A Winter's Night

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

  There was no one around; everyone was in the fields. She went into the house, where she found Ersilia, one of her sisters-in-law, preparing lunch.

  “The stable burnt down!” she said. “How did it happen?”

  “The fascists did it,” replied Ersilia. “It was all Floti’s fault, for getting into politics.”

  Maria dropped her head in silence, not knowing what to say, then asked, “Where’s mother?”

  “She’s sleeping in her room,” replied Ersilia sternly, “because she stays up all night keeping watch over your brother.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Spring came late that year and they didn’t see the first swallows until the first half of April. They had taken to flying low over the ruins of the stable, twittering constantly like lost souls because their nests had been burnt along with the barn. They continued to soar around the ruin for hours, as if they couldn’t resign themselves to this disaster then, at dusk, they finally scattered.

  Fonso arrived in the Bruni courtyard two days after Maria had returned. He found her feeding the chickens. She was so shaken at seeing him after so long that she let go of the corner of her apron and let the corn scatter all over the ground. Then she ran towards him and threw her arms around his neck. Fonso was embarrassed, knowing well what her brother thought about him, and whispered into her ear: “Maria, if Floti sees us . . . ”

  “Floti won’t say anything. He knows what I’ve been through because he sent me away. This time I decide: you can come see me on even days, that’s in keeping with tradition, right? Until we get married. If you still want me, that is.”

  “Of course I still want you. You’ve read my letters, haven’t you?”

  “Many times. And did you get mine?”

  “Yes, of course I did. That was the only time I was happy, all these long months. But where is Floti?”

  “Somewhere,” said Maria, and she said nothing else because it didn’t matter anymore.

  When May came, Clerice—who hadn’t been seen in town for ages—couldn’t miss her appointment with the rosary ladies at the intersection of Via Bastarda and Via Celeste. After the last Hail Mary, the neighborhood women gathered around her to ask if she’d had news of Floti, since no one had seen him around for so long. She replied that he’d gone away and that she rarely heard from him.

  Young Montesi, the son of ill-fated Graziano, was Clerice’s informer. He told her continuously that they were still looking for Floti and that he had to stay out of their way if he cared about staying alive. Nello had also let her know that it didn’t look good for him in town and that he shouldn’t do anything rash. And so, now that the weather was so mild, Floti never spent the night in the house anymore, in the windowless room by the cellar. He stayed out in the fields, sometimes in the toolshed but most often out in the middle of the corn, sleeping with his head in his mother’s lap after she brought him his dinner in the mess tin he’d used as a soldier.

  He could never fall asleep right away; he would lie there at length with his eyes wide open and staring, and every now and then he exchanged a few words with her. They were moments of intense heartache which embarrassed them both, and so their silences were even more moving than their words. When Floti finally abandoned himself to sleep in the warmth of his mother’s lap, Clerice, her head high and back straight, watched over him, alone, sitting erect against the night sky like a dark mater dolorosa. She turned to that sky with a fervent, anxious prayer that lasted until the Angelus bell chimed at dawn, when they separated and Floti began wandering around the countryside again, along the drainage ditches and the rows of maples and grapevines, hiding from the eyes of those who wished him ill. A good number of farmers knew who that solitary figure was crossing their fields with his slow steps, but they would never have betrayed him for all the gold in the world, so secretly satisfied were they at being able to protect a rebel, a man of honor and courage. Nothing could match that.

  Trying to go on this way would be impossible, and Clerice herself told Floti that he would have to go where no one could find him. “You’re still young, you’ll make a life for yourself. I’m getting older every day. I’m not the woman I used to be.”

  “That’s not true, mamma, you’re a strong woman. Now that Maria’s back and we’re all together again, things will get better.”

  “The worry I have for you is killing me. There’s nothing that can make me happy. If you love me, go.”

  Floti reflected on her words, his head low. “It’s hard for me to go. Everything I have is here. My memories, my family, my friends. It’s easy to say, just go. For me it’s like pulling my arm out. But maybe you’re right. I’ve already started talking to some people. I’m waiting for their answers, then I’ll make a decision.”

  Maria was rinsing out the dishes in the sink and overheard their conversation, which brought tears to her eyes. Floti was the brother she loved most, even if he didn’t want her to see Fonso.

  Clerice, already at wits’ end with worry and dread, felt that she would faint when she heard that her son was actually planning to leave. She tried to control herself and sat down at the table, leaning her head on her left arm.

  “Are you all right, mamma?” he asked with concern.

  “I’m fine. You take care of yourself, you have more than enough to worry about.”

  Floti nodded slowly and walked out the back door into the fields.

  Clerice had just begun to prepare for the arrival of the Madonna della Provvidenza, for the yearly eight-day-long festivities. She had a prayer that needed granting and she ardently hoped the Virgin would not deny her. On the morning of the second-to-last day of May, she set out early in the morning, dressed in her finest clothes, accompanied by Maria who had on the dress she’d worn home from Florence, washed and freshly pressed. The entrances to all the courtyards that found themselves on the route of the procession of Our Lady had been adorned with images or words in honor of the Virgin Mary, all created using rose petals. Banners of embroidered cloth in red, yellow and white were stretched across the roads and the bells were ringing full peal. Clerice and Maria turned in the direction of the sanctuary of the Madonna just as the sun rose over the tops of the age-old cherry trees laden with luscious fruit as red and shiny as garnets. When the breeze picked up a little, you could smell the delicate scent of wheat flowers. It was going to be a splendid day.

  The two women reached the Osteria della Bassa and turned right. It only took them a few minutes from there to get to the Cappacella, the little chapel just outside town. They nodded to greet the older women who were there in a group waiting for the procession to pass so they could fall in and accompany the Madonna along the last stretch of road that led to the parish church. Those whose houses were along the route put out chairs so the elderly could sit and take a rest when they needed to. As Clerice and Maria continued on towards their destination, countless small groups gradually joined with others, streaming together until they had formed a single assemblage in the little square in front of the sanctuary.

  The parish pastor was already there waiting, wearing his surplice and stole, surrounded by altar boys wearing the red satin robes taken out only for the most important ceremonies; with their white lace surplices, they looked like a lot of little cardinals. Then the image of the Madonna della Provvidenza was carried out of the sanctuary: the enameled terra-cotta bas-relief depicting Our Lady was mounted on a panel covered with deep red velvet and was completely surrounded by a ring of beautiful silk flowers. The image was placed onto a wooden base fitted with two shafts designed to be carried on the shoulders of the bearers, a role that all the young believers yearned to be chosen for.

  The procession started up. It was led at the front by the cross bearer, a burly young man wearing a leather harness and straps which allowed him to bear the weight of a fifty-kilo cross for the first half of the route; he was flanked by a similarly sturdy friend who would reli
eve him halfway. At their sides were two more youths carrying a pair of rigid standard banners depicting the Madonna and Saint James, who was the town’s patron saint. They were followed by two long lines of men, then the band and, last of all, the sacred image preceded by the celebrant himself. The women came next, heads veiled and rosary beads in hand, bringing up the end of the procession.

  The most well-to-do did not mix with the regular townsfolk, but waited in church sitting in the choir behind the altar: they had always followed this custom, which placed them in a position of superiority and separated them from the ordinary workers and peasants. They even had their own side entrance which crossed the sacristy and which no one else dared to use.

  When the procession came within sight of the Cappacella, the procession’s official governor, who was the Credito Romagnolo bank accountant, signaled a slowdown, to allow the elderly who had been waiting there all this time to unite with all the others. At that very moment, a man parted the hedge that marked off the fields on the left of the road and stepped in between the barber and the mailman. Floti.

  The news that the man wanted by the Blackshirts had dared to step out in the light of day and that he—notoriously a freethinker—had joined the ranks of believers in the procession of the Madonna della Provvidenza, immediately flew up and down the left-hand column from top to bottom. It reached the pastor, who widened his eyes in shock. The long wave travelled down the row of women and came back up the other side, intercepting Clerice and Maria, who were stunned at his audacity.

  “Floti is in the procession!”

  Clerice thought she should try to catch up with him, to talk with him, but she realized that such a gesture would have drawn even more attention and curiosity. Instead, she went on reciting the rosary, in the hope of convincing the Madonna to protect her irresponsible and foolhardy son, and to help him to act with wisdom.

  By the time they reached the Cappacella, the news had inexplicably preceded them, and the ranks of elderly believers craned their necks to catch sight of the Scarlet Pimpernel of the cornfields who was calmly strolling between the barber and the mailman and chatting, first with one and then with the other, as all the men were wont to do on such occasions.

  When the tower of the eastern gate of the town walls appeared, the accountant stepped out of line and, like an officer of the Grenadier Guard, signaled for the procession to halt and for the band to begin playing. They all realized that, next, Floti would be swept up with all the rest of them towards the House of Fascism, under the eyes of those men in their fezzes and black shirts. But anyone in the procession was under the protection of the impenetrable mantle of the Madonna della Provvidenza, and no one would dare to lift a finger against him. Especially taking into account the two carabiniere officers in full dress uniform who were there as Our Lady’s honor guard but also to maintain law and order. The fascists had also already been advised of Bruni’s intrepid appearance and they could do nothing but watch helplessly, although they certainly didn’t miss the opportunity to put him under surveillance so they could close in on him later.

  In the end, the procession broke up in the town’s central square in front of the parish church and, as Floti slipped away, the Image made her triumphal entrance into the nave, greeted by the organ with the full-orchestra pedal down and the choir, singing:

  “Beautiful Lady, look upon your people

  Who honor you today full of joy.

  I, too, join their festive ranks and run to your feet,

  Pray for me, oh Virgin most holy!”

  Then the Image was carried behind the altar and placed on the flat bed of a wooden machine that was cranked up to slowly raise Our Lady up to the very top of the altarpiece and hold her there. The effect, seen from the nave and aisles, was something of a miracle, a sort of brief ascension that allowed all those present to see the Madonna, crowned in gold, rise to the highest point of the presbytery. For a whole year she’d been closed up in her votive chapel and now, finally, she had returned to visit her people, to hear their prayers and invocations.

  Clerice waited until the Mass was over and everyone had left the church. She told her daughter to wait outside for her and she went up to the first pew so she could be all alone with the Virgin Mary, just the two of them. She knelt.

  “Holy Mother,” she prayed silently, “you know what it means to lose a son and, unfortunately, now I do as well. I could not endure the pain again, and so I supplicate you, let my Floti find a way to leave this place where everyone wants him dead, especially now that he has taunted them by walking in this procession before your holy image, and certainly not out of devotion for You. Forgive him! His leaving will be very painful for me, but at least I’ll know he’s alive and perhaps, every now and then, I’ll even be able to see him. I beg you, Madonna, grant me this prayer and I promise that every month I will make an offering in your name to the hospital of the poor.”

  She lit a candle and genuflected, made the sign of the cross and then, greatly relieved, she headed towards the exit. She was struck by the blinding light of May which flooded the square, and the festive ringing of church bells. Maria took her arm and they walked home without even trying to keep an eye out for Floti, knowing full well that they were being watched.

  In the meantime, her son, surrounded by a group of friends, had managed to reach the door to the forge belonging to Lazzari the hunchback, another freethinker, who Floti followed into the cellar and from there down an ancient underground tunnel that led outside of town, where a cart was waiting for him. In just half an hour or maybe a bit more he was already inside an abandoned farmhouse over by Fossa Vecchia. Lazzari left him with a couple of loaves of bread, a salame and a chunk of parmigiano to sustain him, but Floti gently refused: “Don’t worry, humpback, I can take care of myself. You keep this stuff for yourself, you need it more than I do. Everyone thinks you’re a devil but you are in truth an extraordinary person. See you around, then.”

  “I don’t think so,” the hunchback replied, “you can stay here for a couple of days but then you have to go.”

  “Why, dammit? I’ve never done anything wrong. I was born here, I’ve always worked here, I fought in the war, don’t I have the right to stay in my own home?”

  “No one has rights anymore,” replied the hunchback. “Goodbye. And don’t dream of moving until I give you the all-clear. But why on earth did you do such a thing? How did you get it in your head to join the procession?”

  “Because I wanted to demonstrate that I can go wherever I want and that I won’t be intimidated by anyone.”

  The hunchback repeatedly shook his head, grumbling to himself, then went back to the cart they’d used to transport Floti, hidden carefully under a load of brushwood.

  Maria and Clerice had meanwhile arrived home. Savino rode up on his bicycle with his little boy in a baby seat hooked to the handlebar.

  “You’ll stay for lunch, won’t you? Your wife is coming too, isn’t she?” asked Clerice.

  “I’ll be glad to stay with the boy,” said Savino. “Linda can’t come; she has to watch the house because there’s no one else home.”

  He sat down in the kitchen with the baby on his knees, watching his mother and Maria setting the table for twenty people. They put the pot of broth on to boil for the tortellini.

  “Where’s Floti?” he asked in a different tone of voice.

  “Who knows?” replied Clerice, her eyes welling up. “After what he pulled today, if he understands anything at all, he has to get out of here, as soon as he can. Until now, your sister would take him something to eat in the fields, but now . . . You heard what he did, didn’t you?”

  “Who hasn’t heard, mamma? That’s all anyone’s talking about in town. I’m still ready to give him a hand. I’m armed and I’m not afraid of anybody.”

  “Hush up, for the love of God! I don’t want to hear such words. You’re married now and you have a c
hild, you have to have enough sense for you and your brother together. We’ll eat without him today. What a terrible Festa della Madonna!” she said. And she dried her eyes on the corner of her apron.

  Three days later, Bruno Montesi, Graziano’s son, went to the abandoned farmhouse at Fossa Vecchia to give Floti a message.

  “This one’s from Nello,” he said. “He says to tell you that you really blew it this time . . . ”

  “So what else is new? Like I don’t know that already.”

  “He says there might be a way out.”

  “Oh, really? And what might that be?”

  “Nello says they wanted to kill you off and make it look like an accident . . . ”

  “Well then?”

  “Well, then . . . ” the boy hesitated.

  “Well, what? Have you swallowed your tongue? What are you trying to tell me?”

  “He says that now they’re talking about an exemplary punishment instead. They’d be willing to accept that, if you agree, afterwards, to act sensibly.”

  “And just what would this exemplary punishment consist of?” sneered Floti.

  “I don’t even know if I should . . . but rather than see you killed dead . . . nobody would criticize you if you accepted, Floti; everyone cares about saving their skin.”