My Italian Bulldozer

by Alexander McCall Smith

  Onesto was expected at home, and excused himself. Paul half-rose, as if to go himself, but was urged by Stefano to stay. “Don’t hurry away. Your book is written.”

  Paul sat back in his seat, and Stefano ordered a further coffee for each of them. He shifted in his seat, and it seemed to Paul that he was about to raise some awkward topic. Eventually he spoke. “You were kind to my brother,” he said.

  “He was kind to me,” said Paul. “He gave me a very fine lunch.”

  “He is a good cook—he always was, but no, it’s not about that. From what he told me, I can tell that you listened to him with kindness. I am very grateful.”

  Paul made a dismissive gesture. “It was nothing.”

  Stefano shook his head. “No, it was something very important. You see, my brother is sometimes ridiculed by people. Particularly because of his name.”

  “Yes, I had heard of that.”

  “And you were probably aware that it was invented. He really shares my name: Poggio.”

  Paul said that perhaps it meant something to him. “A lot of people are fascinated by these genealogical matters. It doesn’t do much for me, but there are many who take a close interest in it.”

  “That’s good of you to say that,” said Stefano, “but in my brother’s case it goes much deeper. He doesn’t do it lightly.”

  “I didn’t think he did,” said Paul.

  “You see, there’s a reason,” continued Stefano. He hesitated before leaning forward and saying, in not much more than a whisper, “There’s a very personal reason. I do not wish to burden you with it, but I feel it’s important you know.”

  “If you wish to tell me, it would be no burden,” said Paul.

  The priest looked around him; they could not be overheard. “My brother is really my half-brother. We share a mother, but my father was not his father. When my mother married my father back in 1960, she was already pregnant—by another man. My mother was sixteen at the time, and she had a part-time position in a villa down towards Grosseto. She was a chambermaid. This villa was owned by a man who had very low morals. He paid attention to my mother—and…” He lowered his voice, so low now that Paul had to strain to catch what he was saying. “Those relations were not entirely consensual. He took advantage of my mother.”

  Paul caught his breath. “I’m very sorry,” he said.

  “Thank you. Now, the fact that it was non-consensual could have made it a criminal matter, but things were different in those days. Firstly, how can you prove that the woman has not consented? That’s a very difficult thing to do—sometimes impossible.”

  Paul inclined his head. He was conscious of being admitted to some very deep family secret. The priest was choosing his words carefully, but it was clear what he was talking about.

  “People did not dare to stand up for themselves,” Stefano went on, “and in those days, in Italy, people often ended up blaming the woman. Stigma, you see. So a woman in that position would be looked at as somehow responsible for what happened, so to speak. It’s shocking, but that was how it was.

  “My father married her anyway, because he was worried he would never find a suitable wife and here was someone ready and willing. He knew that she was expecting a child, but he did it anyway. So my brother believed that he was his father—or did so until he was thirteen. And then a terrible thing happened—one of the boys at school, a brute of a boy, a bully, overheard his parents talking about it. They had heard of it through the villa staff, one of whom had witnessed something taking place. The bully told my brother all about it.

  “He took it very badly. I think his whole idea of who he was was disturbed. Eventually, when he was about sixteen or seventeen, he tried to find his real father. He went down there and discovered that the villa was now owned by somebody altogether different. His father—his real father, that is—had gone down to Rome.

  “My brother went down there and found that his father had just died. That was when he first conceived the idea of changing his name. But he waited until after my father’s death.”

  Paul gave a start of surprise. “But why? Why on earth take the name of the man who had done that to your mother?”

  Stefano sighed. “He thought that was who he was. It was important to him, you see, because my father, I’m afraid to say, had always rejected him. He was always cold towards Tonio. He regarded him, I suppose, as the product of…well, I suppose one way of putting it is as the product of sin.” Stefano looked at Paul. “I imagine you might not use that word yourself. Do you?”

  Paul shrugged. “Not really. But the equivalent exists—not that I’d use it in a situation like that. How can the circumstances of somebody’s conception make the slightest difference to the person himself?”

  “Oh, you don’t need to tell me that,” said Stefano. “And the Church herself make no judgements these days, anyway.” He took a sip of his coffee. “Don’t attribute to us the attitudes of the past. We’ve changed, you know.”

  Paul sat quite still. He imagined the young Tonio’s feelings. If the man who was overtly his father did not want him, then who was he? “And all the time he was just trying to…”

  “To assert his identity,” supplied Stefano. “To establish who he was. He was struggling to find his place in the world.”

  “Which all of us feel the need to do,” said Paul.

  “That’s right. But in the case of my poor brother it was much stronger a need than it is for most people. And, in a sense at least, that’s what he’s done. He belongs to that other family even if they have never even been aware of him. He belongs here too, but people have been unkind to him because he’s a bit eccentric and mutters to himself—that sort of thing. But he’s very gentle, you know—very kind. He would never harm a soul.”

  They sat in silence for a few minutes. Paul was going over in his mind what had been said to him. At last he spoke. “So your brother has had a hard life.”

  “Yes, he has.”

  Paul sighed. “Imagine being made to think that there’s something fundamentally wrong with you. That you’re wrong in some way. In your very being, your essence. That must have been how he felt, I suppose.”

  Stefano nodded his agreement. He hesitated, and then went on, “Precisely. And so many people have had that experience. Very many. People among us. Have felt guilty about themselves.”

  Paul looked at the priest, and suddenly he understood. Or perhaps he did not. That was what Italy was like; it was a palimpsest—there were layers and layers of meaning, just as there were centuries upon centuries of history, and beginning to understand it would take a lifetime.

  —

  It was a tight fit for the three of them, but Onesto and Stefano perched on the spare seat and were able to hold on firmly enough to the bars protecting the top of the cab.

  “We’re perfectly comfortable,” said Onesto as Paul started the engine. “This is my first time on a bulldozer, you know.”

  “And you?” Paul asked Stefano.

  The priest hesitated. “Once before,” he said at last.

  “I have complete confidence in you,” said Onesto. “Let’s go.”

  As they made their way down the Grosseto road, Onesto gave a running commentary on the passing landscape. “That’s where my uncle had a vineyard,” he said, pointing to a small turning off the road. “He sold it before Brunello really took off. He’d be rich if only he’d held on to it.”

  “There were many in that position,” said Stefano.

  “And over there,” continued Onesto. “That’s where they hid food in a cave when the Germans were here. My grandfather told me about it. It was stacked with hams and cheeses because the occupying forces took everything they could lay their hands on. The Germans never found where the food was hidden.”

  Stefano looked away. “So much has happened in this country,” he said. “It would be good to have a little less history.”

  “You can’t change the past,” said Onesto.

  “No,” conceded S
tefano, “but you can make up for it, can’t you?”

  Onesto could not resist a dig. “Not that the Church does much of that.”

  Stefano ignored this. They were nearing the entrance to Tonio’s vineyard. As they passed the sign with its elaborate crest, Onesto said, “Quite a crest, that. You must be pretty proud of it, Stefano.”

  “It’s nothing to do with me,” said Stefano calmly. “Some things are more important to my brother than they are to me.” He paused. “But he remains my brother.”

  Paul parked the bulldozer where he had left it on his previous visit, and the three of them walked up to the villa. When Tonio appeared, he embraced Stefano first, and then turned to shake hands with Onesto and Paul, greeting them both with warmth.

  “Stefano told me this is a celebration for you,” he said, glancing over Paul’s shoulder to where the bulldozer was parked. “A celebration and a farewell, I believe.”

  “I’ve finished my work,” said Paul. “And I wrote a bit about your place and your wine. I assure you I’ve been complimentary.”

  “That is very kind of you,” said Tonio.

  They went inside, where Tonio had prepared an elaborate lunch. Wine was served out of a silver jug. Paul sipped at his slowly, aware of his driving duties, but he noticed that Onesto and Stefano were less restrained. As the lunch progressed, the conversation became increasingly uproarious. If there had been needling between Onesto and Stefano earlier on, this now all vanished, and the talk avoided any difficult or contentious subjects. There were reminiscences from schooldays, discussion of the forthcoming boar hunt, and a long debate on the relative archery skills of the young men of the various quartieri.

  At one point, while Stefano and Tonio were discussing some point of wine-making, Onesto turned to Paul and said, “They caught him, you know. Last night.”

  “Caught him?”

  “That fugitive from justice. Occhidilupo. They caught him in a bar down in the valley. He obviously thought he could slip in unrecognised, but the barman had seen his photograph and called the Carabinieri.”

  Stefano broke off his conversation with his brother. “I heard that too. My housekeeper was told by her brother in the Carabinieri.”

  “Well, they won’t let him go so readily next time,” said Onesto.

  “He might be innocent,” said Stefano quietly.

  “Not him!” Onesto mocked.

  “He was never actually convicted of anything,” said Stefano. “Or not recently. Maybe a long time ago. But then he was judged thereafter. He was an outcast.”

  “Outlaw,” corrected Onesto.

  “Outcast,” repeated Stefano.

  Something came to Paul’s mind. As you are to the least of my brethren…He spoke the words, and Stefano looked up sharply. He stared at Paul.

  “Yes,” he said.

  Tonio produced the next course.

  “You could write about a meal like this,” said Onesto.

  “Perhaps I shall,” replied Paul.

  Tonio rose from the table to fetch another bottle of wine, but came back with two.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, as he drew the corks. “I’m not going to ask you to drink all of this. Just a small glass of each. A mouthful—no more. You’ll need two glasses—one for each.” He retrieved fresh glasses from a cupboard and distributed them round the table. Next he carefully poured all of them a small amount of wine from each bottle. The bottles, Paul noticed, had no labels.

  “Now,” said Tonio, looking directly at Paul. “Please taste both of them. Take as long as you like.”

  Paul raised the first glass, swirled the wine around in it, and held the glass up to the light to observe the colour. Then he took a small sip from each glass.

  Tonio watched him closely. “Now, may I ask you: Which is the Brunello?”

  Paul repeated his tasting. “This one,” he said, tapping one of the glasses.

  Tonio’s face broke into a smile. “No,” he said. “That is my Rosso di Montalcino. The other one is the Brunello, from the vineyard, as it happens, of one of the committee members of the Consorzio.”

  Hearing this, Stefano and Onesto began to laugh.

  “I can just see their faces,” said Onesto.

  —

  More wine was offered, but Paul declined. He felt relaxed—that was all—whereas the others looked and sounded ebullient.

  “We have a small favour to ask,” Stefano said suddenly. “Would you be able to help my brother with something?” He glanced at Tonio, who nodded encouragement.

  Paul imagined it would be a further mention—perhaps in a newspaper article. “I’d do my best.”

  “Good,” said Stefano. “Your bulldozer…”

  Paul looked blank.

  Tonio took up the explanation. “I need a mound of earth to be moved. It’s quite big, but a bulldozer like that would do the task easily. Perhaps half an hour or so? An hour at the most.”

  Paul shrugged. “You’ll have to show me.”

  “Oh, we’ll do that, all right,” said Tonio. “Stefano will ride in the cab. I’ll direct from the ground.”

  “This is a great idea,” said Onesto. “You’re a very generous man, Paul. You must come back to Italy soon.”

  They went outside. Paul and Stefano climbed up into the cab while Tonio and Onesto walked off towards the beginning of the rows of vines.

  “You see that big mound over there?” called Tonio, pointing to a small hillock. “We need to move that to the other side of the vines.”

  Paul gasped. “But that’s massive.”

  “It’s not small,” conceded Stefano. “But it’s clear ground between where it is now and where we want it. It won’t be hard just to push the earth across.” He paused. “That’s what bulldozers do, isn’t it?”

  “But why?” asked Paul. “What’s the point?”

  “I’ll tell you later,” said Tonio. “You did say you’d help.”

  “Well, I did, but…”

  “I can tell you: there is a reason. There really is.”

  Paul sighed. “I’m not sure if I really know how to do this sort of thing,” he said. “But, all right, I’ll try.”

  —

  It took longer than an hour, but at last, after a great deal of shouting and waving from Tonio and Onesto, and advice from Stefano, Paul scraped the last of the earth into its new position.

  “A job well done,” shouted Onesto.

  “Magnificent!” decided Tonio. “Now we can go inside and celebrate.”

  The bulldozer was returned to its parking place, and Paul followed the other three into the house. Tonio went to a cupboard and took out a fresh bottle of wine. “This is something very special,” he said. “You see the vintage? That was a very good year for us. I have only five or six bottles of it left.”

  He placed the bottle on the table. Stefano picked it up, looked at it, and whispered something to Onesto that Paul did not catch. Onesto smiled, and then laughed. Taking a pen out of his pocket, he crossed something out on the label and wrote something else in its place. He showed this to Tonio, whose eyes shone with pleasure.

  “Here,” said Onesto, passing the bottle to Paul for inspection.

  Paul read what had been written. Rosso di Montalcino had been printed on the label, under Tonio’s crest. Now, beneath those crossed-out words, was written Brunello di Montalcino.

  “I told you I’d explain,” said Stefano. “You see, the boundary of the Brunello zone of production runs right along the edge of my brother’s vineyard. We’ve always felt that it was unfairly drawn, but would they listen to us?” He shook his head. “Now, the boundary was marked by an imaginary line drawn between a small hillock”—he paused to allow his words to sink in—“and the top of a hill over towards Sant’Angelo in Colle. So now that hillock is in—how shall we put this—a more advantageous position. If you draw that line now, it means that my brother’s vineyard is in the Brunello zone of production.”

  “Hah!” said Tonio. “That’ll teach
them. I’ll tell them that there’s been a bad mistake and they should consult their records. I’ll get the Comune surveyor to come out and confirm. Hah!”

  He lifted a glass. “To you, dottore! And to our new Brunello!”

  Paul raised his glass, too overcome by astonishment—and emotion—to speak. And even if he could speak, what was there to say?

  Later, on their way back to Montalcino, Stefano said to him, “That was a very good thing you did back there.”

  “It was hardly my idea,” said Paul.

  Onesto joined in. “No, but you were the one who did it.” He paused. “Sometimes, you know, good things have to be done—they just have to be done. And most of us—myself included—are too timid to do them. Fortunately, there are brave people who are prepared to take the risk, who do these things, often in such a way that nobody can see them. They say, The world doesn’t have to be the way it is; we can change it. That’s what they say—and then they do it.”

  Paul saw that Onesto was looking at Stefano as he said this, but Stefano looked away.

  —

  The bulldozer was collected the next morning by the man from Pisa. The man who had brought him was to drive Paul to the airport in time to catch his flight later that day. Onesto and Stefano came to say goodbye. They all watched the bulldozer be driven off, and then Paul loaded his luggage.

  “There are permanent goodbyes and there are temporary ones,” said Onesto, embracing him. “And this is a temporary one, I think, my dear friend.”

  “Thank you,” said Stefano. “You have been good to us in more ways than you know.”

  Paul smiled at him. “And you have been good to me in the same way.”

  For a few moments he held Stefano’s gaze, which was bemused, and then he got into the car and closed the door.

  “It is always hard to leave friends,” said the driver, as he started the engine.

  “Very hard,” said Paul.

  Stefano stepped forward before the car drew away and tapped on Paul’s window. Paul wound it down.

  “I don’t like to give advice,” said Stefano. “Even if people expect me to do so because I am a priest.”

  Paul looked up at him, and smiled. “Tell me,” he said.