A Winter's Night

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

  Rosina said nothing but her eyes welled up with tears. It didn’t take Maria long to understand what was at the root of all their quarrels. Rosina was as beautiful as the sun, while he was small and ugly with whiskers like a mouse’s under his nose. He was crazy jealous, that’s what he was, he knew that men turned to take another look when Rosina passed. He didn’t want her wearing tight dresses, or low-necked blouses; she wasn’t allowed to wear lipstick or makeup, and he accused her of blackening her eyelashes. What was worse, they had no children, and where he came from, that was considered humiliating because it was like being impotent. But who knew who was to blame there; maybe it wasn’t Rosina at all!

  “You know?” Rosina told her once. “In the south of Italy they think that all the women up north are whores because we like pretty clothes and wearing lipstick and going for a walk around town. What’s wrong with that? For example, I like the theatre and he doesn’t. It’s not like I go alone, I always go with a lady friend, but does he believe me? No, he’s always only thinking of one thing. Do you like the theatre, Maria?”

  “Oh yes, I love puppets.”

  “Puppets! What are you on about! Tomorrow night at the Verdi Theatre they’re putting on Mascagni’s Cavalleria Rusticana.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Opera. It’s like a comedy, but it makes you cry, too, and instead of talking, they sing. They all wear beautiful costumes and the women warble like nightingales.”

  One night Rosina decided to take her sister to see La Cavalleria Rusticana. They dressed up and fixed their hair. Rosina wore something she’d made herself: a clingy dress in organza that rustled when she walked and a little hat with feathers that was gorgeous. She wanted Maria to remember the evening for the rest of her life, and she even called a landau to pick them up. The city was all lit up and people were strolling up and down the streets and Maria felt like a real lady, in a beautiful dark dress with a bow on her behind and new shoes that squeaked as she walked.

  At the entrance to the theatre no one could help but take an appreciative glance at the two new arrivals, especially Rosina, who the men were eyeing openly as if their wives wouldn’t notice.

  “If you had lived here when you were a girl instead of in town,” Maria whispered to her sister, “you could have married a real gentleman; can’t you see how they’re all eating you up with their eyes? Why did you marry Rizzi in the first place?”

  “We were so poor back then, and a man who brings home a steady salary every month wasn’t someone to sneeze at. At least that’s what our parents and our brothers thought. What should I have done? At least you have Fonso; he may not be that handsome but he’s very well-built and he has that way of talking that would make any woman fall in love with him.”

  They were walking up a staircase, as they chatted in this way, from one floor to the next, until they went through a door that ended up on a big balcony that circled around the theater. You could see everything from up there: the grand red curtains with their yellow fringe and a chandelier so huge and so heavy you couldn’t understand what made it stay up.

  “What if it falls?” asked Maria.

  “It’s not going to fall.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I just do!”

  “Shh!” someone said at their left.

  “We have to stop talking,” whispered Rosina, “because it’s about to start. Look, the curtain is opening!”

  The conductor raised his baton and the orchestra began playing the overture.

  “Who’s that man with the baton?” asked Maria, whispering this time.

  “That’s the maestro. He uses the baton to direct the musicians, otherwise everyone would be playing something different. But quiet now, we’re annoying the others; they want to listen.”

  Maria stopped talking and tried to understand what was happening but she soon grew weary of looking at those singers shrieking words that didn’t make any sense. She leaned close to her sister and said: “I can’t understand a thing; why don’t we go see the puppets doing Pia de’ Tolomei?”

  Rosina glared at her and put her finger to her lips as if to say “shut up before someone hears you!”

  Maria shut up and tried hard to figure out what was going on. She thought it had something to do with cuckolds but then she fell asleep on her chair and when the fateful cry exploded: “They have murdered Turiddu!” she opened one eye and said: “Who did they murder?”

  “Never mind,” said Rosina, “let’s go to bed.” And that was the end of their unforgettable evening.

  The young Bruni’s Florentine sojourn continued with its ups and downs, but at a certain point Rosina had to reveal to her husband the reason for her sister’s prolonged stay: their brothers wanted her to forget a fiancé who wasn’t to their liking.

  “What do I have to do with any of that?” grumbled Rizzi, visibly irritated. “Let them take care of it!”

  Rosina was a bit embarrassed because in truth, the situation had gone beyond any reasonable limits. Instead of helping around the house, her sister actually spent most of her time reading and rereading her boyfriend’s letters and trying to answer them, which was quite an ordeal in itself. Between the ink spots she spattered the paper with, trying to get her thoughts written out, and copying them over again in her best handwriting, a good week would pass before she had a letter finished. Some were never even sent off. In any case, the strategy behind her Florentine exile was clearly being thwarted. Rosina had just about decided to take a pen in hand and write Floti to convince him to desist in his intent to keep the two lovers apart, when an epidemic of lethargic encephalitis broke out in the city. Maria fell ill and was immediately taken to hospital. The disease was better known as “sleeping sickness” and, in fact, she slept seven days and eight nights without ever waking up. A telegram was sent off to the Brunis with a few essential words:

  Maria has sleeping sickness stop if she wakes up she will want to come home stop Rosina

  Meanwhile, the sender of this message decided, against her husband’s wishes, to pay for one of the most important professors in the city to examine Maria. Once he had seen her, the doctor announced that he could take no responsibility for the prognosis, but that it was reasonable to believe that the girl, being so young and of such good constitution, might snap out of it.

  “I could have told you that myself, and for free,” commented Rizzi with considerable irritation, and you couldn’t really fault him on that.

  In the end, Maria did wake up, but she had been so weakened by the illness that her convalescence would certainly be lengthy, and Rosina informed her family back in town about this.

  When the Brunis learned that their sister’s life was at risk because of the epidemic that had struck the city of Florence, they became very worried. But while Clerice prayed to the Madonna and all the saints, the brothers quarreled because some of them believed it was Floti’s fault for having capriciously sent her away from home.

  Meanwhile, Maria was trying to regain her strength in Florence. Rosina brought cups of hot broth to her in bed with a glass of good Tuscan wine, sure to give her energy and put her in a good mood. As soon as the days began to get longer, she helped Maria outside into the garden and sat her under an umbrella that she’d bought especially so her sister could get some fresh air. As soon as she felt strong enough, Maria asked for paper and pen and wrote to her family and Fonso to tell them that what had happened to her was like a very long night without dreams and that she’d woken up weary and exhausted, as if she’d been working for days and days instead of sleeping!

  Fonso replied:

  Dearest Maria,

  I am well and I hope you are too. Your letter was of great comfort to me. For the whole time I didn’t hear from you, my life was like hell on earth. I thought of you from morning till night and I couldn’t sleep. I hope that what has happened will convince your brother Flo
ti that no one can go against destiny and that we should be married. At the edge of the town, workers’ houses are being built and I’ve applied for one, so if we’re married we will have a house to live in. I think of nothing but the day I’ll see you. Take care of yourself and know that I still want you and I will always want you until the day I die.

  Alfonso

  Maria couldn’t stop reading it, and each time she did she ended up crying. Neither Fonso nor her brothers had told her about the stable burning down, because they didn’t want to worry her.

  After Easter, Maria’s convalescence drew to an end and her health seemed to be completely restored. The only symptom of the illness that stuck with her was an intense sleepiness that would come over her at about seven in the evening; it was so overpowering that she’d have to go and lie down. Rosina wrote to her mother that she thought the time had come for Maria to return home; perhaps getting back to town would help her to heal completely and restore her appetite. It had become a chore to get her to eat anything!

  The great day arrived. Maria packed her suitcase and Rosina gave her another one for all the clothing she’d bought for her while she was in Florence. Maria put on the prettiest dress she had, and a pair of high heels that perfectly matched her shiny brown bag. Who knows what they would say in town when they saw her! And Fonso, what would he say when he saw her looking like such a lady? Rizzi was so happy to be rid of her that he called a landau to take her to the station. It was a tearful farewell for both sisters; after all, they’d never left each other’s sides the whole time Maria had been in Florence, chatting, strolling, confiding in one another. When she was the saddest, Maria had always found comfort and support in her sister, who often seemed to have moments of deep sadness herself, although she never spoke about it.

  Everything about Rosina made Maria think that there was no joy in her wedded life. In the whole time she’d been there, Maria had never seen her enjoy a gesture of affection from her husband, a compliment, a courtesy. And Rosina was so pretty and so sweet. Maria had never had to courage to ask her directly about what her marriage was like, but she left with the memory of a shadow in her sister’s clear gaze.

  “I’ll write you,” she promised, “and when I marry I want you to come to my wedding. It will be the best gift I could ever receive.”

  “I’ll do everything I can, absolutely everything, to come,” replied Rosina. “But if I don’t make it, don’t take it badly.” Tears were streaming from her eyes as she said this.

  Maria hugged her tight. “I love you, Rusein,” she said in her ear, using her pet name for her sister.

  “Get on the train! The stationmaster has already whistled,” said her sister, breaking away.

  Maria went into the carriage and stayed at the window waving her hand for as long as she could see the white handkerchief her sister was agitating in response. Then she sat down and began to watch the countryside. The train soon started up the hillside and then the mountains as it neared the pass. Every stop was another little town, with some who got off and others who got on. It took more than an hour to get to Porretta, and a lot of people got off there. On the station walls, she saw a poster with an image of a beautiful woman in a little hat and a close-fitting corset drinking a glass of water from a fountain and the words underneath said “Porretta Springs, your source of health.” That reminded her that Fonso sometimes went to the salt water spring near Bazzano and drank from the font to purge himself. Sometimes he’d even take two or three flasks home with him.

  The train started up again puffing and clattering and began its descent. The light poles were sailing by faster now, a sign that they were going much faster and that they would soon arrive at their destination. But even going downhill, the train had to stop in dozens of stations, so people could get on or off, and it took another good hour, if not more, to get to Casalecchio, where Rosina had instructed Maria to get off the train and catch the bus that would take her to town. Rosina had explained exactly, step by step, what she needed to do, but Maria was soon confused and she thought of asking a passing gentleman for information: “Sir,” she asked him, “could you kindly tell me where I can catch the bus that will take me home?”

  “And just where would that be?” he asked back, suspecting that, despite her elegant dress, bag and high-heeled shoes, this was an inexperienced country girl.

  She explained it to him and he gave her instructions on how to reach the bus station. There she would find a timetable with all the different destinations. The whole endeavor was getting much more complicated than Maria had imagined and she was tired of asking questions and embarrassing herself. She saw a signpost pointing towards Bazzano and decided to set off on foot in that direction; it couldn’t be so far, after all. Once she got to Bazzano she knew she wouldn’t have problems because from there it was just a half-hour walk to her town. Maybe just a tiny bit further.

  So she started walking, even though what she was wearing was hardly the ideal gear for a journey of that sort on foot, with high heels and two suitcases in tow. But she was so eager to arrive home and see her family and her fiancé again that nothing could stand in her way.

  She took the road that skirted the hills, certain that, sooner or later, she’d arrive at her destination. She found herself teetering on her shoes almost instantly, but she tried to take her mind off her physical discomfort by enjoying the view of the surrounding fields and watching the farmers at work. If she turned around, she could see the Madonna di San Luca church on the hillside behind her, and she made the sign of the cross and said three Hail Marys to thank Our Lady for having brought her back home safe and sound.

  After five or six kilometers her feet were full of blisters. After another three or four her shoes were damp and blood-stained and her ankles were killing her, but she hadn’t taken her shoes off until then because she wanted to be sure that she made it home well dressed and in her high heels, like a real city lady. In the end, however, her pain exceeded her stubbornness: she stopped, took off her shoes, laced them together and tossed them over her shoulder. But it had been so long since she’d walked barefoot through stubble that the calluses under her feet had disappeared and the gravel on the road hurt like anything. She started walking on the edge of the road where it was grassy and that felt a little better, but her suitcases were getting heavier with each step and she was forced to stop more and more often to catch her breath and massage her aching shoulders and arms.

  A man passed by driving a cart full of fava beans and, seeing her in such a sorry state, offered her a ride: “Where are you going on foot like that, young lady?”

  “I’d be happy to get to Bazzano. From there on I can take care of myself.”

  “You’re lucky,” replied the carter, coming to a stop. “That’s just where I’m going. Would you like to ride with me?”

  “I won’t say no,” replied Maria. She heaved her suitcases onto the cart and went to sit next to the driver.

  “Where are you coming from?”

  “From Florence.”

  “On foot?”

  “No. I took the train to Casalecchio and then I walked. I’m dead tired.”

  “I believe you, with those shoes and two suitcases.”

  They drove on, chatting, for a while, and Maria asked for news about what had been going on in her absence, just to keep the conversation going. The driver began glancing her way with increasing interest, seeing how pretty she was. At some point, he must have convinced himself that the girl was so exhausted that she would have done anything rather than start walking again with two suitcases and her feet bleeding like that. No sooner said than done, he took off down a little country lane between two rows of poplars that stretched off into the countryside, and stopped alongside a dense cluster of locust trees.

  “Why are we stopping here?” asked Maria.

  “I’ll tell you right away,” replied the carter resolutely in his Bazzanese diale
ct. “Either you let me have some pussy or you get out and walk home.” As he turned towards her, Maria was quick enough to let him have it across the face with her bag, making his nose swell up instantly, as big and red as a pepper. While he was cursing and shouting she got out, took her suitcases and stalked off down the road.

  “Where do you think you’re going? You’re as crazy as they get!” he shouted after her.

  “I’ll go wherever I please, thank you very much, you disgusting pig!”

  And so she started her journey again under a sun that was getting hotter and hotter. She had only gone a couple of hundred meters when she heard the sound of a cart coming up behind her and the shuffling of a horse. When it was almost at her side, certain that it was the nasty carter she’d just escaped from, she shouted out without even turning around: “Steer clear of me, you ugly pig.”

  “Maria, what are you saying? It’s me, Iofa!” Finally, a friendly voice! “I can’t believe it’s you. How did you get into such a state? What are you doing on foot with two suitcases?”

  “I’m just getting back from Florence,” replied Maria. “Which way are you going?”

  Iofa was heading to town, thank God. He helped her up and that was the finishing stroke to her city-girl finesse: after the elegant shoes which had been worn out by her long march and tossed over her shoulder, now it was the turn of the new dress bought for her in Florence. Already soaked with sweat, it stuck nicely to the flour that coated the sacks in the cart, but she couldn’t care less. At that moment she had a person she knew, nearly one of the family, beside her and she was sitting on something soft and even rather comfortable instead of walking on her wounded and aching feet. That gave her so much satisfaction that nothing else mattered.

  Iofa stopped to unload the sacks of flour at La Compagnia, the farm where he’d picked up the wheat that morning to bring it to the mill. They started off again and, of his own initiative, he took Maria all the way to the Brunis’ courtyard. Maria hopped down and thanked him. She wanted to invite him in for a glass of wine, but the unexpected sight of the burnt-down stable stunned her, leaving her confused and dismayed. She shook the flour off her dress, smoothed it down with her hands as best she could and walked almost hesitantly into the courtyard: the pillars still raised their blackened bricks towards the sky and the straw was piled up in a rick because there was no longer any shed where it could be kept dry. She burst into tears. The stable was almost more important than the house itself, in her eyes. It was there that she had learned, on those long winter nights, to spin hemp on a wheel, it was there that she’d chattered about boyfriends and husbands with the other women.