A Funeral in Fiesole

by Rosanne Dingli

  I didn’t think Paola was the ideal person to ask, having no children of her own, and being my big sister. I said as much, and he must have seen the displeasure on my face. ‘So what did she have to say?’

  ‘She’s very nice, you know.’

  ‘You said that before.’

  ‘She pointed out the fact we’d be pushing seventy when the child was in high school, if we started now.’

  I blinked.

  ‘And you have to admit we never thought of it in such a … a time frame. We’d be drained. On our last legs. I’d be exhausted. I don’t think I can push myself that far, Brod. I mean – we have such a nice free life now …’

  ‘Doing what we want.’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘Let’s not talk about it to anyone else, shall we? No more. Until we finally resolve the … the situation, I mean. The decision. The pros and cons. Certainly not here, not now. Not with my family.’

  ‘Paola … it seemed to take her mind off her own problems.’

  ‘Did she say anything else?’

  ‘She talked about a missing painting.’

  I rolled my eyes and thanked goodness we could change the subject. ‘Lots has gone missing. We all noticed. It gets on Suzanna’s nerves. Nigel doesn’t say anything, even if he and Harriet notice, or even know where some things have ended up. I tend not to register such things. Things, you know, Grant … things. Everything can be replaced.’

  ‘Not everything, according to your big sister. She said something about an umbrella painting, which used to hang in the drawing room.’

  ‘Oh lord – yes. Ombrelli a Santa Maria.’ The fabulous painting we all had imprinted into our minds as children was suddenly there, in my mind’s eye. ‘Basile painted it.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Basile – he was … like a family friend. I wonder what happened to him.’ Remembering Basile was like a strange flash from a forgotten part of my childhood. How could I forget Basile? What did I remember of him? He had a bright, lean face. His English was good; he had travelled the world, and his art was quite distinctive. Mama had met him at some artistic convention – goodness knew where. We did not know her exact movements when we were all away at school.

  Grant and I got in the car and drove to Via Faentina, where there was a little restaurant I liked. A quick but relaxed lunch was what we needed, away from the big house for a while, and it was important to show Grant the rest of Fiesole.

  I could not get the painting out of my mind, even when we sat at a small table. ‘It was special. All these coloured open umbrellas, leading to a church. Santa Maria. Important – but I don’t know why. Did Paola say anything more? Does she know if Basile ever took off as a painter?’

  ‘She described it so minutely, so cleverly. I could see it … in the rain. Me and your sister, standing there, getting very nearly drenched, and I could see all the coloured umbrellas, slick with rain, all grouped together, with the church in the background, like molten gold, she said.’

  ‘Yes. Yes!’ I remembered. The objects in our childhood which formed the stage backdrop of our little dramas disappeared with time. Yet when they were there, they were possibly what formed our opinions, taste, likes and dislikes. What we thought of art and love. What we adored about music. What we chose to read. The thumb of culture, around which a whole life’s choices were wound, like a length of yarn. Like the thumb, influences were withdrawn and disappeared, leaving only what they formed. A weirdly-wound ball of impressions.

  When we remembered them, we recalled the accompanying events. The people. Basile – what was his last name? He was a violinist as well as an artist. He played with a number of famous orchestras. Yes, Basile Sottalbero. Tall, thin, patient and very good-looking. Our Renaissance man. ‘He taught us about … who was the poet? Ah – Leopardi, or someone similar.’ I knew nothing about where he could be, or why he had disappeared out of our lives.

  ‘Shall we?’ Grant held up a menu.

  ‘This trip is turning into a pilgrimage, Grant. I’m sorry if …’

  He leaned forward suddenly and grabbed me by the upper arm. ‘Brod, I love it. I never had this. It’s brilliant. Your family’s … I don’t know … they’re real. All memories, and questions, and quarrels and … I don’t know … you guys don’t even know how much you love each other.’

  I lowered my head. We were all ageing. We didn’t love each other when we were youngsters. How could we now? What did Grant see that I didn’t? ‘Rubbish, Grant.’

  ‘Rubbish, then.’ He let go of my arm. ‘You know each other so well.’ He took up a fork and ate his salad.

  ‘We think we know each other – but it’s only what we remember of adolescent moods, silly behaviour, tantrums, childish habits. We’ve all changed. Mostly, we’ve changed because of the people we’ve chosen to live with.’

  He smiled.

  ‘Yes – you’ve changed me a bit, Grant. I used to be so … slapdash. So bland.’

  He looked up. ‘Hmm. You still wear terrible sweaters.’

  I pulled a face at him.

  Later, much later, after a mostly silent main course, he broke into his round brittle torta, which was covered in raspberry juice. ‘You treat each other like you’re all still teenagers. It’s hilarious.’

  I didn’t think it was funny. It was devastatingly sad.

  Suzanna

  Not always alone

  I watched my twin and his partner. They sat on either side of the fireplace in the front sitting room, where Mama would gather us sometimes, on very hot afternoons, for a bit of quiet reading. I didn’t think I had ever seen the fireplace working, and yet Brod got it to burn nicely, with a few dry logs he brought up from somewhere.

  The cosy scene was not perfect. They had evidently had words. Brod glared at Grant, and Grant stuck his tongue out at him. So they were all right, I supposed. Just like Mama was all right with us when we had annoyed her. She’d read to us, to calm us down. How boring it was some of those long afternoons!

  And how warm and sticky! She would place two pedestal fans at opposite ends of the room, hoist her feet onto a footstool, read aloud out of some book or other – almost certainly Enid Blyton, and later Agatha Christie or the English translations of the Maigret novels – and we would either all drop off for a nap where we lay on the rug around her, or wander off. Brod had a quiet game – a habit – of tracing the rug pattern with his fingers, following the design from end to end, and all along the border. He would listen to the reading and trace, trace, with a frown of concentration between his eyebrows. He was crazy about those rugs. When he doodled, he drew a corner of the library rug!

  And yes, now Brod mentioned it to me, I did remember the big umbrella painting between the two front windows. Gone. A little one now hung in its place. Paola wasn’t the only one who remembered our childhood idiosyncrasies. Now it was mentioned, I remembered the musty smell of wood and paper and dust whenever I hid in the bottom drawer of the big beautiful bookcase in the hall. There was no danger of it tipping forward with my weight, little thing that I was. Besides, it was a substantial, stable piece of furniture, much higher than a man, made of mahogany and satinwood. What a magnificent thing it was! I would run fingers along the marquetry, jump in the drawer, wait to be found, and run back to this room laughing and shouting afterwards, at whichever of my siblings had won the game.

  It was so cold in there now! I moved closer to the fire. My brother and Grant rose, and invited me for a walk down to the rubble wall, but I preferred to stay, not to ruin my shoes, so I did, and studied the place; the heavy brocade curtains, which needed cleaning, and on the wall between the windows, the small picture I did not remember. Or maybe I did. It might have hung in one of the refurbished rooms Papa wanted to fill with paying guests. Such dreamy schemes, he had – I loved them all. I learned from him what I wanted to do when I grew up. Buy and sell properties and businesses. Make money!

  I also learned I wanted to sail – a bit from him, but mostly later. He taught me
to identify what I wanted, and how I should go about getting it. Now Lewis and I were so close to our big dream; getting a yacht and sailing the Mediterranean. Mama’s bequest would help enormously. It was practically in the bag!

  I expected Lewis to join me for a bit of quiet time to ourselves, but Paola came in with a book, no doubt searching for a quiet place to read. We still hadn’t discussed the will, and I wasn’t about to broach the subject with my older sister, even though her face appeared serene now, much calmer than when we all arrived a few days ago. The pressure and anticipation about the funeral and the reading of the will were gone. Our mother was at rest, at last! We could all now exchange memories and stories without fear our guilt or fear or greed would be exposed. I believed they all did find me greedy, grasping, materialistic … and I simply was a bit more realistic than most!

  But Lewis would tell anyone it was what kept me motivated. It was hardly believable, was it? Lewis rarely spoke, and especially not to my family.

  I did catch him sitting at one end of the long table with Lori, though. They had a bottle of something nice and two really tiny stemmed glasses. Lori had magicked up a little plate of biscuits, which very much resembled the ones Matilde used to make. I meant to ask her where she got them, to make conversation, but something drew me to the front sitting room, and there I sat for a while with Paola, talking about when we were all in our teens. Papa had been dead a few years, and we had only recently got used to having our summers without him.

  ‘The wall gods … do you remember trying to copy them on squared graph paper? Do you remember spilling poster paint on the hall floor?’

  I didn’t. Paola went into a host of more details about finding fossils in the rubble wall, about wishing for a pool, about our matching swimming suits one summer, and the new straw hats we bought at the Sunday market.

  ‘I simply don’t remember, Paola.’

  ‘You must remember winters, and school, better.’

  ‘Mama had some dreadful winters in Cornwall, getting used to being alone.’

  ‘She wasn’t always alone, Suzanna.’

  ‘No – I remember the winter Nigel got pneumonia, and he had to be collected from school. He was sick a long time. There was the winter I broke my leg.’

  Paola held up a finger. ‘Yes, I think it was the year, and the following winter … no, the winter after. Do you remember how she phoned us from somewhere else?’

  ‘No. What – phoned from somewhere else in England?’

  She dog-eared a page and closed the book. I saw her feet rested on the very same footstool Mama had used all those years ago. It was rush-woven, with a small tapestry cushion on top. It was comforting. I could also smell something delicious from Nigel’s kitchen, but sat back and waited for Paola’s memories to kick in. How efficient her brain was!

  ‘From Belgium, actually.’

  ‘Belgium!’

  ‘Don’t you remember? We took the call together, you and I, in the bursar’s office, up in the college building. Her voice was loud and faraway-sounding, and she felt happy and … light-hearted.’

  I had only a dim memory, if I could call it a memory. ‘And?’

  ‘And she was in France and Belgium, on a driving trip with Basile.’

  ‘Bas… oh my goodness. Do I remember someone called Basile?’

  Paola tilted her head. ‘Of course you do. I hope you do.’

  ‘And you think they had a – a thing? Mama would never do such a thing.’

  A furrow appeared on the bridge of Paola’s nose. ‘Why ever not? She was a normal woman. Basile was a lovely man. Papa had been dead for years. Can you conceive of the emptiness, the loneliness? Think of yourself in your late forties, or the age she was at the time.’

  I sat up. ‘Well – I’m in my very early fifties now!’

  ‘You’re fifty-five, Suzanna. But it’s exactly what I mean. So what if she had a thing with Basile?’

  I shrugged. ‘So what happened? Why wasn’t he here in the summer, then?’

  She leaned forward, her sudden movement knocking the book off the chair arm to the floor. She ignored it. ‘He was. He was. Try to remember – he had two rooms at the back of the wing. The rust-coloured room, remember? And they put a desk and his easels and paints and things in the next room, and he had the bathroom with the enormous drippy showerhead. The one Donato had to fix over and over again.’

  ‘Paola – you’re making it up. No one remembers so many details about stuff that happened like four decades ago!’

  ‘Not four decades.’

  ‘Mama wasn’t like that.’

  ‘Like what? She wasn’t a nun, I can tell you.’

  I paused. ‘So what happened to Basile?’

  There was a long pause. ‘How on earth would I know? I can only remember things I was there to see, or things I was told. Or things I heard. I can’t remember things I never knew.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘It must have ended. Relationships end.’

  I rose and moved to the window, and saw the rain had stopped and some beautiful watery sunshine bathed the trees and rooftops between the house and the shimmering church tower in the distance.

  ‘Look at the cathedral … everything seems so much smaller to an adult, doesn’t it? It seemed gigantic and so high when we were children.’ I stepped into the room. ‘Not all relationships end, Paola.’

  ‘They do,’ she said quickly. She seemed to form one square brown entity in that large armchair. ‘Death, or misadventure, or infidelity, or boredom, or money, or accident, or folly, or chance … or one of the pair could meet someone – and some couples stay together even though the relationship’s shot to bits.’

  ‘Goodness. You do sound …’

  ‘Angry? I am. I am angry. John’s left me, Suzanna.’

  ‘Oh Paola.’ What a surprise for her to blurt it out in such a way! I didn’t want to sound sorry for her. She did seem strong and confident, more confident than when we all arrived.

  ‘Oh Paola indeed,’ she said with a woeful smile. A mock woeful smile.

  ‘So you’re okay?’

  She reached down for the book on the rug, put it in her lap and sat back. Her long sigh was loud in the room. ‘I’m okay.’

  I was not about to say anything about marriage or children or money. What could I say? What a thing! ‘I guess the will …’

  She held up a hand. ‘You and I know the will was perfect, Suzanna. Perfect. Absolutely right. Mama could not have got it more right.’

  I had to agree. ‘So you’re happy. Are you happy?’

  ‘With the will? Yes, of course. So are you. You can’t deny it. It’s all going to work so well. All we have to do is sign the all-important dichiarazione di successione …’

  ‘The acceptance of the will, yes – and so? I guess we’ll sign.’ Was it so easy? The notary made it sound more complicated than it needed to be.

  ‘Well yes – you and me. But do you think Nigel and Brod are as content as we are?

  She sat forward again, craning her neck, looking like she was going to say something confidential. It was so unlike her I went back to my chair and leaned forward in the same way. ‘What?’

  ‘Nigel and Harriet – I thought their marriage was … you know, in trouble.’

  ‘Good heavens – no! Could it be?’

  ‘Well, no. I think I thought so because of my own … well, listen – John had only sprung it on me very recently, and I saw everything through the fog of my anger. No – no. They’re okay, I think, but something is definitely bothering them. Both of them, and I think I know what it is.’

  ‘One of the children …?’

  She laughed. ‘They couldn’t ask for nicer kids. Do you remember how we all heartily disapproved of the way … you know, their parenting style?’

  So it wasn’t Lori or Tad worrying our little brother and his wife.

  ‘I think it’s to do with money.’

  I raised my eyes toward the cracked ceiling. ‘Well. Well, then – the
will might have fixed such matters for them.’

  ‘After it all goes through. Even if we sign this week, it will take a while. I agree though – didn’t you see Nigel’s face after the reading?’

  I laughed. ‘I’m not the one who checks everyone’s expression … and remembers it years afterwards, Paola! It’s what you do, not me!’

  She didn’t take offense. ‘He was beaming. He looked like the weight of the world had suddenly dropped off his shoulders.’

  ‘Aha. I still can’t get over how you remember things. The painting! Basile – wow! Was he tall and a bit pale and …’

  ‘He smoked funny fat cigars. He would wheel a wide canvas out on an easel, to the rubble wall. He’d prop it just so. He would set up a market umbrella, and he’d stay there for literally hours. Landscapes, panoramic landscapes. And Fiesole streetscapes.’

  ‘You watched him.’

  ‘Of course I watched him.’

  ‘Did he talk …’

  ‘He taught me to sketch a little. He taught me about distances.’

  I didn’t understand. ‘Distances?’

  ‘Between objects.’

  I laughed, because I still didn’t see what she meant. Why didn’t I remember any of this? I barely remembered the man. ‘How many summers was he here?’

  ‘Four.’

  ‘You sound so sure. How can you be so sure? It’s simply ages ago!’

  Paola held the book to her chest, with shoulders curled inward, in a self-protective huddle. Her eyes went darker. ‘I loved him too, Suzanna.’ There was something in her voice, something precluding a response; which silenced everything else.

  I heard a motor scooter in the distance, somewhere on the terraced streets of Fiesole. I heard a distant church bell. I heard my sister breathing. Her face was a mask of remorse. She regretted something.

  ‘I’m sorry I told you now. I’m sorry I said anything. It was important to me. What was I? Sixteen?’ She closed her eyes. Her lips were pressed together, white.