L'Oro Verde

by Coralie Hughes Jensen

  “That’s okay, Mrs. Torrisi. We don’t have time for a long break anyway,” Sister Angela said, standing up and stretching her back. “We really appreciate your letting us look at the records with Father Domenic gone.”

  “It’s rather quiet around here with Father Domenic away on retreat. Father Giulliano comes from Ambruzzo each Sunday to say the masses. I offer him tea, but he always tells me he doesn’t have time,” she said, sitting down on the step above the activities. “I sure hope everything goes all right for Father Domenic. Such a shame—that lawsuit.”

  Neither Sister Angela nor Sister Daniela had time to question the housekeeper further, but the older nun’s ears perked up when Mrs. Torrisi mentioned the lawsuit. Why had they not bothered to ask the housekeeper about Father Domenic’s habits? Had Mrs. Torrisi ever noticed how often the priest met with the young people in the parish?

  Fifteen

  The hot sun poured through the two basement windows, and the dust danced in the rays of light. Sister Angela sat down beside the housekeeper.

  “What do you think?” the nun asked. “You sound like you believe he’s innocent.”

  “Oh my yes,” Mrs. Torrisi said. “I mean, if he were really involved with young boys, wouldn’t he continue to show the same attention to them here at San Benedetto? At least I think that would be the case. Actually, I have never seen him take an interest in the altar boys. If anything, he acts like they pester him. I always have to remind him of their names and what they do. He doesn’t seem to take any notice of them at all.”

  “Doesn’t someone in the parish have to organize them—have to tell the boys which Sunday they serve and what jobs they are to perform?”

  “I do. I have always helped the young boys. We meet in the nave every third Sunday after mass. They like my cookies. I always bring them cookies. I also wash and mend their albs.”

  The nun and the novice looked at each other.

  “Did you tell this to the bishop, Mrs. Torrisi?” asked Sister Daniela.

  “Yes, he came round right after that morning Father Domenic went with the inspectors to the station,” she said. “I think he likes my cookies too. We sat and chatted quite a bit.”

  Sister Angela thought about her meeting with Father Sergio and the secretary general. They most likely believed Father Domenic was innocent of the charges in Umbria.

  “Well thank you, Mrs. Torrisi. I suppose Sister Daniela and I still have a few more hours of work to do here. We promise to file this bunch back into the binder and put these boxes away before we leave.”

  “That would certainly be a help to me.”

  The two bent over their work, continuing to empty each envelope.

  After about an hour, Sister Daniela suddenly glanced up from a sheet of paper. “Look at this, Sister Angela. Here’s the death certificate for Mariella Vitali. Isn’t she the wife of Mr. Vitali?”

  “Yes. When does it say she died?” the nun asked, filling the envelope in her lap and tossing it onto the larger pile.

  “In December 2000. A clipping says here she died in the hospital after a short illness. It reads: Her husband, Vittorio, a son, Carlo, and a daughter, Nicola, survive her. She will be buried at San Felipe Cemetery in Bologna beside a son who was stillborn.” Sister Daniela looked at the front of the envelope. “2000? Boy was this misfiled.”

  “Is there anything else in the envelope? Maybe a notice of the baby that died is in there too,” Sister Angela said, beginning to feel a twinge of excitement.

  “No, no. I can’t find anything more. If there was something else in the envelope before, it’s not there now.”

  “Well, put it on this pile here anyway. The inspector can check with the cemetery. There might be more on the headstone.”

  “That’s it, then, Sister. Do you want to check any of the other boxes while we’re here?”

  “No. I’ll just write down the information from these three certificates. Then we can stroll over and see if the inspector can make anything out of them. Oh yes, I forgot. It’s Saturday. Maybe he’ll want us to meet him at the office. I’ll call him on my red phone to see.”

  *

  The two nuns sat outside DiMarco’s office and fanned themselves. He was tied up on the phone, and Lazaro offered to get them whatever they wanted to drink.

  “You look awfully warm,” he said.

  “And dirty, officer,” Sister Daniela added. “We have spent half the day in the basement of San Benedetto.”

  “I didn’t want to mention that. Dusty might be a better word for your condition.”

  “Is there any lemon fizzy water in the machine?”

  “Yes, I believe there is. And Sister Angela?”

  “I think I’ll have the orange soda, Lazaro. It’s a little sticky, but I’m sure it’ll hit the spot.”

  The station was quieter than usual. Tortini was the only officer on duty. Few phones rang.

  After twenty minutes, DiMarco finally emerged. “I can’t believe there was so much confusion about a fender bender in the lot below the piazza. I think it’s settled now if you ladies would like to take a seat in my office,” he said, sitting down in a chair across from them. “Did you find anything interesting?”

  “I’m not sure, Alessandro. Perhaps you could make a quick phone call to find out who’s buried in a cemetery in Bologna.”

  The inspector looked surprised. Sister Angela explained about the woman’s family and who was buried there.

  “I remember her funeral, Sister. Father Augustus performed the service, didn’t he?”

  “I recall the mass too, but as much as I try, I can’t recollect a stillborn son.”

  “Neither can I, but that was before I married Mrs. DiMarco. I’m not sure I would have been that interested,” he said.

  The phone call was indeed short. The inspector talked directly to the caretaker of the San Felipe Cemetery just to the east of San Felipe Church. Built in the thirteenth century, the church was no longer a parish in the diocese of Bologna. A Franciscan order had taken it over, and members were living in the fifteenth century cloisters behind it.

  “Yes, Inspector, she was buried in the Gervasini family plot,” the caretaker said just as DiMarco turned on the phone speakers. “Mariella Gervasini Vitali was the daughter of Mansuieto Gervasini, a wealthy grower in the valley.”

  “And she had a son, also buried there,” said the nun, leaning forward so he could hear her better. “Is that correct?”

  “Yes. He died at birth. The headstone says his name was also Mansuieto. I suppose he was named after the grandfather.”

  “And what is the year on the headstone, sir?” DiMarco asked.

  “It says 1985 to 1985. I remember it because when you see the years close together like that it’s very sad.”

  The caretaker did not mention the fact that over the years he had memorized all the names of those buried in the cemetery. On occasion, he even talked to these residents.

  Fortunately, they did not respond.

  “Thank you, Sir. That’s all I wanted to know,” the inspector said, rolling his eyes as he placed the receiver on the hook. “This is all we need. The chief will have my hide if we mess this up.”

  “I think I ought to approach the family,” Sister Angela said. “I have an open invitation to tour the Vitali orchards. I could go just to find out more about them. I don’t think we should move too quickly either.”

  The inspector leaned back in his chair to ponder it. “I guess you’re right. If I approach any one of them, they might take it as police business. At least you can go as a friend. Do you plan to call them tonight?”

  “Yes. After dinner would be a good time.” Sister Angela said, sipping the rest of her drink. “You were going to call Santa Maria today, weren’t you? How did that go?”

  “The pastor, Father Rossi, is ill. The curate said he knows nothing about the pending wedding and that I would have to wait for Father Rossi’s recovery. I got the impression there was a strict code of silence on
the subject.”

  “Don’t you think Father Rossi is really ill?” asked Sister Daniela.

  “No. I just don’t think he’s that ill, but we’ll put that one aside for now. If we really need the information on the wedding, I’ll force it. I don’t want the bishop complaining to the chief unless there’s a good reason for it.”

  “Well, Inspector, I’m sure you are anxious to get home and spend the rest of the weekend with your family. I’ll call you there when I find out more about my visit to L’Oro Verde.”

  “Actually, Sister Angela, my wife’s parents are visiting this week. You might want to try to call me here first.”

  Sister Angela gave him a tired smile. Then she and Sister Daniela made their way down the hill to the convent. They could not wait to have a shower and a warm meal.

  *

  Right after dinner, Sister Angela made the call. “May I speak to Vittorio Vitali? Please tell him that Sister Angela from San Benedetto Church is calling.”

  The grower was on the line almost immediately. “Hello, Sister Angela. What a surprise. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “Hello, Mr. Vitali. You mentioned last week that if I wanted to tour your splendid orchards I should just ask. I was wondering if there was a good time to visit when maybe someone could explain to me how everything works.”

  “It’s good you called me just now, Sister. We are having a few guests for a barbeque tomorrow afternoon at one. We would be honored if you could join us. I’m sure Carlo or Nicola would be happy to show you around.”

  “That sounds wonderful. Of course I’ll be there.”

  When she hung up, she was still surprised, not expecting the warm reception. Perhaps this would be easier than she thought. At least she would get a good meal out of it.

  *

  It was a perfect day for a barbeque. Sister Angela left mass and hurried down to the piazza to catch the bus. On her shoulder, she carried a tote bag containing a bottle of wine for her hosts. The air was already warm, but it was dry and so clear the sun was bright and silvery. There were a few clouds—little puffballs that passed innocuously overhead—but other than that, the deep blue sky stretched forever in all directions.

  Hot and dry, she said to herself. Just like the olives like it, hot and dry.

  The bus tooted as it passed her. The driver, recognizing the scurrying figure, waited for her at the stop. He always waited for the slowpokes.

  “Thank you, Stefano,” she said, huffing and puffing as she slipped coins into the slot. “I’m getting off at L’Oro Verde today. Don’t let me miss it.”

  “No problem, Sister Angela. I’ll drop you off right near the gate. You’ll have the shade of the trees all the way up the drive.”

  The nun sat down and tried to think about what it would be like. How many people would there be? Would they be relatives? Would any of his late wife’s family be in attendance? She slipped off her shoes and donned her sneakers. They would not look too fashionable, but she would need to wear them for the tour.

  The bus came to a stop directly in front of the long drive.

  “Here it is, Sister. This is L’Oro Verde. Have a good day,” Stefano said. “I’ll keep an eye out for you and pick you up later.”

  The gates, now wide open, were of wrought iron, painted white. The elegant script of the name ran along the top of the two panels. Beyond that, the long drive meandered on, flowering bushes crowding the shoulders. Sister Angela traipsed up the road. As it curved, the side of the ranch house came into view. It was more long than tall, the stucco exterior the color of mocha and cream. The red tile roof rose and fell with the terrain. On a small patio, a fountain trickled, and a couple of men stood beside it manning two grills. About ten people sat at small tables, set up under a striped awning.

  “Hello,” she said.

  The chatter in the group suddenly died, and some of them looked up to see who had emerged from the bushes.

  “Is Mr. Vitali here?”

  “Hello there, Sister Angela,” said Vittorio, quickly stepping outside onto the patio. “Welcome to our little gathering. Let me introduce you while Nicola here fixes you a plate.”

  He proceeded to point out the other guests. Sister Angela knew a few of them, but not well. Some were business associates from other parts of Italy.

  “And finally, I think you already know this one, Sister.”

  Carrying a bottle of wine, a guest emerged from the house, sliding the glass door closed behind him. The others at his table nearby eagerly raised their empty glasses.

  “Sister Angela, may I present Father Sergio, secretary to the bishop. At least I think that’s your title, isn’t it Sergio? I always forget how it goes.”

  “That is quite all right, Vittorio. Yes, Sister Angela and I have met. Would you like to sit at our table, Sister?” he asked. “I think we could squeeze a little closer and make room. Let me get you a chair.”

  “I wasn’t aware you were close to the family, Father,” she said.

  “Oh yes. I went to school with Vittorio. We got into trouble together at St. Michael’s in Petraggio.”

  The nun wondered if the priest was often present at these gatherings. He seemed to be quite comfortable with the family. She tried to hear a slur in his speech. If he had one, it was difficult to discern. Sister Angela was angry with herself for making him an adversary right off, although she knew she must watch her step.

  “Has Vittorio introduced my friends here to you yet?” Father Sergio asked.

  “Yes, Father, I believe he has,” she said with a smile.

  The priest’s presence only made her inquiry more difficult. If she made a wrong move, she would be back in front of the secretary general and the bishop. Sister Angela hoped her polite demeanor worked.

  Carlo came up to her after she finished her meal and refilled her wine glass. “My father tells me you want a tour. Would you mind if I tore you away from your new friends now? You can bring the glass with you.”

  “Oh please. I certainly want to get the tour in before it’s too late.”

  “Come along then. I’m glad you brought your walking shoes. We are going to hit the orchards first.”

  Sister Angela followed Carlo farther down the road and across a cleared field. They stopped at an outcropping of rocks. Silvery-green sprays dotted the side of the gently sloping hill.

  “This is an orchard of moraiolo olives. They are famous in Tuscany. On this tree here, you can see the black and dark purple drupe. Each weighs about two grams when ripe and contains eighteen to twenty-four percent oil.”

  Over the tops of the trees, Sister Angela could see the patchwork of grapevines across the valley. Beyond that, Petraggio stretched out along the base of more hills. The bell tower of Santa Maria Church emerged above the roofs of the sprawling city. They walked down the hill and traversed another field.

  This is the leccino olive. The trees are hardier than the others—and bigger. That’s why we plant leccinos on this side of the hill. It’s more exposed to the weather,” he said, plucking the fruit and rolling it between his fingers. “While the size of the purple drupe grows to two and a half grams, it yields somewhat less than the moraiolo. There’s a fruity taste to the oil when we use these. If they aren’t used to produce oil, they can also be processed as table olives. You have probably had olives from this orchard. Spaggio’s Restaurant in Petraggio serves only our olives.”

  “And you process those drupes elsewhere too?”

  “No, we do that here. I’m sure you already know the drupe doesn’t taste like an olive until it’s processed.”

  “Most certainly, every child in the valley must have tried to check that out on his own,” she said. “I certainly did.”

  “Yes. They have to be marinated in brine or vinegar first. Only then do they have that flavor,” he said, walking with his back to the pathway to make sure the nun could keep up. “And finally, I want to show you our most prized trees. The rows are planted over here in a gap in the hil
l. The heavy storms aren’t so bad in the crevice.”

  The two crossed a small glade. As the ankle-deep layer of grass that carpeted the field caressed her feet, the nun suddenly stopped and spun around to view the hills to the west and beyond. Over the tops of the trees, the sea shimmered.

  “How perfectly romantic,” she whispered, gazing at the breathtaking view. The familiar scene brought back memories of summer days with an old boyfriend. She would sit by his side on warm evenings and gaze at the sun setting over the hazy water. After several long seconds passed in silence, she turned back to Carlo. “These trees look smaller.”

  “Yes, but they are the very best quality. These trees produce quite a few olives in spite of their size. The frantoio olive is fruitier than the others, and the oil smells sweeter. This area is perfect for growing olives because it’s dry but not too hot. It’s too rocky for other crops but perfect for olive trees. The sun is shining directly on them most of the year.”

  “When is the fruit ripe?”

  “We usually harvest in late fall—October, November, and sometimes even in December.”

  “Do you pick them by hand?”

  “It would be preferable to pick them that way. The goal is to protect the fruit. But as you can see, there are too many trees. It wouldn’t be cost effective. We use a process called beating. Earlier this century, my family used canes to shake the limbs. The olives would fall onto a special cloth laid out beneath the tree. But now we have machines that do the same thing. We drag the tree with mechanical arms, shaking the olives off into a net that’s poised above the ground. Let’s go to the lab now, and I’ll show you what happens to the drupe,” he said, stuffing his hands into his pockets and starting to walk back up the hill. After a few steps, he turned to watch her follow him. “I hope this isn’t too boring, Sister Angela.”

  “Oh no. I hope you don’t find it so.”

  “I’m captivated by it. I’m so lucky that I am my father’s son. The business is already here for me to take over.”

  Sister Angela could hear it in his voice. Carlo was ready to take over the reins of L’Oro Verde from his father. The boy definitely knew the olives he grew. What more would she find out about the family who grew the olives and wanted to stand up to the big processing plant in Petraggio? Sister Angela did not know it yet, but here in this rocky soil on the side of a hill Tuscany, the heart of olive country in northern Italy, she was about to discover the frame into which all the puzzle pieces fit. Would she see the whole picture through the leafy branches of the olive trees?