Savino got to where his brothers were: “Where’s Floti?”
They shook their heads.
“Where is he?” he shouted more loudly. “He was in there with me a minute ago.”
“He must have gone out the back,” replied Fredo, and ran around to the other side to check, but he saw no one.
Clerice had started to sob.
“Mamma, don’t do that,” said Checco. “He’ll be back, you’ll see. He’s out there in the fields somewhere. He doesn’t want them to see him.” But in his heart, he feared that his brother was there, under that heap of beams and rubble burning like a huge bonfire.
“The Brunis are burning!” The first to see were the late-nighters on their way home from the Osteria della Bassa.
Their shouts got people out of bed and brought them to their windows: “Who’s burning?”
“The Brunis! Hurry, let’s give them a hand!”
But very few put their noses outside their doors: it was late and very cold out there, “and then,” many of them thought, “by the time we get there, the fire will have destroyed everything.” Fonso did hear the call and, even though he lived at quite a distance, hurried over as fast as his bicycle would carry him with a bucket in tow. But there was nothing he, or anyone, could do. The Brunis stood there in silence, still as statues in the courtyard, in the glow of the dying flames. The women wept, holding their trembling, frightened children close. From the fields rose the mournful lowing of the bulls wandering in the darkness.
Fonso noticed that besides himself, the only ones who had come were Iofa, Pio, and another eight, ten people. He dropped the bucket on the ground and said: “Don’t despair. They left you your house and your lives and you saved the bulls. For the rest, there’s always a remedy. Tomorrow I’ll be back, after work, to give you a hand. Be glad that you’re all still alive.”
“Floti’s missing,” said Savino. “He helped me free Nero and we haven’t seen him since.” He stared at the huge smoking heap of ashes.
“He’s not there,” said Fonso. “I don’t think he’s dead. He’s too smart and too fast. He’ll show up sooner or later. But not now.” He wrapped his tabarro tightly around him, got on his bicycle and rode off. Almost no one had come to help the Brunis, he thought, none of those who every Sunday in the summertime were there drinking and playing bocce, none of those who would loiter in the stable eating and sipping at that good red wine that foamed in your glass.
“Fonso’s right,” said Checco. “Floti’s far off by now, off in the countryside, hiding in the stubble of an alfalfa or maize field. Let’s go to sleep if we can, we’ll worry about it tomorrow.”
That night Fonso arrived home with a heavy heart and tears in his eyes: not just because Maria was still so far away, in Florence, and who knew when she’d ever come back, but also because Hotel Bruni had burned down. That stable as big as a church where so many poor people slept every winter; it was a miracle that no one had been there that night. That stable where he’d spent so many long hours telling fables, where he had fallen in love with Maria, and she with him. He felt that the destruction of Hotel Bruni marked the end of an age, poor but maybe happier, and that the town, its people and maybe the whole world would never be the same.
He went to bed late and had a hard time falling asleep, especially because Maria hadn’t written him for a long while, not even a postcard, and he was afraid that she had forgotten him. Who knows, some smooth-talking young man from the city, with a Tuscan accent and elegant, fashionable clothes, might have turned Maria’s head. But then he remembered the last time they’d made love, up in the branches of the old elm tree and how they’d sworn they would always be faithful to each other. She couldn’t have forgotten him. Especially without saying a word, not two lines, not a hint of anything wrong. He tried to imagine what could have happened but couldn’t come up with an answer. He tossed and turned, sighing, before falling into a light, agitated sleep.
If the atmosphere of the night, the blinding glare of the flames, the dramatic escape of the galloping bulls, the shouting, the weeping and the bellowing of the animals had created the perception of a nightmare and thus of an unreal event, the gray, opaque dawn that followed, with the black, smoking ruin of the stable that wounded the gaze of the first who dared to wander out into the courtyard with such harsh violence, obliged them to face the bleak reality.
The church bells sounded the Angelus and Clerice, who had not slept a moment all night, joined her sons in the courtyard and looked each one of them in the eye.
“On your knees,” she ordered. Most hesitated.
“On your knees,” she repeated, setting the example herself.
One after another, the Brunis knelt, and she prayed: “Lord, you were born in a stable with a bull and a donkey to warm you and protect you from the cold. Look with compassion on us poor souls who have lost our own stable because of the cruelty of unjust men. Look upon the ruins of these walls that once welcomed the poor and the derelict. We shall forgive those wretches for they know not what they do, but you help us, give us the strength to begin again, show us that you are on the side of the weak and the offended. Do not abandon us. Amen.”
“Amen,” responded some. Others said nothing.
“I’m not forgiving anyone,” said Savino.
“Me either,” a second voice echoed.
“Floti!” shouted Clerice.
Floti walked towards the ruins of the stable and looked at the crumbled walls as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He felt the weight of disgrace and the responsibility for what had happened. He turned towards his brothers. “It’s my fault,” he said. “If I could, I would repay you for everything you’ve lost. Unfortunately, what’s done is done. Forgive me, if you can. I did what I did in good faith . . . ”
At that moment another figure emerged from the fog: “Floti . . . ”
“You damned son of a bitch, you traitor!” screamed Savino, hurling himself at the man.
“Stop,” said Floti.
Savino drew up short just inches away from Nello’s face and shot him an unbowed look of challenge. Nello was pale and had dark circles under his eyes; he seemed worn out and demoralized.
“What nerve you have showing up here! And to think I thought of you as my friend. Get the hell out of here, and don’t ever come back.”
“Let him talk!” said Floti. “He must have come here for a reason.”
“If they didn’t burn down the house it’s because of me,” said Nello, “because I made sure I came with them, but don’t tempt fate, Floti. I’m talking to you. I’m here to tell you that they’ve sworn to get you. Your life is in danger. Get out of here, go someplace else. If the situation gets any better I’ll find you and tell you. If you leave, your family will stand to gain. They’ll be able to rest easy. I did all I could do, Savino,” he said, turning to his friend. “I couldn’t do any better. Don’t call me a traitor. I’ve always kept my word. Goodbye. I hope we’ll meet up in better times.”
He disappeared.
“Maybe what he says is true,” said Clerice, “He was the one who came to our defense, remember? If it hadn’t been for him they would have set the house on fire. But did you hear what he had to say, Floti? He says they’ve vowed to kill you. He says your life is in danger. You have to leave this house or you’ll meet a terrible end. I don’t want to lose another son.” Tears poured down her face as she spoke.
“If you all want me to go, I will,” replied Floti, looking into his brothers’ faces. “But I don’t know if I can do it, just like that. I don’t have a place to go and I don’t know how I’d survive with no work and no house. I don’t think it’ll be so easy for them to kill me: I’m no sheep, they’ll have to catch me first. I’m asking you if I can stay until I find someplace else and then I promise I’ll leave this house and you’ll never see me again.”
Savino stepped up an
d Checco joined him: “Floti, they’re after you because you’re the only man who’s had the guts to stand against them, and none of us can fault you for having that kind of courage. As far as we’re concerned, you can stay here as long as you want and you can count on us for anything you need.”
The others mumbled something, but no one else was forthcoming and so Floti, who didn’t want any trouble, moved to a room next to the cellar, from where he could run straight out into the fields if he had to, without anyone seeing him. As soon as the weather got better he’d think about leaving. Moving out of his bedroom meant that a double room would be freed up and someone could certainly get good use out of it, so he imagined there wouldn’t be too much grumbling.
Later that evening Fonso came by. His tabarro was drawn all the way up to his eyes but he was in a good humor, in keeping with his natural disposition. He had come to ask what they intended to do. “Are you thinking of rebuilding the stable? I’ll bet you that some of the walls are still good and you can find used beams at a good price, or new ones for that matter.” It seemed that he’d come to encourage them to roll up their sleeves and not fall prey to discouragement, but the reaction to his words was quite lukewarm. Each man for himself and God for all, is what the Brunis seemed to be thinking after that catastrophe. Maybe some of them already had an idea, or even the concrete possibility of working on their own, independently. Maybe the only one still interested in keeping the family together was Armando—given his gregarious nature and his lack of inclination towards hard work. His wife would be having their first child soon.
That spring, it was announced that the Barzini heirs had sold the property and this too was seen as the hand of fate. The new owner was called Bastoni; he was a livestock dealer, a coarse, presumptuous type who had always been full of himself. It didn’t take much to imagine what he’d be like now that he’d become a landowner and could give orders and make people obey them. Floti had completely abdicated his position as administrator except for dividing up the common funds they had deposited in the bank. Clerice was too downhearted over recent events and worried about the future to stand up to Bastoni. Unlike Barzini, who used to come by maybe once or twice a year, the new owner was there all the time because, he said, you have to keep an eye on farmers or they’ll steal everything from under your nose, they’ll hide the wheat and sell chickens and eggs on the sly. The Brunis knew it was better not to say anything, if they didn’t want a fight. The man would often complain: “There are too many of you! Too many mouths to feed! You’re having kids left and right and I’m the one who has to support everybody!” Once Fredo found him making a pass at his wife and it was all he could do not to stick the pitchfork in his rear end. In short, the situation had become unbearable.
Nello showed up at the beginning of the summer to tell Savino that Floti was in danger again: they’d found out that he was still at home and wanted to teach him a lesson. That’s when the fugitive moved to a toolshed in the countryside and then even started to sleep out in the open, on a bed of straw, in the middle of the cornstalks. Not that he ever slept, because he knew he couldn’t let his guard down, and he had become thin and pale, with deep rings around his eyes that looked frightening. And so Clerice would remain outdoors with him, awake all night with his head in her lap so he could sleep. Every time she heard a noise, a flutter of wings in the darkness, the hooting of an owl, she had to force herself not to cry out or jump up. She didn’t want to wake him.
At dawn, at first light, Floti would wake up and get to his feet. He would look at his mother and she would look at him, in silence, and then they would part. She returned home to sleep a few hours and he wandered through the fields like a soul in torment. Adding to his worries, Clerice had told him that for the last couple of months she hadn’t heard from Maria, if not through her sister Rosina, and this bothered him tremendously; were they hiding something?
One day Fonso brought Clerice a book so she could give it to Floti. It was called The Brothers Karamazov, and it was by a Russian writer. Floti always carried it around with him, on those long summer afternoons, and he’d stop to read it in the shade of an oak or along the bank of the hemp-steeping pond, under a poplar tree. When he finished he gave it back to his mother, along with a few lines written in pencil on a wrinkled sheet of paper, addressed to the person who had lent it to him.
Dear Fonso,
I haven’t written many letters in my lifetime, but I wanted to write you this one to say that I’m sorry that I sent Maria to Florence. She hasn’t written us in three months, although her sister sends us letters, and this means that there’s something they don’t want us to know. If something bad happened to her I could never forgive myself. Because I’ve hurt both you and her, with the intention of doing the right thing. Your book wasn’t easy but I read the whole thing. The part where its talks about God and evil in the world I’ll never forget. Almost everything depends on fate, our life is a mystery.
Floti
CHAPTER TWENTY
She hardly ever saw her brother-in-law, but Rosina was always there trying to console her. Don’t think I was any different, she’d say, at first I felt the same way you’re feeling now but then I got used to it and I learned to like the city. It’s really wonderful, she’d say, trying to cheer her up. Everyone speaks Italian here, you know, not like up by us where only the fancy folk speak Italian and the poor ones speak dialect.
As time passed things did get a little better, especially after she started getting letters from Fonso. It took her a while to read them because she had only gone as far as fifth grade at school, but she didn’t want anyone to help her because what her fiancée wrote her was her own affair; it was just between the two of them.
Rosina began by taking her to the market so they could do the shopping. The first time left her speechless. There every day was like the Festa della Madonna back at home, a long row of stalls decked out in every color of the rainbow that stretched all the way around the square and sold absolutely everything: bolts of cloth, ladies’ bags and blouses, jackets and trousers, underwear and an amazing array of fruits and vegetables. There wasn’t a pear or an apple with a single blemish; they were all perfect and exactly alike. And then the two sisters went for a walk in the big square where there were marble men as tall as a house and naked as the day they were born. Maria looked away because she was embarrassed, but Rosina teased her: “What are you doing, silly? They’re just pieces of marble, not real men!”
“Why don’t they put pants on them?” asked Maria. Rosina started to laugh and a lady who was passing by commented out loud in her Florentine accent: “Oh will you listen to this one, she wants to put pants on Michelangelo’s David!”
Rosina tried to explain to Maria that if the great artists wanted to make those statues naked, there must be a reason, and that they’d look absolutely ridiculous with pants on, but Maria wasn’t convinced. A little at a time, though, she was beginning to understand that this was a place like no other and that there was something magical in those streets and towers and belfries. And that river! In the evenings the lights of the houses above would be mirrored on the waves, quivering and glittering like precious stones. Sometimes the two girls would take a stroll at dusk, or else at night to see the moon and the stars and to listen to the bells that chimed all together, like a chorus, playing the Ave Maria.
Rosina had also taken her to see the cathedral, which was the most important church in the city. But even there, there were paintings with naked men and women that seemed scandalous inside a church.
“When you go before God, you go naked like the day you were born. How would they look with underpants on?” replied her sister. “And anyway, those up there are already damned, they’re in hell, look! See that woman up there with the devil who’s sticking a burning firebrand in her female parts? That’s because she acted like a whore when she was alive. And that other devil that’s sticking it in the rear end of that man there? Just a
little to the right; he must have been one of those who . . . ” But her words dropped off there; Maria probably wouldn’t have understood anyway.
But Maria had understood perfectly: that the people who went to mass, looking around and seeing what would happen to them if they ended up in hell, would get scared and try to behave well. She also thought of how many stories she’d have to tell when she went back home. She realized that, little by little, she was taking up the habits of a city-bred lady and she didn’t mind that at all. For example, the fact that her shoes were polished and that every day she changed her clothes. A different blouse and skirt every day, and sometimes even a shawl.
But the moment she most looked forward to was when a letter would come from Fonso. Not too often, stamps were expensive! Postal cards of a light gray color with the king’s head on the stamp. She even learned to like the king!
Things did not always go well at her sister’s house. Her Sicilian brother-in-law was often cross and quarreled with Rosina; it was as if Maria didn’t exist. Although once she had had put her ear to the bedroom door and had overheard them arguing about her. He was saying: “That sister of yours, when is she going home? She eats and drinks and I pay.”
Rosina had answered: “But she’s my sister and she helps me in the house: she does the washing and the ironing, makes the beds and sometimes she even cooks . . . ” but that didn’t shut him up. He went on saying that a wife should stay at home, and not take walks around the town while he was at work. Once Maria even thought she heard him slapping Rosina and the next day her face was bruised.
“Was it him?” she asked. “Did you husband hit you?”
A Winter's Night Page 22
