A Winter's Night

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

One Saturday morning in mid-June, the day before his wedding, Gaetano hitched the mare to the cart to go to fetch his bride’s dowry: sheets, linens, towels, curtains, embroidered fabrics, everything an accomplished, respectable girl prepared for her marriage. As he was on his way, perhaps accidentally or perhaps deliberately, he drove past his old girlfriend’s house. Iole, as beautiful as always, was sitting at the threshold, shelling peas, and when she saw him passing by, dressed in his Sunday best, she said hello: “Buongiorno, Gaetano. Where are you going all dressed up?”

  Gaetano slowed until he came to a stop. Everyone knew that the next day he was going to be married and surely she did as well. So she was asking the question for some other reason. He replied: “I’m going to a place where you could be too, if you had said yes.”

  Iole stopped shelling peas all at once and shot a withering look at him: “May God not even let you enjoy the first night,” she hissed. Then she overturned the basket of peas, which went rolling in every direction, and went into the house, slamming the door behind her. Gaetano froze. He felt a chill filling his heart and snaking its way down his spine. Why so much hate? Why did she curse him when it was she who had rejected him? He would never understand what was going through her head, never understand that Iole, in her own way, had shown that she felt something for him, but had such a high opinion of herself that she thought she deserved much more than the henyard, the stable and the pigpen of the Brunis.

  Gaetano tried to shake off this sudden feeling of foreboding and called out to the mare, who took off again at a trot. It was the height of the most beautiful season of the year and nature was triumphing, the roses curling around the pillars of the Madonna found at every triple crossroad, and the wheat just ripening. He took heart and by the time he reached the Finaletto he felt much better. He told himself that her words were meaningless, that they could not have had any consequence. It was all envy, because he was marrying Silvana, while she—biding her time while she waited for someone to take her to the city—was turning into an old maid.

  When he had loaded the dowry onto the cart, he returned home, where wedding preparations were in full swing. Clerice, ladle in hand, was giving orders to the women who had come to help fix the wedding lunch: friends, daughters, relatives. This was one of the most eagerly-awaited occasions for chattering, gossiping, indulging in all sorts of idle talk. Some of the women, those who had the warmest hands, kneaded flour with eggs until the dough was as smooth as velvet and was ready to be rolled out with the mattarello. They’d start from the edges with short, rhythmic taps, proceeding in towards the center of the huge sheet of pasta they’d rolled out, then back out again.

  When the sheet became thin enough, it was lightly rolled like a piece of fabric around the mattarello and pressed out again, with a back and forth movement of the long pin, until it became as fine as a bride’s veil, transparent and golden, so light that it fluttered over the breadboard when they lifted one end of it so that a long wave would ripple across the sheet and settle it flat and wrinkle-free on the wooden surface, ready to be cut. Others prepared the filling for the tortellini, chopping up pork filet, prosciutto, chunks of mortadella and the thinnest slice of salame, just for flavor. Then, just before they lightly browned this opulent mix in a pan, they’d add salt, pepper and just a touch of nutmeg.

  The broth was also bubbling away, the pot filled with fat-marbled beef ribs, a capon, an old boiler hen with her eggs, just the yolks, still inside, and the livers and gizzards, peeled and cut in half, along with onion, celery and carrots. The roasts were also well on their way: tender young roosters, pork, guinea hen and a couple of pheasants that Floti had shot down three days earlier while hunting in the hills near Savignano.

  Other women were busy with the sweets: zuccherini sugar cookies shaped like wedding rings, a chocolate and almond cake made especially for weddings called torta secca, and nut brittle assembled to form a church, with two sugar dolls on top representing the bride and groom. Last of all, the zuppa inglese made of ladyfingers soaked in Alchermes liqueur layered with pastry cream and chocolate custard. The smell wafted out of the kitchen into the courtyard and all the way out to the fields, causing the men to stop in the middle of their work to comment on how their mouths were watering at the thought of the wedding lunch. A banquet so rich was commensurate to the unique importance of the event; not even at Christmas or Easter did they enjoy such a repast, nor even during the festival of La Madonna della Provvidenza, the town’s patron saint. The festivities lasted seven days, and the inhabitants of nearby towns were so impressed by the continued feasting that they’d made up a teasing rhyme:

  Ding dong, ding dong

  Three days of tortellini

  Three days of tortelloni

  Then polenta and cucumbers all year long.

  In truth, what you could look forward to on these holidays was a bowl of tortellini, some of the soup meat with savory salsa verde on the side and a slice of plain cake to dip into your wine.

  Gaetano was the first son to marry, after the return from the war, and it was such an important milestone that his sister Rosina, who had wedded a Sicilian revenue officer in Florence, decided to return home for the occasion, defying the ire of her famously jealous husband. She was due to arrive in Bazzano on the eleven o’clock train and Floti had been waiting for Gaetano to get back so he could detach the cart and hitch up the carriage.

  Rosina stepped off the footboard dressed in a beautiful long gown with a fringe that danced over the toes of her boots. She was carrying a purse and wearing a hat with a veil and looked like a real lady. Floti hugged her, took her suitcase and led her to the carriage. “Oh this is lovely!” she exclaimed at the sight of the sparkling vehicle and the shiny-coated mare, and she settled in next to her brother. Travelling those few kilometers in the sun and the air of her native land filled her with indescribable joy. She didn’t stop talking for a moment and Floti had a really tough time keeping up with her: look at this and look at that and that house wasn’t there when I left and who lives there and what do they do and what don’t they do. Then she told her brother about the marvels of Florence: her strolls along the Arno, the church of Santa Maria del Fiore that had a dome so big that their whole town would fit inside and was topped by a kind of tabernacle as big as their whole church. She told him, with a little giggle, that in the main square there were two giants made of marble, taller than their house and as naked as the day they were born, and you could see just everything.

  “You think that’s something,” replied Floti, “we have a giant of our own in the square in Bologna, naked himself, holding a fisherman’s trident in his hand. He represents Neptune, the god of the sea, because people used to believe in gods instead of in Jesus Christ.”

  When they arrived in the courtyard, Clerice, Maria and all the women came rushing out with their hands and aprons full of flour to greet the beautiful Rosina. “How are you, Rusein?” Clerice said, as if she’d just seen her the day before, using a pet name that sounded like a boy’s.

  Rosina embraced her and got big tears in her eyes. She was easily moved, but Clerice knew well that there was another reason: that her daughter’s husband, being Sicilian, was terribly jealous and kept her under lock and key like some fine wine, and Rosina just hated that; she wasn’t used to it and suffered over it. If she dared to complain, he beat her.

  “Now you enjoy the party,” her mother told her, “and don’t even think about him. Maybe, with time, he’ll get over it.”

  “Right,” said Rosina, “but not before I’m old and wrinkled and no one wants me anymore. Not before then.”

  In just a few minutes’ time she had changed and put on an apron and there she was in the middle of all the others, chatting away and busying herself with the pots and pans. She felt happy and carefree, at home, where maybe there wasn’t much money, but lots of good cheer and singing.

  Bettina, Pio Patella’s wife, urged Clerice to
have a nice bath in the wash tin, since the next day she would be accompanying the groom to the church door, but Clerice was reluctant and told everyone the same old story: “When I married poor Callisto, my neighbor kept nagging me, ‘wash your face with soap, Clerice, you’re going to the altar tomorrow!’ I didn’t want to, but she insisted so much that I listened to her, and I’ve never been the same. I had skin as smooth as a plum just picked, I did, and now look at me!”

  “It’s not the soap’s fault, mother!” replied Rosina, laughing. “It’s your age that’s to blame and there’s nothing you can do about that!”

  The next morning Gaetano went with his mother to wait for the bride in front of the church, while the bells chimed out and people gathered to watch. He was wearing a fustian suit in a gun-barrel gray color and a pair of patent leather shoes that hurt like anything but sure looked nice. His mother stood next to him, wearing a dark cotton jacket and skirt, a white blouse trimmed with lace at the collar and sleeves and, around her neck, three strands of garnets red as fire. Checco, in a gray fustian suit and black trousers, shirt and tie, was his best man. As he was standing there waiting, the words of Pipetta came to mind, calling him ‘milord’ as he was charging to his death against a line of tanks. Silvana, wearing a light-colored cotton dress and a crown of braided daisies in her hair, arrived right on time with her father and brothers on a little cart polished to a high sheen with furniture oil, its hubs painted a brilliant black. Her father helped her down, walked her to the door of the church and turned her over to her fiancé so they could walk together down the aisle to the kneeler draped with a red cloth in front of the altar.

  Silvana couldn’t hold back tears when the archpriest asked her if she would marry the here present Gaetano Bruni and did she promise to serve and honor him for the rest of her days. She said, yes, I do, and they exchanged rings. When they walked out into the bright sunshine, one of her bridesmaids handed her a little basket with the zuccherini sugar cookies and a few sugar-coated almonds to pass out to the children who were waiting impatiently. She tossed out a few handfuls and the children dove in and scuffled among themselves. Then Floti had both of them get into the carriage and, on his feet like an ancient charioteer, he slowly accompanied them home.

  When all the guests had arrived, it was time for lunch in the courtyard under the grape trellis, with Iofa playing the accordion and belching out a song about a chimney sweep that was full of double meanings, but Clerice didn’t so much as say a word, since you only get married once in life and you can’t deny people a little fun. Gaetano, strangely enough, didn’t eat much; his bride, surprised at seeing him pick at his food, asked: “Aren’t you feeling well? Where’s your appetite? Everything is so good!” Gaetano replied evasively that he was a bit tired. He tried to joke and laugh with his friends, but you could tell he wasn’t his normal self.

  The guests, on the other hand, ate and drank for hours, until dusk, helping themselves to seconds and thirds of each course. They all got a bit tipsy and some were downright drunk. Sandrone Burgatti, who everyone knew as Piziga, a lad who went hungry almost all year long, had gorged himself so thoroughly that what he’d eaten would not go down or come up. He’d become white as a sheet and was muttering: “Oh good lord, I’m dying, I’m dying.”

  “Go call the doctor,” said Clerice, “this one here’s really about to burst.” Floti didn’t wait to be asked twice: he hitched up the horse and took her out at a gallop through the courtyard and down the road that led to town.

  Everyone thought they’d be back in no time but, waiting and hoping, Floti failed to show up and no one knew where he’d gone. Maybe the doctor had been called away and he’d gone off looking for him, but in the meantime Piziga had taken on a greenish cast that made everyone fear for the worst. What to do, what not to do, until one of the old men, a certain Anselmo Borzacchi who seemed to know what he was talking about, said that the only way to save the poor wretch was to bury him in the manure heap up to his chest. Their eyes widened: the cowplop? Yessiree, the manure heap, because it was very hot underneath and the heat would cure his indigestion. No sooner said than done: Piziga was stripped from his belt down, stuck into a hole dug into the cowplop and sealed in all around. Borzacchi was satisfied at their effort and mentioned that the man’s plight reminded him of a character in the Divine Comedy although he couldn’t remember which one. They waited patiently for the cure to take effect. In a very short time, Piziga’s natural skin color was restored. “Good sign,” said the old man. “What did I tell you?”

  In the meanwhile, Floti came driving back at full tilt with the doctor in tow, who surprised everyone by saying that old Borzacchi’s therapy was spot on. He had them bring him over a chair and a plate of guinea hen with roast potatoes and a bottle of Albana, and sat by his patient’s side, chatting with the other guests sitting around the manure heap. When it got dark, Piziga was extracted, filthy as a pig and stinking to high heaven. He immediately asked to be excused so he could relieve himself. When he returned from the hemp field, he was dumped just as he was into the cows’ drinking trough and scrubbed down until he looked like new, and then he went home on his own two legs.

  That same night, Gaetano fell ill.

  The town doctor was called only a couple of days later because everyone hoped that he would get better on his own. Young Bruni was a strapping sort who’d gotten through the worst of the war unscathed; he was capable of lifting a sack weighing a hundred kilos from the ground and hoisting it onto his shoulders without help. What could possibly bring down a man of his mettle?

  Neither the doctor nor anyone else had an answer. Different cures were attempted, both those prescribed by the doctor and the ones Clerice pulled from her vast stores of wisdom. Without any success, unfortunately. Armando and Fredo took over for Gaetano in the stable, while he continued to worsen until he couldn’t even get out of bed anymore. Silvana stayed at his side day and night. When he nodded off, she prayed to the Madonna to save her husband because she loved him and didn’t want to lose him, and because she was pregnant and didn’t want their child to be born without a father. Sometimes she couldn’t bear the anguish and she’d curl up in a corner of the bedroom and burst into tears, hiding her face between the two walls. Clerice would come up with hot broth, or a brew of herbs or a special unguent to rub on his chest that she alone knew the composition of. But any small improvements turned out to be fleeting. He would come out of a swoon uttering strange expressions and once Silvana was sure she heard the name of her rival. She went straight to her mother-in-law, the matriarch and ultimate authority of the family, to ask for advice. Clerice lowered her head, looking stricken and deeply disheartened.

  “That’s why, then,” she whispered. “It’s her. She’s making him die . . . ”

  “What are you saying, mamma?” asked Silvana.

  “Nothing is more terrible than a woman’s spite, daughter.”

  “You can’t believe in curses?”

  “The Church tells us we mustn’t, but I know things that no priest knows. Have you ever heard of scorned or betrayed women who lift footprints? We call it the pedga, I don’t know how you say that in your town: it’s that mass of mud which sticks to a man’s shoes when he’s working in the fields, in winter when the ground is damp, or even in the summer after a sudden storm. When it gets too heavy, it drops off his shoe and gets left behind on the ground, conserving the print of the foot that it dropped from.

  “If a woman has evil intentions, she’ll gather up the pedga and put it at the spot where the main branches of an oak tree join. Little by little, the wind, the rain and the sun start to crumble the lump of dirt and the man who left it begins to waste away. When there’s nothing left of the lump, the man dies. Before your wedding, there were several storms, and Gaetano often went into the fields to bring home grass for the animals.”

  Silvana brought her hand to her mouth and gasped: “Oh, no!” Clerice stared at her, eyes br
imming, and nodded. “Isn’t there anything we can do?”

  “If you can find the pedga, you must collect it, taking great care so that it does not crumble, cook it in an oven and then hide it in a place where no one can find it. If you do, the victim of the curse will start to get better and finally regain his health completely.”

  Silvana wept disconsolately with her face hidden in her hands, and Clerice looked at her son, so big and so strong, lying in bed limp as a rag. For a brief moment, she thought that she would do anything she had to do to save him. Anything. Before she could speak, Silvana broke out: “I’ll find that woman, and I’ll force her to talk, to tell me where she’s hidden my husband’s footprint, I’ll torture her if I have to, rip out her nails one by one . . . ”

  Clerice raised her hand to stop the delirium. “No, you won’t. What if our minds are being clouded by our despair? Acting against her could be the gravest injustice of all. We know nothing, we’ve seen nothing; you only heard, or thought you heard, a word from the lips of a sick man who was delirious with fever. We’ll pray to the Madonna: she who saw her son die can understand us.”

  Gaetano died, six months after marrying, nothing but skin and bones. His brothers carried him to the cemetery and buried him next to his father. Before dying, he had told his wife what name to give the baby if it were a boy, and what name to give her if she were a girl.

  Silvana gave birth to a girl who died before she was six months old, and she closed herself up in mute, brokenhearted grief. Clerice never stopped praying and appealing to the Madonna: if She hadn’t been able to grant her the blessing of saving her son and the little one, could She at least give her the strength to bear such pain and to carry on, with faith and a strong will, in the certainty that one day they would all be reunited in heaven.

  For several months, Silvana remained in the Bruni house, and she would often accompany her mother-in-law to the cemetery to pray on the graves of their dead. Then one day, she said: “Mamma, I’ve decided to return to my own family. You are a good woman and I love you dearly. All of you here treat me with respect, like a sister, but this is not my home any longer because I’ve lost my husband and my daughter.”