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

by Francesca Scanacapra

  My head reeled with Pietro’s words. Had my aunt really poisoned the soldiers? I tried to think back to overheard fragments of conversation between my parents; to my father’s instruction never to say that the soldiers had come to our house; to my aunt’s bottles being smashed and buried . . . but my brain was fogged with panic.

  ‘We have to tell our parents,’ whimpered Rita.

  ‘No!’

  ‘We’ll be in even more trouble if we lie.’

  ‘We just have to tidy up and if anyone says anything, I’ll take all the blame. I’ll say it was me who did it,’ I offered.

  ‘That’s ridiculous - you don’t have to do that. We should tell them what Pietro and Paolo did.’

  That was when I realised that Rita had not heard my aunt mentioned.

  ‘No,’ I said hastily. ‘We have to say that it was me. You don’t have to get into any trouble. If you want, I can say that you weren’t here either.’

  ‘Why? Why wouldn’t we tell the truth? It wasn’t even your fault the statue fell over. You were pushed, Graziella. Why do you want to get yourself in all that trouble?’

  ‘I can’t tell you why, but you have to trust me. It’s really important and it’s really serious. If I could tell you, I would, but I can’t.’

  ‘But I thought I was your best friend.’

  ‘You are. And you will always be. Forever. But please, just say it was all me. Promise.’

  ‘All right,’ said Rita, obviously puzzled.

  The plan seemed watertight. I didn’t care what punishment I would receive as long as my aunt’s terrible crime did not come to light.

  I pushed the tabernacle door closed as best I could. The latch was loose, but I hoped it would go unnoticed. Then I gathered up the pieces of the statue and hid them behind a column and mopped up the confessional with a prayer cushion.

  Suddenly Rita said, ‘What’s that smell?’

  ‘It’s pee.’

  ‘No, not that.’

  ‘Incense?’

  ‘No, not that either. There’s a terrible smell.’

  I stopped, took a deep breath and heaved. The smell was so foul that it sent a cold chill right through me. I clamped my hand to my face, covering my nose and mouth. Rita covered her own nose and mouth with her sleeve.

  Miracolino was standing at the foot of the altar steps, staring at us. The origin of the repulsive smell was immediately clear.

  ‘You shouldn’t have given him sloes,’ gasped Rita. ‘That’s the worst fart ever! How can anyone fart like that?’

  She suddenly grasped her stomach. ‘I need some air,’ she said feebly.

  We made our way back outside. I wanted to tell Rita that we should go home, but couldn’t form the words. My tongue felt swollen in my mouth. I attempted to head out of the garden, but the paths and bushes rolled around me. I tried to stand still, but couldn’t. The ground beneath me swayed.

  Rita cried, convinced she was about to die, and was promptly sick all over her clothes. A moment later, I did the same.

  All I could do was to lie down and close my eyes. For a moment I thought I was back in the confessional. My memory flashed back to the game of hide and seek, but I could not tell what was real or imagined. Soldiers shone lights in my face. Panic-stricken thoughts about the damage in the church swirled around my head. I envisioned my aunt being led away to prison in chains.

  Although he had consumed a far greater quantity of sloes than any of us, the effect had not been the same for Miracolino. He had remained inexplicably clear-headed and had run back to Paradiso to alert my parents that all was not well. They in turn had alerted Rita’s parents.

  Pozzetti came down to the village on his bicycle and found us slumped together under the laurel bush, semi-conscious and soaked in purple vomit. Once he had ascertained that we were not in any mortal danger, he loaded us into his trailer and took us home. Pietro and Paolo were nowhere to be seen.

  Our mothers made us strip out of our vomit-soaked clothes on the front step and sponged us down, by which time we had sobered up somewhat. My parents were not angry, just utterly perplexed.

  ‘Sloes?’ said my father. ‘Why on earth would you want to eat sloes?’

  ‘Couldn’t you tell that they were off?’ asked my mother. ‘Mina said they were mouldy! They must have been disgusting. Why would you eat something which was so obviously rotten?’

  I didn’t tell them about the plan to miss the test, about the incidents in the church, or what I had learned about my aunt. I hoped desperately that Rita had remembered the promise I had made her keep.

  ‘You could have made yourselves very ill,’ said my father. ‘It was a silly thing to do.’

  ‘You have made yourselves very ill!’ my mother said, then added, ‘It’s just as well Miracolino had the good sense to come and tell us.’

  My night was filled with panic-stricken visions of dead soldiers and of my aunt being harangued by angry villagers. At one point I thought I heard gunfire in the distance. I gripped my sheets and listened again, but it was just my father snoring. His words swirled around my head.

  ‘If anyone asks you, even if it’s someone you know, don’t tell them the soldiers were here.’

  Chapter 8

  The following morning I awoke with a thunderous headache and a mouth so dry that my lips were stuck to my teeth.

  I had hoped that my mother would take pity on me and let me stay at home, but she said there was absolutely no reason why I should not go to school. Rita’s mother had reached the same conclusion. We trudged our way there slowly, our heads groggy and throbbing. Pietro and Paolo were absent.

  We sat in silence, waiting for our test, but first it appeared that Maestro Virgola had an announcement to make. He stood at the front of the class, glowering. His scowl rested upon each of us in turn. Finally he said, ‘This morning I received word that several heinous acts of vandalism were perpetrated in the church yesterday. I have agreed with Don Ambrogio that if I suspect that any one of you was in any way responsible, I would ensure that the guilty party, or parties, would receive a suitable punishment.’

  He scanned across the faces in the class again. I looked down at my desk.

  ‘Does anyone have anything they wish to say?’

  I felt Rita’s eyes glance my way, but I kept my gaze fixed on my desk.

  ‘Well?’ growled Maestro Virgola. ‘Does anyone have anything they wish to say?’

  The class maintained an innocent silence since, apart from Rita and myself, they knew nothing. Maestro Virgola snorted and began to write a list of questions on the blackboard.

  ‘You may commence,’ he said.

  We sat our tests in silence as he patrolled between our desks, tapping his long wooden ruler on the floor in time with his footsteps. The exam was incredibly hard and it was not made any easier by the fact that my head was pounding. Every tap of Maestro Virgola’s ruler rattled through my skull.

  Rita and I decided to skip our catechism class that afternoon as we could not face the two hours of tedium we knew it would involve. What’s more, questions might be asked about the events in the church. Lying to a teacher was bad enough, but lying to a priest was an altogether different matter.

  I hurried home and did my best to keep out of everybody’s way. I was in the garden hanging out laundry when my father and Luigi Pozzetti arrived. My father was not alone in the trailer. Cradled in his arm was the broken statue from the church.

  ‘What have you got there, Don Luigi?’ Salvatore asked as my Papá dismounted even more awkwardly than usual, trying not to drop the pieces of statue.

  ‘It’s dear old Saint Egidio. He needs a bit of medical attention.’

  ‘Saint Egidio? Isn’t he the patron saint of the physically incapacitated?’

  My father nodded. ‘Indeed he is,’ he said.

  Salvatore picked up Saint Egidio’s severed hand, then looked at his own clawed hand and said, ‘God has a strange sense of humour.’

  *

  The sch
oolyard was always a noisy place, but the next day as Rita and I walked in, a hush descended. Everybody stared and whispered. Gradually they began to chant Pietro and Paolo’s words.

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

  Rita was incensed. ‘Tell the truth – say who did it!’ she urged me.

  ‘No,’ I replied.

  Pietro and Paolo stood snickering by the gate. When I looked at them, they drew their fingers across their necks.

  ‘Murderer!’ mouthed Pietro.

  As I unpacked my satchel ready for class I could feel my classmates’ smirking glances. Maestro Virgola’s voice barked across the room.

  ‘You, girl. Come here!’ he snapped.

  A cold sweat prickled across my face as I made my way to the front of the class. I was so afraid of Maestro Virgola that I thought my legs would give way.

  ‘Yesterday I asked very clearly whether anybody in this class had anything to say about the acts of sacrilege perpetrated in the church. Do you recall that?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Speak up, girl! Do you recall what I said yesterday?’

  ‘Yes, Maestro.’

  ‘And you said nothing - at least, not to me. But it now appears that you have been bragging about your odious behaviour to your classmates and encouraging them to sing about your despicable actions. So, what do you have to say for yourself today, girl?’

  I hung my head and confessed to the things I had not done. A wave of muffled tittering spread through the class as I came to the part about peeing in the confessional.

  ‘There will be punishment!’ bellowed Maestro Virgola, with such force that I felt the heat of his breath as he circled around me. My whole body trembled.

  It was then that Miracolino raised his hand.

  ‘What is it, boy?’ snarled Maestro Virgola.

  Miracolino opened his mouth, but it took him a long time to find his words. Before he could get a single one out, Maestro Virgola yelled, ‘Well? If you have something to say, boy, say it!’

  Miracolino rose to his feet and screwed up his face in concentration, but the only sound that emerged was a stuttering grunting noise as he pointed towards Pietro and Paolo.

  ‘What are you doing, stupid boy? Say what you have to say and stop pointing your filthy hands around my classroom! And sit down!’

  Miracolino stamped his feet in frustration and continued to point at Pietro and Paolo, but he could not speak.

  ‘Sit down, I said!’ shouted the teacher again, lunging towards him with his ruler raised. Miracolino cowered and did as he was told.

  ‘As for you, girl,’ he said, narrowing his eyes as he spoke, ‘I will deal with you properly later. For now, go to the back of the class. For the foreseeable future you will be doing without the comfort of a chair.’

  Pietro and Paolo grinned while I was made to kneel at a desk beside Miracolino’s.

  ‘Don’t tell,’ I whispered under my breath.

  Within a short time my knees were numb and my feet had gone to sleep. When the class was dismissed at break-time I was not allowed to go outside. I remained kneeling at my desk, attempting to copy out the lesson. From my new position at the back of the classroom I had not been able to see the blackboard at all.

  The morning was interminable. As I took my satchel and prepared to leave, Maestro Virgola challenged me: ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

  ‘Home, Maestro.’

  ‘Home? I think not! Collect your things and come with me. Quickly!’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘To see Don Ambrogio, of course. You must face him and pay for your actions.’

  Rita was waiting for me in the schoolyard.

  ‘What are you doing loitering there, girl?’ barked Maestro Virgola.

  ‘I’m waiting for Graziella, Maestro,’ replied Rita meekly.

  ‘Are you unable to find your way home without assistance? Go! Go home!’

  Rita stared at me, wide-eyed and frightened. I hung my head.

  The door to Don Ambrogio’s residence was opened by Immacolata.

  ‘We are here to see Don Ambrogio,’ announced Maestro Virgola. He moved to step inside, but Immacolata blocked the doorway.

  ‘He’s having his lunch,’ she said curtly. ‘You’ll have to come back later.’

  ‘This is a very important matter, Signora Ogli.’

  ‘So is Don Ambrogio’s lunch. I haven’t spent half the morning cooking it for it to be eaten cold.’

  Maestro Virgola puffed out his chest, but Immacolata did not seem in any way intimidated. She stood her ground with her stout arms crossed.

  ‘Signora Ogli, it is absolutely imperative that I see Don Ambrogio immediately. It is of the utmost importance.’

  Immacolata made a huffing noise and puffed out her fat cheeks.

  ‘It better be,’ she said, ‘but it’s very inconvenient. Come with me.’

  We were shown to a dining room, where a long refectory table was set for one. Don Ambrogio was seated at one end. He was halfway through a plate of chicken with fried potatoes. A large pasta bowl sat wiped clean beside it. Immacolata took the empty bowl and waddled out of the room grumbling loudly about spoiled food.

  ‘I have found the culprit,’ Maestro Virgola boasted. ‘This girl has admitted everything. It seems she has also bragged about her disgraceful behaviour to her classmates as they are all talking about it. In fact, they have all been singing about it!’

  The priest wiped the grease from the corners of his mouth with the large linen napkin which was tucked into his collar.

  ‘I have to admit, it was not you I expected to see, Graziella,’ he said. ‘Come in. Let me hear what you have to say for yourself.’

  ‘I am terribly sorry about all the damage I did in the church.’

  ‘Indeed. I struggle to understand why you would do such a thing.’

  I didn’t have an answer. All I could do was to apologise repeatedly and offer to make amends. Don Ambrogio clasped his doughy hands together and thought for a moment, then said, ‘Is there something you’re not telling me?’

  ‘No, Don Ambrogio.’

  ‘Was anybody else with you?’

  ‘No, Don Ambrogio.’

  ‘You’re absolutely sure about that?’

  ‘Yes, Don Ambrogio. I was all alone in the church. Rita Pozzetti was outside in the church garden the whole time and there was nobody else. Please don’t punish Rita. She has nothing to do with it.’

  Don Ambrogio took a toothpick from the table and poked at his teeth. ‘Nobody else at all? You’re certain about that?’

  ‘Yes, Don Ambrogio.’

  We were interrupted by a knock at the door. Rita had not gone home, as instructed by Maestro Virgola. She had run to the cemetery to fetch my father, who came into Don Ambrogio’s dining room looking very concerned.

  ‘I assume you’ve heard about the filthy acts of vandalism in the church?’ said Maestro Virgola, looking at my father with disdain. ‘Your daughter has admitted all responsibility.’

  My father was shocked. He took off his hat and stood twisting it in his hands.

  ‘Graziella?’ he said. ‘Really?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Why did you not tell us?’

  I had managed to keep my composure until that point, but my father’s embarrassment and disappointment made my lips tremble and I began to cry. He reached out his hand towards me, but Maestro Virgola interposed himself between us.

  ‘It seems my daughter was not herself,’ began my father. ‘She ate some fermented sloes without realising that they were alcoholic. Of course, as she is only a small girl the effects of even a tiny amount were quite severe.’

  ‘Are you trying to justify your daughter’s behaviour by claiming she was drunk?’ interjected Maestro Virgola.

  ‘Well, of course I am not excusing what she says she did, but I feel I should point out that if she did indeed do i
t, there is an explanation for her behaviour, which is extremely out of character.’

  ‘A poor excuse!’ the man spat.

  ‘A childish mistake,’ corrected my father.

  ‘And not one which can go unpunished!’

  Don Ambrogio raised his hand to stop the argument and looked at me intently.

  ‘I think that in this instance, we should be slow to chide,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps you would like to consider everything you have told me, Graziella. And when you have given it some consideration, I would like you to come back and speak to me again.’

  ‘But she has admitted everything!’ exclaimed Maestro Virgola. ‘What else is there to consider? This girl’s actions have been appalling. An outrage not only to you, Don Ambrogio, but to the church and to the whole community - and an unimaginable embarrassment to her family!’

  The priest was quiet for a moment, then turned to me. ‘Are you familiar with the Ninth Commandment?’ he asked.

  ‘No, Don Ambrogio.’

  ‘It states that “Thou shalt not bear false witness”. Do you know what that means?’

  ‘No, Don Ambrogio.’

  ‘Well, it means that you should not tell a lie about something that has happened in order to protect yourself, or others. God instructs us all to tell the truth. I want you to think about that carefully, and when you have, come back and see me.’

  I left the priest’s house with my father. He had wrung his hat so tightly in his hands that it no longer sat straight on his head. He seemed at a loss for words and took several long swigs of medicine from his bottle as we walked home. I didn’t tell him that I had been on my knees all morning and he didn’t seem to notice that I was walking with a limp. We shuffled our way down the road together in silence.

  My mother’s reaction was not as calm as my father’s had been.

  ‘What?’ she exclaimed. ‘You did what?’

  I repeated the list of sins, which now flowed from me with a well-practised fluency.

  ‘Were those boys anything to do with all this?’ demanded my mother.

  ‘No,’ I replied. ‘And nor was Rita. It was just me.’

  There was no doubt that my mother was angry, but like my father and Don Ambrogio she could not quite believe that I would do such a thing, even in a state of inebriation. My parents gave me numerous chances to amend my story, but I stuck to it. They said that as a punishment I would be given extra chores, which was exactly what I had expected. I thanked them, perhaps rather too enthusiastically.