Two possible matches for me had been discussed—my second cousin Leo or my third cousin Sebastiano. If Papa married me to Leo, our family would acquire an additional bit of pasturage adjacent to our farm. If he betrothed me to Sebastiano, on the other hand, it would be in exchange for a breeding pair of Lagotto Romagnolo dogs, bred to sniff out truffles.
Of course, I would be asked my opinion when the time came and that opinion would be taken into consideration, but the final decision would be made by my parents, based on a number of different criteria, and I would be expected to go along with it without protest. I liked Leo and Sebastiano well enough but was hardly thrilled at the prospect of marrying either of them. To tell the truth, I didn’t see why I had to get married at all. I would much rather have stayed on the farm and taken over the goat herd when the time came. I was never one of those girls who are silly over men.
Concetta’s marriage to Cesare Bacigalupo was no less a marriage of convenience—he hoped for sons and heirs; she, for a new and more glamorous life, fine things, a great house, and pretty clothes. She did not love Bacigalupo; she loved the life she imagined he would give her. And that was the way it was. Plain and simple.
But a wedding that lacked what passed for pomp in our village, that was insufficiently lavish in terms of food and drink, would reflect badly on our family. It would suggest that we did not value Concetta, that we thought her unworthy of her suitor’s hand. Further it would demonstrate that the Umbellini were not generous, that we lacked in hospitality. And that would never do.
Accordingly, the moment the happy suitor headed down mountain again, bound for Casteldurante, Mama launched into feverish wedding preparations. So much to be done! Every visible surface must be scrubbed and scoured, every corner dusted, every spider web swept away, every object capable of achieving a shine must be polished. The contents of Concetta’s dowry chest, all those linens and laces and coverlets and tablecloths that she and Mama had labored over many a long winter night, must be inspected and aired and mended where moths had had their way. A special dress had to be sewn for Concetta—new and white—and a veil of handmade lace—both to symbolize her virginity and, more practically, to ward off evil spirits. The rest of us would wear our own best clothing, which must also be inspected, cleaned, and, if required, repaired; if an outfit no longer fit a growing child, and we were all still growing, it must be let out or a new one made. Food must be prepared and stored. Wine must be bottled. Even the goats came under Mama’s ferocious scrutiny. It fell to my brothers to bathe and perfume them and replace the leather thongs around their necks with fresh green ribbons. It was a matter of great pride that Cesare recognize that, although we might be country folk, we could still put on a proper wedding.
Cesare arrived on the Saturday accompanied by Pasquale Assaroti. He was not intended to represent the Bacigalupo contingent, being but the lowly son of a sacristan and an apprentice at Bacigalupo & Son, but rather to manage the donkey, Lucinda, whose job it would be to bear my sister down the mountain to her new home in the valley. We thought this a little odd at the time—that no member of the groom’s family or any of his friends would have come along for the purpose of standing up with him. In our naïveté, we did not realize that Cesare was embarrassed by his future in-laws and would rather have his fellow townspeople not know how humble were his bride’s origins. And he would have been correct. Looking back on it later, I realized that Concetta’s nuptials—what had been for us the result of so much effort and expense—were, in fact, nothing more nor less than a simple country wedding, clumsy and graceless, steeped in tradition and marinated in superstition.
As for the event itself, my memories are scattered and few: Mama tucking a piece of iron in Cesare’s pocket to ward off the Evil Eye; a procession to the town square where Concetta and Cesare attempted to saw in half a log using a double-handed ripsaw—an act intended to symbolize how well they would cooperate in marriage and one at which Cesare, who looked like he’d never laid eyes on a saw, failed utterly; the villagers throwing grain at Concetta and Cesare as they left the church, as our people have done since Roman times; and later, back on the farm where the entire village had convened with their tambourines to dance the tarantella or spider dance, so called because it evoked the frenzy of a spider bite victim. Before Cesare’s arrival, everyone in the village had been thoroughly schooled in the necessity of keeping the Oracle’s continued survival a secret from the man who had officiated over the demolition of her shrine. As for Sibylla herself, her jug waited out the celebration in the same limestone cave where Mama aged her cheese and Papa his mistà. “I don’t know that I could contain myself were I to lay eyes on the knave,” she told us. “I’m speaking metaphorically, of course, but it could get ugly fast.”
There is one more thing I remember, however, and this I remember with utter clarity. It fact, it has haunted me all my life. It took place at the ceremony’s conclusion. As was traditional, my father presented Cesare with a wine glass, which it was his job to hurl at the stone floor of the church. The number of pieces into which it broke was believed to presage how many happy years together the couple would enjoy.
Improbably the wine glass did not shatter when it hit the stone floor, but instead rolled a little way down the aisle and under a pew. When this happened, my father quickly presented Cesare with a second glass, which he did succeed in breaking. However, I could not help but notice as I followed my sister back down the aisle that the first glass, the one that mattered, lay on its side in the dust-clogged place in which it had come to rest, and that it was whole.
Summer ended and autumn began; winter came, closing in around Montemonaco like a tight fist and, with it, a strong Bora—the bitter cold and squally wind that howls in from the mountains of Central Europe on its way to the Mediterranean, bringing with it sleet and snow and, on one dark and raging night in early March, Pasquale Assaroti, soaked to the skin and half frozen. We had had a letter some months before with the news that Concetta was expecting a baby in the spring—most likely in the latter part of April—and now here was Pasquale in the last days of March, whey-faced and grim. It was clear something was wrong.
“What is it, Pasquale?” my mother asked.
He opened his mouth as if to say something, then thought better of it. Instead he removed a packet from under his sodden great coat and handed it to my mother.
She took it from him with trembling fingers. “Addio, Pasquale! Has something happened to our Cetta?”
Pasquale looked distraught. “I cannot say it. Please. Read.”
Mama broke the seal on the letter and opened it with difficulty—her hands were shaking. She scanned the first few lines, before throwing the letter down and bursting into tears.
“What is it, Esperanza?” my father cried.
“It’s…I…” was all she could manage.
“What is it?” my brothers clamored. “What does the letter say?”
“Read it to us, Mari!” Papa instructed me.
I picked the letter up with trepidation and peered at the spidery, correct handwriting for a moment, trying to get a purchase on its loops and swirls. Then, “Dear Signor Umbellino et familia,” I read haltingly, “I am writing to you at the behest of my cousin, Cesare Franceso Adolfo Bacigalupo, Esquire, who is too bereft at the moment to do it himself. I regret to inform you that your daughter, Concetta Umbellino Bacigalupo, died in childbed on this day, March 15, 1821. It would appear that her constitution was not all it was purported to be. On the bright side, your grandson, who is to be named after his father and his grandfather and so forth and so on, that is to say, Cesare Bacigalupo VI, is alive, if not precisely thriving. It appears he was born before his time and, as a consequence, is very small and red and quite unattractive. A wet nurse has been secured for the infant. However, my cousin most earnestly requests that his wife’s sister, whose unusual name I cannot for the moment recall, come at once to Casteldurante to assume c
are of the child, as it is all that I can do to manage the household and, besides, I am a maiden lady and unused to squalling infants. Yours, Antonella Aiello.”
I glanced up from the letter, my own eyes filling with tears. My sister was dead at scarcely seventeen and now I would never see her again. The desolation I experienced at her loss was the most profound and intense of my short life and I surrendered myself to it completely. What a sad place our homely farmhouse was that night, dark and cold and full of tears and lamentations! We interrupted our mourning only when the Oracle began indignantly demanding from her jug in the cupboard. “What’s going on? Why all the caterwauling? How do you expect me to sleep?”
“Who is that?” Pasquale asked, glancing up.
My father, dashing tears from his eyes, said quickly, “Oh, that is only the ghost of my poor mother, Pasquale. She haunts us, you see.” He communicated with a glance to Rinaldo that my brother should straightaway relocate the Oracle to a less public place.
Rinaldo leapt to his feet, strode over to the cupboard, retrieved the jug from it, and scuttled up the ladder to the loft. “Shhhh!” we all heard him hiss at the jug, but Pasquale seemed to have believed the lie, for he asked no further questions, but only looked about the room rather nervously in case my grandmother’s ghost suddenly materialized.
The following morning my mother and father discussed the matter at great length and, after much back and forth, decided that, if I agreed to the plan, I would return to Casteldurante with Pasquale in two days’ time, with my father as chaperone. Once there, Papa would take stock of the situation and, if he deemed it suitable and I wished to stay, he would return home without me.
“It need not be forever,” Papa said, patting my arm. “You can come back whenever you want.”
“Perhaps you shall meet a fine gentleman in Casteldurante and then you will not have to marry a cousin.” Mama sounded hopeful. Lately there had been a number of children born in our village with physical defects—two with cleft palates; one with only three fingers on his right hand; and another with no right hand at all. I had overheard Mama talking with the Oracle about this. Neither of them thought that the Evil Eye alone was responsible for so much havoc.
I did not want to marry a cousin or a fine gentleman, but the prospect of going to an actual town, a town down there, was very exciting. Up to that point I had never ventured farther from our little village than a dozen miles in any direction, never descended from the oak-clad limestone slopes of Monte Vettore, much less set foot upon the broad, rolling checkerboard of vineyards and olive groves, interspersed with golden squares of wheat, sunflowers, and mustard that comprised my father’s “most splendid panorama.” Neither had I glimpsed the sea, save as a haze of blue mist stretched along a distant horizon nor seen a body of water larger than a mountain tarn. I had never seen these things nor was I likely to have another such opportunity. And so I agreed to go.
And that was how quickly my life changed course. One day I was a country girl, the next, bound for town. It was a big change and I could not help but be excited. My sister, however, Concetta…she was gone forever.
Part Two
It was a heady first day of our journey—the steep descent down mountain to Ascoli Picene where Pasquale returned the donkey he had rented from a local farmer, and the three of us—Papa and Pasquale and me—boarded a bright yellow stagecoach bound for Martinsicuro on the Adriatic. My head swam, my heart raced, I was giddy with excitement. But all was not well. As matters fell out, the sudden change in atmospherics proved too great for my montane constitution. Hardy as I was, I had spent my short life at a high altitude and was used to much thinner air than that afforded at sea level. By the time we had reached San Benadetto del Tronto I had fallen ill, by Ancona, dangerously so. That it had sleeted from the time we left Montemonaco until we arrived at the base of the mountain and rained dismally from that point on didn’t help. By the morning of the second day, I was so ill that I was past noticing when my father, distressed at my worsening condition, left the stagecoach in Sant’Elpidio a Mare to return home and fetch my mother to Casteldurante so that she might nurse me. “We cannot lose two daughters in so short a time,” he told Pasquale.
When at last the yellow stagecoach passed through the old city gate of Casteldurante, three days out from Montemonaco, the sun was setting. I had the feverish impression of a great many very tall buildings all crowded together along narrow winding streets and multitudinous bells clanging Vespers. Then, the coach came to a stop in the Piazza del Liberata. By that time, I was so far gone that Pasquale was forced to lift me, bundled in blankets, out of the vehicle and carry me up the stairs to the front door. In lieu of knocking, he kicked at the big oak door with his boot. It opened. After that I remember nothing.
When next I regained consciousness, it was to find myself sunk deep into a gigantic bed in the middle of a darkened room, which gave the impression, even in the gloom, of being cavernous. At first, I was aware only of my head, which ached and felt as heavy as a melon. After that I must have drifted in and out of consciousness for some time—just how long I couldn’t say. Hours? Days?
Sometimes people came into the room. They would check my pulse or lay a cool compress on my forehead before leaving. I thought I heard a woman’s voice once or twice, and now and then a baby’s cry, but from very far away. For the most part the voices belonged to men—two of them. They spoke in hushed whispers and at first I thought their tongue might be a foreign one, for I could not quite make out what they were saying. However, as time passed and my senses sharpened, I came to realize that the persons in question were speaking Italian, though their dialect was markedly different from my own. Then I heard this.
“Frankly, I can’t comprehend what you see in her. Not compared with her sister.” A man, whose voice was not familiar to me, followed by one that most certainly was.
“Truly, my dear Pellicola? You do not? I find her utterly captivating!”
Were they talking about me? I roused myself. “Signor Bacigalupo?” My tongue felt thick and unwieldy; I was startled at how hoarse and weak my voice sounded.
“Mariuccia! Little one!” Cesare leapt to his feet. “You’re awake!”
At the same time, a cool, dry hand lighted on my forehead. “Excellent,” the man called Pellicola said crisply. “Her fever has broken. Didn’t I tell you that bleeding her to within an inch of her life would do the trick? What do I always say, Cesare? I swear by my leeches!”
“That you do!” agreed my brother-in-law heartily.
“Perhaps our little patient would benefit from some sunshine.” Pellicola crossed to a pair of louvred doors and flung them open. Light flooded in, and for the first time I was able to see the great bedroom in which I found myself. Needless to say, it was the finest room I had ever seen, crowded with elegant furniture and boasting a high, vaulted ceiling and a terracotta floor over which lay a sumptuous Turkish carpet.
“There! Now, isn’t that better?” He beamed, showing pointy teeth. Dressed in tight buckskin breeches and a camel-colored frock coat, the dapper Dr. Pellicola, whom I guessed to be in his late twenties, had a long, thin face, a receding hairline, and a wispy goatee that appeared just a little askew, as though it might have been pasted on by a tipsy valet. If he found me unappealing, I found him doubly so.
I winced, shielding my eyes with my hand. After abiding so long in darkness, I found the light almost painfully bright. I glanced around. “Where am I? Where’s Papa?”
“Why, you’re home, dearest Mariuccia! Your new home, that is!” Cesare sounded so rapturous it made me uneasy. Had some lingering affection for me blazed afresh now that Concetta was gone? I shuddered. If it had, I was going to have to set him straight and quickly. “As for Signor Umbellino,” he continued, “he returned home to fetch Signora Umbellino. But you won’t be needing her now, nor him. Not now that you’re well. Shall I send them a letter telling them not to come?�
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“No, wait!” I was about to say that I wanted nothing more than to see my parents, especially my mother. But then I thought better of it. I was fifteen, after all, practically a grown up, and who would take care of the goats, not to mention my unruly brothers in my parents’ absence?
“It’s settled then,” decided Cesare. “I shall send a letter by Pasquale straightaway.”
There was a sharp rap at the door.
Cesare sighed and rolled his eyes at the doctor. “Yes, cousin,” he said, affecting patience.
The door opened to reveal a woman in her late twenties or early thirties with broad shoulders and big feet, judging from the size of her lace-up boots. She was dressed all in black crepe save for a white triangle of a linen shawl trimmed in stiff lace and starched to such an extent that it resembled a porcelain plate through which she had somehow contrived to stick her head. She reminded me of a raven, with her sharp beak of a long nose, her bright insatiable eyes, and that way a crow has of hunching its shoulders and looming. She looked very cross and it was not hard to figure out why. From somewhere down below filtered a baby’s high, insistent wail.
“Oh,” she said, glancing coldly at me. “She’s awake, is she?”
“She is, cousin, Saints be praised!” said Cesare. “Mariuccia, I would like you to meet Antonella Aiello, second cousin to my deceased and much lamented mother. Antonella is so kind as to keep house for me.”
Antonella stared icily at me. “I am a poor relation,” she said. “If I do not keep house for him, I must retire to a convent and live out my days in poverty and silence.”
Unsure as to how best to respond to this, I mumbled, “Pleased to meet you.”
The Oracle of Cumae Page 10