The Fireflies of Autumn

by Moreno Giovannoni

He meant it was important to be warm and comfortable and to count your blessings. Nothing else mattered. This really had nothing to do with whether they should go home or not.

  To try to move the discussion along, Beo thought he would try again with, ‘Vecchi si diventa se non si muore prima. We will all grow old if we do not die first.’

  It was possible he meant that they should stay where they were because their fate would be the same anyway. They would grow old and die regardless of what they did.

  Then ’Nibale butted in with his usual gloomy outlook:

  Tutto passa e tutto muore

  Mamma, casa e primo amore.

  All things must pass, all things must die

  Mother, home and youth’s first love.

  This was even more bleak than Beo’s contribution, but it was to be expected from ’Nibale.

  Clearly no-one was interested in addressing the question of leaving the Enchanted Glade, leaving Ponte alle Corti or saying goodbye to the Compitesi, to the food and to the abundance of birdlife, so they talked about cows for a while, noting that, apart from anything else, cows were useful for their body heat – so much so that children were often washed in the stable in a tub filled with water heated over the fireplace, the stable warmed by the breath and bodies of the animals. And yet cows were not always appreciated. A popular saying was, ‘Ignorante come una vacca! As stupid as a cow!’

  Bulletta reminded them that Sirio had been caught fornicating with a heifer before he was blown up by the American bomb that fell from the sky, so it was obvious cows had other uses too. This cast a dark cloud over the group and they all wished he hadn’t mentioned it. They agreed that Cosetta, his betrothed, should never be told.

  Beo made one last attempt at a wise saying, but again it was not relevant to the question at hand:

  Quando il capello dà al bianchino

  Lascia la topa e datti al vino.

  When your hair is grey and fine

  Abandon the fanny and take up the wine.

  This time they told him to shut up and turned to look at Bucchione, who until now had been quiet.

  Bucchione, who was sucking his cigar and not listening, suddenly realised they were waiting for his contribution. He didn’t know what to say. In the end he said, ‘Il tempo passa per chi lo puole aspettare. Time passes for those who can wait.’ Meaning, just be still and just be quiet and we’ll see what happens. Whether they understood it or not will never be known. Nevertheless, this pronouncement calmed them down and settled the discussion, which was about nothing much and was entering uncharted waters when Bucchione put an end to it.

  …

  There was a drawn-out musical squawk from God the Father’s accordion. This was followed by the plucking of a mandolin string, in turn accompanied by strumming, at which the accordion returned, and pretty soon they were in Arizona, and a few of them were singing snatches of a song about American dreams, illusions and yearning – for a better life, for riches, for dark-skinned Hispanic women and the gentle, sweet happiness that awaited those who emigrated from San Ginese to the Americas.

  Zena, whose head and nose were twice as big as his brother Bulletta’s, played a virtuoso mandolin. There were also two piano accordionists in the camp: Giorgione the Ancient, who looked much older than his years, and God the Father, who was called that because he had such a high opinion of himself. With a virtuoso mandolin and two accordions, they made enough noise to wake the German dead in Berlin.

  So on the evening of the sixth day, Bucchione spoke to Zena (this was in the days before their legendary falling out, after which the two brightest men in the village, the greatest of friends, did not speak to each other for forty years). Zena conferred with Giorgione and God the Father. The three musicians set up three chairs on an old table. From this rickety podium they could see the dancers, and over the dancers’ heads to the wall on the other side. They asked Cosetta to sing. She was a small thing, which is precisely the meaning of her name, but her big chest hid a magnificent voice, mellow and filled with longing, and as dramatic as her flashing brown eyes. Meanwhile Bucchione sent Morena and Paolo running round to tell everyone there would be a dance after the evening meal. The Compitesi were invited too, so it was quite a large party.

  After the sun had gone down, Cosetta, her long black hair unleashed around her shoulders and swirling down to her waist, sang as the trio played.

  Away in Arizona

  Homeland of dreams and grand illusions

  A lonely guitar player

  Excites a thousand skylarks singing.

  And so they tangoed, stamping and gliding and gliding and stamping. You would hardly have thought they were peasants if you’d seen the way they danced so elegantly. They heard the words of the song and you can imagine what happened next.

  It’s midnight when it starts

  The round of ample pleasure

  And in the darkest place

  All seek to find their treasure.

  As the music penetrated their organisms, meaning their arms, legs, chests, heads and hearts, and other parts, at midnight the round of ample pleasure started. In the darkness everyone was looking for something. Husbands and wives eyed each other like they had when they were sixteen years old. Beo gently stroked Bruna’s left buttock for the thousandth time and was left wide-eyed and open-mouthed when she pushed back onto his hand so that he couldn’t get it out from beneath her. She rubbed her thigh against his.

  A weary bandit leader

  Descends the misty sierra mountain

  On his pure ivory charger.

  A blazing rose of love unbroken.

  By the time Cosetta had finished singing to an enthusiastic crowd of dancers and the musical trio were spicing up the evening with a Viennese waltz, half of the available women, and some unavailable ones, had chosen partners and had discreetly slipped away with them into dark corners, behind the bushes and under the trees.

  Norato walked over to Cosetta – she who was almost his brother’s widow; who wasn’t really a widow because she had never been married to Sirio, only betrothed, but nevertheless was expected to behave like a widow and had in fact done that until now. He stood and looked at her, opening his mouth and shutting it like a fool. She opened her mouth and left it open, resting the tip of her tongue against her top teeth, gently nudging her top lip. Norato’s blood was warming up, and after her song hers was boiling. They were both experiencing a distant ache flowing from their hearts to their groins that they felt a need to soothe. This is considered normal in young people, and you only hope they can manage their feelings until they are in a position to start a family and look after their children and each other.

  Her passion is so strong

  Her love is without limit

  All while they sing their song

  A thousand skylarks singing.

  It was the first time he’d kissed a woman on the mouth. To tell the truth, it was Cosetta who kissed Norato. Flashing-eyed Cosetta, who was an expert kisser, and who had kissed his brother Sirio quite a lot before he was blown to pieces, dragged him out of the mill to the riverbank, took the back of his head between both hands and pulled him onto her, slipped her tongue between his lips, rolled it around his mouth and gave him such a thrill that he felt an explosion in his chest and saw a flash of light. She took his left hand and placed it on her right breast, inside her blouse, and it was almost all over for him there and then.

  ‘Bless your hands,’ he gasped as she took hold of his member.

  When she guided it down to her and let him put it in, the place was warm and inviting, as it should be, and she held him tight with both her hands behind his back and just gave him enough room to wriggle in and out a little. By the time he had gone in all the way the second time he had decided to marry her so that he could do this with her every night for the rest of his life. Norato’s member was painfully erect for two hours that night and Cosetta was severely chafed and sore, but despite this, or maybe because of it, they conceived their first
daughter, Manola. Unless she had already been conceived when Sirio was still alive. In any case, the Spanish name Manola was in honour of the Hispanic atmosphere generated by the song about Arizona. He would marry her, he said, as soon as they had all finished mourning his brother. And before it became too obvious that Manola was on the way, thought Cosetta.

  It was the sixth day, after all, when God had told humanity to be fruitful and multiply.

  God the Father called Cosetta back for another few songs and the night grew older, noisier and happier, with all the Sanginesini frolicking about in dark corners, dancing and drinking Compitese wine.

  Bucchione arrived at a decision about the vegetables.

  So the sun came up and went down again.

  …

  So the sun came up.

  It was the morning of the seventh day and they were recovering from the festivities of the night before, lying in small family clusters inside the dark, disused mill, rolling around a little in discomfort if they had consumed too much wine, moaning and resting. They had worked hard every day at eating, drinking, playing cards, hunting, cooking, sleeping, storytelling, debating, dancing, fornicating.

  Since arriving they had removed debris from the river, repaired the mill roof and cleared wild agagi bushes and blackberry vines from the windows. They had gone hunting and brought back many birds and cleaned them for roasting and eating. This was the beginning of a normal life.

  Bucchione and a delegation invited the Compitesi into the Enchanted Glade to discuss a permanent migration to Ponte alle Corti in Compito. The Sanginesini proposed occupying hillside fields and empty houses that had been abandoned by Compitesi who had gone to America. They had left the misery of San Ginese in autumn, and winter was coming. If the war were ever to turn back towards them, in Compito they would enjoy the safety of the hills and the succour of the sun rising and setting on each side of their new home. The neighbours were friendly. The Sanginesini would bring youth and strength to a village in decline. The discussion lasted all morning as both groups weighed the advantages and disadvantages, but the hearts of the Sanginesini were turning and their cardiac organs were empty vessels. Faced with the obligation to decide, they did what many of their countrymen had done in the past when choosing whether to go or whether to stay. The meeting closed without a decision being reached and the council of war dispersed. It would not be easy.

  During the night the leaves had started falling. This reminded them that it was well and truly autumn, the precursor to winter that harboured the memory of summer.

  The faint creaking sound of the cage, anchored to the chain on the nearby belltower, drifted into their giant shelter.

  When they had arrived at the abandoned mill in Compito, they were relieved to be away from the war. In their hearts they yearned for peace, so quickly started to forget the fear and anxiety of their other lives. But now they were finished, and it is a good thing that the Italian word finiti can mean exhausted, worn out, spent and done, because they were also all of these things.

  The knowledge that had always been there, just below the anxiety in their anxious hearts, started to surface as soon as the cascade of leaves started. The mill house was empty now, but after the war, when people had money to pay for flour and olive oil again, it would be restored. If the people of Compito wanted their mill back, the homeless Sanginesini would have to move out of the Enchanted Glade and into the village.

  They needed Bucchione to say something.

  Bucchione wondered what would become of them all, although there was really no point wondering – there never is, because it will happen anyway. Within ten years his daughter, Morena, who would remember the Enchanted Glade, would be married. Within eleven years she would give birth to her first son. Within twelve years her husband, Ugo, who would remember the Enchanted Glade, would leave for Australia. But of course, Bucchione didn’t know any of this as he addressed the sfollati, the displaced.

  They just needed Bucchione to say something, and he did, although he could feel the satin wing of the Angel of Sadness brush against his leg.

  Bucchione’s story wasn’t in verse, like the stories told in the village square at nearby Colle by the travelling carnival troupe’s hunchback, but he did decide to tell it in the first-person plural. Zena strummed and picked at his mandolin, accompanying his friend for the last time before their grand disagreement.

  Bucchione didn’t clear his throat or call for their attention. They were already looking at him.

  ‘People … people. It is a well-known fact that the world is a naturally untidy, disordered, chaotic place, where weeds invade fields, and paths become overgrown with tangled blackberry bushes, where tiles shift on roofs, crack and leak, where water seeps in and rots or corrodes everything it touches. We Sanginesini are in the frontline of the war against nature and time, spreading manure, digging and sowing and planting and watering and harvesting, weeding and trimming, cutting and ordering and cleaning and tidying up. Insects and mice, worms and disease attack our crops and animals. Where once there was scrub or arid land, we have brought mown fields and lush crops. The moment we turn one way we are attacked from the other direction. While we rest on a Sunday, the enemy advances. If we are slothful, the enemy charges. As we grow older and our physical and mental strength fades, our children must take over. For this reason we breed. There is no choice. The alternative is to be overwhelmed by the weeds and the pests. The alternative is to drown in shit. And then to die.

  ‘We could of course remain here in Compito, where we have been welcomed, where the soil is fertile and the climate good, where life is sweet. I am ready to sow and plant vegetables right now. I have already prepared a list.’ He took his notebook out of his shirt pocket and waved it at them.

  The other possibility for them, of course, was to leave San Ginese and go to America (no longer as welcoming as she had been to their fathers, and Australia had not yet opened her doors), but he didn’t say that. Nor did he say he had heard rumours that in America and Australia families did not live together and children abandoned their widowed mothers.

  Bucchione stopped and looked around, scanning their faces, every single one of them. He said nothing more. They all looked at one another for the first time since the night before they had left the village. Someone coughed.

  He waited in silence and they all gasped together at the enormity of what they had done. They had abandoned their cows and pigs and rabbits and chickens, their stables and their fields and their irrigation ditches, Nedo’s bar, the communal laundry and bread ovens. The warring armies had gone, but the Sanginesini had not returned to San Ginese, the home of their ancestors, their grandmothers and grandfathers, to the houses where they were born, so old they could crumble at any moment, houses built on the bones of the ancient cemetery, the New Cemetery already overflowing with newer bones, to the stones impregnated with the shit of a thousand summers.

  In the shadow of the morning the flames on the candles flickered, and the wicks burned and spluttered gently in their olive oil–filled lids. A strange breeze blew through their skeletons. They were well and truly displaced now. The land, the entire world, had laid a trap for them, had set out to betray them and succeeded, and was even now smothering their fields with weeds, sending maggots and pestilence. The armies of the war, of men and machines, had been replaced by the ancient threats. Who knew what horrors awaited them back in San Ginese were they to return!

  As for the fireflies, later that day, after they were gone, well, they just floated and flitted about, jumping from one bush to another, as fireflies do nonchalantly.

  They heard the creaking chain.

  …

  They packed their belongings, said goodbye to the Compitesi and stepped into a line behind Bucchione at the natural doorway to the Enchanted Glade and the Babbling Brook, which were bathed in dappled light still, as leaves now began to pour down like soft giant splashes of rain. They stood and waited for the downpour to finish. The falling leaves made a sound l
ike a gentle wind. Soon they were buried up to their knees in brown leaves. Soon they could hear that the rush of falling leaves was easing. And pretty soon it had stopped. And then the silence smothered them. It was over.

  And when it was over, it was over. There was nothing more.

  Those at the front turned to look at those at the back, and the ones at the back looked at the ones at the front. The Sanginesini took a deep breath.

  And then they went home.

  The Consequences of Frostbite

  As time passed, whenever the inhabitants of San Ginese talked about a thing, they found themselves saying the thing had been before the war, during the war or after the war. It was the war, the war, the war this and the war that.

  It took some time, but in the end they saw that there had been consequences. There were disagreements over what these were. In Nedo’s bar long discussions were held that lasted for days, and these became arguments that spilled out onto the courtyard and into the street. One discussion in particular, about the economics of prostitution, became loud and violent and went on into the evening. People stormed out of the bar and back in and threw chairs around and kicked the spittoon. Wives came and tried to drag their husbands home.

  It was on one such night that Nello, from Castello, shot past on his bicycle and was catapulted as high as the first floor of Gino’s house, where Alfonsina saw him appear briefly at the window.

  Nello lived at Castello with his old mother, after his father and brother went to America and never came back. You will remember it was Nello who saw the fireflies when the artillery barrage started.

  He was a simple soul with a large oval head that lolled around on his neck, left and right, backwards and forwards, around and around. His mother refused to have him placed in the institution at Marlia. He was committed only after she died.

  When he wasn’t riding his bike he was walking from Castello, down to Lecci and Centoni, past Pierini, through Villora, and then back up to Castello. On other occasions he would walk to Il Picchio and along the Montanari Hill to the Speranza crossroads, before returning home. If he looked lost, someone would take him by the shoulders and turn him in the right direction and nudge him gently along. Small children sometimes ran after him and pulled faces, and he responded with his own benign grimaces and smirks.