La Brigantessa

by Rosanna Micelotta Battigelli

  “Let’s change the subject,” Lorenzo insists. “I want you to be able to sleep in your own bed tonight. Now eat.”

  Gabriella glances out the window. She shivers at the thought of Tonino journeying by himself through dusky hills and narrow roads. With a heavy heart, she sits down and begins to eat, her previous enjoyment of the meal fading with every bite. She recalls the bad omen of the crowing hen, and suddenly, her stomach twists at the thought of the many dangers that Tonino might encounter on the way home. She drops her fork with a clatter.

  She meets Don Simone’s eyes, and there is something in his expression that alarms her. Something unfamiliar. A look of…of guilt, almost. She turns away. Everyone around her is intent on enjoying the pork feast. She picks up her fork and berates herself for being so superstitious. When she looks back at Don Simone, he is dipping a piece of coarse bread in his pork stew. His shoulders are slumped, and he does not look up nor contribute to the conversation.

  Gabriella finishes her stew half-heartedly. Now she is certain something is amiss.

  DON SIMONE, USUALLY SO PATIENT and unflappable, seems almost short with her the next morning. While he talks about church affairs with her father, Gabriella finds her thoughts drifting between the memory of Tonino’s lips on hers and thoughts of their future together. When Don Simone’s voice takes on a harsh note, Gabriella is jolted back to what he is saying. He is eyeing her with a frown, and she is about to apologize for not paying attention when he suddenly rises from the table. “I have some…some important matters to go over with both of you,” he says, wringing his hands. “But I think….” He looks at her father, then back at her, then down at his hands. “I think it best that I wait until after Mass. Lorenzo, why don’t you check the planks on the steps leading to the loft in the barn? Luciano noticed a loose one, You can head off to the fields after I return. Oh, and Gabriella, the good farmer Alberico came by and dropped off a couple of pigeons this morning. His wife Angelina has singed and cleaned them. How about starting a nice pot of soup?”

  When Don Simone returns from saying Mass, the pigeon soup is simmering in a big pot. Gabriella throws in a few bay leaves and joins her father at the sturdy oak table. Don Simone sits down with a sigh, a letter in one hand. His brows furrow, and he begins tapping the table with his other hand. Gabriella notices the slight tremble of his hand. “I have received some disturbing news.” Don Simone wipes his brow. His gaze flies to her father and back to her. “I wish I didn’t have to tell you this.”

  At these words, her father sets down his cup of goat’s milk with a clatter and frowns. “What is it? Is Farmer Basilio complaining about our animals encroaching on his pastures again?” His mouth tightens in a narrow line. “I told him I’d fix the fence and I did, but I wouldn’t put it past him to loosen the post on purpose so he could collect another fine, the sneaky—”

  “No, no, Lorenzo,” Don Simone raises his hand in protest. “It’s nothing like that.”

  Gabriella wipes her hands on her apron and moves closer to her father. There is something in Don Simone’s voice that is causing the flesh in her arms to rise.

  “A landowner from the north is investing in properties all over Italy. He…he has purchased our church property and will be arriving in the summer to view the land and to…and to establish whether he wants to keep….”

  Gabriella blinks. Purchased? Arriving?

  “Keep what?” Her father has leaned forward, his jaw rigid. A vein is pulsing in his temple.

  Don Simone bites his lip. “Keep things the way they are. Keep the lands cultivated.”

  “And if he doesn’t?”

  Don Simone waves the letter helplessly. “I don’t know what his intentions are.”

  Gabriella blurts, “Why else would he want the lands if not for the crops they yield? The olives, the grapes, and everything else. And how can someone buy lands that belong to the Church?” Gabriella stiffens with a new thought. “Don Simone, will you still have the church?”

  “Oh, my dear, for now it seems that I will be able to stay on as the parish priest, but if this new landowner decides not to cultivate the lands, then…then….” The fingers of his free hand begin drumming on the table.

  “Then we will have to find other means of employment,” Gabriella’s father says, each word dropping like a heavy stone.

  Gabriella sinks into the chair next to him. He doesn’t have to say anything else. She knows what they will have to do if they are let go. There is no work for them in Camini. There are families who have no choice but to be contented with a daily meal of whatever they can forage in the countryside. Most of them have no lands of their own to cultivate.

  Many of the men in the hamlet work as day labourers on properties in neighbouring hamlets. They rise hours before dawn to travel by foot, and several by mule, to put their sweat into the land. The landlords who employ them allow them a portion of the crops, and often, the portion they get is of the poorest quality. Some landlords are even suspected of using weighted containers to measure out the quantities owed to the workers. When the men return home at dusk, the meagre contents of their haversacks are cooked and devoured, the grain set aside for the wife to bring to the miller the next day. And after barely closing their eyes for a rest, the men set off again.

  Her family has been truly fortunate, working for Don Simone all these years. And a few other families have been blessed with the means to help others occasionally, like Tonino’s father Salvatore, who inherited land from his father, who had ventured into North Africa and made a substantial living from working the mines.

  Tonino!

  Suddenly, Gabriella realizes that both men are looking at her. Did I just utter Tonino’s name aloud? she wonders. She feels her cheeks burning.

  Her father’s eyes narrow. “Gabriella, did you hear what Don Simone has been saying? That church lands are being auctioned off by this new government to wealthy landowners? How many of them just want to own more and more land? If this Signor Fantin decides not to continue working the lands, we will have no choice but to leave Camini. I—”

  “Can’t we convince him to keep things as they are?” Gabriella hears the panic in her voice. “I don’t want to leave Camini.” Dear God, how can she tell them about Tonino now?

  “I don’t want you and Luciano and your father to leave either,” Don Simone says, his voice cracking. “You’re my family.”

  Gabriella’s father looks away. His jaw is clenched, and now his fingers are drumming the table.

  “Come,” Don Simone says, “let us leave it in the hands of God. Perhaps we are worrying for nothing, and this Signor Fantin will keep things as they are.”

  The way his words tremble at the end makes Gabriella wonder later if he really believes that nothing will change. With a heavy feeling in her chest, she climbs the stairs to her room. Luciano is snoring gently, his mouth partially open. She bends down to kiss him on the forehead, knowing he is unlikely to awaken.

  Lying in her own cot, she stares at the shadows cast on the wall by the moon. The leaves of the giuggiola tree are fluttering in the night breeze. As she listens to the whispering sounds they make, she feels the muscles in her abdomen tightening. She has to find a way to get this Signor Fantin to leave well enough alone.

  She reaches for the rosary Don Simone gave her from a pilgrimage to Monte Stella, the Sanctuary of the Madonna of the Stars in nearby Pazzano. She keeps it under her pillow and takes it out to recite it every night, but usually, she falls asleep before the third decade. Her fingers fumble for the crucifix. She crosses herself.

  She cannot leave Tonino now. Or ever. She has four months before Signor Fantin arrives. She will find a way. Padre nostro…. She can’t imagine a life without Tonino, a life they have yet to begin together. Ave Maria, piena di grazia….

  THE PIAZZA IS SIMMERING WITH ACTIVITY: men arranging the sticks and logs for the fire, a bevy of women ten
ding to boisterous children, wizened elders chatting while smoking their pipes, and adolescent boys scanning the throng for the sight of the first signorine who would be accompanied by unwilling chaperones—mostly brothers.

  Tonino spots Luciano first, sporting his ennui like most younger siblings who are assigned chaperone duties, his head whipping to the right and then to the left, in search of friends his age with whom he can scamper off. Gabriella gives him an indulgent smile and draws nearer to the burgeoning fire, giving Luciano the subtle opportunity to make his escape. Gabriella does not look worried about his safety; if he wanders away or ventures to forbidden places, any number of their paesani will pass the news to her.

  Gabriella is welcomed by Lola Salinaro, the bread-maker’s wife, and her relatives, visitors from the neighbouring hamlet of Riace. Tonino is watching the play of smiles across their faces as they exchange greetings and conversation when he is startled by the impact of a firm slap on his back. He turns to meet Don Simone’s knowing eyes. He sought the priest’s counsel shortly after meeting Gabriella by the river. Confiding in Don Simone about his honourable intentions toward her softened the edge of guilt he had felt at arranging the secret meeting in the first place.

  “Good evening, young man, and may God bless you. Why don’t you go and offer Signorina Gabriella some chestnuts? The first batch is ready.” He narrows his eyes conspiratorially. “Have you approached her father yet?”

  Tonino clears his throat. “To tell you the truth, Don Simone, I have not yet summoned up the courage.”

  “Be’, well, don’t leave it too long. You know the proverb: ‘Chi dorme, non piglia pesci.’ You sleep, you don’t catch the fish.” He chuckles and when Tonino doesn’t join him, he gives a knowing nod. “Eh, don’t worry, lad. Gabriella’s father may give the impression he is stern and unyielding, but I can’t imagine that he would be upset when you tell him you want Gabriella as your wife. I am certain he will give you his blessing.”

  Tonino nods. “Thank you, Don Simone. But I am more preoccupied with how Gabriella will feel when I tell her the news.” As the priest’s brows furrow, Tonino realizes he is not aware of the latest happenings, which Tonino himself only discovered earlier this morning. “My father is sending me away to run my uncle’s farm in Cosenza. Zio Faustino’s rheumatism has gotten so bad he can no longer do the simplest chores. He collapsed several days ago, and the doctor has told Zia Elsa that he will never walk again. My aunt is desperate. She sent a messenger to bring the news to my father, who thought it best that I go. Family must help family, he says. And since they have no sons, I have no choice.”

  Tonino bites his lip. He will be gone for months, maybe longer, until suitable arrangements can be made. Zia Elsa may even have to sell the farm. At best, he won’t be reunited with Gabriella before the summer. He feels a clenching in his stomach. It has been unsettled since his father broke the news to him this morning, and the chamomile tea he has taken has done little to remedy it.

  He stares at a pigeon strutting nearby, its feathers ruffling in preparation to escape the rowdy youngsters approaching it. Their laughter as they chase it makes him cringe.

  Don Simone squeezes his arm. “I understand that you’re discontented at having to go away, Tonino, especially since you’ve made your feelings known to Gabriella. But a few months will fly, you’ll see, and when you come back, there will be nothing to keep you and Gabriella from planning your wedding and life together. Perhaps you can wait until then to speak to Gabriella’s father.”

  A cry rises up from the crowd in the piazza. Don Simone motions toward the fire that is now crackling in full force. “Now go on, Tonino. You must tell Gabriella.” He pats him on the shoulder. “Forza!”

  Tonino turns to nod, but the priest has already shifted away to a crowd of older men. Tonino’s nose crinkles at the smoke spiralling around him from the men’s pipes. He winces as his stomach contracts again. Straightening, he glances at the spot where Gabriella has been lingering. She has disappeared. The crowd has thickened, and the voices thrum around him like a discordant choir. Finally, he spots her near the edge of the church stairs. He watches as her long skirts sweep over the grey stone steps. She has tied a dark green kerchief over her head and is holding a candle. An offering for her mother, God rest her soul. He watches her disappear past the heavy oak door while others trickle out.

  Tonino sighs. He will have to wait until she is back in the piazza, unless he wants tongues to start wagging. He mills about the square, glancing casually at the church door every few moments. When Gabriella reappears, his heart begins to drum. It is the only sound he hears as she descends the wide stone steps. He waits until she is absorbed by the crowd and then strides over to her.

  There is no easy way of doing this. The news must come from him.

  PART II

  CAMINI

  July-August1862

  ALFONSO RAISES HIS WINEGLASS in invitation to his brother. They sit outside an inn in Sorrento facing the Bay of Naples, after a fourteen-hour journey by rail from Piedmont. “Here’s to the end of a most unpleasant journey so far.”

  Claudio peers doubtfully into the glass, turning it one way and then the other.

  Alfonso takes a liberal sip and grimaces. “All right, this doesn’t even approach one of the fine wines from your ample cellar. But remember where we are, dear brother. The coarse wine is just a reflection of the coarse territory we are entering.”

  As if to lend credence to his comment, a squalid group of peasants followed by an assorted and mangy bunch of goats and dogs, trundle past the inn, their voices mingling in a cacophony. The men, grizzled and sinewy thin, are discussing the paucity of wheat; the women, slick black hair drawn back severely into tight buns, are complaining about the grain tax, their voices see-sawing back and forth in alternating pitches. The children, reed-thin and happily raucous, seem oblivious to their state of abject misery, and the motley herd of underfed animals adds to the noise with their occasional bleating and barking.

  The meat packed onto their ribs would barely feed a child, Alfonso thinks and looks away disdainfully. “It’s obvious that these commoners lack the intelligence to elevate themselves from their squalid way of life,” he says.

  Claudio gazes at the retreating peasants. “Come now, Alfonso. How can you not even feel a twinge of compassion, knowing that they can never obtain the kind of medical services I provide in the north? Just imagine their mortality rate. Poor devils.” He shakes his head. “The product of centuries of poverty and strife. Poverty begetting poverty. Ah, the injustices of this world!”

  “Are you going to drink your wine or not?”

  Claudio shakes his head. “I’d much prefer to eat something first, thank you.”

  Alfonso motions to the innkeeper. “We’ve had a long journey, and we’ll be heading out to Calabria early tomorrow morning. What have you in the way of supper and a room?”

  The innkeeper displays no physical signs of food deprivation, like the peasants; on the contrary, he is rather robust. He beams immediately and assures them that his wife Alma, who does all the cooking herself, will bring them an ample meal shortly. He generously refills Alfonso’s wineglass and retreats to the kitchen.

  The “ample” meal turns out to be a tureen of minestrone and a beefsteak. Globules of oil float on the soup’s surface and cling to the oversized chunks of potatoes, string beans, and unidentifiable greens wading in the tureen. The oregano-seasoned steak plopped on each plate has an oily sheen as well and is flanked with numerous chunks of garlic.

  After their hostess has ladled generous servings in earthenware bowls, she bids them, “Buon appetito” with a lopsided grin that reveals swollen gums and rotting teeth, and leaves them to see to guests who have just arrived. Despite the unappetizing appearance of both food and server, the brothers give in to their hunger pangs and begin to eat.

  They both agree that the minestrone, despite
the pockets of oil, tastes better than it looks, although the steak is a disappointment, with veins of gristle that make Alfonso wish his dog Ruggero had accompanied him, since he has the proper incisors with which to chew.

  Claudio pushes the steak away after the first taste. He cannot subject his body to a piece of unyielding leather, he murmurs. Alfonso, having taken several eager bites, is now chewing in consternation.

  When he has swallowed the offending lump of meat, Alfonso, face flaming, calls the innkeeper over to their table. He declares loudly that he has no complaints as to the quantity of the food, only the quality, especially that of the cut of meat. “We are unaccustomed to grappling with food of poor quality,” he states coldly. The innkeeper wrings his hands and glances around nervously—the other guests have stopped talking and are listening with interest. He leans over and reassures Alfonso that he will not be charged for the meal nor the wine, and that he will be put up in one of the best rooms in the inn.

  Mollified, Alfonso nods to the relieved innkeeper, who motions dramatically for the guests to resume their conversation before leading the brothers brusquely from the table.

  The room has two hemp pallets covered with faintly stained but otherwise clean linen, two straw-woven wooden chairs, a whitewashed commode with two threadbare hand towels, a porcelain bowl of clean water, and a chamber pot in a bottom cupboard that is empty but discoloured. The walls are a pale whitewash, with no decorative touches, save a stark crucifix, holding an overly emaciated Jesus with dolorous eyes.

  Alfonso turns to glare at the owner. Claudio puts a restraining hand on his shoulder and nods his thanks to the nervous innkeeper, who flees.

  “Why didn’t you let me speak?” Alfonso growls. “Look at this…this stable, for the love of Christ! This is the best?”

  Claudio replies quietly, “If the poor man says this is the best, then it must be his best. Remember, his best will never measure up to your best.”