Don Ambrogio then proceeded to hum something which may well have been intended as a rendition of a canto popolare, but sounded more like a wasp trapped in a bottle.
‘Apologies, Signora Mina. I digress! Allow me to move onto the matter of the feast.’ Don Ambrogio took a very deep breath, licked his lips and spread his hands flat on the table, as though already envisaging a banquet laid out before him.
‘Amongst the delicacies which we propose will be spit-roasted pig, a wide variety of grilled meats, polenta, bread and soup. Our intention is to charge diners a fee of 200 lire per head, payable in advance. This will not include wine, of course. That will be available to be bought separately on the night.’
Don Ambrogio looked at my aunt as though he was expecting something.
‘Are you asking me to pay you now?’ she said.
‘Indeed, Signora Mina. Although we are receiving pledges and donations of food, a good part of it will have to be purchased before the event. Regrettably, I am not in the same position as Our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, Who was able to perform miracles with loaves and fishes. Nor do I have the ability to turn water into wine.’
Don Ambrogio chuckled, although it was clear that the joke had been told many times before, probably to every household he had visited on his rounds.
My aunt thought about this for a few moments and promised a crate of spring cabbages for the soup. Don Ambrogio hesitated before writing down her pledge.
‘Cabbages?’ he mused. ‘Although that is most generous, I already have several promises of cabbage.’
‘That’s because they’re in season,’ replied my aunt.
‘Indeed,’ said Don Ambrogio. ‘In that case we will all be enjoying a hearty cabbage soup. And please don’t think me in any way ungrateful for your generosity. Many people are very fond of cabbage soup. Adding a few rashers of pancetta would of course add to its tastiness.’
‘Are you expecting me to donate pancetta?’ asked my aunt.
‘Thank you, Signora Mina. That would be marvellous! You are most generous.’
My aunt said that she would see what she could do, adding after Don Ambrogio had left that pledging a crate of cabbages was one thing, but pancetta did not grow in her garden. She was surprised that he hadn’t requested that she play in one of the football teams, or join the band.
*
Piles of old newspapers were delivered to school, and our classes were suspended for a whole day so that we could make bunting. Maestra Asinelli organised us in a strict production line. I was put in charge of cutting. Rita was my second-in-command.
We worked through our lunchtime and two hours past the end of the school day. Our enormous lengths of bunting were strung between the houses in the village and across the front of every shop. Even the church was festooned. Despite its lack of colour, the bunting was a very pretty sight as it fluttered in the breeze.
The village was abuzz. Pavements and roads were swept, doorsteps scrubbed, the little garden beside the church was raked and its shrubs trimmed. All rubbish was removed. The whole village gleamed.
Much attention was paid to preparation of the football pitch. However, there was a certain level of disgruntlement amongst the teams when they came to inspect the grounds. Pieve Santa Clara’s football pitch was situated on a piece of land which sloped - something that was both unusual and unfortunate in an area as flat as Pieve Santa Clara. There was also a problem with the goals. One had rotted beyond repair and the replacement which had been procured was considerably smaller.
Following much arguing it was decided that in order to make things fairer, the best option was to place the large goal at the top of the slope and the small goal at the bottom.
It was not a solution which pleased everybody. It certainly did not please Pierino Gambetta, who was Mazzolo’s star player and something of a local celebrity. His fame arose from the fact that he had almost been selected to play in Cremona’s reserve football team - twice.
The size of the goals and the camber of the pitch were not the only causes of disagreement. The idea had been for teams from local parishes to participate, but when a team comprising members of the regional Communist Party put its name forward, there was some questioning as to whether this was appropriate.
Not wishing to discriminate and seeing this as a great opportunity to bring the disenfranchised back under the wing of the church, Don Ambrogio approved the registration. This led Pieve Santa Clara’s Christian Democrat mayor to complain that if the Communists could enrol a team, other political parties could do so too. A Christian Democrat team was scrambled together very quickly. The centre-forward and the right back were actually supporters of the Liberal Party, and the goalkeeper was a paid-up member of the Radicals, but nobody opposed the coalition.
On the Sunday preceding the auspicious day, Don Ambrogio announced that the fête was to be an occasion which would be remembered by all for years to come. And the way things turned out, he was proved to be absolutely right.
*
As the great day approached, the weather seemed uncertain. Warm May sunshine could usually be relied upon, but instead a cold front came in from the north-east, bringing with it a colossal amount of rain. The day before the fête, a week’s worth of spring rain fell in two hours, washing the newspaper bunting into a gluey, grey pulp, which stuck to the streets and clogged the drains, causing some cellars in the village to flood.
The football pitch, which suffered from poor drainage at the best of times, became waterlogged. Questions were asked as to whether the event would still be going ahead and Don Ambrogio insisted that it must.
‘People have made arrangements at considerable personal inconvenience and even taken time off work!’ he exclaimed. ‘We cannot possibly change the day. And quite apart from that, all the food which has been pledged and prepared would spoil. The day must and will go ahead as planned.’
I went down to the village early in the morning with Rita. Our mothers had given us 20 lire each and we were eager to spend it at the stalls. But when we arrived we found only four stalls. One sold nougat at double the usual price, probably in order to cover the commission required. The second would have sold roasted pine nuts if the charcoal had not been too damp to burn. The last two were run by children who had been given free pitches as there had not been enough takers. There was a stall where upon payment of 50 lire players could throw hoops over bottles, and one where for the same payment balls could be thrown at skittles. Unfortunately there were very few keen to play either game as there were no prizes involved. Rita and I couldn’t afford to play even if we had wanted to.
Despite the disappointing fête, everybody was looking forward to the afternoon’s football tournament, but as the hour of the first kick-off approached, the heavens opened again and released an enormous deluge which fell so heavily that it was painful on the skin. One man remarked that it was enough to drown the birds in the trees.
Each match was to last only forty minutes to allow all the teams to play and a champion to be crowned by six o’clock, but there was so much stoppage time due to slips and falls and disagreements that the first game took well over an hour. The second match was worse as the pitch was by now such a mud-bath that most of the time it was difficult to see the ball. Passing it between players became impossible as it kept getting stuck in the mire. Pierino Gambetta, Mazzolo’s star player, walked off saying that it was beneath him to play in such conditions. The crowd booed and threw clods of earth at him.
By the third game the players were so caked in mud that it was difficult to tell who was playing for which team. Not even the players could tell. Four own-goals were scored.
In the crowd we grew colder and colder and when it started to rain again most people went home. The teams decided to call the tournament off. Even the Communists, Christian Democrats, Liberals and the Radical agreed unanimously.
Still, despite the disappointment of the abandoned tournament, there was a feast to look forward to and it was agreed
that a bellyful of hot, nourishing food was just what everybody needed.
‘Nothing can be done about the weather. It’s pointless getting cross about it,’ said my father.
However, the mayor refused to have the municipal tables and chairs put outside for fear they would be damaged by the rain. Instead, people were advised to bring umbrellas and not to forget their hats.
There was much grumbling.
‘How’s a man supposed to eat his grub if he’s holding his plate in one hand and an umbrella in the other?’ said one.
‘Don Ambrogio should open up the church and we can eat our dinner in there,’ suggested another.
This was deemed to be a good idea by some, but not by Don Ambrogio, who refused point blank.
‘Why?’ came several cries. ‘Why can we not sit in the pews?’
‘Because the House of God is not the place to eat one’s dinner! It is against the teachings,’ Don Ambrogio said firmly.
‘What teachings? You’re just making things up!’
He protested that he most certainly was not - and denied that he had once been seen tucking into a panino behind the pulpit.
‘It says so very clearly in Corinthians,’ he blustered. ‘And anyway, the mess you would all leave would be an unholy one. I wouldn’t put it past you to rinse your greasy fingers in the stoup. It’s totally out of the question.’
The band turned up, but refused to play unless their fee was paid upfront, so they left.
Tempers were becoming frayed. People were cold and their stomachs were empty. The bad situation was made worse by the fact that when at last the promised feast materialised, it was not much of a feast at all.
A very small piglet had been roasted. My father commented that had it not been for its snout and curly tail it could have been mistaken for a cat. The selection of meats comprised half a dozen skinny sausages and chops which were more bone than meat.
The huge cauldron of polenta was cold and barely a third full. The soup was thin and leafy and, despite my aunt’s donation, contained no pancetta. There were complaints that the bread was stale. Some loaves bore the nibble-marks of rats.
As for the wine, there was plenty of it, but everybody complained about the extortionate price being charged for a very small glass.
People were angry and demanded their money back. In order to placate the crowd Don Ambrogio conceded that they could have the wine for free.
I cannot be certain at what point the general disgruntlement descended into a drunken brawl, but before long the piazza was the scene of a great thrashing of fists and shouts of blasphemous swearing. Stones were thrown. Sticks whistled through the air, bruising backs and cracking skulls. Several shop windows were broken.
It became so bad that the police were called, but being seriously outnumbered by the rabble, they barricaded themselves into the hairdresser’s, where they remained until the crowd had cudgelled itself to exhaustion and headed home.
*
It was a subdued Don Ambrogio who welcomed his flock the following Sunday.
Barely a third of the pews were filled as many parishioners were unable to attend owing to the injuries they had sustained in the brawl. Others were at home in bed with heavy colds and rheumatic aches caused by standing outside in soaked clothing.
Don Ambrogio delivered a long and tedious sermon on the authority of God’s Word and directed everybody’s attention to the collection tin. The festival was not mentioned.
Chapter 13
My final year of elementary school was a happy one. I learned well and looked forward to each day, but I was saddened by the fact that once I moved up to middle school, Maestra Asinelli would no longer be my teacher.
We were all so keen to please her that many of us brought her fruit or flowers almost every day. Finally she had to request that we did not bring so many gifts or she would have no space to work. Her desk looked like a still-life composition.
‘You are all such kind children and I am very grateful for everything you bring, but rather than having all these gifts accumulating on my desk, I am going to propose an idea to you. On Sunday, after church, we will set up a little stall in the piazza. We will sell this fruit and anything else you might wish to bring in. I propose that with the money raised, if it is enough, we will go on a school outing at the end of the year to celebrate our time together. I will miss you all so much when you move up to middle school. What do you all think about that?’
There was much excitement. Suggestions were made as to suitable destinations for our trip, ranging from Rome to Paris. Maestra Asinelli said that if enough money was raised for a trip to Rome or Paris, that is where we would go, but we should not be disappointed if we had to limit our travel ambitions to somewhere considerably closer.
As it turned out, there was not enough money for a trip to Rome or Paris, but we did take the train to Cremona. I had been on the train once before, but had been too young to remember.
I sat transfixed, looking out of the window as fields of crops and cows, little houses, farms and barns flashed past. As we approached Cremona, the houses bunched together in clusters until finally I could see nothing but houses, buildings and people. Everybody seemed to be very busy.
Maestra Asinelli took us to visit the Cathedral of Santa Maria Assunta, which she told us had taken nearly four hundred years to build. We climbed on the backs of the great stone lions which flanked its entrance and ate our packed lunches sitting on the steps.
She told us that Cremona was world-famous for its violin factory and how a man called Antonio Stradivari had made the best violins in the world there. It was also famous for its torrone, the most delicious nougat made with honey and almonds. We had little interest in violins, but we all knew about torrone. For most of us it was the best thing about Christmas.
I am certain that our day in Cremona was every bit as exciting and educational as a trip to Paris or Rome would have been.
My contribution to the stall which had funded our excursion had been two purses I had made out of handkerchiefs. I had attached a ribbon to each so that they could be worn around the neck. Maestra Asinelli complimented me on my skill and told me that I would make an excellent seamstress, like my mother. However, I had other ideas.
As class was dismissed, I lingered behind.
‘Aren’t you going home, Graziella?’ asked Maestra Asinelli. She was at her desk correcting our exercise books.
‘I wanted to ask you a question.’
‘Of course. Ask me anything you want.’
‘How do you become a teacher?’
Maestra Asinelli smiled. ‘Is that what you would like to do?’
‘Yes. I think so.’
‘Well, once you have completed middle school you will have to go to the Istituto Magistrale. It’s a school for teachers. If you pass your exams you will be able to teach in an elementary school, like me.’
‘Are the exams hard?’
Maestra Asinelli rested her chin on her hand and thought before she replied.
‘They require diligence,’ she told me, ‘but I am certain they would not be beyond your capabilities. In fact, I think you would make an excellent teacher, Graziella.’
I flushed with pride. ‘Do you think so?’
‘I know so. Teaching is an excellent vocation. The fact you are thinking of it as a career whilst so young shows you have great maturity.’
I was not sure what a vocation or a career was, but I knew that maturity was a good thing.
‘Did you always want to be a teacher, Maestra Asinelli?’
‘Yes. Since I was about your age. And I did exactly what you have just done. I stayed behind after class and asked my teacher what I should do so that I could be a teacher too. And I’m very glad that I did. I cannot think that I will ever want to do anything else.’
The end of term saddened me greatly. I knew I would miss Maestra Asinelli very much, but I passed my elementary exam with ease and secured my place at the middle school in Mazzolo the followi
ng autumn.
*
It was the afternoon of 26 June 1949. I was in my aunt’s vegetable garden helping to harvest peas. June was always a beautiful month, when the temperature was not too high and the days were long. Insects hummed and birdsong was a constant accompaniment to our work. There were so many butterflies that we regarded them as pests. They would fly into our faces and tangle in our hair.
We finished picking the pods and took our basket from the garden to the vine-covered veranda by the kitchen door where we sat side by side on the doorstep. The cat came to sit with us and arranged itself by Zia Mina’s feet.
My aunt wedged her metal bowl between her knees and we set to work, popping the hard peas out of their pods and into the bowl.
‘I think I would like to be a teacher, like Maestra Asinelli,’ I said.
My aunt nodded her approval, then added, ‘You will have to study hard.’
‘I will have to go to the Istituto Magistrale and take teaching exams.’
‘You are very well informed,’ my aunt said. She seemed impressed.
‘What did you want to be when you were little, Zia Mina?’
She shrugged. ‘It wasn’t the same when I was a child. I was sent out to work in the rice fields. That was the only choice I had.’
‘How old were you?’
‘Barely ten years old. By your age I’d already been working two years.’ Her face darkened. ‘It was horrible work. No better than slave labour.’
I already knew that Zia Mina had worked in the rice fields in her youth. I knew it because she complained about it frequently. If ever anybody grumbled about hard work, or an aching back, or miserly pay, Zia Mina would lecture them about the hardship the rice workers endured.
The only picture my aunt possessed of herself as a young woman was taken whilst she was working in the rice fields. It was a group photograph of a dozen girls wearing wide-brimmed hats and handkerchiefs over their faces as protection from the blazing sun and insect bites.
Paradiso: Utterly gripping and emotional historical fiction (The Paradiso Novels Book 1) Page 17