgia they decided to fill their courtyard with animals: hens, rabbits and pigeons soon became Giovanna and Vitantonio’s favourite playthings.

  The twins also grew up under the influence of their grandmother, Angela Convertini, née Orsini, a Venetian who had moved to Puglia as a child when her father, who was a lawyer, was sent there for work. Her subsequent marriage made her the matriarch of the Convertini family and she never forgot that the twins were her eldest son’s children and, as such, her own blood. Antonio’s tragic death in the war didn’t make the children any less true Convertinis. The family had prospered thanks to timber, becoming one of the wealthiest in the region. The old sawmill had done well since the day Antonio Convertini Senior had decided to import Austrian fir and started dealing in large stocks of chestnut from the forests of Tuscany and the Gargano. His early death was an unexpected blow; but just when the decline seemed inevitable, his widow surprised everyone by taking over the business and relaunching it with even better results – especially when she decided they should also buy fir from the Volga region of Russia, more desirable than Austrian wood.

  As Angela quickly showed exceptional resilience, and an instinct for business far superior to that of the men she was competing with, the townspeople started to call her Lady Angela and soon just the Lady. And, indeed, no one doubted that Angela Convertini was the Lady of Bellorotondo.

  On 26 July 1923, the twins turned four. Again, it was also the town’s patron saint’s feast day and the whole of Bellorotondo was celebrating. But just as the various parties were in full swing, Francesca fell ill, and from that day on the doctor’s visits became more and more frequent, until the X-rays confirmed the worst: tuberculosis. Donata left the Palmisano house on the outskirts of town – where she only very occasionally lived with her sister-in-law Concetta – and moved definitively into Francesca’s house to take care of the twins and her sick cousin. Lady Angela made a desperate attempt to send Francesca to a sanatorium, but her daughter-in-law refused point-blank: she said that there was nowhere she would be more comfortable than in her own home and that no one would take better care of her than her own cousin. She would have said anything: there was nothing in the world that could come between her and her little ones.

  From the autumn of 1923 to the following spring, Francesca spent long periods bedridden with only occasional, sporadic improvement. Donata remained by her side. Together they fondly recalled times in Matera and made plans for when Francesca was well again, although they both knew that she wasn’t going to get better and that death was only a matter of time. Even so, Donata refused to give up: each week she killed a rabbit or a chicken and made sure Francesca ate the kind of food that might restore the energy of which the illness robbed her. In the evenings, she prepared pigeon broth and didn’t leave Francesca’s bedside until she had drunk it all. As summertime approached, Francesca had one of her good spells, which arrived unexpectedly, and on Sant’Anna’s feast day they were able to take her rocking chair out into the courtyard to celebrate the twins’ fifth birthday and watch the annual fireworks.

  It was a false dawn. In September, Francesca had a relapse and was confined to bed indefinitely. As she rapidly deteriorated, Dr Ricciardi prepared them for the end. Francesca had grown so thin that she was barely recognizable. When she coughed, she stained her handkerchiefs with blood, and her rattling wheeze echoed through every corner of the house.

  But despite the doctor’s prognosis, Francesca improved slightly and survived all of October and November. Until one December evening, on the eve of the Feast of the Immaculate Conception, she realized that the moment had come: she called for Fini the notary and dictated her last will and testament. The next day, at the crack of dawn, she sent for Father Felice, who happened to be Angela Convertini’s brother; he gave her the last rites. That afternoon she called for her mother-in-law, Lady Angela herself, and they locked themselves in her bedroom. Two hours later they let Father Felice in and shortly after, the mayor and the notary arrived at the house and joined the meeting.

  The group left the house at seven in the evening. When they had all gone, Donata went into the bedroom and found that Francesca was barely breathing. She seemed to be asleep, but wore an enigmatic smile. Hearing Donata come in, she opened her eyes. She took her cousin by the hands and her inexplicable smile grew wider.

  ‘Don’t worry, Donata, everything will be fine. And now bring the children to me, I want to say goodbye.’

  She had never made any distinction between the twins and she hugged them now as if they were both hers. She held them close for a little while: before she died she wanted to breathe in their scent to remember it for ever. Then, Donata took them and put them to bed. When she returned to her cousin’s side, Francesca still wore an enigmatic smile, but her eyes were closed.

  ‘Are they sleeping?’ she asked in a thin wisp of a voice.

  ‘They prayed to their guardian angel and fell asleep right away. For several days now they’ve been fighting sleep and staying up until they can’t keep their eyes open. They don’t know what’s going on, but they can tell that something’s wrong.’

  Donata knelt by her cousin and gently kisse
d her eyes and cheeks. Their tears mingled together. Francesca wanted to pull back so she could look Donata in the eyes, but she didn’t have the strength. She had one last breath and she used it as she brought her lips to Donata’s ear.

  ‘I fulfilled my promise with Vitantonio. Now you have to swear to me that you will always treat Giovanna as if she were your own daughter.’

  And just as Donata said, ‘I swear it,’ Francesca fought, unsuccessfully, for another breath. In its stead, a faint sigh escaped her as she died.

  The Funeral

  AT FRANCESCA’S FUNERAL, Donata Palmisano presided next to Lady Angela and no one batted an eye, because by now they all considered Donata part of the Convertini family. When she entered the church of the Immacolata, she held little Giovanna and Vitantonio by the hand and she didn’t let them go throughout the entire funeral. Two hours later, at the Bellorotondo cemetery, they still hadn’t been separated: standing before the Convertini family vault, at the highest and most central part of the graveyard, they held hands tightly, heads bowed and fearful. Donata and Giovanna were dressed all in black, Vitantonio in a white shirt that contrasted with his mourning tie and armband.

  Everyone came over and gave their condolences to Donata as if she were the deceased’s closest relative. Then they gently touched the children’s faces or ruffled their hair and started to cry. The small, helpless twins awakened a compassion in those rough, calloused Puglian farmers that they wouldn’t have allowed themselves in any other circumstances.

  After the funeral, Donata went over to the Convertini brothers and kissed them one by one. First, Angelo, who had taken Antonio’s place at the sawmill and had become heir to the family fortune after his death. Then she kissed Matteo, Marco, Luca and Giovanni, known as ‘the four evangelists’: all four had studied in Bari, married there and stayed. Matteo worked with his father-in-law as a shoemaker; Marco was a lawyer; Luca worked at the Banco Popolare; Giovanni was an engineer, but he had just set up a chemical company with his brother-in-law from Otranto and was about to move there. She also kissed young Margherita, their sister, who had married the son of a Venetian notary and gone to live up north, mirroring in reverse the journey her mother had made years before. Lastly, she went over to Lady Angela. The two women looked into each other’s eyes for what seemed an eternity to Donata. Finally, Angela Convertini put her hands on Donata’s shoulders, pulled her towards her and kissed her twice on each cheek.

  Still holding both children’s hands, Donata turned to leave the cemetery. The three of them moved forward with small, hesitant steps through the groups of neighbours who were discussing the tragedy in sombre tones. The crowd opened to let them pass, and when Donata and the children reached the gate and began walking up the long avenue lined with cypress trees that led to the centre of town, everyone found it perfectly normal that Vito Oronzo Palmisano’s widow, a poor peasant girl from Matera, had left with the two children of Francesca, the widow of the eldest son in the wealthy Convertini line. Nor were they surprised when neither the twins’ uncles, nor their aunt, nor their grandmother Angela, the true head of the family, moved to stop her.

  To the Notary’s

  THE DAY AFTER the burial, Donata was on her hands and knees washing the back porch of the Widows’ House on the Piazza Sant’Anna when Giovanna and Vitantonio ran out, shouting for her.

  ‘Zia, there’s a man asking for you! He’s very well dressed.’

  On her knees, their aunt watched Fini the notary come in and, without really knowing why, she was immediately on her guard.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ she asked without getting to her feet.

  ‘Good morning, Signora Palmisano. I need you to come to the office tomorrow, to settle poor Francesca’s last wishes, which affect you and also the two little ones. Can you come tomorrow morning?’

  ‘Of course … But what is it about the children? As you can see, they’re perfectly fine.’

  All that afternoon, Donata couldn’t eat and forgot to give the twins their tea. When they saw her crying, they leapt on her to wipe away her tears with kisses and caresses. Later that afternoon, she took them both to the church of the Immacolata, where they had been just the day before to bury Francesca.

  ‘Are we going to see Mamma again?’ asked Vitantonio, a bit frightened when they entered. They had never liked the stone lions that guarded the church door; from a distance they seemed welcoming, but up close they had sharp teeth and a fierce expression, their menacing eyes warning of all sorts of threats.

  Donata headed to a side aisle, on the left of the church, and stopped in front of the chapel of Our Lady of Sorrows. When she lifted her head to look at the wooden image, she fixed her gaze directly on the silver sword that pierced the virgin’s heart. Donata felt the same pain that had tormented her every time she went to the chapel to pray for her son, ever since the night she had given birth. She had the twins sit on the first pew as she dropped to her knees. All she could do was beg for the Virgin Mary’s compassion.

  ‘From one mother to another!’ she whispered.

  After praying in front of Our Lady of Sorrows she moved on to the chapel of the Blessed Sacrament. Donata sat down on a pew and lay the children down with their heads on her lap, both facing the huge stone nativity scene that adorned the left side of the chapel. She hugged them tightly and was relieved to find that the nativity figures calmed them: lambs that grazed beside the shepherds, the ox and the mule, and baby Jesus.

  She watched as they both dozed off and when she too fell asleep she had a nightmare: the lions at the door were chasing the lambs from the manger. The lions had sharp claws and fierce, bulging eyes and, as the dream progressed, they took on the face of Francesca’s brother-in-law Angelo Convertini; the lambs were Vitantonio and Giovanna, who ran from him in terror and clung to their zia’s neck for protection. On that freezing December night, Donata woke drenched in sweat and swore that she would never again fall asleep, for fear of waking to find the children had been taken from her.

  She arrived at the notary’s office the next morning, holding the children by the hand once again, ready to argue that they would be better off with her than with anyone else. But when she entered the room she felt her nerve fail her: Angela Convertini and her son Angelo were seated in two armchairs, one on either side of the desk. The Lady of Bellorotondo was dressed all in black, looking very austere, but she wore a chain around her neck with a solid-gold Christ pendant, like the one usually adorning the bishop’s neck. Angelo had on a dark woollen suit, and from the waistcoat pocket peeked out a gold watch chain that had belonged to his father. Since Antonio’s death in the war, Angelo had claimed his right as heir and didn’t miss a single opportunity to assert himself as the eldest Convertini son. Nonetheless, in the end, he always had to bend to his mother’s overpowering will, which she liked to impose, without too much pomp and circumstance, as the indisputable head of the family.

  The four evangelists were also in the room: Marco sat alone, in a chair; Matteo, Luca and Giovanni had settled beside each other on a sofa. Father Felice, Lady Angela’s brother, was pacing around the office, with a breviary in his hand, as if the situation was making him uncomfortable. They had also called in Signor Maurizio, the mayor, who was sitting somewhat casually in another armchair at the back of the room. It was his official presence that particularly unsettled Donata.

  ‘Sit in this chair, next to Marco. My mother will take the children to the kitchen and give them something to keep them busy,’ said the notary.

  Donata resisted letting go of their hands; something about this scene gave her a very bad feeling. When the notary’s mother took Vitantonio and Giovanna, Donata’s legs buckled slightly and she had to lean on the arm of a chair.

  ‘Let’s get to work,’ said the notary, calling them to order once he was installed behind his desk.

  The four evangelists sat up and Donata saw that all of them were twirling the tips of their moustaches with both hands, in an identical gesture, ready to listen
respectfully to Fini’s explanations. They looked ridiculous, but she didn’t have it in her to laugh. She didn’t even react when Father Felice, who had only just sat down, began to snore on the other side of the room. She was having trouble breathing again and she said a Hail Mary in an attempt to forestall the bad omens. She had never before felt so devout as in those last few hours.

  ‘This is all rather unconventional,’ the notary began, ‘but all those present agree that, if these were indeed Francesca’s wishes, we must respect them. Before she wrote them out, I clearly explained to her that her provisions were somewhat irregular and could be taken very badly, but she was insistent. So here are her wishes, in brief. The properties that Francesca inherited from her late husband, Antonio, will be divided into two parts: the two large olive groves by the Martina Franca road, of sixty and a hundred and forty hectares respectively, and their large farmsteads will revert to the Convertini estate and be shared among the six surviving siblings, according to an attached document. The small olive grove, the one on the outskirts of town, consisting of five hectares and a trulli, and the house on the Via Cavour, which you all know as the house in the Piazza Sant’Anna, will be for Vitantonio and Giovanna, who will inherit them when they turn twenty-three. Until then, Donata Palmisano will be the trustee.’

  The notary looked up from the will and stared straight at Donata. For the first time he addressed her informally.

  ‘You cannot sell or divest yourself of any property, but you will have use of it until the children are of age, and the children will remain in your custody thanks to this private agreement. Next week the family court judge will call you in to swear your acceptance.

  ‘Father Felice, Signor Maurizio and Lady Angela were there when I first read Francesca the legal provisions and they signed as witnesses, at her express wish. We all agree that this is fair. As do Angelo, Matteo, Marco, Luca and Giovanni, who will sign the attached document accepting everything set out in the will; Lady Angela will sign by proxy for her daughter, Margherita. The Martina Franca olive groves will revert to the Convertinis, who had given them to poor Antonio before he died on the Piave front …’