The Last Son’s Secret

by Rafel Nadal Farreras

  ‘Never, but I’ve heard tell.’

  ‘On special days we could also eat orecchiette with thrush or hare stew,’ pointed out Salvatore, who had just entered the kitchen with a bunch of onions. ‘All we’d have to do was keep what we catch instead of offering it up to the aristocrats in town as a sign of our servitude.’

  Donata and Concetta hid their smiles of approval and pretended they hadn’t heard him.

  It was the best summer the twins had ever had. Vitantonio spent all day running around freely, and when Salvatore came back from working in the fields Vitantonio ran to meet him. Before dinner, Skinny’s son would teach him to catch crickets and frogs and set up crossbows, and on some Sundays he even took him out hunting with a rifle. Donata watched, thinking how Vitantonio, without realizing it, had spent those two months in the countryside discovering his own roots.

  The Confirmation

  ON THE FIRST Sunday in October, when they returned to Bellorotondo, the twins went over to the palazzo for lunch and put the incident in the garden behind them for good. Franco’s broken nose and their grandmother’s punishment, which had left the twins unconfirmed and without their usual summer holiday at the beach, were never mentioned again. Nonna gradually reintroduced her disciplinary routine but Zia rather suspected that, when there were no witnesses around, she lavished more attention on the twins in an attempt to win them over.

  Three months later Donata’s suspicions were confirmed. On the eve of the Feast of the Epiphany in 1928, Befana the Witch visited the palazzo, as she did in folklore throughout Italy, delivering gifts for the children. She brought the twins the clothes that their grandmother had ordered from the best shops in Bari or asked Margherita to send from stylish Venice. The following morning, 6 January, after trying on a wool sweater and some hiking boots, Vitantonio discovered one last gift with his name on it, wrapped in very striking paper, which Befana had left on the floor of the conservatory, beneath a sock hung from a doorknob. When he unwrapped it, he couldn’t believe his eyes: it was a wind-up cable car that appeared to travel from a small town in the Alps to the very top of a mountain. Surrounded by fir trees and with their roofs dusted with snow, the model station and houses looked as if they were made of real wood, just like in the calendars sent by the Austrian timber merchants and just like the electric train set in the playroom that only the grown-ups were allowed to turn on.

  At the other end of the conservatory, Giovanna was trying on some blue patent-leather shoes and she hadn’t noticed that she had a special gift from Befana, too. Her grandmother pointed it out to her: the package wrapped in gold paper contained a lavishly produced edition of Little Red Riding Hood. It had a centrefold showing the woodcutter’s house and all the characters in the story; when you opened it out, the big bad wolf appeared from behind the trees, on the trail of Little Red Riding Hood and her grandmother.

  ‘That’s me and that’s you,’ said her nonna.

  When Giovanna saw that figure with long braids and a red cape she forgot all about the patent-leather shoes and gave her grandmother a huge hug. Angela turned redder than the hood itself.

  The rest of the winter passed without incident and the following spring, when the palazzo’s garden bloomed again and Nonna’s army distributed the white bouquets throughout town, Giovanna and Vitantonio were once again ready to be confirmed.

  They were confirmed on the second Thursday in June 1928, on the Feast of Corpus Christi, in the illustrious surroundings of Bari cathedral, because Nonna wanted to compensate for the year-long delay by making the ceremony as solemn as possible. The night before the big day they both slept at the palazzo. Their grandmother wanted to have plenty of time to get them ready and to oversee personally their attire, which she’d had tailor-made, for the second time. When Donata left her house bright and early, the early-bird parishioners were already at eight o’clock mass at the church of Sant’Anna and the streets of Bellorotondo were deserted. The tramontana – the northerly wind – had been blowing hard all week, leaving one of those clear skies she was so fond of. These were probably the last few mild days before the southern winds would bring in the unbearably hot summer.

  Giovanna was waiting for Donata on the steps to Angela’s house, wearing a white organdie dress. A gauzy veil covered her hair, which was black just like her mother’s had been. A pink belt held the dress tightly around her waist and a pink rosary hung delicately from her white-gloved hands. Those were the only touches of colour, because her patent-leather shoes and her socks, which were pulled up over her calves, were also white.

  ‘My little princess!’ exclaimed Donata, as the girl threw her arms around her neck.

  They went upstairs hand in hand and there they found Nonna knotting Vitantonio’s tie. She had dressed him in a navy-blue suit jacket, shorts and sweater. His shirt was white in contrast, as were his gloves, socks, shoes and the handkerchief that peeked out of his jacket pocket. His nonna had parted his hair on the left. When the boy turned around, Donata struggled to stifle the cry that came from deep inside: ‘Dio santo, Vito!’

  Vitantonio was a perfect portrait, in miniature, of Vito Oronzo Palmisano. Dressed in jacket and tie, he was the spitting image of his father in the wedding photo they’d hurriedly had taken in Bari on the day he went off to war. Anyone who looked at the photo, which hung in a frame in Donata’s sitting room, would have worked out Vitantonio’s true parentage immediately.

  The Archbishop of Bari officiated at a long, tedious ceremony at the San Sabino cathedral, lasting almost three hours. More than three hundred children formed four lines – two of boys and two of girls – along the Romanesque nave flanked by columns. Archbishop Curi’s right hand was half numb and his thumb was aching from anointing all the children’s foreheads with the holy oils in the sign of the cross. Behind each child stood their godparent who, after the anointing, wiped off the oil with a handkerchief and then tied it around their godchild’s forehead to remind them, for the rest of the day, that they had just been confirmed. Nonna stood for the entire ceremony behind Giovanna, her goddaughter. Father Felice was Vitantonio’s godfather and also stood behind him, on the other side of the nave. Neither of them needed to hear the archbishop’s warnings to the children and their godparents; they were inspired by the catechism of Pius X, which they knew by heart.

  ‘Kings have their soldiers, who defend them and fight to make their kingdom larger and more powerful. The soldiers are always chosen from among the strongest and bravest young men. In the same way, our Lord wants his soldiers. Confirmation makes you perfect Christians and soldiers of Jesus. What an honour it is to serve the King of Heaven and Earth! Never forget that, as soldiers of Jesus, you must fight against the devil. Never listen to him, because he wants to rob you of your grace and banish Jesus from your hearts.’

  When they left San Sabino at around one o’clock, they were starving, and they still had to stand for a group photo in the square outside the cathedral before heading to the hotel banquet. The feast was to be served at the Hotel Oriente, on the Corso Cavour in Bari, because Angela Convertini didn’t want to have to wait the two hours it would have taken them to return to Bellorotondo to dine at the palazzo as was traditional.

  Zia presided over the banquet to the right of Nonna, as if she were now definitively part of the family. She kept looking at Vitantonio with poorly concealed pride, and she also melted looking at Giovanna, who was growing more mature every day. She felt nostalgic for the days when she and Francesca had taken turns nursing them. Nonna looked at her out of the corner of her eye and smiled, and if Zia could have read her thoughts she would have been quite surprised: despite their differences, Lady Convertini was more pleased than ever that she had accepted her daughter-in-law’s wishes and allowed Donata Palmisano to raise the twins they were both so very proud of.

  Once the dessert had been served, Grandmother tapped her champagne flute with a knife to get the table’s attention for her toast.

  ‘Today you have taken a big step and
we must begin to prepare you for your future: Donata and I have decided that next year you will go to boarding school in Bari.’ She lifted her glass and cried out, ‘To my grandchildren! To the children of my beloved Antonio, may he rest in peace!’

  She brought the flute to her lips and drank. Everyone else did the same. Her eyes were glimmering just like Donata’s were. The twins’ uncles called them over and began to shower them with presents: medallions, catechisms bound in mother of pearl, illustrated books of sacred history, cufflinks for the boy, earrings and a necklace for the girl. The last one to call them over was their grandmother, who very solemnly placed a watch on each of their left wrists.

  After lunch they left Bari for Bellorotondo along the coast road. When they reached Polignano a Mare, where they were expecting to take the inland route towards Castellana and Fasano, Nonna, who drove better than all the men in the family, stopped the car suddenly and shouted, ‘Good lord!’

  Everyone turned to look at her, frightened and wondering what was going on.

  ‘My lord, what flowers!’ she exclaimed, with a passion rarely seen in her. ‘Jump over the fence and grab a couple of cuttings of those geraniums,’ she ordered Vitantonio and Franco, who had been confirmed the previous year but had wanted to travel back to town in the same car as his cousins.

  Nonna had stopped the car on the outskirts of the town, in front of a small house with a tiny garden, shaded by a dry, crooked eucalyptus tree. It was right next to a spa complex that had just been opened and was enjoying great success among the Bari bourgeoisie. Three steps led to an even tinier terrace, hemmed in by a white decorative railing. The façade was whitewashed, as were the two long, narrow planters beneath the windows. From one of the planters hung brightly coloured geraniums in pink, fuchsia and crimson. In the other there was an even more delicate geranium, which trailed down to the ground, covered in blood-red flowers, like a cardinal’s cape. Angela had never seen anything like it on the entire Adriatic coast.

  ‘What if they see us?’ Donata tried to protest.

  ‘We’re not doing any harm. And besides, no one ever comes to these houses on the coast until the end of the month.’

  Franco stayed in the car. Vitantonio was already out and over the fence. He still had his confirmation handkerchief tied around his forehead and the watch on his wrist, and he felt prouder than ever.

  Zia watched him run over to the terrace and shouted, ‘Be careful, don’t catch your shorts.’

  ‘Leave him be, he knows what he’s doing. He’ll be nine this summer.’

  Donata gave Angela a puzzled look and saw that she was watching her grandson’s movements with a gleam in her eye. She would never understand that woman. She had spent the whole lunch scolding the little ones, making sure they didn’t spill anything on themselves or forget their manners. Now she’d sent Vitantonio over a dirty, dusty fence to steal geranium cuttings.

  ‘Bravo!’ said Lady Angela when the boy delivered a couple of crimson flower cuttings and a whole handful of tender shoots he’d chosen from the cardinal-red geranium that trailed all the way down to the ground; they would take pride of place in the finest pots in the palazzo. Nonna gave Franco, who hadn’t budged from his seat the entire time, a reproving look, and then addressed Donata.

  ‘You see, nothing happened. When you’re strict with them, they shine,’ she said as if deliberately to provoke her, and she grabbed hold of the steering wheel, turned on the engine and took the road to Bellorotondo at top speed.

  ‘It was lucky no one saw us,’ was all Donata replied.

  ‘They would be thrilled to know that we liked their flowers,’ retorted Angela.

  That’s how Nonna was: a blazing sun who took for granted that every planet revolved around her. And she wouldn’t have had it any other way.

  Red Earth

  THAT SAME DAY, when they’d passed the Fasano mountains, the earth turned red and they saw the first terraced plots of land that heralded their arrival in the Itria valley. The peasant farmers in the valley wisely planted their crops at different heights: at the top were the trees with large boughs, the olive, fig, almond and cherry trees; on the second level grew the apricot, plum, pomegranate and other smaller fruit trees; beneath them were the local vines that would produce a wonderful Primitivo wine come September; further down were the beans, aubergines, peppers, cucumbers, onions, chickpeas and tomatoes. The lowest level was saved for the squashes, which crept all over the red earth.

  Nonna’s car had been driving alongside drystone walls for a while by then. Vitantonio had lowered the window and was enjoying looking out at the fertile fields scattered with trulli huts and tiny farmhouses. He’d been anxious to get home ever since Nonna’s toast.

  They reached the palazzo by mid-afternoon and went straight to the garden. The town photographer was already there waiting for them; Grandmother had personally given him the task of immortalizing her two eldest grandchildren’s confirmation day and he decided to photograph them on a wooden bench, surrounded by plants and bushes, convinced that the Lady of Bellorotondo would be pleased by the natural backdrop. Nonna was the first to sit down, on one end of the bench, with her left arm stretched out over its back and the other at a right angle over her thighs; in her right hand she held open a fan decorated with a black and gold pattern. She was dressed entirely in black. Around her neck she wore a small pearl necklace and she had demurely pulled her white hair back into a bun. A few wrinkles gathered around her bright, eagle eyes, but her figure was still slender and her face still showed how lovely she’d been as a young woman: she had simply exchanged youthful beauty for mature elegance.

  At the other end of the bench, Zia wore a bright white dress. Her hands rested on her lap and in her right one she held the bouquet of flowers that Giovanna had carried that morning at the ceremony. Donata was still a very attractive woman.

  The twins stood behind the bench between the two women, who looked straight at the camera with pride. Giovanna held the back of the bench with one hand and gave the lens a penetrating, defiant gaze. She looked happy. She was still thinking about what her grandmother had said earlier at the hotel restaurant, and she was pleased they were sending her to study in the city: she was anxious to grow up and she knew that in Bellorotondo she would always be seen as a little girl. Vitantonio, on the other hand, seemed upset and was looking to one side of the garden, with a heavy gaze. He was afraid of leaving Bellorotondo for school in Bari; something he couldn’t put into words tied him to the valley and made him feel homesick whenever he left.

  Everything was ready for the photo. The broad, fleshy leaves of one of Nonna’s alocasia plants peeked out from behind Vitantonio and honeysuckle climbed up the stone wall. Just to the right of the group hung cherry boughs, laden with fruit. Giovanna grabbed a couple and dangled them from her ear like earrings. It was the only moment when Vitantonio smiled. The photographer clicked the shutter, capturing the girl’s and the two women’s pride and satisfaction, but also the boy’s anxious, half-smiling expression.

  ‘Take one of Franco and Vitantonio together,’ Nonna ordered the photographer when the group disbanded. ‘Come on, over here.’

  Franco sat on the bench and Vitantonio stood beside him, with his right foot resting on the dark green wood. Just as the photographer was about to take the picture, Franco turned to his cousin and said, ‘Will you teach me how to fight?’

  ‘What’s got into you? You can’t teach fighting. When you’re in the right, you fight – and that’s it.’

  In Bed

  ZIA CAME IN with breakfast on a tray. A piece of toast drizzled with oil and sprinkled with salt, and a glass of milk that she had sent up from Concetta’s cow each day, which she mixed with an infusion of eucalyptus, as per Dr Ricciardi’s orders.

  ‘How’s my little soldier doing today?’

  The afternoon of the twins’ confirmation, Vitantonio and Franco had stayed out in the palazzo garden until nightfall, playing soldiers of Jesus with the wooden swords S
kinny had made for them at the factory. It had been a muggy day, but in the evening the temperature had dropped sharply and Vitantonio had come in for supper at the house on the Piazza Sant’Anna shivering. The next day he’d woken up feverish and Donata had called the doctor, who had diagnosed tonsillitis and said he needed some bed rest. He had been in bed for three days and was fed up, but Dr Ricciardi, who came to check on him every afternoon, wouldn’t hear of him getting up.

  ‘He needs to stay in bed for two more days, until his fever has completely gone down. And then he should spend two or three more days at home, without going outside at all.’

  When Zia took away the breakfast tray, Vitantonio stretched out an arm and picked up an illustrated book, The Battle for Grain, that the school had given them that year as part of a government campaign to convince Italian farmers to plant more wheat and make the country self-sufficient. Mussolini had had more than six million copies distributed to schools throughout Italy. Vitantonio liked to look at the drawings of the wheat fields, and they reminded him of the men who had winnowed the wheat, the previous summer, on the threshing floor at Concetta’s farmhouse.

  When he put down the little book he understood he missed the July mornings when they had bathed in the laundry trough and the feast days when he’d been hunting in the olive groves with Salvatore. He closed his eyes for a moment and proudly imagined that he was already as brave and grown up as Skinny’s son; he saw himself climbing trees and going out hunting all alone with the rifle, through the brushwood of Alta Murgia and the marshes of Torre Canne. Until he realized that his whole body was itchy and his daydream vanished as quickly as it had come: there were toast crumbs all over his bed and in his pyjamas. His aunt came to his rescue. ‘Get up. I’ll make the bed and air out your room.’

  When he returned, the room was like a paradise. The air was fresh, morning sun bathed the entire room and the bed had clean starched sheets on it. He leaned back on to a pillow, and was captivated by the reflections of the sun on the leaves of the lemon tree’s tallest branches, which reached his window. Giovanna appeared in the doorway.