La Brigantessa

by Rosanna Micelotta Battigelli

  “God?” she rasps. “Am I to thank God for taking both my parents from me, for leaving me and Luciano orphans? God has damned me and my family.”

  “Gabriella, don’t—”

  “Don’t what? Don’t blame God for sending Signor Alfonso to ruin me and kill my father? For leading me to this nest of vipers?” Her voice breaks, and she feels the hot tracks of fresh tears run down her cheeks. She meets Don Simone’s shocked eyes defiantly as she rises from the stump. “God be damned.”

  Don Simone gasps, his body going rigid as a stalk of canna drying in the sun. Then his shoulders sag. He says nothing for a few moments, and Gabriella hastily wipes away her tears, thinking he has left. But he is still there before her, motionless except for the twitching of his fingers around his wooden rosary.

  He seems to be struggling for words; she watches his mouth open and close several times. His face, usually pale, is flushed, and glistening with perspiration. The mid-morning sun is already oppressive, elbowing its way through the gaps in the woodland to make its presence felt in the clearing. Gabriella shifts uncomfortably, her armpits and neckline already drenched. She watches the flurry of emotions on Don Simone’s face: shock, disbelief, confusion, and sadness. And then his eyebrows are knitting together and the sadness disappears. He draws himself up, his blue eyes darkening, his eyelashes fluttering wildly. “Gabriella! ‘Thou shalt not utter the name of the Lord in vain.’”

  The angry flash in Don Simone’s eyes stuns Gabriella. He has never looked at her this way before. Not even years ago, after her mother died, when he caught her pouring some of his nocino into a cup when she thought he had retired to his room. Not when she had left one of his treasured volumes out on the terrace, after promising him that she would take good care of it. The Lives of the Saints….

  She had finished her morning chores and Luciano was still napping. She flew to her room to retrieve the book, anxious for a few moments of time alone in her favourite spot. She climbed up the two sets of stone steps flanked on the outer railing by a canopy of vines and settled into the wide wicker chair in one corner of the terrace in the shade of the giuggiola tree. It was a glorious fall day, and the oblong berries hung in thick clusters above her, their reddish-brown skins gleaming in the early afternoon sun. She grabbed a handful and began to flip through the illustrated plates in the book, while munching contentedly.

  A soft breeze ruffled her hair, and suddenly she realized that she was happy. The patter of the pigeons strolling about the terrace, warbling; the haze in the distant stretch of mountains, their tips poking the occasional cloud; the endless strip of Ionian beyond, azure with streaks of purple; the trill of a sparrow or the piercing cry of a goshawk; the bracing smell of rosemary in their glazed pots: All gave her such a sense of contentedness that she put the book down for a moment, and continued to look about her in wonder.

  For the first time since her mother had died, she acknowledged that she was still able to be happy. She felt herself smiling then and proceeded to immerse herself in Don Simone’s book. She couldn’t read all the words—Don Simone had only recently begun to teach her to read, declaring that as long as she was living at the rectory, he would “elevate” her learning—but she didn’t mind. The illustrations were mesmerizing; the saints with their robes of magenta and royal blue; their faces luminous below golden haloes; and others, wearing hardly anything, like poor Santo Rocco, his ribs protruding in sharp angles, his bare limbs covered in open sores and scored with bloody gashes. At the sight of him and other saints like him, Gabriella would cross herself and utter a prayer: “Santo Rocco, protect me and my family from all diseases. Santa Lucia, keep my eyes healthy. Sant’Antonio, help us to keep bread upon our table. San Nicola, keep us safe from natural disasters….”

  That day, in the middle of one of those prayers, Luciano woke up screaming, and Gabriella, in alarm, jumped out of the wicker chair and tossed the book down on it, rushing to see what had befallen her brother, who usually woke up as placid as a lamb. She rushed to their room and found him crouched in horror on his pallet. His eyes were fixed on a black snake that was weaving its way through the vines outside the window, its body slithering purposefully over the window ledge. “Don’t move,” she told him, and scurried to fetch the straw broom she kept in the room. She edged the tip of the handle slowly to the writhing body, and once the snake had begun to curl around it, she flung it over the edge of the windowsill. She looked down into the rectory courtyard, catching a last glimpse of its tail before it disappeared behind a shrub.

  She shivered at such an evil omen, and realizing it was starting to rain, closed the shutters and proceeded to comfort two-year-old Luciano, who was still shaking in fear. She wrapped a blanket over him and carried him down to the rectory kitchen, promising him his favourite treat, a beaten egg yolk sweetened with sugar and wine must. They sat in front of the fire as she spoonfed him his uovo sbattuto while listening to the crackling wood chips and the rain clicking an erratic beat on the clay roof tiles.

  And then she remembered the book. She flew around the kitchen to the door that led outside, raced up the two flights of stairs to get to the terrace, where she pounced on the book, its maroon leather cover dripping. She tucked it under her vest and scurried inside, almost tripping on the slick steps.

  Inside, she came face to face with Don Simone, who had just returned from a home visit on the outskirts of Camini. His overcoat was still on, and rainwater was sliding off his shoulders and dripping on the tiled floor. His gaze went from her to Luciano, then back to her and the book she was holding. Haltingly, she began to explain what had happened with the snake, and when she started to apologize about the book, Don Simone held up his hand to stop her. Expecting Don Simone to scold her, as he sometimes did to the congregation during his sermons, she stood biting her lip remorsefully, waiting for him to tell her that she would no longer be entrusted with any of his books. He hung up his overcoat and looked at her gravely.

  “You did the right thing, child. You protected your little brother.” He reached out for the book and Gabriella handed it to him in embarrassment. “I’m sorry,” she blurted.

  Don Simone propped it up near the heat of the fire and then turned to face Gabriella again. “You are forgiven,” he smiled. “It won’t be so bad once it dries.” He peeked into the small earthenware bowl streaked with the remnants of Luciano’s treat. Patting Luciano, Don Simone’s face broke into a grin. “I don’t suppose I could have an uovo sbattuto as well?”

  Gabriella wishes Don Simone were grinning now, instead of fixing her with a scowl. “Now is not the time to abandon your faith, to distance yourself from God,” he admonishes, his eyes boring into her. “Yes, I know you feel that God has abandoned you, has left you without parents. Taken Tonino away from you. It’s hard to have faith under such terrible circumstances. But believe me, Gabriella, you must have faith now more than ever. Coraggio! Listen to these words from Proverbs: ‘Wait on the Lord, be of good courage, and he shall strengthen thine heart; wait, I say, on the Lord.’” Don Simone gazes at the sky and then back at Gabriella. “As sure as the sun rises every morning, God is with you, Gabriella. Don’t cast Him away. Instead, ‘cast thy burden upon the Lord, and he shall sustain thee.’” Don Simone’s voice is gentle, yet full of conviction. “The Lord will not fail you.”

  Deflated, exhausted by her spurt of anger, the heat, and the throbbing in her thumb, Gabriella cannot find any words with which to reply. She looks at her thumb and is alarmed at how swollen it has become. She hears Don Simone gasp before taking her hand again to look closely at the puncture. The tip of the thorn is still embedded in the flesh. Don Simone quickly extracts it with his fingertips, then reaches into his cassock for a flask. Gabriella winces as the alcohol sears the puncture wound. She feels battered, her leg and foot still aching, and now her thumb. And worse still, the constant pain in her heart, a pain that she cannot imagine ever subsiding. She thinks of everything an
d everybody she has lost.

  Oh Tonino, how I wish you were here with me now. She turns away sharply from Don Simone, deliberately suppressing any words of gratitude, and biting her lip hard, she re-enters her hut.

  ALFONSO CRINGES AT THE SUDDEN JOLT above his left ear. At that moment, Borbone veers to one side, neighing, and it is all Alfonso can do to remain in the saddle. When Borbone calms down, Alfonso catches up to Valerio, who is shirtless, his body as bronzed as a gleaming hazelnut. Alfonso has removed his outer jacket but cannot bring himself to take off his vest, let alone his shirt. He has no intention of breaching decorum, even in this godforsaken territory, where the only people they have encountered are peasants like Valerio, or worse.

  Within a half-hour, they arrive in Locri. Valerio’s inquiries about Don Simone and Gabriella are met with unconcealed interest. Why would Signorina Gabriella be travelling with her brother and Don Simone? Did something happen? Some kind of disgrazia? Where is her father? Why is the red-faced stranger looking for them?

  Valerio, open-mouthed, turns to Alfonso. Without dismounting, Alfonso explains that robbers or brigands broke into the priest’s home, stole what they could, killed poor Lorenzo Falcone, and fled. The poor girl, who could not bear returning to the place she and her father and brother called home for fear of the brigands returning, left Camini with her brother, under the protection of Don Simone. And he, Alfonso Fantin, as the new proprietor of the church estate, needs to settle affairs with the priest and his employees before returning to Turin.

  The look of interest on the villagers’ faces changes instantly to disdain. “Go back to Piedmont where you came from,” yells an old goatherd, pounding the ground emphatically with his stick before waving it at Alfonso. “Leave the church to the people who believe in it. Damned Piedmontese,” he spits before sauntering off. “It’s not enough that they’re taxing us into our graves. They have to take our religion away from us too.”

  Alfonso watches as the faces below him began to contort in anger. His heart jolts at the possibility of a peasant altercation. A snot-nosed boy picks up a stone and hurls it at him, catching him on the thigh. Alfonso nods to a white-faced Valerio and they make haste to leave amidst the raucous shouts of the peasants.

  “And you, Valerio, what are you doing in the company of a diavolo? He’ll take you straight to hell, boy.”

  They continue for a stretch without talking. Alfonso’s heart has calmed down, but there is still a throbbing in his temples. Nearing the hamlet of Calvino, they come upon a watermelon vendor by the side of the road. Valerio haggles with the peasant until he nods with satisfaction and stoops to pick the biggest melon. Moments later, they stop to refresh themselves under the shade of a huge holm oak. Valerio splits open the melon with his knife, cutting thick wedges for them and for Spirito and Borbone. Alfonso swipes the flies away from the sweet red fruit, cursing in-between bites.

  Once they have refreshed themselves, they proceed onward, passing long stretches of olive groves and the occasional farmhouse and vineyard. As they enter the hamlet, stopping at a public fountain, Alfonso inquires as to a tavern, where they can rest and have some decent food before questioning the villagers. Valerio dashes his hopes by telling him that they will have to travel another narrow stretch before arriving at a tavern on the outskirts of Gerace.

  Reluctant to face another group of disgruntled peasants, Alfonso sends Valerio to the piazza to make inquiries about Don Simone and Gabriella, advising the boy not to mention the other facts, lest the villagers harbour the same resentments. Valerio unties his shirt around his waist and puts it back on before sauntering jauntily up the main road, whistling a cheerful tune and nodding a greeting to a few old men sitting on dilapidated wicker chairs outside their doorsteps while engaged in an animated game of briscola. Alfonso sees them glance curiously in his direction, but he turns away, unwilling to give them any indication that he intends to approach, and instead, proceeds to tether the horses and wait for Valerio’s return.

  It has been a good twenty minutes since Valerio set off for the piazza. Alfonso winces at the sudden pangs in his head. He waits anxiously by the public grotto that houses a tapped spring, and beside which stands a stone-built shrine dedicated to the Madonna of the Poppies. He lets Borbone and Spirito satisfy their thirst and while they busy themselves nosing the red berries on the nearby arbutus shrubs, Alfonso wanders over to the shrine to gaze at the statue of the Madonna with its fading and peeling paint. Around the periphery of the statue, the flower bed is a tangled mess of knapweed, ivy, jasmine, and heather. His eyes travel up to the face of the statue. Unlike the body, it is flawless, its peachy skin slightly more flushed at the cheeks, and lips the same tint as the red poppies painted at the base of the statue. Alfonso finds himself mesmerized by the black eyes that seem so lifelike, like polished river stones. So very much like…Gabriella’s.

  He starts at the shuffle of footsteps behind him and turns to find a panting Valerio.

  “I spoke to the priest, Don Damiano; he said he hasn’t heard from Don Simone, but that he might be making his way to Gerace, where he usually goes for his retreats.”

  “Well done, Valerio. Let’s go, then.”

  “But Signor Alfonso, the Monastery of the Capuchins does not allow women. He couldn’t possibly be taking Gabriella there.”

  Alfonso hesitates, his controlled excitement at Valerio’s news diminishing. He shakes his head. “Nevertheless, it’s a start.” He gestures at the animals. “All right then. Let’s be on our way, and once we reach the tavern, we’ll eat properly and get a well-deserved rest. We can continue our search in the morning.” His hand flies to the side of his head, and he curses under his breath. “Is there a pharmacy of some sort there? I will need to procure more medicine for this blasted head pain; I don’t want to run out in the middle of this godforsaken countryside.”

  Valerio nods again, and they remount, the sun at their backs as they head off. To Alfonso’s relief, the boy is quiet, and all they hear are the fading cries of the old men at their card game, and the trill of the ever-present cicadas.

  As the village disappears around a bend, and they begin to ascend a side road that is flanked by brambles and ferns, Valerio begins to sing a spirited folk song, much to Alfonso’s dismay. He allows Borbone to fall back, annoyed with the boy’s endless cheerfulness, and resigns himself to the sound of Valerio’s ardent voice, with its crackles and pitch leaps. He wonders if the boy is thinking about Gabriella as he sings:

  When I saw you at the river doing your washing,

  holding the handkerchief I had given to you,

  My eyes locked with your piercing dark eyes,

  My heart beat fast; I couldn’t help but sigh.

  My Calabrese girl, for you I would die.

  Tirulaleru laleru la la, ’sta calabrisella morire mi fa,

  Tirulaleru, laleru la la, my Calabrese girl, for you I would die.

  “Sentimental fool,” Alfonso murmurs, and dismisses the sudden goosebumps on his arms as the result of a northerly breeze. The image of Gabriella’s eyes and those of the Madonna of the Poppies intertwine in his mind at regular intervals as they ascend the steep mountain path to Gerace, distracting him from the vertiginous edges of the mule track and the darkening shadows. Valerio eventually stops singing, but just when Alfonso begins to silently rejoice, the boy begins yet another folk song, resonating with the joys and sorrows of love. As they reach the outskirts of Gerace, the sound of the cicadas have diminished along with the daylight. Valerio finally stops singing and coaxes his exhausted mule on to the final stretch before they reach the tavern. Alfonso, sighing with relief, follows with a smile. Decent food and a clean bed are all he wants.

  And oleander-scented dreams of Signorina Gabriella.

  PART VI

  LA BRIGANTESSA

  August-September 1862

  GABRIELLA RETREATS INTO THE HUT, breathing hard. Her leg i
s throbbing, though not as intensely as the previous day and night. Her thumb is still painful and the sweat that is already trickling down her face and neck and under her petticoat is causing an unbearable itchiness. She extracts her handkerchief from her skirt pocket and wipes her face and under her collar. She wishes she were by the river in Camini, washing clothes and cooling herself off. She fingers the embroidered “E” on the now soiled handkerchief and wonders what horrible fate awaits her and Don Simone. Her instinct urges her to pray, but she represses it, and instead makes a silent appeal to her dead mother. Help us, Mamma. Wherever you may be, send us an angel of mercy to protect us, to lead us away from this place. And please, please send one to Tonino.

  Gabriella brings a hand to her mouth, thinking of the last moments she spent with Tonino. Where is he now? Is he safe? Will he return to Camini alive? How will he ever find me? Will Galante release me and Don Simone?

  She starts at the approach of footsteps. The blanket at the doorway is pulled aside without warning and the brigand chief enters brusquely, the panels of his black cloak resembling the dark wings of a vulture. Gabriella gulps, clenching her handkerchief.

  “Sit down,” he orders. “There are instructions I need to give you.”

  Gabriella slips the handkerchief back in her pocket and walks to her pallet. There is no other place to sit, other than on his pile of blankets. She slips her hand into the pocket of her skirt, touching the knife she placed there earlier, and she pauses, wondering how successful she might be at plunging it into him, before he can….

  And then she feels the brigand chief directly behind her, and her head jerks slightly in alarm. His breath is even, fanning the side of her neck and face. Her fingers tremble. She clenches the knife handle and then releases it. Whatever she might be able to do to him, she would ultimately have his band to deal with. The brothers. The brigantessa Dorotea. Her heart pumping, she turns without looking at him, and lowers herself onto the pallet, wincing slightly.