Paradiso: Utterly gripping and emotional historical fiction (The Paradiso Novels Book 1)

by Francesca Scanacapra

  Maestro Virgola’s lessons took the form of a series of facts or formulae delivered with passionless repetition. The main points would be written on the blackboard, followed by a list of questions. He demanded silence. Any shuffling of feet or moving of chairs which interrupted the lesson would be punished with a sharp knock on the head.

  Most of the time the only sounds we made were the scratching of our pens or chalk sticks and the occasional cough. Maestro Virgola would patrol the aisles between our desks, pacing slowly and deliberately, the metronomic tap-tap of his heels and his ruler stopping only as he looked over someone’s shoulder.

  On hearing the footsteps stop behind me, I knew that on no account must I stop writing, or look up from my work. Feeling his gaze on me, I would concentrate all my energy on not making any mistakes, holding my breath lest the slightest movement of air might blow a blob of ink from the nib of my pen onto my page; or dreading that the tip of my chalk would split, sending my chalk-stick shrieking uncontrollably across my slate.

  Although I was disciplined regularly for errors in spelling or calculation, I was by no means the most frequent recipient of Maestro Virgola’s corrections. I cannot be sure why I did not tell my parents about the punishments, but it seemed that nobody in the class did so either. There was a sullen acceptance that this was standard practice and should be tolerated. After all, we were fortunate to be at school. Most of us just did our best to be good, but by the end of each day our heads sported more knocks and bruises on the outside than they contained facts on the inside.

  Maestro Virgola would say that teaching us was like trying to teach monkeys, and stupid ones at that.

  We all suffered his punishments, but Miracolino was singled out more than anybody else. Maestro Virgola would demand an answer and our classmate would open his mouth, but nothing would come out. Maestro Virgola would rap him hard on the head, then wipe his hand on his handkerchief with a look of disgust.

  Miracolino’s ragged clothes were always caked in mud, or worse - but it was not only his clothes which smelled terrible. His diet of fish that was past its best, and leaves, caused him bursts of noxious flatulence. Maestro Virgola would point out the offensive smell to the whole class, expressing his revulsion and calling him a wretched, foul boy. Before long, he relegated Miracolino to a corner at the back of the classroom. The boy was small for his age and his eyesight was poor. He could not see the blackboard, so being at the back of the class made the difficult task of learning almost impossible.

  Some children were mean to him, taunting him about his stinking clothes and foetid farts. Miracolino would simply stare at the ground, biting his tongue. I thought about what Salvatore had told me - that Miracolino understood everything that was said to him. Despite my misgivings, I felt very sorry for him.

  ‘You mustn’t be unkind,’ I told his tormentors. ‘He has been born into very unfortunate circumstances.’ These were my aunt’s words, repeated exactly.

  Rita and I befriended two boys in the class, Pietro and Paolo. Our parents were not keen on the new friendship as the pair were thuggish boys who had a reputation as trouble-makers, but Rita and I were entertained by their swaggering, their cockiness and their colourful language. We would laugh as their boasting descended into physical fights.

  With the start of school came catechism classes in preparation for our First Holy Communion. Our classes were given by Don Ambrogio and were so dreary that Rita and I were obliged to poke each other to stay awake. Each class was two hours long, although it felt a good deal longer. It was an ordeal for us, and clearly it was not particularly enjoyable for Don Ambrogio either.

  The only reprieve was provided by Pietro and Paolo’s occasional witticisms, but most of the time we sat in glazed silence as Don Ambrogio droned and pontificated. The only questions he asked were rhetorical. There were no uplifting Bible stories, just endless repetitive explanations about transubstantiation and the Eucharist.

  ‘So, transubstantiation,’ he would at long last conclude, ‘is the process through which the substance of Our Lord Jesus Christ’s body and blood are transformed into the substances of bread and wine. Although the bread and the wine still retain the characteristics of bread and wine, their substance has in fact been transubstantiated. And what did Jesus tell us about transubstantiation? In John Chapter Six Jesus said, “I am the bread of life. Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood will remain in me and I in him.” So, what does this mean?’

  Although Don Ambrogio had not intended the question to be answered by any of us, on that particular morning, Paolo chirped, ‘It means that Jesus makes a tasty snack.’ And we all laughed.

  Don Ambrogio leaped to his feet as though a firecracker had gone off under his chair. ‘Out! Out! You disrespectful scoundrels!’ he shouted.

  After that incident, he banned both Pietro and Paolo from his classes permanently. Catechism classes became all the more uninspiring without them.

  *

  Shortly before Easter, Maestro Virgola announced that we would be sitting exams in Italian and mathematics so that he could assess what we had learned since the beginning of the school year; or rather, if we had learned anything at all.

  This provoked a great wave of fear amongst us. Our imaginations filled with the sadistic punishments which could be inflicted upon us by the master if we failed. Most of all, we feared the wooden ruler. It didn’t help that both Rita and I had missed almost three weeks of school due to an outbreak of chicken pox. Rita was so nervous that she cried when the news was announced. At this, Maestro Virgola rapped her on the head and told her to stop her whining immediately.

  Pietro and Paolo were less concerned about the test, but suggested that if we were so bothered about it we should simply play truant on the day. Neither Rita nor I were brave enough to do this.

  ‘My parents would only let me stay at home if I was ill,’ said Rita.

  ‘Mine too,’ I added.

  Pietro laughed. ‘Then pretend you’re ill,’ he said. ‘What’s the big deal? If we all pretend to be ill, they’ll just think we’ve caught something off each other.’

  Rita and I considered the idea. It was not unusual for several children to be missing from school on the same day. Coughs, colds, stomach upsets and childhood illnesses such as mumps or measles spread quickly from child to child. Unfortunately, all four of us had already succumbed to chicken pox and we knew we could not catch it twice. Even Rita, who could normally be relied upon to catch every illness going, had been in robust health for months.

  It was decided that faked headaches or stomach aches would not pass our parents’ scrutiny. We had to take some sort of decisive action which would not damage us permanently, but would produce credible symptoms. Various options were tabled.

  ‘We could roll in stinging nettles,’ suggested Paolo. ‘Or we could try to catch lice from Miracolino.’

  Rita and I were against both these ideas. Adults could recognise nettle stings and would see through the ruse very easily. Catching head-lice was all very well for boys, whose heads would be shaved, but for girls with long hair, such as us, it would be far worse and under no circumstances would we be willing to have our heads shaved. We would rather sit the test.

  ‘How about rat poison?’ suggested Pietro. ‘If we only eat a tiny amount there would be no risk of death.’ He claimed that he knew of a man who had consumed small quantities of rat poison throughout the war and successfully avoided conscription, but this suggestion was vetoed as being far too risky.

  ‘I know,’ said Paolo. ‘Let’s jump in the canal and walk around in our wet clothes until we catch a chill.’

  ‘Not me,’ said Rita. ‘It would go straight to my chest and then I really would be ill.’

  Finally it was my own idea which was voted the most workable. My aunt had preserved some sloes with the surplus grape skins from the wine-making, but they had gone rancid. The jar had been sitting forgotten and festering in my aunt’s barn for some time. I suggested that we should eat tho
se. We all knew that eating rotten fruit was a sure way of upsetting our stomachs and giving us the runs, and as far as we knew, nobody had ever died of that.

  The day before the test I took the jar and smuggled it to school, where I hid it behind one of the lavatories until the end of the day. After school we congregated in the garden beside the church.

  The rotting sloes stank. The fruit had turned into a slack, lumpy paste over which a film of fuzzy mould had grown.

  Pietro, Paolo, Rita and I stood in a circle, hidden from view by a laurel bush, passing the jar between us and spooning the putrid gloop into our mouths. The acid paste fizzed on our tongues and made us retch as we swallowed it.

  Miracolino had followed us. He stood staring at us and scratching.

  ‘Go away!’ said Pietro.

  Miracolino did not react.

  ‘This is none of your business. Clear off - and keep your beastly fleas to yourself,’ Pietro repeated, pulling an ugly face.

  Still Miracolino did not respond. He seemed to be staring right through us.

  ‘Don’t you understand Italian? Go away, idiot,’ Paolo sneered in Cremonese dialect, ‘or I’ll throw you in the canal and you can drown, like you should have done the first time!’

  Although I did not want Miracolino to join in, I didn’t like the boys’ meanness.

  ‘Don’t say that,’ I said.

  ‘Why not? He’s an idiot. I don’t even know why he comes to school.’

  Pietro pulled another leering face at Miracolino, who just continued to stare.

  ‘We could let him have a bit,’ I said at last. The sloes were so foul that I knew we would not finish them.

  Pietro looked at Paolo. They both looked at Rita, who shrugged, then said, ‘All right. But don’t tell him what we’re doing.’

  ‘He wouldn’t be able to tell anyone anyway,’ said Paolo. ‘He’s too stupid.’

  I held the jar up and beckoned Miracolino over. There was a momentary spark in his blank stare.

  ‘I’m not using the spoon after he’s used it,’ said Pietro, recoiling. ‘I might catch idiotitis.’

  ‘I’ve had enough anyway,’ said Paolo, letting out an enormous, vile-smelling belch. ‘And I think it’s working already.’

  We had managed to consume half the jar between us. I tried to take one last spoonful, but my stomach knotted and I feared that if I ate any more I would be sick on the spot. We all agreed that the dose was probably sufficient.

  Miracolino edged towards us and held out his hands.

  ‘Don’t tell,’ I said, passing the jar over.

  ‘Yes. Keep your stupid trap shut, you imbecile,’ added Paolo, raising a clenched fist towards Miracolino, ‘or I’ll make sure you have even less teeth than your mother.’

  Miracolino took the jar and bolted several spoonfuls very eagerly. He didn’t seem to find it unpalatable at all. He then dropped the spoon and scooped out all he could with his hands, stuffing it into his mouth and gulping so quickly it made him pant. Once he had finished he handed me back the jar and resumed his immobile, staring position.

  It was not long before I was overcome with a contented warmth and strange sense of excitement, as though something particularly good was about to happen. Everything seemed funny. Even Pietro and Paolo’s belching contest made me laugh. Rita tried to join in, but she couldn’t belch. Instead she pulled faces which I found so hilarious that I laughed until I had tears in my eyes.

  The boys entered into a heated argument about something and started to fight, which involved much shoving and toe-stamping, but their altercation was short-lived as they fell to the ground, flopping like fish and giggling.

  We milled around the garden for a while until the boys suggested we should go into the church.

  ‘Let’s see if the old witch is there,’ they said. ‘If she is, let’s creep up on her and scare her. You should hear the noise she makes when you startle her.’

  The old witch they were referring to was Immacolata Ogli, the elderly parish housekeeper. Everybody in the village knew her. She had raised thirteen children - five of her own and eight fostered, one of whom had been Zia Mina, who had been orphaned as a baby. Zia Mina called her ‘Mamma Imma’.

  Immacolata came to Paradiso regularly to see Zia Mina, in particular during the spring and summer when she would be given some fruit, vegetables and flowers. Zia Mina grew a strip of dahlias and gladioli especially for the church, which Immacolata would collect on a weekly basis.

  Standing talking in the garden, they made an odd pairing. My aunt measured over six feet in height, which was nearly a foot taller than average for a woman, while Immacolata was short, around the height of a twelve-year-old child. However, what Immacolata lacked in height she made up for in girth, and in spirit.

  She was always red-faced. It looked as though she scoured her cheeks with a scrubbing brush. Her hair was a frowzy mass of grey wire which she tried to tame, unsuccessfully, with a multitude of clips and pins - except in church, where she covered it with a hat that resembled a cauliflower.

  Immacolata was extremely pious and would cross herself repeatedly as she spoke, like a form of punctuation between her sentences. Despite her advanced years - and through choice, not necessity - she still worked every day, cleaning, preparing meals for Don Ambrogio and arranging flowers in the church. Pietro and Paolo said she had chased them out of the church many times before.

  Rita and I followed the boys, holding hands and singing. Immacolata was not in the church. It was completely empty. It had never interested me much before, but suddenly it felt like a place worthy of exploration. We played tag between the pews, ran up and down the aisle, around the altar and ventured into the sacristy, where Don Ambrogio’s robes hung on a rail. I had never been into the sacristy before, for it was out of bounds to all but the priests and altar boys.

  Pietro took one of Don Ambrogio’s stoles, wrapped it jauntily round his neck and promenaded around the sacristy, swinging his hips and pouting.

  ‘Look at me,’ he gushed. ‘I’m such a beautiful lady.’

  Rita and I laughed and laughed. For the first time in my life I felt the thrill of naughtiness. I felt brave and mischievous.

  A game of hide and seek ensued. The church was so rich in exciting hiding places that each seeking took a long time. When it was finally my turn to hide I headed for the confessional, where I stayed for a long time waiting to be discovered, crouching under the priest’s bench.

  I cannot say how long I was in the confessional. I may even have dropped off to sleep briefly. It was only boredom and cramp which made me emerge, and when I did so I found that nobody was looking for me.

  Rita was sitting on the altar steps groaning quietly, rocking back and forth with her head on her knees. Paolo and Pietro were behind the altar, attempting to break into the tabernacle.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I asked.

  ‘This is where the wine’s kept,’ Pietro replied.

  ‘Stop it!’ I said. Suddenly being in the church did not seem like such good fun. My feeling of bravery had dissolved.

  ‘Stop it!’ I said again. ‘You’ll get us into trouble.’

  Pietro came towards me, his lip curled. He was still wearing Don Ambrogio’s stole.

  ‘We’ll do what we want,’ he snarled, giving me a shove which sent me toppling backwards. As I fell, there was a loud clattering noise and the smash of something heavy breaking. I had tripped over an enormous Paschal candle and in so doing had knocked over the statue of a saint, which now lay maimed and decapitated on the floor.

  ‘I’m going to tell,’ I said, but Pietro grabbed my arm.

  ‘Really? Tell what - that you broke a statue? If you try to make out we were here, we’ll deny it, and we’ll tell them all about your plot to miss the test.’

  ‘It was your idea too!’ I retorted, feeling anger and indignation rise through me.

  Pietro brought his face close to mine. Our noses almost touched.

  ‘You provided the poison
. The sloes were your idea,’ he hissed. ‘And you got them from your aunt - and everybody knows about her and poison! If you tell, we’ll tell too, and it’s not just you who’ll be in trouble. They’ll come and take your aunt away and probably your parents too for protecting her.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I said, but Pietro just smirked.

  ‘Oh yes, you do,’ he sneered. ‘Your aunt poisoned all those German soldiers! My mother said she put the whole village in danger by doing that: we were lucky we weren’t all rounded up and shot. If you breathe a single word, you’re going to be in more trouble than you could ever imagine. Your aunt’s a murderer. It’s about time she paid for what she did.’

  He pulled an ugly face and drew his finger slowly across his neck.

  ‘Your precious Aunt Zia is a murderer,’ he said again.

  I stood paralysed. The only thing I could think to say was, ‘The soldiers didn’t come to my house.’

  ‘And we weren’t in the church. Come on, Paolo. Let’s go!’

  Paolo leered at me and asked, ‘Were you hiding in the confessional just now?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Was it a good place to take a piss?’

  ‘What?’

  He shoved past me, opened the confessional door and relieved himself copiously inside. Pietro roared with laughter and the boys began to sing in unison.

  ‘Graziella took a piss in the confessional! Graziella took a piss in the confessional! Graziella took a piss in the confessional!’

  ‘I didn’t!’ I cried.

  With that, they ran out of the church, still chanting, ‘Graziella took a piss in the confessional!’

  ‘Oh no!’ wailed Rita. ‘We’re in so much trouble.’