by Mary Contini
‘Open it, here, Domenico. Help me open it.’
Maria came out of the bedroom. She was expecting another child at last. She looked very beautiful, pale and with a gentle smile that warmed her sad eyes. She sensed the excitement and came over to Alfonso and kissed his cheek.
‘How wonderful, I wonder what’s in it. It smells pretty strong!’
She laughed and, unexpectedly, hooked her arm round Alfonso’s as she stood and watched the children pull the packet open.
Alfonso pulled her towards him and held her close, his heart full of love. She was so much happier now that the new baby was nearly due.
‘Papà, aiuto. Help us, per favore.’ Vittorio interrupted them. He had sensed that there was food in the pacco, something that smelt unusual. Mamma didn’t kiss Papà very often, but now wasn’t the most convenient time, not when something more exciting was about to happen.
Alfonso took a knife and cut the remaining string, pulling the cotton away. Vittorio knelt on the chair and prised the lid open. Margherita climbed up and settled herself on the table so that she could see everything that was going on.
‘Vittorio, you are in charge of the pacco. You have to unpack everything and tell Domenico what is inside.’ Alfonso gave Domenico a pencil and a small black notebook. Alfonso was teaching him to write Italian at home as he was doing very well with his lessons.
First Vittorio pulled away some newspapers that were packed on top and discarded them. A pungent smell of mature cheese mixed with a spicy chilli smell hit them all.
‘Oh Dio. Papà! Che puzza!’ Margherita got a clip across the ear from her mother for taking the Lord’s name in vain.
Vittorio pulled out the first bundle, again wrapped in old newspapers. He opened it and revealed the booty inside. ‘Cinque salsiccie. Scrivi, Domenico. Five sausages. Are these Nonno Michele’s salsiccie, Papà?
Alfonso was as excited as the children. He hadn’t tasted salsiccie from Fontitune since Maria had brought them with her when she arrived. He lifted one up and smelled it, taking in the aroma of pork, pepper, spices and chilli. He took the knife and sliced a bit of the dry, hard sausage. He put it in his mouth and chewed it. The children were silent. Were these the famous salsiccie of Nonno Michele? Alfonso smacked his lips and smiled at the children.
‘Well,’ he said, slowly and deliberately, enjoying the moment of suspense, ‘well, do you know what? I think I’ll just have to try another slice.’
‘What?’
‘Alfonso! Stop teasing them!’ Maria laughed and pushed him aside; taking the knife from him, she started to cut slices of the sausage. She gave a piece to each of the children and cut some more for herself and Alfonso. They all waited in suspense for a declaration from their father.
‘Questa è la salsiccia migliore nel mondo. Fonteluna! This is the best sausage you will ever taste, this is the sausage of Fontitune, the sausage of your past and your future.’
They all cheered and clapped, then they tasted the sausage. It was chewy but moist, not too dry, quite sweet, tasting of juicy pork. There was a mixture of spices and flavours with whole spices that released an unexpected punch of flavour when they were bitten into. It was delicious.
Vittorio stood up on the chair. At seven years of age he felt entitled to be the centre of attention.
‘I would like to say that questa è la salsiccia migliore in tutto il mondo!’
They all laughed. So this was the famous sausage – the Fonteluna. Now they understood why all their uncles kept talking about it, missing it and scheming how they could make it here or, better still, get it sent across from Fontitune.
‘What else is there?’ Maria wanted to taste some pecorino. She knew by the smell that there was some inside.
Vittorio pulled the three parcels out of the pacco, each wrapped in more newspaper. ‘Tre formaggi. Write it down, Domenico.’ He was quite bossy to his big brother, sharper and sometimes impatient of Domenico’s laid-back nature.
‘Give me the newspapers, Vittorio. Margherita, collect those from the floor and lay them on the sideboard. I’ll read them later.’ Alfonso wanted to read the precious Italian newspapers, even if they were months out of date.
Maria took the first cheese and lifted it to breathe in the aroma. ‘I hope Mrs Wilson doesn’t pass the door or she’ll be phoning the police again.’
It was now a family joke that Mrs Wilson, who had never warmed to her Italian neighbours, had called the police when she smelled garlic cooking. To be fair, sometimes the smell of Mrs Wilson’s cooking was so awful to Maria that she felt she had to hold her own nose when she passed the door. She put the cheese on the table and looked at Alfonso for instruction.
‘Just cut it in half, Maria, we’ll eat it tonight. I noticed you made some fresh bread this morning.’
Maria cut the cheese in half, straight down the middle. It opened out revealing a creamy, pale soft cheese, slightly sharp on flavour with a soft buttery centre.
‘What is that in the middle?! Oh Dio!’ Margherita earned another clip across the ear and a second one for screwing up her nose at a mass of translucent maggots squirming in the middle of the cheese.
Maria and Alfonso laughed. They found nothing unusual in this. At home this was regarded as the best part of the cheese and was savoured as a bit of a luxury.
Alfonso winked at Maria. These city kids needed a rude awakening. Maria took a spoon from the drawer and handed it to Alfonso, who immediately dipped into the middle of the cheese and scooped out a spoonful, offered it to his wife who ate it with real pleasure. He then took another spoonful and offered it to Vittorio.
The boys screamed in disgust and Margherita, devastated that her mother had just eaten maggots, went off into the bedroom in shame. What a disappointing pacco. What other horrors were buried deep inside?
The boys stayed and tasted the cheese from the edges; and were glad they had. It was really good, and strangely familiar to these two young boys, whose parents had chosen to turn their backs on their inherited livelihoods.
Later, in the evening, when the children had gone to bed and the house was quiet, Maria sat contentedly beside Alfonso as he set about reading the precious newspapers that he had rescued. The cheese and sausage had been covered with a cloth and put on a plate on the windowsill, to keep them cool. The rest of the contents of the pacco, a bottle of olive oil, six ruby-red beer bottles filled with tomatoes, three heads of hard, dry garlic and bunches of dried herbs, were displayed proudly beside the sink. Maria couldn’t read but she sat with the letter from Pietro, thinking about all the news from Fontitune. Grazie a Dio, everyone was well.
She was tired and thought that she would go to bed. Alfonso might come with her. She stood up. ‘Alfonso, caro. I’m going to bed now. The children are in their own beds and are all asleep.’
She bent over him and kissed him on the cheek. He put his hand up and pulled her down towards him. ‘Look at this, Maria. Look at this man.’
In the newspaper, a sheet from Il Popolo d’Italia, 31 October 1922, smeared slightly by oil from the sausages, there was a photograph of an attractive-looking man. He was about forty, five years or so older than Alfonso. He was sturdy and strong-looking, muscular and healthy, with short cropped dark hair and a slightly receding hairline. He had a distinctive Roman nose and a firm-looking, sensuous mouth. He was clean shaven and wore a beautifully tailored black suit with a black shirt underneath. In his hand he carried an incongruous British bowler hat.
Maria was struck by his piercing eyes; even in this crumpled newspaper picture you could see a fierce determination and power in his eyes.
‘Who is he?’
‘Il Duce. Benito Mussolini. The new Prime Minister of Italy.’
‘Since when?’
‘Since three months ago. In October he marched on Rome with his supporters and offered his services to the king. He says Italy needs a strong leader who will put backbone into the government and avert civil war. They told us all about him last night. He will
be a great man, Maria, he will be Italy’s Saviour. What do you think of him?’
Maria thought for a moment. He was unlikely to affect her life, but somehow she didn’t like the look of him. Her instinct recoiled against something in his arrogant look and aggressive stance. ‘A me non mi piace. He’ll be trouble, Alfonso, he’ll be trouble.’ Maria kissed Alfonso again and went to get ready for bed.
She had the knack of taking the wind out of his sails. Here he was, enthralled by the idea of a strong leader in Italy, and she thought he’d be trouble. Could she be right? But surely Italy needed a strong leader, one who would unify her and prevent any more disruption? The trouble was, Maria didn’t understand war. She’d had a hard time during the war, on her own in a strange country with a young family. She’d had to suffer the loss of her child, which was tragic for them all. But women didn’t understand war. How could they imagine the destruction and useless carnage, the slaughter and bloodshed, the agony and futile waste? Thank God, she didn’t know; but if she did, she would see things differently.
He knew that peace could only come with strength. A weak leader leaves the way open for more strife, for another war, God forbid. No, she was wrong. Mussolini was the right man at the right time.
He smoothed the paper and put it into a drawer. He would show it to the men on Wednesday when he met them after work. He was keen to know what they thought. How many of them would have the courage to stand up and be counted?
Alfonso couldn’t resist. He took the sausage from the window-sill and cut another few slices. He poured half a glass of wine and drank slowly, looking out over Rossie Place. This trial package had worked well. He would write to Pietro and send him money for three packages. He would sell this sausage and cheese easily to the Italians in Edinburgh. Valvona already sold some in his new shop on George IV Bridge, but it wasn’t a patch on this.
One day he’d take his family back to Italy. He understood Maria: that was what she longed for; one day, but not yet. First he had to make money. He would work every hour he could and save up every penny he could. He closed the window and locked the front door. He drank back the last of the wine and smiled to himself. If he was lucky, she wouldn’t be asleep yet.
16
Edinburgh
1924
Looking back, Alfonso always considered the day he heard Carlo Lupo as the moment he found his vocation. Until then he had been lost. He had turned his back on his past but had not yet found his future. That day was a turning point in his life. He felt that it was his lucky chance, his sette bello, the moment when he chose his destiny.
Maria was not convinced.
‘Alfonso, be careful. Why are you getting involved with politics? What do you know about things like that? It’s a waste of time.’
‘Cara, tu non capisci. The strength of the Fascio is that it will keep us all together. We need to be bound together, a fascio. Think about it, our new countrymen don’t know where we stand. To some, we are heroes who fought alongside them. To others, we are foreigners who look and behave differently, foreigners not to be trusted. To the Scottish churches and Jews we are Catholics. To the officials and the police, we are “aliens” to be watched and penalised for every misdemeanour.’
Maria immediately smelled a rat. She understood Alfonso better than he understood himself.
‘What misdemeanour?’
‘What do you mean?’ Alfonso scratched his leg nervously.
‘What misdemeanour?’
‘Well,’ Alfonso put his head down and looked up at her. Then he tipped his head and shrugged his shoulders. ‘Nothing. It was nothing. I have been fined for selling cigarettes after hours. It’s not a big deal. All the boys do it.’
Maria knew he had been fined. The other wives had already told her.
‘Oh, Alfonso. Be careful. Please don’t get into trouble. I know Emidio and the D’Agostino boy were fined as well.’
‘Don’t you see? That’s precisely my point. The other shopkeepers sell a packet of cigarettes out of hours as well, but it’s the Italians who are watched, so it’s the Italians who are caught.
‘Mussolini understands what we’re up against. Suspicion arises from fear of the unknown. Mussolini says we have to stand up and be counted.’
‘What has Mussolini got to do with it? You shouldn’t sell cigarettes out of hours and that’s that!’
‘I know, I know. I won’t do it again. But, Maria, we need a strong leader. All the leaders of the Alliance agree. Read the Scotsman.’
‘I can’t read.’
‘Well, you know what I mean. Read the newspapers. Many politicians approve. People like Churchill.’
‘I don’t know who you mean.’
‘A lot of world leaders are impressed with Il Duce. The Holy Father, the Archbishop. The King, for God’s sake!’
‘Alfonso, there’s no need to raise your voice.’
‘Mussolini says that, as immigrants, we have to honour the country we are living in, obey their laws and set an example. Tadon Michele said to me that discipline is the only way to survive: discipline the dog; discipline the sheep; discipline yourself.’
‘And I suppose the wife comes into that as well?’
Alfonso sensed his victory. He put his arms round her and kissed her on the cheek with a flourish. ‘My darling,’ he patted her slightly swollen belly, ‘how could I ever discipline you. You can have anything you want. Now, …’
He knew he had won when she kissed him back. Maria was afraid she had pushed him too far; she didn’t want to quarrel.
But Maria wasn’t as easily convinced by Alfonso’s ideas as he thought. She saw his point and she knew from talking to the other wives that they wanted some structure in their lives, something of the old way of life, some help to discipline their husbands. Some of the younger men were being lazy or staying out later than they needed to. One of the wives thought her husband was having an affair with a Scots girl who worked in their shop.
Alfonso had a point. They needed discipline but she didn’t want her husband to be the one to take the responsibility. Let Mussolini find someone else.
Alfonso subtly changed the subject, ‘I need to buy a black shirt. Do you want to come shopping with me and we’ll buy you a new hat?’
She agreed to go. A day out would be nice.
Alfonso wanted to take her to the sale at Jenners department store on Princes Street but, since that first day when she had looked in Jenners’ window after arriving off the train, she had felt intimidated by the glamour and wealth displayed there. She felt more at home in the millinery department of Patrick Thomson’s on the North Bridge. Her new hat cost only ten shillings, a quarter of the price of one in Jenners. She was very pleased.
After they finished shopping they enjoyed tea and scones in the tea room on the first floor of the store. It felt good sitting with other Edinburgh gentlemen and their wives, instead of serving them. She was amazed at the prices charged.
‘It’s a disgrace, Alfonso, a shilling each! If only I could charge that in my shop.’ She had to admit to herself, though, that she couldn’t have had such fun if they were still in Fontitune. Sometimes the hardship and worry were worthwhile.
About thirty of the Italian ex-servicemen were also swept up by the rhetoric. Tronchetti had kept in touch. Gradually he enrolled them all in the movement. It was even better than Alfonso had hoped. Once they had enough supporters they would receive substantial funds from the Italian government. They could rent a hall and they could organise themselves.
There would be Italian lessons for the children, funds for widows and orphans and money to organise dances and feste. On Ferragosto, 15 August, the Consul was going to organise a big picnic for all the immigrants in Scotland and have a sports day for the children and a dance at night. Mussolini himself was even going to send them a silver cup to present to the winners!
‘At last,’ Alfonso thought, ‘at last, a government that looks after its people.’
They were both invited to
the Blessing of the Fascist Flag on 4 February. Alfonso was surprised that Maria agreed to come. He put on his corporal’s uniform with his new black shirt and pinned his war service medals proudly on his jacket.
Maria dressed elegantly in a long black dress with a dark shawl to hide her pregnancy. She felt very up to date with her new black felt cloche hat pulled down over her eyes. They walked down Easter Road arm in arm to the Queen’s Hall in Leith. After the speeches and blessings, the crowd of two hundred, made up of dignitaries and representatives of the churches and both governments, saluted the flag and then clapped enthusiastically to celebrate the new working relationship between the British and Italian governments. The Church of Scotland Moderator Graham of St Andrew’s applauded when the Catholic Archbishop Mackintosh spoke.
‘My dear friends, this is a great day for our two countries. Scotland and Italy have so much in common to celebrate. Our values and goals are alike. We just need to look at our common proverbs to see how close our cultures are.
‘Just like the Scotsman, the fundamental quality in the Italian is his attachment to his family and the home. We all agree, women must be at home, must keep away from politics and the workplace. You know the proverb, “Sad is the house where the hen sings and the cook is silent!”’
At this everyone laughed and clapped, including Maria, who agreed wholeheartedly with the Archbishop that a woman’s place was in the home.
The Archbishop, enjoying his new popularity, continued, ‘And we Scots and Italians are gallant and value a good woman, “A man without a wife is without a head.”’
More laughter and clapping from the audience.
‘And of course we are two races who are prudent with money. Look at the proverb “Money saved is money twice gained.”’
Maria whispered to Alfonso, ‘See, I told you it was better to go to Patrick Thomson’s.’
