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The Grieving Mother’s Notes
(September 1980)
Giuliana continued to work at the Grand Hotel Santa Lucia. She slept there as well. Giosuè had found her a place to stay. The first evening, when she had left Matteo, it was Giosuè she had gone to see. She had begged him to find her a corner where she could hide for a while. He had taken her to the basement and had shown her a little stockroom where boxes of soap and linen were stored. ‘I can put a mattress in here,’ he had said. ‘The machines start early in the morning but you will have peace and quiet at night.’
She had been there a month. She worked hard. Asked for nothing. Never refused to do whatever was asked of her. As soon as she had some free time, she went out. She walked the streets of the city with an air of concentration. All she did was walk. And talk very quietly, battling the demons that accompanied her. She murmured prayers, stopped to cross herself, then set off again. In a few weeks, her appearance had changed. When she passed a church, she would stop dead, like someone searching for something that would be impossible to describe until they found it. Then she went on her way, head bent.
Finally, one day, when rain had driven people back to their homes and she was sheltering under a porch, her face lit up. She had found what she had been looking for all that time. She murmured to herself: ‘The wall.’ The idea grew in her. ‘The wall, over there. They lean forward and kiss it. The wall receives their wishes and does not move. That’s what I need.’
She took a scrap of paper from her bag and scribbled a few words. Then, in spite of the rain, which continued to beat down on the pavement, she went in search of a church. The first she found was San Domenico Maggiore. The square in front was empty. She stopped. She wanted to take her time. She went slowly over to the church and slipped her piece of paper into the crack between two stones then furtively kissed the façade, crossed herself and slipped away.
From that moment on, this was all she did. She roamed all over the city. As soon as she came across a church, she wrote on a scrap of paper, rolled it into a ball and slipped it into a cavity or between two stones. She always asked the same thing of the church façades. She asked for her son to be returned to her. One day soon. She asked for the blood and bereavement to be wiped away. Her ex-voto offerings multiplied day by day. Soon there were dozens and dozens of little balls of paper endlessly repeating the same plea, ‘I’m waiting for my son.’ Naples said nothing. The façades were mute. Sometimes the wind blew the little messages down. Sometimes the local children pulled one out and laughed as they read it. But, mostly, they remained half concealed in the stone, hidden supplications, like little eggs of pain.
Giuliana continued. Relentlessly. Everywhere she went. The words multiplied over the city. ‘I’m waiting for my son.’ She rolled the message into a ball and slipped it into San Gregorio Armeno. ‘May Pippo be returned to me or may the world burn,’ in Santa Maria Donnalbina. ‘Don’t make me the mother of a dead boy,’ in San Giorgio Maggiore. ‘You are cursed if my son does not return,’ in Chiesa Madre. These were the words she slipped into the façades. So that the whole of Naples would have the same name on their lips. Pippo. Pippo. Pippo.
Because she was going from church to church she soon heard about Don Gaetano Marinucci. He was the young priest who had just been appointed at Santa Maria di Montesanto. Since his arrival, services were no longer poorly attended. The young priest was handsome. He had the rugged charisma of dark-eyed men. Like Giuliana, he came from Puglia. The rumour spread through the neighbourhood that the young priest had been a disciple of Padre Pio, and that he had accompanied him during his last years. His association with the holy man conferred an aura of glory on the young man. Most of the women in the fish markets of Montesanto were certain that, one day, the young priest would also perform miracles and become the worthy successor to Padre Pio. Now it was Naples’ turn to have their saint and the entire world would see what the common people were capable of when they wished to demonstrate their fervour.
Giuliana wandered more and more often about the Montesanto neighbourhood. She walked around the church. Each time she passed in front of it, she deposited one of her little notes. So that after a few days there were many in the wall of the church. She wanted to cover the façade with them so that the priest would know that she was there and that she expected great things of him.
One night, she finally felt she was ready. She went to the church. It was about two in the morning. The sky was clear and the stars shone with the purity of the night. She knelt in front of the closed church door and murmured her exhortation.
‘I kneel in front of you, Father, but do not think that I am weak. I am strong. I believe in you. You are going to perform a miracle for me and I can already feel joy spreading through my veins. I know that men like you are capable of such things. It is not that miracles are easy for them to perform. But their purpose here on earth is to relieve us of our misfortunes. I know what is coming. The blind will see. The paralysed will start to walk. I know all that. I am ready. It is time for the dead to be resurrected. All of them, one by one, will ascend from below the earth and walk. I wait impatiently. Maybe it cannot be seen as a miracle. Just the reconciliation between God and man. Because he has offended us. You know that as well as I do. Through Pippo’s death, he threw me to the ground and beat me. It was an act of cruelty and I curse him for it. But today the hour of pardon has come. The Lord himself will kneel before us and ask our pardon. I will look at him for a long time, I will kiss his forehead and I will forgive him. And that is when the dead will rise, for it will be the end. It is good. I pray that day will come. I am full of strength. I will wait until tomorrow. I already feel the earth tremble. The dead are on the move. They are preparing and quivering with impatience. In only a few hours’ time, the Lord will appear before us. I can’t wait, my father, to see him kneeling in front of me and crying with humility.’
Early in the morning, she went to sit against the wall of the church, out of sight of the arriving worshippers. The bells pealed. Little by little the crowd in front of the church formed into small groups. Almost all women – the old women from the local area and shopkeepers going to mass before work. Giuliana did not get up. She did not mix with the crowd. She waited until everyone had gone in and mass had started. Then she went up the steps of the church and stood in the entrance watching the young priest. There he was, with the contemplative, austere demeanour she had imagined. She did not go in. ‘I will not receive communion from the Lord until he has asked my pardon,’ she thought. She did not feel hate. She was waiting until mass was finished, like a mother waiting for her child to charge out of school at the end of the day.
Finally, the organ rang out. One by one the women began to leave. Giuliana went in, pushing her way through the oncoming crowd. There were still about ten people standing in front of the altar. The priest was giving them the host. She stayed where she was, confident and at peace. ‘The organ does not know it, but it is playing to celebrate this day,’ she thought.
At last, the church was empty. Still she waited, in the last row of the pews, like a parishioner lost in contemplation. When they were really on their own she went straight up to him.
‘Don Marinucci, I am Giuliana.’
He didn’t say anything. He looked at her strangely, waiting for her to explain, because he did not know who she was.
‘You’re going to perform a miracle,’ she went on. ‘I have come to tell you. Tell my son to walk, wherever he is, and he will walk again. It is time.’
The priest understood that she was a lost soul. He looked at her with sympathy and a gentle serenity as he took both her hands in his. ‘What happened to your son?’ he asked.
‘He’s dead,’ she replied. ‘Until yesterday. But that doesn’t matter because God is going to ask my forgiveness. I will kiss his forehead and he will not be ashamed any more. The dead are going to come back.’
‘What are you saying?’ demanded the priest, his voice risin
g with fear.
So Giuliana explained that for weeks she had been putting bits of paper into the stone of his church to warn him. She spoke of Padre Pio’s miracles, which were nothing compared to the miracles he was capable of. The people needed them. She repeated several times that the people were suffering and that it was God’s fault. She explained everything that was in her head and she mentioned Pippo in almost every sentence, as if that would make him come more quickly. The priest’s expression darkened. He looked at her, scandalised, and said severely, ‘So it was you: all those little bits of paper?’
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Today you are going to give me my son back.’
‘Silence!’ he said, raising his voice, looking disgusted. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself and your superstitions. You have blasphemed. You dare to insult the Lord. You challenge His authority. Your child is with Him. He stands on His right-hand side. He has welcomed him into the light. And you want Him to ask for pardon …’
At these words, Giuliana took a step backwards and spat at the feet of the priest. He blanched and swiftly slapped her. The sound of the smack echoed in the empty church.
‘These are Pharisaic beliefs,’ continued the priest. ‘Tomorrow I will burn all your notes. God does not ask pardon. He took your son back. That was His wish and we must praise Him …’
Giuliana could not stand any more. The priest’s words grated on her. He appeared to be laughing at her with the cruelty of a devil. She began to scream. A shrill scream that lasted a long time and seemed to split the still air of the church. She screamed and birds all over the neighbourhood flew away. Then, before the priest could say another word, she left.
A few hours later she was at Naples station. She had gone back to the Grand Hotel Santa Lucia to collect her belongings, then she had walked through the streets of the city for the last time. On the station concourse, all she had was her suitcase and the ticket she had just bought. She was no more than a shadow, a poor shadow who got into the first train that came, going to Caserta.
‘At Naples station I abandon my child.’
The train had just moved off. Giuliana was looking out of the window. There were still some people left on the sad-looking platform, waiting to say goodbye to those leaving. She stared at these last faces and thought back over the life she had spent in that city, the life she was leaving behind her, and which did not now exist for anyone except Matteo. She would never return. Her son would stay, buried in the cemetery. Her life as a mother was over. She leant her forehead against the window and said goodbye to the thousand things that made up Pippo’s life. His school. His bedroom. His clothes: the ones he liked, the ones he never wore. She said goodbye to the joy of going out with him, of holding his hand in hers. She said goodbye to the maternal worry that had overtaken her from pregnancy onwards and that should have stayed with her all her life. One last time, she extracted him from the cold marble of his grave so that she could hear him laugh. He was there. He was playing with her. He was calling her as he ran. She closed her eyes so that they were on their own and she was everything to him.
At Naples station, she laughed for one last time with her son. She knew it would never happen again and she tried to make her last maternal laughter go on as long as possible.
‘At Naples station, I abandoned my child,’ she murmured, ‘and I will never think of him again.’
The train travelled along the track with the heaviness of sleepless nights. She was in no hurry, in no rush to arrive anywhere. She was saying goodbye to her life. Every new station was a step on the way to its slow, progressive dissolution.
At Caserta, where, despite the late hour, the platform was packed with people laden with luggage and children, she said goodbye to Matteo. She was leaving behind her husband, who had only been able to offer her gifts that fate had destroyed. A life built on sand and swept away in an instant. Everything had been gobbled up. At Caserta she kissed Matteo in her thoughts for the last time before the train moved off again.
At Benevento, she understood that she would not be able to take any memories with her. The platform was empty. They stayed a strangely long time in the station even though no one got on or off. The carriage doors had not even opened. Perhaps the train had simply stopped for so long in order to give her time to abandon everything. For at Benevento she left behind all her memories. Every single one. They were scattered like a photo album that had been shaken out of the window. She sprinkled them over the platform. Twenty years of memories she would have no use for any more. The hours spent in the hotel doing the same things over and over again. Cleaning. Washing. Serving. Happy moments. The surprises that should have gladdened her heart right into old age. Everything, she was leaving everything. She shook out her memory like shaking out a tablecloth and eventually the train set off again.
At Foggia, it was all finished. She got up, took her suitcase and opened the door. It must have been two in the morning. She was surprised because it was pleasant outside despite the late hour. She got off the train. She did not raise her head, tried not to take in the station. She walked with lowered head.
‘My name is Giuliana Mascheroni,’ she said under her breath, and she repeated her old name, given to her by her father, so that it would become second nature. Her old name from before her marriage, the name from the period before her life had started and when she had been eager for everything. She leant forward to take up this old name, as if she were picking up something she had left behind twenty years ago.
‘My name is Giuliana Mascheroni. My life has not started yet. I am my parents’ daughter. Nothing more. And I have come back to die in the place where I was born.’
XI
Overwhelming
(August 2002)
The blood on the seat next to me has dried. The scent of pine hits me out of the darkness. I drive on. The cool breeze keeps me awake. The night is doing me good. I look around. There’s an innocent freshness in the air of the hills.
I can’t get Grace’s voice out of my head. I shouldn’t have gone to see her. I’m annoyed with myself for having felt the need to say goodbye. I should have been stronger. I’m a bundle of nerves and rage. I expected Grace to stroke my hand and give me her blessing – instead, she’s planted an idea I can’t shake off. But I mustn’t allow myself to give in. Not now.
I’m thinking of my mother. I can’t help it. I wish I could get her out of my mind but she sneaks back in, overwhelming me, and Grace’s voice is there too, telling me over and over again that my mother has been in hell for twenty years. She’s not the one I’m looking for. She’s not the one I’m driving towards. I need to ignore that idea.
My mother doesn’t exist. I can’t picture her face. However far back I go, I can’t remember a mother’s soothing, gentle presence. Or maybe I can. Deep down I know I once had a mother, but I’ve pushed her away. I do remember her. If I make an effort, I can remember a time when she was there, surrounding me with the sweet scent of happiness. And then, just like that, she was gone. My mother left, abandoning her son. That, I remember – the sudden emptiness. I never crossed her mind again for a second. She made up her mind never to think of me again. And so I did the same. When I became aware she had banished me from her thoughts, I swore I would never long for her, hope for her, cherish her, ever again.
Just when I needed her most, she shrank away from me. What kind of mother does that? I could tell what my parents were thinking – the warmth of their affection was all I had to keep me going. I could feel my father’s obsession with reliving the day of the shooting, feel him praying to hold me in his arms one last time. For a long time I could feel her too, refusing to accept my death, and then she disappeared and I never entered her mind again. What kind of mother does that? She left. She wiped my name and my very existence from her memory and left me limping along without a mother’s support. I needed her. I was lonely, I cried out for her. I needed her to help me keep the shadows away and hold back my oblivion. I needed her, a child trapped in a t
errifying place with no way out. I called her name, over and over. It made no difference. I begged her to come back, to let me feel the warmth of her thoughts again. Nothing. In the end, I managed to cut away the pain. I clung to my father. I could feel him in his grief, thinking of me every second of every day. I could feel him getting closer to me, and it was the only thing that kept the ghouls and the screeching spirits at bay.
I have no mother. Grace was wrong. I have no mother who has thought of me the way a mother should think of her child. But there’s still this word, which goes round and round for ever, this overwhelming word which causes me pain. My mother.
XII
The Dead around the Table
(November 1980)
Matteo had been driving for more than two hours through the sleeping city. He was thinking about Giuliana, whom he had not heard from. He thought about the boredom that was crushing the life out of him. He drove along Via Cristofo Colombo by the sea. The streets were empty. When he turned the corner onto Via Melisurgo, he passed a pedestrian who looked familiar. He observed the man in his rear-view mirror, certain he had met him at some point. It took him a while to realise that it was Professore Provolone, whom he had come across in Grace’s café a few weeks earlier. What was he doing here in the middle of nowhere at this hour? Without thinking, Matteo swung his car round.
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