Nostalgia

by Jonathan Buckley

  The following year, Gideon was flown to Boston to paint a portrait of Jane Jeremies. He took with him another Castelluccio scene, Porta San Zeno, dusk, November, which had been bought on the strength of a photograph. By 2009 Milton and Jane Jeremies had acquired fifteen paintings of Castelluccio, which were displayed in one room, arranged in such a way that the visitor’s progression from picture to picture corresponded to a walk through the town, starting from the Porta di San Zeno and ending with the painting that hung on the opposite side of the door, La Cereria, Castelluccio, midday, April.

  There is scarcely a street in Castelluccio that Gideon Westfall did not at some time paint or sketch, and there are several parts of the town to which he returned many times. The church and piazza of San Lorenzo, for example, appear frequently in his work, and between Sant’Agostino and Santa Maria dei Carmini there’s an alley of which he was very fond, because it contains a house that dates back to the fifteenth century and has been modified so many times that its walls, as he put it, have become ‘a palimpsest in brick and stone’. His favourite episode in the townscape of Castelluccio, however, was the façade of the Cereria, of which he made no fewer than twenty-two paintings, plus scores of watercolour and pencil sketches. ‘Morandi had his bottles, I have this wall’, he once remarked. Only when Maurizio Ianni bought the building and ‘restored it to death’, did he cease to paint it.

  11.6

  ‘I need help with the headgear,’ says Gideon in the doorway, presenting a huge whorl of scarlet fabric. He’s wearing a high-collared scarlet velvet cioppa, floor-length, over a thickly pleated and loosely belted black doublet, with a white linen shirt underneath; white stockings and his best black brogues complete the ensemble.

  ‘What the hell happened to you?’ Robert asks, indicating the bruise.

  ‘A contretemps,’ Gideon answers, depositing the cloth on his head; from the pocket of the cioppa he takes a plastic box of pins and clips, and a piece of paper on which is printed the Jan van Eyck portrait of a man with an extravagant red chaperon. ‘This is the effect we’re after,’ says Gideon, putting the picture in Robert’s hand.

  ‘A contretemps with whom?’ asks Robert.

  ‘A drunk chap,’ says Gideon.

  ‘Where? Who? How?’

  While his assistant constructs the headdress, with much folding and pinning, Gideon lies about what happened at Sant’Agostino.

  ‘You’ve never seen him before?’ asks Robert.

  ‘If I have, I’ve forgotten him. But one sensed an element of personal grievance,’ says Gideon, with a single-note laugh. ‘I’m pretty sure he was the one who scrawled on the picture.’

  ‘Have you reported it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you will, yes?’

  Gideon looks out of the window, as though tracking the flight of a squadron of birds. Eventually, with a rueful scowl, he answers: ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t think so. It doesn’t matter. The picture doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Gideon, this does not make sense. Explain.’

  ‘I can’t be bothered,’ sighs Gideon, watching the invisible flock.

  ‘I spend hours cleaning the picture, and now it doesn’t matter. Terrific.’

  Gideon bows his head, acting out a meek acceptance of the rebuke.

  ‘And the punch in the face?’ Robert goes on. ‘What about that?’

  ‘Just a slap.’

  ‘Looks like more than a slap to me.’

  Again Gideon turns to the window; he narrows his eyes, going through the motions of considering what should be done. He raises a hand to scratch at the back of his head, and dislodges the headdress, which slides ten degrees to starboard. ‘Let’s leave it,’ he says.

  ‘Leave what? The drunk or the hat?’

  ‘Not the hat,’ Gideon replies. ‘Vielmi must have his hat.’

  Robert resets the chaperon, altering a fold or two. ‘Gideon, is there something you’re not telling me?’ he asks.

  ‘No. Not a thing,’ he says, rebutting his assistant’s gaze with a glance of pure honesty, then he bows his head once more. Four months later he will tell the truth about the encounter on Piazza Sant’Agostino, but we’ll never find out who it was who scrawled on the picture.

  11.7

  On entering Robert’s apartment she sees Gideon at the table, resplendent in a red velvet gown, crowned with a fantastic swirl of red, like a gigantic carnation. He turns to greet her with a limp and courtly wave; one eye socket is dark grey and damson. ‘We require your assistance, my dear,’ he says, in an over-ripe voice.

  ‘Strewth,’ she says. ‘How did you get that?’

  The story is that Gideon (tired at the end of a long nocturnal bout in the studio and not paying as much attention to the placement of his feet as he should have been) and Trim (for once not perfectly anticipating his master’s movements) had tangled at the top of the stairs, with the consequence that head and banister had come into collision with some force. Though this explanation is delivered with a more than plausible guilelessness, it seems unlikely, and a glance at Robert – who glances at Trim – confirms that it isn’t true.

  ‘Quite a shiner,’ she remarks.

  Gideon strokes the bruised skin, as if he might wipe the damage away. ‘We were hoping you may have something in your arsenal of womanly substances that we could employ as camouflage,’ he says.

  ‘Do I look like a woman with an arsenal?’

  ‘Some foundation, perhaps? Is that what you call it?’ Gideon asks.

  She steps up to the chair and takes his chin between thumb and forefinger; securing the headdress with a hand, Gideon closes his eyes and leans back, assuming the passivity of a man submitting to a dentist. ‘Foundation is what you call it, but foundation won’t do,’ she diagnoses. ‘Not strong enough. Stage make-up is what you need.’ She touches the bruise; his expression of trust does not change. ‘I have some concealer with me,’ she tells Robert. ‘That’ll help.’ She fetches it.

  Gideon appears not to have moved a muscle in her absence. ‘I submit to restoration,’ he says, closing his eyes again. As the concealer is worked into the skin, his face takes on the drowsy smile of a man under massage.

  ‘Open,’ she instructs. Robert passes a CD to Gideon, to use as a mirror.

  ‘Much obliged,’ says Gideon, after prolonged inspection, and he kisses the hand that holds the concealer. He rises, removing the hand from the chaperon. ‘How’s the turban?’ he asks Robert.

  ‘As it was.’

  ‘You look splendid,’ Claire assures him.

  Gideon takes the compliment with a terse bow. ‘My public awaits,’ he announces, retreating towards the door, whisking florid shapes in the air.

  As soon as the door has closed, she asks: ‘Come on then – what’s the story with the eye?’

  11.8

  The parade, having received its blessing from Father Fabris at the Porta di San Zeno, has processed around the walls and re-entered the town through the Porta di Santa Maria, and is now on Corso Garibaldi. Two drummers are at its head, then there’s a gap to Fausto Nerini, who is walking alone, as the Muzio Bonvalori always must do. His cloak is white, and the gown he wears underneath it is adorned with a red cross from throat to navel and armpit to armpit; he alone bears a sword, and he rests one hand on its pommel as he accepts with humility the acclaim of the citizens of Castelluccio, who have gathered to congratulate the reformed tyrant upon his return to the path of virtue. Behind him, Ercole and Maria Bonvalori – Gianluigi Tranfaglia and his wife, both new to their roles – wave to the bystanders like actors who, rather late in their careers, find themselves on a red carpet for the first time. Eliana Tranfaglia and her husband follow closely; it’s possible that they’ve argued again this morning; Eliana’s gaze is fixed one way, her husband’s the other, and at no point along the whole length of the Corso do they so much as glance at each other; she is wearing white trainers, which at each step stick a nose out from
underneath the hem of her plum-purple dress. More concerned with authenticity, Mr Lanese has posted his eyewear into the pocket of his cloak; Beatrice Lanese, like her husband, does not appear to be wholly comfortable in her colourful but cumbrous attire – they have the demeanour of dignitaries performing a civic duty which, while not exactly onerous, is not exactly pleasurable. Antonietta and Giulietta Lanese, each six feet tall and recognisable as the daughters of their mother from a range of a hundred metres, are by contrast as relaxed as two young women unhurriedly on their way to meet their boyfriends, taking time to chat and enjoy the fine weather of this summer day; clad in tight-fitting bodices of honey-coloured silk, they attract comments from several young men along the Corso, comments which – walking demurely arm-in-arm, their strides in easy synchrony – they ignore with arch disdain. They precede by half a dozen places Agnese Littarru, who is escorted by Antonio Perello; she wears a snowy wimple, which contrasts fetchingly with the stark black frames of her glasses, and her face is downturned, perhaps in emulation of medieval modesty, perhaps in thought – Robert thinks he sees, for a moment, that familiar smiling frown, as if she’s been pondering a problem for hours and senses that a solution is within reach.

  And here, after a pair of drummers, comes Gideon. As the Domenico Vielmi, he should be on horseback, but the horses of Vielmi and Muzio Bonvalori have always been loaned by Alfredo Senesi, who this year, at the last minute, informed the festival committee that, regrettably, none of his animals would be available on the day. But Gideon is happier on foot than he would have been in the saddle: replete with well-being, he returns the good wishes of the citizens of Castelluccio with a perpetual, slow and lordly wave, donating a smile to every last one of them. The headdress has retained its shape, and is the most spectacular in the whole procession; when he passes through a buttress of sunlight he flares like a flame. Claire takes a photograph of him, of Robert, of Giacomo and Cecilia Stornello, of Giovanni Cabrera, who swings by on his crutches, in the wake of the flag-hurlers, one of whom chucks his flag to gutter height and catches it with insolent aplomb. Applauded by a gang of teenage girls, he does it again, forcing a halt on the back half of the parade. Maurizio Ianni, stepping out of position to watch the soaring flag, notices Claire, who notices his cloak of iridescent turquoise before realising who’s inside it. Holding his head high, Maurizio preens with some self-mockery, running his hands down his shining torso and giving her a smirk that says: ‘So what do you think of this, lady?’ Beaming, he proceeds along the Corso, the target of many cameras and phones; he stops often, arms spread to allow a clear shot of his magnificence; the man in the mustard-coloured trousers jumps out in front of Maurizio, fires off half a dozen pictures, shakes his hand, jumps back. Maurizio, apparently affronted, wags a finger, and says something that raises laughter from the people around the snapper, who smiles uncertainly. After two more drummers and Marta Alinei’s parents, Teresa and Renata pass by. It’s Renata who spots Robert; she waves, as if taking part in a victory parade, and nudges her mother’s side; Teresa smiles at him, abashed, then she notices Claire and her smile changes to encompass both of them. They move on, with Stefano Granchello at their heels, stern as a man at a high religious ceremony; alongside him, Arianna is doing her best to mimic the solemnity of her husband, but cannot entirely resist the distractions of her audience; her fingers wiggle in greeting, out of her husband’s line of sight. Giosuè, handsome in azure and scarlet stockings, points a leg for the benefit of heckling friends.

  On Piazza Maggiore the crowd is joining the tail of the procession. ‘We should get to the finish line,’ says Robert.

  Squeezing between the spectators and the wall of Palazzo Campani, Claire calls to him: ‘Is it always like this?’ It sounds as if she’s saying she may come back next year if the answer is Yes, which it is. He puts out a hand to ease her through the crush. They overtake Gideon as he’s passing the English watercolourists, two of whom appear to recognise him. Turning away, he aims some goodwill at the people on the other side of the road, before turning back to offer the lady amateurs a wave of pontifical condescension.

  In the centre of Piazza del Mercato a long rectangle has been enclosed by thick red ropes, which at one corner open out to form a corridor down which the parade will walk, to the benches that flank the enclosure; at the other end, against the railings of the Redentore, the target has been erected for the crossbow competition, raised on a platform; another platform, forty paces from the target, awaits the competitors. Hundreds of people have assembled on the piazza, most of them gathered in the area between the enclosure and the Torre del Saraceno. It’s no longer possible, at ground level, to get a view of the point at which the angel and the falling boy will meet, but Robert has a plan. He strides towards the loggia, looking up. On that side of the square, several apartments have a balcony, and every balcony now is occupied. Towards one of these – on which a young boy and two couples are standing – Robert directs his attention. A whistle of shocking volume secures the attention of the boy at the second attempt; the boy tugs the arm of the nearer woman, who, having picked out Robert amid the crowd, beckons him to come up. She is waiting at the door on the second floor; introductions are made, so quickly that Claire doesn’t catch the name; glasses of wine are handed over; they are ushered at haste to the balcony.

  The drummers are hammering away as the end of the procession enters the enclosure, under an arch of flags. Even in that multicoloured enclave Gideon’s carnation-hat stands out: she sees him step onto one of the benches and turn to face the Torre del Saraceno. Everyone turns to the tower, where, in the uppermost window, a red cross appears – the cross on the chest of Fausto Nerini. A cheer goes up from the piazza; Fausto/Muzio withdraws, to reappear a minute later, holding something at arm’s length. Binoculars are passed to Claire by one of the men: the object held by Fausto, she can now see, is a hessian-clad mannequin – little Lodovico, who, as Robert explains, sleeps for 364 days of the year in a cabinet on the top floor of the Museo Civico. From behind Fausto a hand comes out to do something to the mannequin, then Fausto steps aside so that adjustments can be made to a wire that falls vertically from the window. A nudge from Robert diverts her attention to the campanile of the Redentore: there, in the bell chamber, stands Marta the waitress, her body silver and glittering between silver wings. A man is beside her, fastening her harness to the cable that descends from the bell chamber to the road below the Torre del Saraceno; three times the man – it’s Ennio Pacetti – circles Marta, checking the fastenings; a crescendo of murmuring begins. Claire hands back the binoculars, and at that moment an explosion cracks the air of Castelluccio: a geyser of golden fireworks erupts from the parapet above the bell chamber. For fifteen seconds the geyser is in full spate, then in an instant it subsides, and Marta the angel emerges, wings smashing the sunlight. Under the control of Ennio, she slides to earth in slow motion, blessing the throng with whisks of her silver wand, cheered through every second of her descent. Almost at the ground, she looks up to the summit of the Torre del Saraceno and raises her arms, whereupon the mannequin of Lodovico, flung out by Fausto, plummets on its wire down the wall of the tower, limbs flailing in the rush of air. Marta is in place, arms cradled in readiness; at an altitude of ten metres his fall is arrested; he slides smoothly into the embrace of the angel – the cheers become a roar, and fire pours again from the summit of the campanile. A trumpet is raised at the foot of the Torre del Saraceno; a fanfare blares, and is answered by another within the enclosure, to which everyone now turns.

  ‘Well?’ asks Robert. ‘Worth staying for?’

  ‘My thanks to the bee,’ she answers.

  They stay on the balcony for the Palio della Balestra. Maurizio Ianni, the third man up, puts his bolt on the edge of the gold, and for fifteen minutes, until Fausto Nerini takes his turn, nobody improves on his effort. Ennio Pacetti betters Fausto’s attempt. Giuliano Lanese is next; as director of the festival he is obliged to have a go; he extracts his glasses from his p
ocket, dons them with a great deal of fussing, takes aim, and sends his shot into the grass beyond the railings; sympathetic applause breaks out briefly at the front of the crowd. Three contestants remain. The second of them is Giovanni Cabrera, whose injury necessitates a modification to the firing platform: a chair is put there, so that he can shoot sitting down. Alessandra Nerini, who took up her post at the rope two hours ago, to ensure the best position, gives Giovanni a thumbs-up, despite being under her father’s gaze. Giovanni raises the crossbow slowly and holds it level for as long as a person could go without blinking, perhaps imagining that the gold is the forehead of Gideon Westfall, or his assistant, or even Ilaria.

  The noise that comes off the piazza is like something from a football stadium. When the din collapses, Giovanni’s friends, surrounding Alessandra, start to scream a song that seems to have his name in it. Five minutes later, Giuliano Lanese is presenting Giovanni Cabrera with the Trofeo Arrigo Pepe, which takes the form of a silver crossbow mounted on a plinth of mottled black Portoro marble.

  11.9

  Arrigo Pepe (1848–1927) was not a native of Castelluccio: he was born in Borgo San Dalmazzo, near Cuneo, the illegitimate son of an unknown man and a seamstress named Carlotta, who surrendered him immediately to a home for foundlings. He worked for a blacksmith in Cuneo, before volunteering, at the age of eighteen, for the Cacciatori delle Alpi. A matter of weeks later, at Bezzecca, he sustained wounds that cost him two fingers and damaged his right leg so badly that he had to wear a brace for the rest of his life. He became an itinerant farrier, and in 1870 he came to Castelluccio, where he met Agata Serredi, a thirty-year-old widow, whose husband, a miner, had been killed in an accident at Montieri the previous year. Two years later he married Agata and settled in Castelluccio, where he stayed for the rest of his life.