Dear Olivia

by Mary Contini

  Tadon Michele went into the back room to make sure the sausages and hams were in good order. He was not yet fifty years old but he had the appearance of a grandfather. Years of sleeping out in the cold winter months had left him weather-beaten and wrinkled. He was shorter than Alfonso, barely five feet and three inches tall.

  He was dressed ready for the day: dark trousers and his only grey jacket, a clean white shirt, crumpled and frayed at the collar, and a dark grey waistcoat. Although his hair was white, his moustache was still dark and bushy, giving him the air of authority that he deserved.

  The women had started to wash the children. The pot was taken off the fire before the water became too hot. Each child was rubbed and scrubbed just as the pig had been the day before, almost as harshly. Their hair was washed and their teeth rubbed clean with soft wood. They were lifted out, squealing with shock at the cold air, then rubbed dry in big sheets before being whisked home in a bundle to be dressed.

  The older children had been occupied since dawn, dressing the animals which were to be presented to the priest for the Holy Blessing of Sant’Antonio. Pietro had already chosen the plumpest young piglet from the last litter. He washed it, tied ribbons round its neck and bows on its tight curly tail. It squealed in protest. Until next January this fortunate animal would be cosseted, fattened and treated like a prince. Then it would meet the same fate as its relative had yesterday. It would become good sausages.

  The ass had been brushed, its hooves checked and its pathetic, scraggy mane teased into pigtails, a proud feather tied ludicrously between its ears. A goat and sheep had been decorated with makeshift garlands of early flowers: wild violet narcissus, gold-centred green hellebore and rose-coloured Alpine cyclamens. The delicate winter aroma of the flowers mingled with the pungent smell of sweat.

  The married women in the village wore their one special outfit. Long coloured skirts, red or blue, green or yellow, the bottoms decorated with strips of coloured ribbon and embroidery. These were covered with long white aprons and white or coloured lace waistcoats over full-sleeved lacy blouses. Around their waists they tied coloured cords and, on their heads, hair piled high and fixed with long bone combs, they arranged long white or black lace mantillas. They wound the straps of their cioce round and round their legs, the flat leather soles providing protection from the stones on the path.

  As the sun rose behind La Meta, the church bells began to peel across the valley, calling the motley group to attention. Tadon Michele led his flock of family and animals down the hillside. The animals, attached to strings pleated with brightly coloured ribbons, were held in turns by the children, who pulled and pushed, nudged and yanked, to make them move.

  In Picinisco, Don Dioniso had also been up before dawn. The priest in fact had been up all night. He had succumbed once again to temptation. Aptly named after the Greek God of Wine, Don Dioniso was well aware of his weakness. He struggled with it daily. Don Dioniso’s sin was the sin of over-indulgence: the sin of greed.

  The previous day had been a regretful one. It had been a day of intolerable temptation. It had been a day in which he had fought with the Devil and, worse than that, a day when the Devil had won.

  He had risen earlier than normal, even before the field-workers had left the piazza. He had lain prostrate in the sacristy of the church of San Lorenzo and had contemplated the life of Sant’Antonio Abate, the saint who, like him, had struggled with temptation.

  He had decided to dedicate himself to the Saint for the whole day. Instead of feasting and indulging like his parishioners he would stand apart from their traditions and rituals, their greed and gluttony. He would not join the crowd. On the eve of the Saint’s feast day, a day of abundance, he would set an example. He would fast.

  Don Dioniso struggled constantly with his insatiable appetite. He was not, however, aware of his other imperfection. He could not see, although his long-suffering parishioners could, that he was also guilty of the sin of pride. It would in fact be many years before Don Dioniso recognised and forgave himself for this flaw in his character.

  Picinisco, c. 1900

  His day had started, therefore, with the very best of intentions. Don Dioniso had said Mass to a congregation inflated with those who appear at church only on Holy Days and Obligations. The doors were pushed open, allowing a dreadful draught to annoy his left ear, as the men of the village, who always stood protectively at the rear of the church, spilled out into the piazza.

  At least today the piazza was fairly quiet. Tomorrow, on the feast day itself, there would be even more hangers-on, even more opportunists. Tomorrow the piazza would be full to bursting with musicians and beggars, animals and officials, nuns and Neapolitans! Today was bearable; tomorrow would be Hell!

  After Mass, Don Dioniso had counted the takings, and felt gratified. His sermon had made them dig deeper than usual into their pockets and the fund for the restoration of the church of Sant’Antonio Abate in St Eusebio in Rome would be nearer its target. Don Dioniso had smiled to himself. His longed-for promotion to the safety and sanity of Rome was surely a day closer.

  He hated his exile. How could he survive another year in this God-forsaken outpost of Catholicism? The people here believed in a cocktail of religion and superstition; they were ignorant but trusting, argumentative but biddable. And yet he had never known a people who had such a sure faith in God. They believed unconditionally. He had to give them that.

  He had decided the best way to handle his fast would be to remain alone, to pray, to keep out of the way of temptation; to keep out of the way of food. So, although many parishioners and officials had searched him out, no one had been able to find the priest. They had checked all his usual haunts, the kitchen, the dining room, the baker’s shop, but he was nowhere to be seen.

  He had in fact been hiding in the ancient bell tower. This was not entirely comfortable, as the sacristan, as was the custom, pulled the bell-cord every fifteen minutes, so that the villagers knew what the time was. Only at twelve, when the cannon boomed out over the valley and the chimes bellowed twelve times, had he given in and descended.

  In the afternoon he had thought he would faint with hunger, but his anguish had strengthened his resolve. He had succeeded so far. He would not give in. In fact he had felt rather pleased with himself. Tomorrow he would shame his weak parishioners. In his sermon he would tell them how he had overcome his temptation.

  And so Don Dioniso’s second weakness, the sin of pride, the sin that he had not yet recognised, tripped him up. Sins are like that. Like a precariously balanced stack of cards, one falls and they all tumble.

  As the day had shortened and the fires of the fascie had been lit, he had fallen foul of the aroma of i ciccioli. His head had spun with the onslaught of the enticing smell, his stomach had groaned and his mouth had filled with saliva. He had inhaled deeply, indulging his senses in the exquisite aroma, and sighed with pleasure.

  He had stopped short! Oh no! What had he just done? Had he enjoyed the pleasure of the smell of the food too much? Weakened by starvation and lack of nutrients, by smelling the food, had he, in fact, succumbed to temptation and broken his fast?

  Is a fast a fast if one smells the food, inhales the aroma and imagines the sensation of the garlic and pork, the toasted orange rind and the fat? Is a sin a sin if it is enjoyed in the mind instead of the flesh? Now that he had succumbed to his senses, had his fast ever been a fast at all?

  It is a sad reflection on the man that he, inevitably, decided that he had in fact broken his fast. And, it followed that, as he had not eaten at all that day, he would be neglecting himself and his parishioners if he did not join in the feasting with them. He had argued, with authority, that the Madonna herself, who loved all her children on this Earth, would not ask anyone to continue to suffer if they had tried their best but had failed.

  So, later than they had expected him, Don Dioniso had visited his parishioners, called on his friends, paid his respects to his official colleagues and had eaten his
fill. He had then spent the rest of that night of the eve of the Holy Feast of Sant’Antonio walking around his sparsely furnished bedroom riddled with indigestion and guilt, wishing he were dead!

  Now he stood on a makeshift platform in the middle of La Montana, the piazza at the top of the village. He looked resplendent in the priestly vestments of the feast day, his loose cassock a relief over his distended belly, his head bursting, his indigestion burning his gut. He steeled himself for the onslaught. The statue of Sant’Antonio Abate stood beside him, together with the official reception committee, a selection of altar boys, acolytes, the Sindaco, officials and police officers.

  Standing on the platform, elevated above the crowd, he could see further over the valley than usual. How beautiful the mountains stood, one rising above the next, higher and higher. The trees created a lush, luxurious carpet of deep green. Higher still his eye searched, seeing, in the pale violet morning light, ominous clouds at the top of La Meta. The mountain was covered with snow. The sky in the distance looked heavy.

  ‘Please God we will be lucky and get rid of the influx of peasants by tonight before the snow arrives and the roads are blocked.’

  Picinisco piazza and feast day procession

  As he put his hand over his eye to cut the dazzle of light, he saw the procession approaching from Fontitune. And as they made their way down the mountain, groups and families joined them from other trails to form a motley crew of nonne and fathers, babes and piglets in arms, asses and donkeys on leads, children and aunties in tow, all bringing their livestock to be blessed.

  Don Dioniso watched the approaching maelstrom with foreboding. To start the proceedings the Sindaco signalled to the chief police officer, who signalled to the band leader, who promptly started up the band. As the very first peasant arrived with a spectacularly decorated ass, Don Dioniso dipped his aspergillum into the Holy Water, lifted his right arm and with a flick of his wrist and a flourishing Sign of the Cross began showering his flock with his blessing.

  He blessed sheep, goats, the odd cow, cockerels, dogs, donkeys, horses and plenty of pigs, all scrubbed and cleaned, barking and screeching, defecating and farting! The music, adding to the excitement, was overpowering for some of the animals who decided to take their chances with the Devil and bolt back up the mountain or, worse still, up the animal in front!

  ‘Madonna Mia! Sant’Antonio, Aiutami!’

  By the time the Crollas arrived in the queue, the place was mayhem.

  Don Dioniso felt he would collapse.

  ‘Grazie a Dio.’ The church bell sounded a quarter to ten. The exhausted priest stepped down with a final over-enthu-siastic flourish of all the remaining Holy Water, relieved that the first part of his duties was over.

  How he managed to get through the crowds, down the Via Montana, packed twelve abreast from wall to wall, and not be crushed to death he would never know. However, professional to the last, puffed and pink, sweating and ever so slightly dishevelled, he arrived at the altar just on time, two steps behind Sant’Antonio who had been carried ceremoniously through the crowds aloft on the shoulders of the officials.

  The church was already full to bursting; the doors, wedged wide open, were jammed with men, and outside he could see the crowds arriving from Ponte Melfa and Atina.

  Just as he lifted his hand to start Mass, the music started out in the piazza with a well-practised rendition of the new Italian National Anthem, Marcia Reale, Viva il Re!, ‘The Royal March, Long Live the King!’. What that had to do with the beginning of Mass or the celebration of Sant’Antonio Abate, Don Dioniso did not know, but he would not be deterred. Noise or not, animals or not, Mass would begin.

  ‘In Nome del Padre, del Figlio, e dello Spirito Santo …’

  By the time he was about to deliver his sermon, he was furious. The band was still playing; it was about half-way through the overture of La Traviata. Then the street vendors, who had set up stall earlier, started to call out their wares. Even though it was January and the fields were fallow, the street traders still had plenty to sell.

  ‘Pistacchi di Sicilia!’

  ‘Baccalà! Stoccafisso!’

  ‘Limoni e Aranci d’Amalfi!’

  The congregation was restless, women looking round, nudging each other, reporting which neighbours they had spotted, and passing the latest gossip along the pews while simultaneously whacking the children across the ears to stop them talking in church!

  ‘My dear brothers and sisters in Christ,’ Don Dioniso began, ‘My dear brothers and sisters in Christ. Why are you here? Do you believe? Do you have faith? Do you have the strength to resist temptation like Sant’Antonio Abate? When you struggle with the temptations of the Devil, who wins?’

  As the subject of the sermon dawned on the congregation, they sat to attention. This would be worth listening to. Sensing their change in mood, Don Dioniso thought smugly to himself, ‘It always works a treat. Mention the Devil and they always pay attention.’

  And so the priest’s sin of pride caught him out again. The congregation sat to attention, not because they thought he could teach them something, or because he might save their souls. No, they sat to attention, ears strained to hear every word, because they all knew, each and every one of them, of Don Dioniso’s spectacular struggle with the Devil the day before. They all knew of his indisputable failure.

  The priest had not imagined that, as he moved from house to house last night, later than his parishioners had expected him, anyone could have seen him. The streets had been deserted. In his haste to scuttle from house to house he had been completely unaware of the boys from Fontitune. They were also moving from house to house, singing songs and playing their zampogne, and as they did they carried the news that Don Dioniso was succumbing to his well-known sin of gluttony and was on his way.

  Some householders hid their food, some doused the lamps and pretended to be asleep, some drank up the last of the wine, but, even so, the boys were able to report that in the closing hours of the day they had seen the short, round priest with his long black soutan and wide-brimmed black hat trip over, inebriated, at the top of the Via Montana and roll all the way down the hill to the back door of his church.

  Unaware of their betrayal, Don Dioniso carried on with his sermon regardless. If he had known what they were thinking he would have been mortified. However, despite his weakness, he was rewarded for his good intentions. He managed to deliver three sentences that cut at the consciences of his smirking parishioners.

  ‘You want to leave,’ he addressed the young men, ‘you want to seek your fortunes. Tu vuo’ fa’L’Americano? You want to live in America! You want to have a better life than your fathers and your fathers’ fathers before them? Be aware of temptation. Be aware of the Devil! What will be your Devil? What will destroy you and your families?’

  He yelled at the top of his voice. He banged his fist on the pulpit. He dropped his voice spectacularly so that they had to strain their ears to hear his words.

  He whispered slowly, as if the Devil himself were talking.

  ‘La Bestia trionfante! The monstrous apparition of materialism! Money. Money and greed! Soldi e avidita di ricchezze! That will be your temptation! That will be your downfall!’

  The congregation sat stunned, their smug thoughts banished in a new awareness of self-doubt and guilt. The priest, without realising it, had done his job. He had made them think and had alerted their consciences.

  After Mass everyone spilled out into the piazza, relieved to escape from the mad priest’s ranting.

  ‘What does he know? How can he understand? He doesn’t have to feed a family. He just feeds his own fat belly!’

  Nevertheless, the priest had struck a raw nerve, one that would remain with them for years to come.

  In the sacristy, Don Dioniso slumped in the bishop’s chair, exhausted to the point of collapse. He tried to work out whether or not he had done well. Had they listened to him? Had they at least been cautioned in their ambitions?


  In his past five years in the parish he had seen an ever-increasing stream of young men and their families leaving the villages, a stream that was in danger of becoming a flood. Deep down he was concerned for those left behind. Would they feel neglected and abandoned? Would those who left become materialistic and god-forsaken? He had done all he could for the moment. He would pray for them tonight.

  He heard a cry from a Neapolitan street vendor in the piazza. Exhausted, he took five lire from the collection and called the sacristan to go and buy a dozen bombolone. He deserved a treat.

  4

  Picinisco

  17 January 1913

  The beggars had positioned themselves strategically at the door of the church. The band was playing Fratelli d’Italia, ‘Brothers of Italy’, the popular rousing tune by Novaro. The street traders raised their voices even louder to call out their wares. The winter sun was shining, the air sharp and clear. The children were despatched up to La Montana to feed and water the animals, leaving the men free to talk and the women to wander towards the stalls.

  The piazza was very jolly, crowded with peasants in traditional costume, coloured skirts and head-dresses, adding an exotic air. The beggars pushed between the people, nudging them with grubby hands, moaning to attract attention. A hermit in rags yelled out unexpectedly every few minutes, repeating his constant conversation with Satan. Filthy gypsies with long hooped earrings and gold coins dangling round their foreheads stared menacingly at the women and whispered threats under their breath. Some sat in groups with Tarot cards and taunted people that they could see their future.