That night after dinner at a simple trattoria that the children loved, Kitty had put them to bed. She and Vittorio stood at the window of their room, looking out at the treetops of the Borghese Gardens, the dome of St. Peter’s Basilica a glittering jewel against the night sky. They had their arms around each other, content with being together.
“How do you like being back in your homeland?”
He smiled. “My memories are of Argiano. I remember a little of Florence, a rainbow haze of kites and cloudless skies. Rome is far bigger than any place in my childhood.” He looked down at her. “I like the memories we’re making now, with the children, you and I. I’m glad we came. I feel so much better just being away from the daily stress of work, much as I love it.”
“I’m having a wonderful time, and Liam and Ottavia are, too.” Kitty put her hand on his chest. “We can’t forget our other reason for coming here. I was hoping we could go to the chancery office tomorrow and see if they can tell us where Father di Rienzi is.”
He stepped back. “Kitty, you are not like other wives. They say, ‘Yes, dear, whatever you want.’ Not you. You can’t be diverted from your mission of the moment.”
“I never let those boys bully Dermot.” She looked at him, a coy smile on her face. “That’s how we met, remember?”
He sighed. “That’s what I loved about you. And look, now it has come back to push me when I just want my life to remain the way it is.”
She looked as earnest as he had ever seen her. “This may be our only trip to Italy. How will you feel if, as we’re flying home, you suddenly think, What if…?”
He stood staring into space.
“Besides, I made an appointment at the chancery for eleven o’clock tomorrow morning.”
“I don’t know whether to hug you or spank you.”
She looked up at him under fluttering eyelids. “You could do both.”
****
While Dermot played in the outer office with the twins, a young priest ushered Kitty and Vittorio into a large office lined with cabinets along each wall, a large oak table in the center on an oriental rug. Two windows overlooked the bustling street below.
“How can I help you?” he said, gesturing for them to sit down.
Kitty spoke for them, afraid that Vittorio’s feelings ran too deep. “We are looking for a Father Vittorio di Rienzi. He was once stationed in the village of Argiano. The last we knew, he was in a parish in Florence. We think he might be a monsignor now, perhaps even here in Rome.”
“I’ll do my best to find him.” He went to one of the file cabinets and began thumbing through it. “Is he a friend or relative?”
“A relative,” she said, glancing at Vittorio, who sat in silence. “We lost track of him long ago when my husband’s family moved to America.”
The priest nodded. “It happens often. An ocean apart, with busy lives on both sides. A shame.”
The priest chatted with them as he leafed through page after page of official documents. “I want to help you,” he said. “You have crossed an ocean to see him. It’s the least I can do.” He became increasingly fretful the longer he looked. Finally he held his hands up. “I can’t find him anywhere in Florence or Rome or Milan. Where did you say he was stationed at first?”
“Argiano.”
Vittorio shook his head and said with a trace of bitterness, “He wouldn’t be there.”
She put her hand on his arm. “Please, Father, try it.”
The priest hurried into another file room. A quarter of an hour later, he returned waving a file, a triumphant smile on his face. “Father Vittorio di Rienzi, I have him! He is in Argiano!”
Vittorio raised his brows at the mention of the town. Kitty was elated. No one would have guessed. Argiano!
A mild breeze played with Kitty’s hair as they rode through the hills in a rented car. The excited children pointed out chickens in the yards of each home. Kitty stole glances at Vittorio, who was unusually silent. Have I done right in pressing him to see his father? I don’t want the meeting to open an old wound. She prayed that their meeting would not hurt them but, instead, be a healing.
As Argiano’s surroundings came into view, Vittorio stopped the car on a rise. The village spread before them, a panorama unchanged by the years. He stared, taking in the houses and the hills he had known so many years ago.
“What are you thinking?” she whispered, not wanting to intrude on a part of his life as he remembered it.
He turned to Kitty and smiled. “It’s just as I remembered it, only smaller. Much smaller.”
A village that still did not know or care much for the trappings of progress, it stood, stolid and reassuring. Children ran to the road’s edge to see the car, still an unusual sight. They waved, and all five passengers waved back.
“I think I can still find my Aunt Louisa’s house,” he said, and turned the car down a lane so narrow they could almost shove their hands out of the car windows and touch the whitewashed walls of the houses. He stopped the car in front of a modest home and jumped out, Kitty, Dermot, and the children following. In the yard, an old woman sat fingering her rosary beads. She turned at the commotion and stared.
“Aunt Louisa?” Vittorio leaned his elbow on a low wall that separated the garden from the street.
The woman’s mouth opened, but she said nothing.
“Aunt Louisa, it’s Federico Vittorio, your nephew, Ottavia’s son.”
She dropped the rosaries to the ground. “Federico Vittorio, who went to America?”
“Yes, yes!” he nodded, grinning all the while. “I’ve come here with my family to see you.”
“Mother of God,” she exclaimed, getting up slowly. “Come here so I can see you.” The five of them walked into the yard, Vittorio leading the way. She was speechless as she surveyed the man before her, taking in his height, staring into his eyes.
“It’s me, Aunt Louisa. Remember how I used to beg you for another anise cookie before I went home? You would scold me and then give me two, one for each hand.”
“Federico Vittorio!” She broke into sobs, hugging him and patting his face. “You have come back!”
The news traveled like an electric current through the tiny village, and soon Louisa’s house was filled with every relative Vittorio knew, as well as their children who had been born since he left. Each brought food, and the impromptu dinner was a feast of enormous proportions, salted with tears, laughter, and reminiscences, and especially sweet remembrances of his mother, Ottavia. Louisa insisted they stay with her, and they finally tumbled into bed late, after the last, lingering relative had gone home.
They were up early the next morning to get ready for Sunday Mass. By the time Vittorio and Kitty were dressed, the children were already in the kitchen with Aunt Louisa, happily communicating each in his own language, punctuated by elaborate gestures and occasional hugs. Dermot, too, seemed to understand the language in his own way.
“You will love the church,” Aunt Louisa told Vittorio, who interpreted for her when she signaled she didn’t understand. “It has not changed since you left. And dear Father di Rienzi, you will want to meet him. A wonderful man. Such a good priest, a comfort to us all.”
Vittorio’s jaw tightened at the mention of his name. He walked the path to the church, his mind turned inward, his brows knit together at remembrance of life without a father.
Kitty took hold of his hand and held it tight, hoping to reassure him even as she held her breath.
The simple church whispered serenity, so quiet Kitty feared her beating heart could be heard reverberating in every corner. With Aunt Louisa, they took a place in the rear of the tiny church. Vittorio remained stony faced. Kitty bent her head but couldn’t pray. She feared a confrontation between the father, imperious and uncaring, and the son, lashing out in his anger and pain. Had she done wrong in forcing this meeting? Consumed by her thoughts, she was shocked to hear the congregation rise. She rose, craning her neck to catch a glimpse of this man she
had suddenly built up in her mind to be self-absorbed and cold, a monster.
She saw a man tall and ascetically slim, slightly stooped with age. He had a full head of almost totally white hair, in sharp contrast to brown eyes that radiated love. He bowed low before the simple altar. It was such a regal gesture, Kitty could picture him on the main altar at St. Peter’s Basilica rather than in this country church.
“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritu Sancti. Amen.”
His voice had a deep, comforting tone, lulling Kitty as she watched his graceful moves at the altar, turning to the congregation, his robes swirling around him, raising his hands in benediction.
She glanced at Vittorio, who watched the priest’s every move. When Father spoke to the congregation, he looked at Kitty and the children, but his eyes lingered on Vittorio. Does he remember? She wondered. He had seen him once as a boy, decades ago. No doubt the parishioners had told him of the visitors. What was going through his mind as he looked at Ottavia’s son?
At communion, Vittorio stood to let his family out of the pew, then followed. As they knelt at the altar rail, Kitty saw the priest move from person to person, then stop momentarily, studying Vittorio’s face before giving him the sacred host. Kitty thought she saw a flash of sorrow illuminate the priest’s brown eyes. She caught her breath as he placed his hand on Vittorio’s shoulder for a brief moment—a gesture of greeting, of love, of what else she wasn’t sure—before moving on to the children and Dermot, then to her.
After Mass, Vittorio was besieged by Federico’s family, now fat as well as muscular, who elbowed their way in front of the other villagers. They hugged him, exclaimed over him, and introduced him as their nephew. “Why did your mama not stay in touch with us?” they demanded. They took his hand. “Come, have dinner with us. Stay with us and we can tell you all about your father.”
Vittorio looked at Kitty in a panic. He had heard his mother’s story only once, and was unprepared to be overcome by this throng of men who thought they were related.
Kitty stepped forward. “Thank you, but we must first greet Father di Rienzi. I have business with him. We will see you later, if time permits. So good to meet my husband’s relatives.” Vittorio nodded, almost in a trance.
“We will find you,” they said.
Never had good will sounded so threatening.
Standing apart, talking with his parishioners but with his eyes on Vittorio, was Father di Rienzi. At the first opportunity, he approached them. Kitty watched as the two stood, eye to eye, the older man extending his hand. Vittorio looked at the outstretched hand, eventually giving it a quick shake.
“I’d like to talk to you and your family, alone. Will you come for coffee later this morning?” At Vittorio’s hesitation, he added, “I hope that’s a convenient time. I’m anxious to see you.”
****
Kitty squeezed Vittorio’s hand as he knocked on the door. “It will be fine,” she whispered, hoping that love was strong enough to span the generations. Father di Rienzi opened the door and waved them in with a gracious smile, shaking Kitty’s hand first, then Vittorio’s, Dermot’s, and the twins in turn.
“This is my brother Dermot,” Kitty said, “and our children, Liam and Ottavia.”
At the mention of Ottavia’s name, the priest looked at Vittorio. “How is your mother? It has been so long since I heard news of her.”
“She died, Father,” Vittorio said, his voice devoid of emotion. “A few months ago. Kitty and I were with her. She asked us to say the Pater Noster for her, and she…went to sleep.”
Father di Rienzi’s eyes filled, and he quickly looked away. “Sit down, please, while I get the coffee,” and he hurried from the room.
“Dermot, will you take the children outside to play?” Kitty requested.
She looked at Vittorio. He had to have seen the priest’s reaction, but he stared stubbornly ahead, his jaw set.
It was a while before the priest reappeared, carrying coffee and cookies on a silver tray.
“How beautiful,” Kitty said.
The priest smiled. “An unaccustomed luxury. My mother sent them to me. The recipe has been in our family for generations.” He served them, then sat down of one of the wooden benches that served as a seating area, while at the other end of the room stood a dining table on which he had rested the tray.
“I am so sorry about your mother. I knew her the first time I was in Argiano, so long ago.” His eyes reflected his mind’s journey back, a journey which he had taken many times. He sighed, then looked up, as if to bring himself back to the present.
“I met you when you were only seven years old, though I’m sure you don’t remember. You were with your mother in Florence, by the Arno. You were standing on the river railing, and your kite got away from you.”
“I reached for it and started to fall, and you caught me.”
“You remember.” The priest smiled. “I can remember your mother that day, so beautiful in the sunlight, and how she loved you. I envied your closeness. It is something a priest is deprived of, never knowing the pleasure of a child’s love. But you affected my life all these years, though of course you couldn’t know it. In my loneliest moments, I would remember that day, and pretend…” He looked away. “You will think me very foolish.”
Vittorio moved forward in his chair. “No, please go on.”
“Well, your mother was a wonderful woman. I had great…feeling for her. And when I was sometimes near despair over my life, I would think of her and you, and imagine that…you were my family.”
He looked at Vittorio apologetically. “I am so foolish to tell you this, but I want you to know that there hasn’t been a day that I have not prayed for your mother and you, at Mass and in the confines of my room. My heart has remembered.”
Vittorio sat looking down at his hands, and the priest lapsed into an embarrassed silence. Kitty didn’t know what to say. She felt like an onlooker at an unfolding drama in which she had no part.
Abruptly, Vittorio stood up. “We must be going, Father.”
The priest’s face looked stricken. “I apologize for my remarks. I know I spoke foolishly. I had hoped you’d tell me about your mother. There is so much I don’t know about her, Federico.”
Vittorio started toward the door.
“Vittorio!” Kitty said.
The priest looked from her to Vittorio in astonishment. “But your mother called you Federico.”
“No, she named me Vittorio,” he shouted. “Vittorio!” He took a step toward the priest. “Vittorio, Father di Rienzi,” he said in a calmer voice, and fell to his knees. “Vittorio, Father,” he whispered.
The priest looked down at the young man before him, understanding shaking his being. He looked to Kitty for confirmation. There were tears in her eyes as she nodded her head forcefully. “Yes.”
“There is nothing so foolish as an old man,” he said. “I…I’m afraid to believe. What are you telling me?”
“I am Ottavia’s son…and yours.”
The priest put his hand to his chest, the color draining from his face. “Ottavia’s…and mine! What of Federico? Their wedding? She told me you were Federico’s son. Oh, God.” His eyes widened at the enormity of the revelation. “Oh, God! My son!” he almost sang.
His mood turning again, he said, “I should be damned to hell for abandoning you both. I loved her so much, have always loved her. And I left her with a child.” He held out his hands. “Why didn’t she tell me? Why did she go to America? I would not have let her go if she had told me. She ran away, and in my darkest hours I was afraid it was because she didn’t love me. God forgive me. How did she cope alone? Did she hate me?”
He spoke almost to himself. Then, putting his hand on Vittorio’s arm, he said in a whisper, “Do you hate me?”
“I did for many years. I felt you abandoned my mother and me. But my mother didn’t feel that way. A monsignor told her if she stayed in Italy it would hurt you, cause you shame. She loved you so much she
left her country for you.”
The priest seemed to sink into the bench, clutching the seat to steady himself. “Oh, Ottavia, what have I done to the one I loved most?” He covered his face with his hands and folded himself inward, his sorrow a palpable presence in the room.
“I beg your forgiveness,” he said in a voice hoarse with pain. “Whatever I can do to make up for the years, I’ll do. What do you want of me?”
Vittorio sat on the bench next to the priest. “I only want a father. That’s all I ever wanted.”
They threw their arms around each other and wept, the beginning of understanding and the flowering of a love that had waited through a long winter. Overjoyed that they had found one another, Kitty impulsively jumped up and flung her arms around them. The priest opened his arms to include her. “I have a son and a daughter-in-law.”
Kitty grinned. “Don’t forget, Father, you also have two grandchildren.”
“Oh, I’m not thinking straight. Please bring them in.”
He held them at arm’s length, studying them, drinking in their features. “Liam looks like you, Vittorio, but little Ottavia has her grandmother’s smile.”
He invited Dermot and the children to help themselves to cookies, and began to question Vittorio and Kitty, hungry to know every detail of Ottavia’s life. “Where did you and your mother live? Was she well? Was she happy? What did she do? Did she speak of me? Tell me about yourselves and the children.”
They talked for hours, Vittorio melting away the years for his father. Kitty marveled at the similarity of their gestures, their voices, their souls.
When Vittorio had answered his father’s questions and reminisced for a long time, he said, “We expected you to be in Rome. Why are you in Argiano?”
“I hated the politics. I realized that I was happiest with the simple life and the values of country people. I asked to be sent to Argiano. Here I minister to the people of the village. Here, I have always felt close to Ottavia. She taught me what was important.”
Choices of the Heart Page 32