Unto the Sons

by Gay Talese

  As Garibaldi stopped his horse and saluted, Signor Farao asked him to come into our town, where the townspeople were waiting to pay their respects. Knowing that his men needed a rest, since they had not paused since leaving Pizzo, Garibaldi turned over his horse to an aide, and sent out word that everyone should dismount and relax in our olive groves. He then joined Signor Farao and greeted the others in the party. Among these were the town’s two outspoken Socialists, my forebears, the Schettini brothers. Riding in the lead carriage with Signor Farao, Garibaldi moved uphill and smiled at the farmers and their families, who stood along the road calling out his name and tossing flowers in his path. They also tossed long loaves of bread to Garibaldi’s cadre of young Redshirts who trailed the carriages, and who took quick bites from one end of the loaves before sticking the rest through the bayonets of their muskets.

  Church bells were ringing as the entourage arrived in the square, where people were gathered together and a band was playing.…

  Joseph had heard the story of Garibaldi’s entrance into Maida many times before, but it had been told in a manner lacking the celebratory quality of Don Achille’s version. Joseph had heard it from his grandfather Domenico, who had described the event frequently and with disgust, and sometimes extreme anger. Domenico had said that when the townspeople were alerted to the fact that Garibaldi’s carriage was approaching, the local band quickly began to play the popular new war song, the “Hymn of Garibaldi”—this same band which, until the invasion, used to begin each evening’s concert with the “Hymn of the Bourbons.” Domenico also said that although the church bells were ringing, there was not a single priest in the square on that day. Domenico himself was in fact more closely identified with the Church than anyone else in Garibaldi’s audience.

  Domenico, then twenty-two, had recently left the seminary and returned home to run the farm after the sudden death of his parents and older brother. They had been crushed in a rock slide when they were out riding along the southernmost cliff of the town. Domenico had always reminded Joseph that during those days he wore a crucifix around his neck, and the single-strapped sandals of the seminary, and his hair was cut very short in the manner of the Franciscans with whom he had been studying near Naples. What had angered Domenico most of all during Garibaldi’s visit was the red-shirted cadres’ riding along with the bread impaled on the bayonets.

  The sight had sickened him. Bread to him had always been a sacred substance, the staff of life, the symbolic flesh of Christ himself. Domenico had been taught as a child to handle a loaf of bread with special care, as had most other God-fearing people in the south—the tradition, Domenico observed sorrowfully, had obviously not extended to Garibaldi’s heathens of the north. The longer he focused on Garibaldi’s horsemen, the more horrendous became their effrontery, their profanity in skewering the yeast of the Eucharist with blades that were doubtless stained by the blood of Bourbon soldiers.

  Hearing hoofbeats behind him as he stood waiting in the square for Garibaldi to speak, Domenico turned to see a young red-shirted soldier prancing forth, lifting a cup to his lips, and pulling a piece of bread from his upraised bayonet. Without hesitation, Domenico leaped forward, grabbed the bridle, and screamed: “You blasphemous pagan pig! I hope you choke in hell on that bread!”

  Just then the band finished playing the “Hymn of Garibaldi,” and Domenico’s wrathful voice carried throughout the square—where it was heard by hundreds of people, along with the neighing of the soldier’s bolting horse, and the cursing of its rider, nearly toppled from the saddle. Everybody in the square, and in the balconies above, turned toward the scene, including Garibaldi. Jumping up from his chair on the platform, Garibaldi called out: “What’s the meaning of this? Come to order over there!”

  “I was insulted and struck by this man here,” the soldier cried out, still struggling to control his nervous, high-kicking horse.

  “You have desecrated our bread with your vicious weapon!” Domenico replied, adding with an accusing finger directed toward the guards: “You, and your companions over there, are savages!”

  With these words the tension in the square seemed to thicken, and a few farmers and shepherds, armed with shotguns, began to shout harsh-sounding words in a dialect that Garibaldi could not understand. Signor Farao rushed to his side, whispering into Garibaldi’s right ear. Nodding, Garibaldi then turned back to the crowd and lifted both hands in the air in a gesture of peace.

  “Brothers and sisters,” he called out, “please remain calm. There has been a slight misunderstanding between two sons of Italy.” Turning toward the soldier who had been attacked, Garibaldi continued: “Dellepiane, remove that bread from your bayonet at once!” He then repeated his command to the soldiers who had posted themselves behind the platform, and said: “Signor Farao has kindly offered to take our bread to the church and have it blessed.”

  As the red-shirted soldiers lifted the loaves up from their bayonets, the church bells began to ring again, and, at Signor Farao’s suggestion, the musicians picked up their instruments and played once more the “Hymn of Garibaldi.” Garibaldi removed his kepi, bowed toward Signor Farao, and then handed it over as a souvenir. Signor Farao accepted it with a smile, held it above his head to be seen by all, and beckoned with his hands for a round of applause. Some applause followed, and, as the guards surrendered their bread on the platform near Signor Farao’s feet, the audience relaxed and remained as patient as before to hear, when the band had finished, a few memorable words from the mouth of the renowned visitor.

  Domenico, however, had already left the square.…

  Oh, it was a glorious day—that August afternoon in 1860 when our hero visited our village on his way to unifying the nation. Within a year, the great unifier had brought together the north and the south under the single rule of Victor Emmanuel II. The first capital of the new nation would be Turin, the former capital of Piedmont. In 1865, the capital of Italy would become Florence. And finally, in 1871, against the will of the Pope, it was moved to Rome. Victor Emmanuel II established his court at the Quirinal Palace, which had been the papal residence, and the Pope established his residence within the Vatican.

  Now, in this Jubilee year of 1911—fifty years after Garibaldi inspired our unification—Rome is the site of a huge white monument to King Victor Emmanuel II, which I hope you students will someday visit. It overlooks the Piazza Venezia, and it’s more than seventy yards in height, and it is adorned by marble columns, mosaics, fountains, winged statues, and, towering above the center staircase, an equestrian figure of the king. The king died in 1878, and his grandson now occupies the throne. Our first prime minister, Count Camillo Cavour, died at fifty in 1861, shortly after the first meeting of our national parliament. Giuseppe Mazzini, the Risorgimento’s most radical promoter, died in 1872. And our hero died at seventy-four, in 1882. During the American Civil War, the United States’ President Abraham Lincoln had offered Garibaldi a generalship if he would fight in the Union Army, but Garibaldi at that time had too many reservations about leaving Italy to fight abroad.

  On the occasion of Garibaldi’s death, his obituary appeared in every major newspaper in the world.…

  14.

  The skies had darkened and the wind was colder as Joseph left school shortly before two p.m. to return to Cristiani’s tailor shop. With his collar turned up, he made his way across the wet cobblestones while holding slung over his shoulder the cloth bag that contained his books and the lunch he had brought from home and intended to eat in the back of the shop. It had rained while he was in class, and pigeons waded through the puddles on the ground. Above the wind Joseph could hear the hammering of two workmen who were building a wooden stage in the center of the Piazza Garibaldi for the Nativity scene. A life-sized statue of the Christ Child in the manger would be placed on the stage later, joining two costumed citizens representing the Madonna and Joseph. Down in front of the stage a half-dozen bagpipers would gather to serenade the crowd with their reedy, high-pitche
d melodies.

  Reaching the edge of the square, Joseph paused to let the shepherd Guardacielo pass with his flock, which had been grazing in the upper hill near the cemetery and was now being led down toward the cliffside barn owned by Domenico. The barn was on the edge of his grandfather’s property, behind the shack occupied by Pepe, Domenico’s distant cousin with the reptilian skin who lived apart from everyone else. Guardacielo nodded under his hood toward Joseph as he strolled behind the sheep, holding a long stick in one hand and a shotgun in the other. The fleece of the sheep was beige-colored and still wet from the earlier rain or the heavy mist drifting down from the mountain and sweeping across the square.

  Trotting next to the sheep were three watchdogs with steel-spiked collars. Joseph remembered Mr. Cristiani saying that when it was freezing in the mountains the wolves often foraged for food in the lower hills; and as they pursued the sheep, they became entangled with the defending dogs. Joseph shuddered as he looked at the sharp points of the collars, realizing that he had not seen them before on the dogs this year.

  Nearing the tailor shop, Joseph saw his seventeen-year-old cousin Antonio seated at the window, sewing with his head down. He quickened his pace, anxious to talk more to Antonio about what they had discussed earlier—his cousin’s running away to Paris, finding an apartment and job, and then arranging for Joseph to join him there if Joseph in the interim could be trusted to keep it all very secret from the rest of the family. Learning about Garibaldi in school had sparked Joseph’s interest in travel and adventure; but the enormity of his cousin’s plan, and Joseph’s responsibility in maintaining its secrecy, had made him quite nervous as he had gone off to school in the morning, minutes after Antonio revealed his scheme. Now Joseph was again apprehensive as he approached Antonio. The beating Antonio had taken from his father after mailing those fashion sketches to King Victor Emmanuel III had alerted Joseph to the possible consequences of doing things without family permission. Still, he did not want to be left behind in Maida if Antonio succeeded in getting to Paris.

  Joseph opened the door and waved toward Antonio, and was about to say something about Paris—but his cousin, as if reading his mind, quickly leaned back in his chair and pressed a finger to his lips. Joseph softly closed the door and looked puzzled as Antonio began to frown and seem tense. Joseph then noticed that Antonio’s father was standing within earshot, behind a counter to the left of the door, measuring material. The blood rushed to Joseph’s face as he realized how close he had come to blurting out something that would have probably tipped off Mr. Cristiani to their secret.

  “Ah, there you are, Joseph,” Mr. Cristiani said pleasantly, looking up from the counter. “How are you?”

  “Fine,” Joseph said, weakly.

  “How was school?”

  “Fine,” Joseph replied, swinging his shoulder bag to the floor.

  “Joseph,” Mr. Cristiani said with concern, “are you all right?”

  “Yes,” Joseph said. “I was a little tired, but I’ll be all right.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t work this afternoon,” Mr. Cristiani said. “Maybe you should go home and get some rest.”

  “No, I’ll be fine,” Joseph said, looking at Antonio, who was sewing busily with his head down.

  “I’m not sure,” Mr. Cristiani said, walking over and placing a hand on Joseph’s forehead. “There’s some fever here, I think. It would really be better if you went straight home. I’d thought of that earlier, in fact, because a storm is supposed to be on its way. I wouldn’t want you walking home in that kind of weather when it’s dark. We’ll all be working late tonight to catch up with our Christmas orders, and it will be too late then for anyone to walk you home. So leave now, Joseph, while there is still light. And tomorrow, bright and early, you will come back to us well rested, yes?”

  Before Joseph could reply, Mr. Cristiani had placed his bag on his shoulder and, with a light pat on the head, escorted him to the door. Antonio looked up from his sewing and waved as Joseph passed. Joseph waved back, concealing his disappointment in not having had a chance to talk about Paris.

  The streets were almost empty, the majority of villagers still being at home for their siesta. A few shops had reopened at two o’clock, like Cristiani’s, but most would remain closed until three. Joseph was very hungry as he walked through the narrow streets along the damp hills to the east end of the village, where his grandfather’s row of houses was located. Joseph had rushed off to school in the morning without breakfast, and his lunch was uneaten in his bag; but he was too cold to stop and eat along the street. He decided to run to keep himself warm, and in less than five minutes he could see the high tottering wall that bordered one side of his grandfather’s property, a wall that had often crumbled and been rebuilt after many earthquakes and that now appeared to be held in place by the thick intertwined vines that stretched along its stone surface.

  The first in the row of two-story houses that could be seen behind the wall was the one the Cristianis lived in, it being Domenico’s wedding gift to his only daughter, Maria, when she married the tailor. As religiously devout as her father, and known to be his favorite child, Maria Cristiani regularly fasted and said novenas, and she often went to church in the afternoons to crawl on her knees as she made the Stations of the Cross.

  The house next to the Cristianis’ was occupied by the youngest of Domenico’s three sons—Vincenzo, an indolent man in his early thirties who worked on the farm and had married a woman Domenico had not approved of, and thus had received no house as a wedding gift. Vincenzo Talese dwelled on his father’s property with no more status than a tenant farmer—which was equally true of most other members of Domenico’s extended family and circle of acquaintances (numbering sixty-one) who were sheltered in his six other houses and four shacks that dotted the estate.

  The house that Joseph lived in with his mother and her three other children was adjacent to his grandfather’s, the latter occupying the center position in the row and being somewhat larger than the other buildings. Domenico’s house had a stone balcony in the front, overlooking the wall, and a smaller wooden balcony in the back that overlooked the courtyard. Living in the house with Domenico was his sixty-four-year-old wife, Ippolita, an ethereal woman with long braided gray hair who, because of her linkage to the Gagliardi family of Pizzo, was treated deferentially by everyone in the Talese compound, and most particularly by Domenico himself. She was the only individual to whom he was never curt or demanding. Pleased with his wife and the esteem in which she was held even by the aristocrats in the village, Domenico sought all the comfort that a proud man could feel with the knowledge that he had married above his status.

  As Joseph climbed the outside staircase and entered the second floor of his house, he saw his grandfather’s stable behind the courtyard, and among the returning farm workers whom he thought he recognized was his brother Sebastian, helping unload the wagons. His grandfather, on horseback, was behind them; and beyond the stable was the fenced-in barnyard where Guardacielo was assembling the sheep.

  The house was quiet as Joseph entered the dining room, removing his bag and coat. At this hour his mother was usually out with the two younger children, visiting her own parents in the valley. She was always home before nightfall, when they would have a light supper. The table was already set. At one end, as always, was a place setting for his father, although he had not occupied the chair for more than two years. The overturned wineglass and plate and the silverware were there every day, occasionally dusted but not often, awaiting use by the man who might return at any moment, unannounced. The setting was there to remind the children of their father’s existence, adding credibility to his photograph on the wall. Joseph had recently wondered if his father would be home for Christmas this year, as he had not been the last two; but today he did not give it more thought.

  Suddenly feeling weak, Joseph sat on the bed. He was shivering and cold. There was no wood in the fireplace, no coal in the braziers; but even if th
ere had been he would not have dared strike a match, for he had promised his mother that he would never do that when he was alone. Only Sebastian was allowed to strike the large matches that were kept on the mantels. So, without removing his clothes, Joseph wrapped himself in blankets and lay on the bed, drifting into a sleep from which he did not fully awaken for hours. Even as he heard voices in the house, which he recognized as his mother’s and Sebastian’s, he remained under the covers, unable to get up or reply to the questions that he faintly heard his mother asking at the side of the bed. He did not want to eat, to talk, to get up—he just lay there as the day turned dark, and his family’s voices faded in and out, mixed with a kind of howling in the distance that reminded him of wolves.

  His room seemed to float, as his eyelids grew heavier and the weight of the blankets comforted him. Shaken slightly when Sebastian climbed into bed, he lay tranquil again within the familiar fabric of his father’s old bathrobe and the scent of burning wood and charcoal. When he heard a hysterical cackling of hens, followed by a strange snorting of pigs, the restless stomping of donkeys and horses in the stables, and the growls of watchdogs, he thought that he was dreaming. Then he heard his mother unhinge the shutters and open a window in her bedroom. Across his warm brow he felt a gust of chilling wind.

  Marian Talese had gotten out of bed when she heard the noises rising along the back of the house; as she looked down over the window ledge into the courtyard she saw, in the hazy dim moonlight, crawling over a wooden fence, a bushy-tailed wolf poised to jump into the pen where Domenico kept the lambs.