La Brigantessa

by Rosanna Micelotta Battigelli

“To answer your question, Alfonso, I think Don Simone may very well be considering staying on as parish priest of Camini, as per the solicitor’s suggestion. Perhaps he feels that some negotiation might occur regarding our intentions for the rental of the Church and the administration of the accompanying lands.”

  Alfonso taps one foot impatiently as Claudio comments that Don Simone is not only exhibiting a fine Christian spirit, but he is perhaps hoping to sway Alfonso in some manner regarding the workings of the lands and the employ of his current farmhands, namely, the members of the Falcone family.

  “Perhaps he is upset, and rightly so, that the revenues of the land will no longer be for his exclusive use, and the use of his workers,” Alfonso retorts. “After all, who would be overjoyed at being uprooted?”

  “He doesn’t have to be completely uprooted,” Claudio says. “It’s his choice. You may be the new owner, but you have, most charitably I must say, given Don Simone the option of remaining as parish priest, accepting a small stipend, and continuing to administer to the spiritual needs of the villagers.”

  “If he chooses to remain under my conditions,” Alfonso mutters. “Isn’t a priest supposed to denounce worldly goods anyway? I am certainly not in opposition to his rental of the rectory,” Alfonso shrugs. “And if I find his farmhands acceptable, I see no reason why they can’t continue to manage the lands. But again, as my solicitor stipulated in the letter, I will make a final decision upon personal investigation of the lands and employees. Who knows? Perhaps the lands are not even worth keeping and are better off resold.”

  He straightens in his seat and points to a distant steeple high up in the nearby hills. The hamlet is clearly visible, spread out on the hill like a triangular shaped quilt. “Camini!” he nudges Claudio. “Goddammit, we made it!”

  GABRIELLA GATHERS THE EARTHENWARE BOWLS in which to prepare the morning frittata. Signor Alfonso will no doubt expect a hearty breakfast. He had two large bowls of pigeon soup and a sizeable chunk of cheese and bread last night. Signor Claudio showed more restraint, content with one bowl of soup and a small wedge of bread.

  The brothers arrived late last evening amidst an unexpected downpour. Gabriella was roused from her sleep by her father, who rushed out to shelter the horses for the visitors, and to show the driver the barn loft where he could stay for the night. She was to light the fire and heat up the cauldron of soup she had made earlier in the day. In the meantime, Don Simone would be taking the brothers to the guest room, where they would remove their drenched clothing, which Gabriella would also be expected to tend to once they had eaten and reclined for the evening.

  Gabriella’s stomach was churning the whole time she served the food, wondering if the visitors would make mention of their plans with Don Simone, but the meal was eaten quickly, with small talk, and little enough of that. Although she was curious about the brothers, she deliberately kept her eyes averted except for a few quick glances when their heads were bent over their soup.

  Her father had gone to bed after tending to the horses and bringing the young driver some food and blankets. When Don Simone gave her the nod to leave, she curtsied and hurried up to her room. Luciano was sprawled on his back, one leg sticking out from under the covers. She felt a pang. He looked so vulnerable. The uncertainty about their fate had grown these past months and try as she might to think of a way to convince the new landlord to keep her and her father in his employ, she suspected the plea of a peasant would not be enough to sway someone of his status.

  There was something about Signor Alfonso that she could not have known without seeing it with her own eyes. There was a hardness to him, despite his ample frame. A hardness around his eyes. She had caught a look that he directed at her father’s back when he had come to the kitchen to get some food for the driver. It had lasted only a moment before Signor Alfonso turned around to finish his soup, but Gabriella felt a stab of dismay when she saw it—a look of disdain, disgust even. She glanced at her father then, saw him in his well-worn trousers, sodden and stained, saw his gaunt features, his hair plastered to his forehead, saw his calloused hands gripping a small tureen and a hunk of bread. A labourer. A peasant so obviously below Signor Alfonso. The slight, unnoticed by her father, stung her, and she felt herself burning, as humiliated as if the glance had been directed at her.

  After burrowing under her covers later that night, she stared at the ceiling for a long time, unable to fall asleep. She felt her forehead every once in a while, wondering if she had a fever. When she eventually awoke at the rooster’s first crowing, she felt as though she hadn’t slept at all.

  Gabriella set the bowls down and descends to the cellar to procure the flask of goat’s milk, cheese, and eggs. Back in the kitchen, she mixes up the batter in the bowls and adds a palm-full of chopped parsley and lets them sit. She deftly proceeds with the cooking of the frittata when Don Simone comes downstairs.

  Gabriella says a silent prayer as she bustles about the kitchen, setting the table with the special, gold-rimmed porcelain dishes she uses only for company, She marvels at their design whenever she takes them out: the coral rose with each intricate, overlapping petal, the slightly jagged leaves painted a dusky green and dappled with light, the unopened conical buds ready to burst, and the slender stems with their thorny peaks, all sparkling with dew spray. The set is part of the chattels bequeathed to Don Simone at his mother’s passing.

  A scuffling of feet behind her causes her to start, and she fumbles with a dish before setting it down shakily on the table, her heart drumming from the realization that she might have dropped and broken it.

  “I beg your pardon, Signorina Gabriella. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  Gabriella turns to face Signor Alfonso, who is standing at the table’s edge. His voice, with the gravelly cadence his brother lacks, identified him even before she turned around.

  “Buongiorno, Signor Fantin.” Gabriella nods and gives a brief curtsey, showing the deference that is expected by using his surname. “Don Simone should be here shortly.” She moves over to the sideboard, where she has left her bowls and ingredients for the frittata. She senses Signor Alfonso’s eyes still upon her as she proceeds to stir the mixture again. She stifles the inclination to glance back at him though all the while wondering at the uneasy feeling that has settled over her. She is not used to sharing the kitchen with anyone save her father and Don Simone, nor is she used to being watched while she works.

  She prays for the appearance of Don Simone to take the visitor’s attention off her. As she hears the familiar shuffle of steps approaching, she gives silent thanks and retrieves a pan from the sideboard cupboard. As she sets the pan upon the iron tripod over the fire, she steals a glance sideways, and to her consternation, she notices Signor Alfonso’s eyes shifting to her face only after following the curves of her hips and bosom.

  She knows it is not the heat from the fire that consumes her as she rustles the twigs around with an iron rod. She feels exposed, as if Signor Alfonso’s murky brown eyes can somehow penetrate the coarse cloth of her garments to envision her body. She releases her pent-up breath when she hears Don Simone’s “Buongiorno.”

  Gabriella prepares the large pan-sized frittata and sets the biscuits she made the morning before within the brick oven built adjacent to the fireplace.

  The clatter of additional footsteps announces the arrival of Signor Claudio, who nods in her direction before joining his brother and Don Simone at the table. Gabriella slides the frittata onto a large earthenware platter and carries it to the table before retrieving the warmed biscuits. As Don Simone bids his guests help themselves, Gabriella pours coffee into three porcelain cups that have the same etching as the dinnerware. Don Simone makes a gesture for her to go to the cupboard where he keeps the walnut liqueur he offers guests, though he himself abstains from any spirits before delivering a church service.

  Gabriella sets the bottle on the table, and with the
excuse that she must check on Luciano, she leaves swiftly, her cheeks still burning.

  GABRIELLA LETS OUT A LONG BREATH as the brothers’ wagon descends the narrow lane toward the main street leading out of Camini. The young driver, Valerio Bosco, a villager often employed by Don Simone for various tasks, is only too happy to take the northerners for a tour of the church lands, some of which are located in the nearby village of Ellera.

  Moments ago, after the brothers settled onto the bench in the cart, he sprinted to the rectory gate behind which Gabriella was gathering snippets from a rosemary bush.

  “Buongiorno, Calabrisella mia,” he winked, boldly calling her “his Calabrese girl.” He did not wait for her to answer; instead, he grabbed a snippet of rosemary from her hand, and held it to his heart. With a grin that flashed his dimple, he raced off to take his position in front of the cart, and with a click of his tongue, he commanded a trot from the mules, a final mischievous wink directed at Gabriella.

  He is two years younger than Gabriella, and with the impetuosity of youth, has felt no hesitation in revealing his attraction to her on a number of occasions, despite the indifference she generally bestows upon him. She teases him good-naturedly when he hovers around, pretending to be on his way to or from an errand issued by Don Simone.

  A few days ago, he brought over some wild fennel for Don Simone. A gift from his mother, he told Gabriella, to thank the priest for promising to recite a novena for her sick aunt. He rambled on for several minutes until Gabriella felt her patience diminishing.

  “Isn’t your mother waiting for you, Valerio?”

  “Come on!” Valerio jutted out his chin in a gesture of feigned offence, pursing his lips in frustration. He puffed up his chest, as if to prove he wasn’t the child Gabriella thought him to be, and Gabriella almost burst out laughing, thinking that his blue linen vest and stance made him look like an outraged pigeon.

  “Fine, I’ll leave you alone now,” Valerio shrugged, flashing a dimpled smile. “But one day, you’ll wake up and realize that I’m not as young as you think, Signorina Gabriella. And my heart will take longer to heal if you choose to break it then.”

  Valerio generally ends his visits with outrageous comments. Gabriella looks at the rosemary in her hand now, and thoughts of Valerio dissipate. She pictures Tonino’s eyes, down by the river. And his words of love. No matter what happens, she is his “Calabrisella” and will never belong to anyone else.

  ALFONSO IS SATISFIED WITH THE MORNING’S EVENTS thus far. The boy Valerio has proven himself to be a good guide, skilled at handling horses and quite knowledgeable about Camini and its environs. Unlike some drivers, who choose to stay quiet and have to be prompted for information, Valerio demonstrates his readiness in talking about the land, the weather, the crops, the livelihood of the villagers, the politicians; in short, Valerio will discuss anything about which Alfonso asks.

  His voice wears on Alfonso occasionally, though, with its perennial cheerfulness and coming-of-age inflections. Alfonso can’t help wondering how Valerio can be so allegro, given that from the look of his tattered trousers and his threadbare shirt, his circumstances are limited.

  His father died of the fever, Valerio tells them, one of many afflicted by the malarial outbreaks along the coast. Valerio bows his head in a moment of reverent silence, then crosses himself and resumes his chatter, while waving to the occasional villager along the road.

  By the time they return to the rectory, Alfonso’s head is throbbing from Valerio’s incessant tales. He flips several coins to the boy, the amount of which suffices to silence Valerio momentarily. He then proceeds to enter the rectory, more than happy to leave it to Claudio to set up arrangements for the next day, as they have yet to inspect the church lands on the southern slopes of the mountain.

  At Claudio’s entry, he says, “No one seems to be present. I think I will lie down for a few hours. That boy’s chatter has left me with a nasty headache.”

  Claudio nods with a grin. “Too bad, Alfonso. We both know that the only voice that you never tire of is your own.” He ducks as Alfonso pretends to strike him. “Valerio has offered to take me tomorrow to the nearest pharmacy outside of Camini, in the town of Stilo. To tell you the truth, I’m quite curious about the medical services in this area, or lack thereof. I noticed many of the villagers Valerio greeted had a yellow tinge to them. I would be quite interested to know what treatments for malaria are available in these parts.”

  Alfonso stares at his brother, wondering why he would even bother, since he is not in Camini in a working capacity. He shrugs and turns away. “Do as you please. Just don’t get too close to anyone and become infected yourself.” His glance shifts to a statue of San Nicola, the town’s patron saint, standing on a marble pedestal in a corner of the vestibule, squarely facing any visitor upon his entry. The luminous eyes are set in a face that is flushed with colour above a full grey beard. The saint’s right hand is raised and the other holds a book and a white staff. The saint’s shoulders are draped in a golden cape with scarlet lining, and on his head, a jewelled bishop’s mitre points to heaven.

  “You’re not here to heal the sick, Claudio,” he snorts, glancing back at his brother. “You’re on vacation, remember? Leave the healing to San Nicola.”

  A LOW RUMBLE IN THE DISTANCE causes Gabriella to pause from her task in the hen yard. She ignores the haughty protests of the bolder hens who squawk around her skirts, attempting the occasional peck. “Luciano,” she murmurs, “where are you?” She hopes he hasn’t ventured to the river with his usual pack of friends; the current is swift and volatile, and Gabriella, in the tradition of Camini’s womenfolk, has warned her brother of its perils.

  “Remember poor Vincenzino,” she has told Luciano countless times. “God bless his soul.” Vincenzino had not been much older than Luciano when he ventured off with some friends. While skipping along some flat stones by the river, one of Vincenzino’s shoes had fallen off, and as he tried to recover it, he slipped into the water. On a summer day, he might have had a chance to retrieve his shoe and swim out of the water, but November is a month for the dead after all, and everyone knows that it is not the month in which to tempt fate.

  Gabriella shivers at the memory of Don Simone’s solemn words—“For fate lurks under the surface of the frigid river like a funerary cloak, ready to welcome its victims with its icy embrace”—and his frequent glances at the children to make sure he had made an impression.

  The washerwomen who had witnessed the boy’s disappearance spoke of nothing else for weeks. “Fate took hold of Vincenzino by his ankles,” they sobbed, “and pulled him into the river.” Eva, the boy’s mother, who had been washing clothes with her back to the group, turned at the shouts of the boys and was able to just glimpse the sight of a red-clad figure slipping into the water. With a shriek, she bolted to the river, knowing that only her son was wearing red. She thrashed her way to the flash of red, eyes fixated on it until, the women recounted, “one of fate’s hands blinded Eva with a vengeful spray and she tottered backwards.” When she rose, sputtering and shaking, the flash of red had disappeared.

  “Vincenzino, Vincenzino,” she had screamed, hands to her head, the wind whipping her hair against her face. In the distance, a rumble of thunder intensified and she stood petrified, assaulted by the spray of the water churning around her, her eyes reflecting the blackness of the water, her mouth contorted in horror.

  The washerwomen swore they could hear the devil’s mocking laugh reverberating in the waves around Eva, his lithe form reddening the water like the poison spray of a sea monster. Vincenzino’s mother continued to scream as her eyes probed the depths. She was convinced that she could see the devil’s scarlet face twisted in a triumphant grin, his pointed ears and evil talons extended, his sleek, muscled body swirling with ease as his flickering tail sliced the water like a crimson scythe.

  “U diavulu vitta,” she repeated hysterica
lly when some labourers, having returned from the fields, pulled her out of the water a few moments later. “I saw the devil. He took Vincenzino.” She started pulling at her hair in despair. “Why? Why? What did poor Vincenzino do to him? Si finìu a vita mia; My life is over.” Her eyes fluttered and she collapsed.

  The labourers brought Eva home in the back of a hay cart. The women peeled her skirts and chemises off one by one, dried her and wrapped her in linens, and placed her on a hemp-woven chair by the fireplace. They twisted her wet clothes and hung them to dry over the canna stalks suspended horizontally between nooks in the beams.

  Her husband Armando returned from the fields and didn’t leave her side that night. Consumed by fever, she thrashed about, alternating between moans and shrieks. The neighbours and Armando crossed themselves with every utterance, certain that the devil had entered her soul, so shattered was it from the shock of losing Vincenzino. Armando, who couldn’t bear losing his wife along with his only son, had Don Simone summoned in desperation along with Nicolina the midwife.

  Nicolina had a gift that no one refuted; even outsiders travelled miles to seek her counsel and purchase her herbs and decoctions. The villagers trusted her implicitly. She had calmed neighbour Pepe’s nervous tremor, eased neighbour Maria’s violent headaches, cured a visiting priest, Don Alberto, of a painfully swollen abdomen, and she had successfully healed the gangrenous wound of young Domenico, who had punctured his foot with a rusty wagon nail. The villagers were certain Nicolina could concoct something to calm down Vincenzino’s mother, while Don Simone performed the service to rid her body of the same devil that had taken her son.

  Gabriella shivers every time she recalls the story. As she scatters feed to the hens, an ominous rumble makes her look up to the sky. Surely, Luciano will be home soon. He hates storms….

  FROM HIS OPEN WINDOW, Alfonso hears a girl’s voice. He stirs from his afternoon nap, disoriented at first, and then realizes where he is. The guest room that the priest has provided is adequate enough, with two comfortable cots and linen bed coverings, a sturdy walnut dresser and mirror, and an imposing armoire that dominates a wall on the opposite side of the room. There are few embellishments, save for the gleaming crucifix above the doorway, and the embroidered doily on the dresser, upon which a terracotta jug and two cups are placed.