A Funeral in Fiesole

by Rosanne Dingli

  Not even I – not even I and my elephantine memory – remembered everything. Matilde had brought some things back to me with such power when everything in my life seemed worthless and confused, now John was no longer in it and I was drifting. After the drive back to Fiesole, I found it was all suddenly clear and full of soothing meaning and direction.

  Dinner at the osteria was a definite failure. We all returned more distant and close to hostile with each other. Still, I was soothed by recollections brought on by renewing my connection to Matilde. The way she spoke about Basile reawakened the way I felt about him as a teenager. The young woman I no longer was.

  Basile had stood there, one day, between the doors leading to his room and the one where all his canvases were stacked; tall, with riveting light-coloured eyes which seemed incredibly sad. How could a sixteen year-old even conceive of adult sadness? How could a young girl, in a checked blue skirt and yellow blouse, with hair pulled back with black velvet ribbon, conceive of what was happening? I could not have been anywhere near guessing how he felt – or even whether there was anything to guess.

  He stood there and put his hand lightly on my shoulder. ‘In English … in English, is there only one word for distance? Tell me, Paola, how you say it in English.’

  How could I have known what he meant? I thought he meant the distance between a nose and a lip, a lip and a chin. I thought he meant the distance between a tree and a church steeple. ‘Distance …’ I said. The woman nearing sixty now saw meaning hidden from the girl of sixteen.

  ‘In Italian, we have distanza … and there is also lontananza.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘The first … it is … it is mechanical, scientific, mathematical. Yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘For artists, and tailors, and builders, yes?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘La lontananza is emotional, my sweet.’ He made a wry expression. ‘It’s distance between people. There is a song, by Domenico Modugno. One day you will listen to it …’

  Because it was hard to understand what he meant, all I could do was smile. At sixteen, it felt like sentimentality reserved for adults. At fifty-eight it rang with recognition and regret.

  Matilde hinted at his reason for leaving Fiesole. I never saw him again, he put distance between us, because he was – she said – an upright and moral man. He created lontananza between us, to protect me, one might think, from what could turn into an inappropriate love.

  It would have taken a less cynical woman than myself, at the moment, to consider what might have happened had he been less upright and moral.

  The ensuing years were a jumble of recollected flashes of shifts and changes. How I started writing. How I met John. How I ended up, because of and despite some decisions, living in Australia. Years went by without a thought of Basile.

  I had his painting. Matilde made sure I did. I knew for a long time it was vital to find it, but I didn’t know exactly why. The awakening of a memory, prompted by a departing husband, and an old woman in a tiny apartment in Italy, could seed the desire to own the painting. I truly formed the wish to search for it while sitting in an uncomfortable claustrophobic aeroplane seat all the way from Melbourne, trying to remember a time I felt loved. I had it now; I knew I was well-loved, and the painting was mine. Was it enough?

  Nigel

  Packing

  Paola kept insisting we talk about the will, and the last thing Harriet thought we should do was discuss whether we were all going to sign the acceptance. Of course we were; it was patently obvious none of us had any real reason not to. It would mean personal and financial disaster to me if someone didn’t. I hardly had patience to wait another day.

  Harriet too seemed stressed. ‘Remember what the notary said.’

  ‘Dottor Ugobaldi said a lot of things, Harriet – which of them do you mean?’

  ‘He said acceptance is irrevocable.’

  I held out my hands, palms up. I pushed sliding spectacles up my nose again. ‘What possible reason could there be to want to revoke?’

  ‘We can’t – it’s the law. Once a will is accepted, there’s no going back.’

  ‘Yes. He was clear about it. Mama left no debts, no complexities, no knots to untie … nothing we would ever regret. So …’

  Unless it was to spite each other, no one would renounce; and the time for spite was long past. We might have done it as young people, but not now.

  On the way to the room Harriet and I were using, at the end of the wing, I heard music. It was a tinny high-pitched sound, and it came from Paola’s room. She was playing something on her laptop. Once more, she was being quiet, scrutinizing our movements and faces and words like a predatory bird before retreating to her nest. Paola was an owl.

  The music stopped as I passed, and started again. The same song, some old Italian song from so long ago I could not – would not – dredge my memory for it. Paola was the memory freak, not I, and here she was, playing something that would either replenish, or stimulate, or stop – hopefully – one of her vivid memories. She was right – it was a curse. If I had a similar mental facility, it would have driven me mad.

  Harriet had our belongings spread all over the place.

  ‘Packing already?’

  ‘Well, we are leaving tomorrow, darling. We have to leave at some point.’ Her voice sounded funny.

  ‘Harriet!’

  She stood, shifted slightly, and dropped into my arms. Not quite sobbing, but choked with emotion.

  ‘Are those tears?’

  ‘We lived here long enough, Nige.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘Harriet. Don’t tell me you wanted the house. Oh, sweetheart. You’re disappointed we didn’t get this house.’

  She mumbled something against my chest.

  ‘This is the only clean shirt I have left, darling. What’s wrong?’

  She laughed. ‘Oh, Nigel. We are such stupid, stupid people.’

  Whatever made her say such a thing?

  ‘Through the whole afternoon, Nige – through the funeral, through the reading of the will, I kept hoping, hoping, hoping we wouldn’t have to give up this house. Part of our lives happened here, and yours … mostly yours … since you were a tiny child!’ Her voice rose, and it sounded angry. ‘Why aren’t you upset?’

  ‘Well – now you’re getting angry at me!’

  ‘I am!’

  I still couldn’t understand. Of all siblings, I was the one who came out best. Mama had devised it all perfectly. So a crumbling house in the middle of Fiesole, where everything was so expensive to fix, was gratefully not part of it. I was surprised the others seemed so likely to sign. ‘Harriet – look at me. This place will cost an arm and a leg to renovate … to restore. Some parts need rebuilding. We could never afford it … not even a quarter share of such a thing. Surely you can figure it out. We are so …’

  ‘In debt, I know.’ She moved away and snatched a series of tissues out of a box. Flip, flip, flip. She crushed them all over her nose and mouth.

  ‘Your mascara’s run.’

  ‘Thank you, Nigel. It’s exactly the kind of observant encouragement I need right now.’

  ‘We got the best deal out of it all – surely you see it.’

  ‘We should … or maybe we shouldn’t sign the document. It’s not a deal. It’s a legacy. When is the notary coming back?’

  ‘Tomorrow. Are you crazy? Harriet – we … all our problems were solved by Mama’s will. We can’t not sign!’

  ‘I don’t get to sign, Nige – you do.’ She gave me a watery glare across the bed, where she had laid out all our folded clothes. ‘I can’t find one of my brown shoes.’

  ‘I’m going to put the kettle on.’

  ‘We can’t talk in the kitchen.’

  I stood in the doorway and glared back at her. ‘Yes, we can. We can do anything we like. Come and have a cup of tea, and we’ll go over our blessings one more time. Come on, darling – you do see it, don’t you?’

  ‘I
will when I’ve found my shoe.’

  She was so exasperating. So maddeningly sweet and impossible. Luckily, the kitchen was deserted. The fridge contents told me a number of things. I should shop more frugally, and one should blanch chopped vegetables immediately or they go a horrible shade of brown. I threw out several bags and bowls of diced stuff and put the kettle on.

  Harriet walked into the kitchen talking. ‘… this table was where you solved Tad’s online course assignment problems. This fridge was your lifeline. The cupboard under the stairs was perfect for Lori’s sheet music. Her cello looked fabulous in Mama’s sitting room.’ She sniffed.

  I had to pull some sense into this. If my wife kept me from signing, it would upset everything for everyone, but especially for us. Why she could not see it was beyond me. I gave her a tally of my own. ‘The scullery buttresses are crumbling. The rubble wall has come down. The driveway needs resurfacing. Have you any idea what a truckload of gravel would cost in Florence? Goodness knows what’ll be found when someone goes up in the roof. The ceilings upstairs all drip. Harriet – you could make the list yourself. Sweetheart – think.’

  ‘I am thinking. The room down the passage where the brown chair is – it’s fabulous for thinking. The view from the back terrace is … there should be a pool down there. You know it would be perfect. The back bedrooms in the wing are so gorgeous …’

  ‘ … and the bathrooms are so dated. All the taps are jammed. Or they drip, leaving green streaks on the enamel … Harriet!’

  ‘And what’s going to happen to all the furniture …’

  ‘You know the answer to that one.’ I splashed hot water onto a generous mound of tealeaves at the bottom of the big old teapot, which I saw had a crack in the lid. Why did I only see such things when I was upset? ‘This teapot’s had it.’

  ‘No. It’s fine. Everything’s fine.’ She sat diametrically across from me at the big round table. ‘It’s me who’s going funny.’

  ‘What brought it on?’ A glimmer of hope appeared. I hoped it did not shine in my words. In my eyes. She had to see reason.

  ‘Tad’s going off tonight. He’s meeting a bunch of guys, he called them, and they’re taking the train right across to somewhere. Can’t remember now.’

  ‘But that’s great.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Lori’s moving down to the hostel in Florence – all the orchestra is getting ready for the Mudge … whatever.’

  ‘Maggio Musicale. Darling – it’s her life.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And we can afford to give them some money, you know. It’s not going to break the bank.’

  ‘It’s already broken, Nige.’ She lay both forearms in front of her in a hopeless gesture and lowered her head. ‘These were the two worst, most expensive years of our lives.’

  ‘But they’re nearly over. All I need is to get back, get stuck into some job interviews, and when the bequest goes through … when it’s all settled, you’ll see. It’ll all work out in the end.’ I pushed her mug across, and went round to sit next to her with mine.

  ‘But I don’t want it to be the end.’

  Ah. There it was. I forked shaky fingers through my hair. I needed a cut, and could not wait to get back to London. Realization there was more to Harriet’s outburst than I’d thought came through my own preoccupations. ‘Okay – out with it, Harriet. Tell me what’s wrong. I think I can feel it, in a way. You tell me.’

  ‘How do I know? I don’t know specifically. I’m exhausted. We’ve done little but sit and talk, sit and eat, sit and listen … and it’s worn me right out.’

  ‘It was meant to be a kind of …’

  ‘Don’t say holiday, Nige. Don’t say holiday.’

  I knew what she meant. I knew very well. Unemployed people don’t … can’t … take holidays. I could not wait to get back to London and seek employment. Something had to come up. I was a pretty decent programmer. Some IT firm was bound to offer me something good. Starting on the whole job debacle with Harriet, though, was not a brilliant idea right at that juncture. ‘Okay – it’s never a holiday with Paola here, is it?’

  She nodded and shook her head in turn.

  ‘Having all this – the funeral, the siblings, the family stuff … all at the same time the kids are getting their wings, their independence … not easy is it?’

  ‘Nobody needs me anymore.’

  There it was again. That’s what was wrong with her. The children were drifting away, getting their own lives. We were going to lose our connection to Fiesole. Mama was gone. I had no words. I just stood and pulled the teapot over, and poured myself more tea. ‘Drink yours, darling.’

  She took up her mug.

  ‘Think of the next two years, Harriet – think of the work. We need to deal with our part of the bequest, and it’s going to be time-consuming … and fun.’

  ‘If everyone signs. We need everyone to sign.’

  Did she come out and say it, at last? Relief flooded my head, like a shot of whisky.

  ‘And on top of it all there’s lots of organizing to do, and hard work, and changes.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course.’ She saw. I thought she started to see none of it could happen without her.

  Brod

  Secrets divulged

  Nigel and Harriet said they only had about half an hour with Matilde. She was tired, they said, but so very glad to see them. I thought it was because it hadn’t been such a long time since they’d seen her that they didn’t seem so excited about the visit. They mentioned how well Anna was caring for her, how tiny the flat was, and how difficult it was to park on her street, which was about it.

  Later, though, much later, Nigel came down to the back room, where I had thrown myself into Mama’s brown armchair. Grant was up in Basile’s room tapping messages into his phone and taking photos of the cornicing, or something.

  ‘So are we all leaving at once tomorrow?’

  ‘Paola’s staying on, Brod. She said she had no reason, no reason at all, to hurry away.’

  ‘Ah – well …’

  ‘Yes, Nigel. I guess she can do as she freely pleases.’

  He started to sit on the arm of the chair and changed his mind, rising to his full height and moving towards the window. 'The balcony balustrade outside your window upstairs is on its way out.’

  ‘I remember it starting to crumble as a kid – not a surprise.’ I smiled. ‘Nothing you need worry about. It’ll get fixed eventually.’

  There was a curious expression on his face, a half-scowl, which he rotated back towards the window again; so close, condensation appeared on the glass. ‘Are you fixed for bed linen? Is it warm enough up there?’

  ‘Linen, yes. Heating, not quite. Not a real problem – we’re not going to spend much time here, are we? We get on the plane tomorrow … late tomorrow, I think. Has Suzanna been to see Matilde?’

  ‘I think I heard her and Lewis in the hall a minute ago. They’ve just come back.’

  ‘Listen, Brod. Listen – Matilde … she told me not to tell anyone, but I’m busting to tell, and you’re the only one I can say this to. Don’t let on.’

  ‘Of course not – what happened?’ I could see what happened. I knew. I knew because Matilde had sent me up to the roof space of the back house, where she and Donato had lived, to seek something Mama wanted me to have. ‘What did Matilde say, Nigel?’

  He shook his head and smiled. ‘Do you remember Papa’s records? His collection?’

  ‘Hm. I think the records used to be kept in the bottom drawer of the tall bookcase thing in the hall.’

  ‘There were actually heaps more. Lots of vinyl – some fabulous recordings with Tullio Serafin conducting, boxed sets of operas, complete works of Wagner, Rodrigo, Boccherini … I mean – some very amazing stuff.’

  ‘And …’

  ‘And Donato took it all down to Prato, because Mama wanted him too – but he was to use it, care for it, and keep it … for me. That, and the chess set, for Tad. Since Don
ato died, since Mama died, Matilde has been keeping them for me. I can’t believe it. You do not know how music mad we are.’

  ‘Both your kids are musicians, Nigel – everyone knows. Wow – all the records, eh? Good stuff.’

  ‘I always … well no – there were years I never gave it a thought. I did sometimes wonder where it had all gone. It’s a magnificent collection. All in expensive editions. It’s not awfully valuable now, but to me, it’s priceless.’

  ‘And you get to keep it. Wow.’

  ‘How I’m ever going to get it back to England is another matter, but … I’m so pleased. You couldn’t possibly have any idea how pleased, Brod.’

  It was time I took him into my confidence too. ‘Matilde gave me a similar surprise, Nigel.’

  He took his eyes away from the window for an instant, spun to face the room, and lowered his head. He nodded for a long minute, slowly, took off his glasses, cleaned them without looking, on the hem of his jumper, placed them on his nose again, and stared through them at me. ‘Mama was so darned clever. I was starting to worry about having all the records to myself, but …’

  ‘She … what I think is … she wanted us all to see we weren’t just one, two, three, four.’

  ‘One, two, three, four? Oh – I see. To feel we weren’t all the same. So she gave us special things, things she knew we’d appreciate, things we wanted.’

  ‘Hm. She got Matilde to get me to climb up into the roof of the little house at the back.’ I rose and paced around and back.

  ‘And did you? What was there?’

  I sat on the arm of the brown chair. ‘Three … three absolutely brilliant Persian rugs. Perfectly cleaned, rolled, expertly packed … I recognized the patterns. Goodness knows we rolled about on them enough times as kids. They’re the ones that used to be down in the dining room, the library, and the big upstairs drawing room. They are immense. I’d forgotten they were so brilliant. Grant was stunned.’

  ‘Does he …’

  ‘Of course he knows about such stuff. He was completely bowled over. They’re good silk rugs, Nigel. I couldn’t be more pleased. I feel a bit funny telling you, because Matilde said not to say a word.’