La Cucina

by Lily Prior

  After a period of respite Sophia began to wail again, clutching herself and rocking backward and forward on the bed. Donna Theresa made a soft tutting noise, drawing her tongue down from behind her expensive teeth, and raised her eyes to the portrait of the Madonna hanging on the wall above the bed. The Madonna too cradled her child in her arms.

  “Shush shush shush, my child,” murmured Donna Theresa in a soothing voice and rustling silk. “Dry your tears. You know there could be no other way. Bartolomeo brought shame upon us and upon his own family. His father did the only thing he could do as a man of honor; and had he not done his duty, the deed would have fallen to your dear father and brothers. Do not forget that while we as fools were waiting at the house bearing gifts to consummate your betrothal, your precious Bartolomeo was lying in the arms of that coarse peasant girl. Surely knowing that, knowing that he rejected you for his wife, and scorned connection with your family, bringing dishonor upon us; knowing all of this, you cannot still find it in your heart to love him?”

  “But I do, Mama,” choked Sophia, who was again convulsed by sobs.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  In the house of the Sogno, high in the steep streets of Castiglione, the body of Bartolomeo was laid out on the table in the front parlor, surrounded by spluttering candles and the heavy scent of lilies.

  Crimson paper lined the walls, the color of the inside of an eyelid. Little lace-fringed doilies, the handiwork of Bartolomeo’s five sisters, protected the polished wooden sideboard from the scratches of the photograph frames arranged in clusters along its length.

  Some of the photographs recorded special moments from Bartolomeo’s childhood. In one he was a baby lying on a sheepskin rug in a photographer’s studio in Randazzo. In another he was a child of five, carrying a new satchel for his first day at school. The most recent showed him as a handsome young man of seventeen. This was the photograph that was to adorn his grave.

  The undertaker, Ernesto Tombi, clothed in black tailcoat and tight pants, was plying his tape measure. A rich man from a long line of undertakers, he treated death like business; he could not afford to be sentimental. With a flourish he took notes on a clipboard. Behind him a group of women, friends, neighbors, and passersby gathered in the shadows. Some were gasping, some were weeping, some were outright screaming. In Sicily a murder is a public event, open to all.

  On one side of the body sat Donna Evangelina Sogno, Bartolomeo’s mother, who, with eyes swollen as a toad’s, held her son’s cold hand and sporadically covered it with kisses.

  On the other side of the table stood Don Umberto Sogno, the father and the murderer. He stood tall, his eyes were dry. He was a man of honor.

  “Blessed Mary Mother of God!” cried Donna Evangelina. “How could we have come to this: a son murdered by his father’s hand!” She succumbed to a wrenching sobbing, tearing at her hair and rocking herself back and forth in her chair.

  “My son. My son!” she screamed, gasping for breath. Her five daughters, Ginevra, Perla, Margarita, Lucia, and Anna, held their mother up to prevent her from fainting while taking turns at screaming and swooning.

  “Enough, woman,” spoke Don Umberto in a quiet voice edged with steel. “Your son had no respect; he chose to disobey me; he is no longer my son. Once the burial has taken place his name will be heard no more in this house.”

  “May the Lord God forgive you for those words, Don Umberto,” said Padre Francesco loudly to announce his presence.

  “It is more than words He will need to forgive, Father,” sobbed Donna Evangelina.

  “He!” she screamed pointing at her husband. “He has killed my son, my only son, my Bartolomeo. A father who kills his own son. Evil, evil man. Monster.”

  At this Donna Evangelina collapsed, hitting her head on the floor, and was carried out of the room by her daughters. In the hubbub that followed some of the candles were knocked over, causing a small fire to break out, while a thief who had entered the house with the crowd of mourners seized the opportunity to fill his pockets with silver and other valuable goods.

  “Is it true that you are responsible for the boy’s death, Don Umberto?” whispered the priest.

  “Remember who secured your release from prison, Padre,” whispered Don Umberto with a sneer. “Do not forget who arranged for your new identity and a comfortable living. Imagine how shocked many of your lady parishioners would be to discover your true story. I would advise you not to vex me with any of your questions.”

  Padre Francesco wisely noted Don Umberto’s advice and slunk away.

  Next, Donna Rubino Sogno, Don Umberto’s mother arrived at the house. All of Castiglione feared Don Umberto. Don Umberto feared his mother. Nonna Sogno was small but fierce; she was the size of a half-grown child but a child with gray hair and no teeth.

  When she came in, the crowd of mourners retreated to give her passage.

  “Get out of here, you no-good bunch of hangers-on,” she said through her boneless gums.

  The crowd evaporated, leaving the parlor empty except for the corpse of Bartolomeo, Don Umberto, and Donna Rubino.

  Donna Rubino approached the corpse. She kissed Bartolomeo gently on the forehead, and made the sign of the cross while muttering her prayers. A tear traced its path down her withered cheek and plopped onto her bodice, where it glistened for a while before sinking into the cloth.

  She turned to her son, Don Umberto, whose pretense of self-assurance was betrayed by a slight shiver of fear. Donna Rubino spat and the bullet of saliva hit her son square in the eye, blinding him temporarily.

  “I curse you with a mother’s curse,” she whispered in a voice that made the hairs on the back of Don Umberto’s neck and forearms rise like the hackles of a frightened hound.

  “You scum,” she said quietly. “You whore. You have killed my grandson, your own son, with your own hand. Through the will of the Holy Virgin I discover I have borne a monster in my womb. Now I place my curse upon you. My curse will follow you always. Never will you be free of it. By day it will be there. You will wake in the night to see it sitting at the foot of your bed. It will never cease in its pursuit of you. You will be constantly looking over your shoulder. You will die with all the agony of a thousand deaths. Bartolomeo will be avenged on you for this.”

  After she finished, Donna Rubino spat again with unerring accuracy, and hit Don Umberto squarely in the other eye. Then she turned majestically on her diminutive heel and left the house of her son for the last time.

  Don Umberto wiped his eyes. For the first time he doubted his righteousness.

  Were his wife and mother right? Was he really a monster to kill his own child, the fruit of his loins? Or was he a reasonable man, protecting his honor in the only way possible?

  If another man had disobeyed him, would he hesitate to have him cut down like a dog? Did his son owe him not less, but even more obedience than someone outside the family? Was his son’s crime not the more heinous for that? Did he not therefore deserve to die? Surely Don Umberto was acting with honor in killing the boy himself, instead of passing out the instruction to one of his henchmen. Surely this in itself was the act of a loving father?

  Don Umberto’s head pulsed with the pressure of his thoughts. A sweat bead stood on his brow.

  Was he right or was he wrong?

  Cursed by his mother, shunned by his wife and daughters, he knew he would not find comfort in the home.

  Should he go to church? Ask for God’s guidance and deliverance? He rose to do so, but then slumped down again into his chair, for he was not a believer, and, besides, the bogus priest could not help him find God.

  A commotion outside interrupted Don Umberto’s brooding.

  It was me, Rosa, bursting into the room.

  On seeing the body laid out on the table I approached it slowly and carefully, staring at it silently. It was as though my mind had gone. I stroked Bartolomeo’s face with my fingertips, mumbling to myself incomprehensible words; then I pulled the bandage away from his
throat and saw the neat incision marked with a fine line of dried blood. Then I started to scream hysterically and uncontrollably until Don Umberto silenced me with a resounding slap across the face.

  “Leave this house,” he hissed. “You whore, you caused all this. Had it not been for you my son would not have betrayed me; it is you, not I, who bears his blood upon your hands and you will do so until the day you die. My curse will be upon you until your final breath. Now get out of my house!”

  He threw me from the front steps into the street, where I was almost mowed down by the passing traffic. I was covered in muck and dust. I could not rise up by myself, and no one would help me. It was a while before Guerra and Pace made their way through the crowd and helped me to stumble away.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I could not really remember a time when I had not known Bartolomeo. We met at the scuola elementare in the class of Sister Pazienza. Back then, educating girls was regarded as a waste of money, but Mama insisted on sending me despite Papa’s objections. I was five and the only girl at the school. Bartolomeo and I sat at adjoining desks and pretty soon we became the best of friends.

  From that first day we were always together. We shared our lunches in the schoolyard, under the shade of the big plane tree. I would give Bartolomeo half my pie or cheese. He often had candies or a chocolate bar, and would carefully divide them between us. Sometimes he had gum, which was a treat in those days, and we would take turns at chewing it. After the long days in the classroom Bartolomeo walked me home through the fields of poppies, carrying my satchel.

  When I was about thirteen we started to hold hands, and, when no one else was around, we exchanged innocent kisses.

  Nothing went unnoticed by Mama, and she strongly disapproved of our juvenile courtship. She disapproved because of Bartolomeo’s birthright. He was of the Sogno, and as everyone in the region knew, the Sogno were men of honor. That is, they were la famiglia, the Mafia.

  Mama, like many others, had lived in fear of the Mafia all her life. The tales she heard at her mother’s knee were of the murderous exploits of the men of honor, and with Mama, who took everything literally, myth had fused with reality. Had Bartolomeo been part of another family, Mama would have paid a visit to his parents and ordered them to keep their son away from her daughter. But in this case, Mama, who was so used to exercising control, was afraid and powerless.

  All Mama could do was to warn me of the dangers, and of course I paid no heed. Bartolomeo showed no signs of being like his father; he was a gentle boy, courteous and kind. But Mama, trusting no one, was convinced that his gentle manner was a convenient cover for a violent and evil-tempered nature. As far as she was concerned, Bartolomeo was capable of blackmail, extortion, and even murder.

  Mama had lived through many vendettas, some of which had left families in the region without a single son to carry on their names. She feared for her Rosa keeping such company, and did all she could to discourage our intimacy.

  Donna Evangelina Sogno knew with a mother’s intuition of her son’s affection for me. She also knew that her husband was planning an advantageous match for Bartolomeo when he reached twenty-one. She knew Don Umberto wanted to marry him off to Donna Sophia Bacci in order to cement an alliance with her father, Don Fredo Bacci, another patrician of the eastern branch of la famiglia.

  Donna Evangelina also knew her husband would not be dissuaded from his goal by the simple fact that his son was in love with another girl, and a peasant at that. She knew her husband’s steely determination to do things his own way, and his terrible temper if ever his will was challenged.

  If Bartolomeo had inherited anything from his father it was his obduracy and strength of will. Donna Evangelina had every reason to fear the consequences of the inevitable conflict between father and son, and she prayed to the Virgin for intercession.

  One evening Don Umberto Sogno was unusually cheerful. He had concluded a deal that would place every road-building contract in the east of the island under his control. This deal had been subject to long and careful negotiations, and today the final obstacle represented by the mulish Don Michele Caciocavallo had been removed by the skillful positioning of a bomb outside his house.

  Don Umberto, mellow with success and grappa in equal measure, gathered his family around him in the parlor: his wife, Donna Evangelina, and his five daughters, Ginevra, Perla, Margarita, Lucia, and Anna. He called Bartolomeo to his side and embraced him, kissing him on both cheeks. Resting his arm around Bartolomeo’s shoulders, he turned to his wife and daughters and said: “My dears, I have good news for you. My son, my only son, Bartolomeo, is to be married.”

  Donna Evangelina and her daughters, aware of the heartbreak this would cause, all blanched. Only Bartolomeo retained his composure.

  Don Umberto slapped Bartolomeo on the back, smiling broadly. “Well, what is the matter with you all? Are none of you curious about the bride? I will tell you. She is Donna Sophia Bacci, daughter of my esteemed friend Don Fredo Bacci. It is a good match, a fine connection between our families, for it will cement our allegiance with another ancient branch of la famiglia. Tomorrow, in the evening, the Bacci family will come here to celebrate the betrothal. Wife, put out the best wine and food that we have. We will entertain our in-laws royally.”

  Don Umberto was then called away to attend to business. He left his family in a stunned silence.

  “What will you do, my son?” asked Donna Evangelina as soon as her husband had left the room.

  “I will not do it, Mama. I cannot. I cannot marry this girl.”

  “But Bartolomeo, you have no choice. Your father has expressed his will. You cannot disobey him. You know that.”

  “I must, Mama. I cannot marry someone I do not love. It would bring misery to this girl, to myself, and to others.” He stopped to think for a moment.

  “I will go away somewhere. Yes, I will go to Zio Genco in Chicago, he will help me, and you must explain it to Papa for me after I’m gone. You must find me the money for the passage, and pack me a few things in a bag. I will set off tomorrow, after dark.”

  “But what about tomorrow night, Bartolomeo, when the Baccis are coming?”

  “Do as Papa says, Mama. Prepare everything according to his wishes. Do not let your behavior reveal to him that anything is wrong. While you are entertaining them here I will make my escape.”

  And so Bartolomeo went off to send his message to me via the twins, while his mother and sisters began, with heavy hearts, the preparations in celebration of the betrothal that would never take place.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The evening of celebration had begun on a cheerful note. The best wine was served in the crystal goblets, and the girls took turns demonstrating their talents on the piano.

  The fathers, seated in the high-backed armchairs by the window, talked business in an undertone, drank grappa, and smoked cigars. The mothers swapped anecdotes about their offspring and leafed through the many photograph albums. Around the piano the Bacci boys flirted with the Sogno girls. Donna Sophia watched the door for the arrival of her beloved. Having waited so long for this moment, she was growing impatient now.

  In time the hot snacks cooled and dried up, and Bartolomeo had yet to appear. The smiles became more labored, the conversation grew increasingly tense and awkward.

  Donna Evangelina became more and more anxious, and at every sound assured everyone gathered that Bartolomeo had finally arrived, although in her heart she hoped her son was by now miles away.

  Finally, after more than two hours had passed, Signor Bacci drew himself up to his full height, which was not much greater than that of a mule, and, nodding slightly to his wife, sons, and by now his sobbing daughter, left the house in anger.

  Don Umberto followed Don Fredo into the courtyard, and while the signora and her offspring arranged themselves in the carriage, Don Umberto murmured, “Believe me, Don Fredo, Bartolomeo will pay the price of the dishonor he has brought to your house and to mine.”

/>   “That I do not doubt, Don Umberto,” replied Don Fredo quietly. “For if his father does not advise him of his error in judgment, my sons will supply the necessary instruction.”

  With that Don Fredo mounted into the carriage, which quickly disappeared over the flagstones into the silence of the town now preparing for slumber.

  Silence enveloped the house of Sogno. Donna Evangelina and her daughters wept quietly in their rooms while Don Umberto waited for news. He paced up and down the parlor, which only hours before had seemed so full and festive. In his hand he held a knife, and he tested the sharpness of its blade on his thumb.

  At last a shadowy figure came to the door, interrupting the eerie sound of Don Umberto’s regular steps. It was one of his henchmen, Barese.

  “He has been found, Don Umberto,” Barese whispered. “He was with that girl of Fiore’s. Now he’s heading in the direction of the piazza. Pirone is tailing him. He may try and get the late bus out of town. Do you want me to deal with him?”

  Don Umberto narrowed his eyes and held up his knife to indicate that he himself would do the deed. They left the house together, silently drawing the door to a close behind them.

  Don Umberto and his accomplice walked briskly across town to the Piazza di San Antonio, and hiding in the shadows near the bus stop they waited for Bartolomeo to appear. The grumbling engine of the approaching bus was the only sound. It was driven by one of Barese’s thousand cousins. When the time came he would see nothing. Word had gone around, and there were no other passengers waiting to board the bus. No one in Castiglione wanted to risk upsetting Don Umberto. Those who had a journey to make would postpone their departure until tomorrow.

  Suddenly Bartolomeo came into view, running lightly from the direction of the Piazza Laura. As he ran he looked around in all directions, scanning the shadows for signs of danger. He knew his father would be after him, and his father’s henchmen. But there didn’t appear to be anyone following him. He had to get away quickly before they found him. He had meant to make his escape earlier, while his father was still entertaining the Baccis. But time had somehow slipped away and now he was late. He hoped he wasn’t too late.