by Angela Petch
I couldn’t sleep that night. Mamma had sprayed petrol on the bedding and walls of our little room with even more care than usual. ‘I don’t want you turning up at your new school covered in flea bites. They would think we were living in filth,’ she said, squirting into every crack in the plaster walls and drenching our bedding with her noxious concoction. If we hadn’t hidden under our covers, she would have drenched Angelo and me too. The stench of petrol was nauseating and my mind was spinning with a million worries.
When I was younger I’d been terrified of storms. Lightning would illuminate our room and turn the cape hanging from the nail on the door into a corpse waiting to jump back to life with the next flash. I’d wriggle under the blanket to muffle the din of the thunder, a monster announcing his angry arrival from the next valley. But Francesco held me in his arms and calmed me. ‘We’ll weather the storm together,’ he laughed, tickling me and distracting me with stories. When there’d been a candle stub to spare, he’d light it and put on a shadow show against the plaster wall, shaping his hands into angels’ wings or fantastical creatures until the wind and rain subsided. But I knew he wasn’t coming back and I had to face my worries on my own. Our room felt cavernous without him and far too tidy. Each night I folded my breeches and shirt onto the wooden chest at the end of the bed and arranged my clogs side by side. But Francesco never bothered. Life was too short, he used to say. And he’d been right.
I sighed as I tossed and turned on the rustling mattress, until little Angelo sat up in the metal bed we shared, ‘Uffa! Bother you,’ he said. ‘Go outside and sleep with the chickens, Beppe…’
Ten minutes later I gave up, deciding it was going to be a “white night”, devoid of sleep. I crept down the ladder to the kitchen. Nonno Piero was there, hunched on his wooden settle in the corner of the hearth, a sheep skin over his knees even though summer had barely passed.
‘Can’t sleep?’ my grandfather asked. He beckoned me to pull up a stool and to sit near him. ‘Come and keep your old Nonno company.’
We sat in easy silence. I threw a small log onto the glowing embers. Nonno always felt the cold, even under an August sun. He would laugh his toothless cackle and say his blood had been diluted from drinking too much bad wine. I listened to the flare of flames as the log caught light, watching the changing shapes, wondering if there would be a fire to sit beside at the seminary. I wondered too where I would sleep; if I would like the food and the other students; if I would be clever enough to keep up with lessons. Thoughts buzzed around my head like bees about to swarm from their hive.
‘I have something for you,’ Nonno said, digging his hand into his pocket. He pulled out his most prized possession, a beautiful fob watch.
As a young man, he had worked as a cowboy, herding cattle with the other butteri down to the Maremma region each winter, along the Tuscan coast. On one famous occasion he had saved the life of a landowner’s young daughter. The men had stopped at the fair in Pugliano to buy new harnesses and bridles for the long journey. Nonno noticed a little girl wander into the enclosure where the huge Maremmana cattle with long curved horns were penned for sale. Quicker than you could down a glass of fiery grappa, Nonno had leapt on his horse, jumped the enclosure fence and scooped the child up onto his saddle, saving her from certain injury or death. Her parents had been so overcome with gratitude that, at a ceremony on the following day, they had awarded him a gold watch. He was the only peasant for kilometres around Montebotolino to own a timepiece and, whenever he was in the osteria, he allowed fellow-drinkers to hold it. They would listen to the tick-tock, tick-tock of the mechanism in exchange for a glass or two of strong red wine. I had heard the story over and over but Nonno didn’t launch into his favourite account tonight.
‘I want you to have this.’
‘But, Nonno I couldn’t possibly…’
The old man swiped away my protests, thrusting the watch into my hands, raising his voice to me. ‘Show me some respect! Let me speak, boy!’
I held the treasure in both my hands. Firelight glinted on the casing, the hands showing eighteen minutes past three. It would be growing light soon and time for me to leave for the seminary in Arezzo.
‘I am very proud of you, Giuseppe,’ Nonno continued. ‘Who would have thought a grandson of mine would be going away to study? Eeee! It will be like going to America.’ He wiped his eyes with the back of his knobbly fingers, disfigured from a lifetime of labour. ‘You won’t be back until Christmas. I was going to leave this to you anyway but I have decided to bring the occasion forward.’
It was useless to argue and in any case I could not have found the right words to explain how I felt. In my heart, I understood that by handing me his precious watch, Nonno was bidding me a final goodbye.
Next morning was bright, the sky empty of clouds. I knew Mamma was trying not to cry. It was time to leave and I looked everywhere but in her face: at Maria Rosa’s sleep tousled plaits, the patch on Nadia’s pinafore, the cat feeding her kittens. Nonno was nowhere to be seen but we had said our goodbyes last night by the fire.
The door burst open and my father entered, breath rasping after his run across from the barn. ‘I’m not too late, am I? The calf is sick - you must call the vet, Vincenza.’ He pulled off his cap, wiping sweat from his face. ‘Best make haste, Beppe, if we are to get down to Sansepolcro by two o’clock.’
I was grateful for brief goodbyes. Mamma cupped my face in her hands and I felt them rough on my cheeks. ‘Be good, my son,’ she said. ‘Work hard at your books and you’ll soon be home for Christmas.’ Then she turned away from me to stir soup in the black cauldron hanging in the hearth.
My little sisters clung to me and at the last minute, Maria Rosa pushed something into my pocket. ‘Look at it later, Beppe, when you’re on the train.’
My father took my suitcase and hoisted it onto his shoulders. I followed him down the mule track that led from the village through newly planted pine forests. His feet flew over the stony path and I found it hard to keep up. My heart had no desire to follow my feet and I kept turning round until I could no longer see the roofs of my village outlined against the sky.
‘Hurry up, Giuseppe!’ Babbo kept saying. ‘We’ll miss the coach to Arezzo. It won’t wait for you, you know.’
An hour and a half later, we had climbed again to 1,000 metres. I had never been beyond the pass of Viamaggio and in front of me spread a view that seemed to extend to infinity. It was nearly nine o’clock and quite warm. In the distance, mountains were hazy blue and purple in the September sunshine. We stopped to eat a late breakfast.
‘Those are the Apennines and the mountains of Pratomagno are further on,’ my father pointed out. ‘Think how vast they are, Beppe, and how small are we. They provide us with a living - but they can be cruel too.’
It was a profound statement for my father and as if to cover his embarrassment, he made a play of cutting me two slices of pagnotta which he pulled out of a sack cloth, adding a small hunk of pecorino cheese, made from our own sheep’s milk.
While we sat on the ridge chewing on hard bread, Babbo touched my arm. ‘You are fortunate Don Mario has given you this opportunity. Fortunate not to have to make the journey down to the Maremma to work your guts out this winter for next to nothing. Study hard and maybe one day you will be able to look after all of us.’
Don Mario had told my parents they wouldn’t have to worry about paying anything for school, but that was not quite the case. Although heavily subsidised by the Curia, they still had to find one lira per day to send me to the Salesian friars. This meant extra work and great sacrifices for the whole family. Mamma would now have to sell all our eggs at market and there would be no more delicious omelettes dished up at table. And five-year-old Maria Rosa would have to help watch over our neighbour’s flock on the meadows. It meant rising at dawn and not attending school. My parents saw no need for her to be schooled anyway. She already knew how to write her name; that was all she needed.
I felt
guilty for everything my family were doing for me. I didn’t feel like eating my breakfast and I decided to save it for later. In searching in my pocket for a rag to wrap it in, my fingers touched Nonno’s watch and my little sister’s gift. The weight of responsibility to do my best for my family was overwhelming. I felt like the family treggia, the wooden sleigh we used to lift heavy items from place to place: boulders, sacks of grain or loads of firewood. And I wondered if I would be strong enough to bear my burden.
.
It felt easier once I had said goodbye to Babbo down in Sansepolcro. He shook my hand as if I were already a man and not a boy of eleven. He muttered he had to hurry back up the mountain before darkness fell and then he turned abruptly and left me alone.
I watched him for as long as I could make out the muddy green of his long cloak. Where we lived up in the mountains, it was excellent camouflage in the forest and countryside, excellent disguise for melting into the undergrowth to hunt boar and deer. But Babbo didn’t merge into the bright cottons and wools of city people’s garments. At the edge of the main square he turned, but when he noticed me watching, he hurried off round a corner and was lost from view.
I had about one hour to wait for the Arezzo coach to come. I sat in a corner of the square near the stop, on top of my suitcase. Mamma had advised me to do this in case somebody should try to steal it. I listened to the chatter and watched the dazzle of movement, so different from our quiet village. A family was seated on the floor not far from me. A well-trussed duck poked its head from a basket and a middle aged woman sat nearby, a baby asleep on her lap. A little boy leant against her, picking his nose. I pulled him a face and stuck out my tongue, whereupon the child buried himself in his mother’s skirts. I wondered where they were bound, where they were from. I soon knew the answers to my questions because the mother noticed me and struck up conversation, producing a shiny red apple, urging me to take it.
‘We have plenty,’ she said, ‘it’s been a good harvest. Just as well with my daughter’s wedding coming up. We need all the extra lire we can find. We’re off to Arezzo to celebrate. Where are you going, young man?’
When the coach arrived ten minutes late, I felt I had known this family all my life. The woman had not stopped talking. The driver was all a-fluster, anxious to continue the stretch to Arezzo as soon as possible to make up for lost time. I helped the woman load her bundles and pass them up to the driver who tied them to the roof. She shouted at him not to bruise the fruit intended for the wedding party and the special cake.
We said goodbye at the coach stop opposite Arezzo station. I thought it strange that a woman I had never met before and felt sure would never meet again, seemed more upset at our parting than my own Babbo had been.
From across the square I watched people scurrying in and out of the railway station. Ever since I was tiny I’d dreamt of becoming a train driver in charge of an engine, pulling along carriages like a huge, mechanical caterpillar. Our teacher, Professor Daniele, had shown us pictures of trains and I wanted to see one for myself so I made my way to the wide doors and slipped past the ticket office.
I was in luck. Several uniformed station officials were clustered round a stall selling refreshments. Whilst they were enjoying their coffees and too busy to notice me, I slipped onto the platform. I had never stood next to a train, let alone travelled in one. The enormous, shining steam-engine blew smoke from its funnel like a bull blowing steam from its ringed nostrils on a crisp winter morning. The volume in the station was deafening from the hissing of steam, grinding of shovels on metal and coal being loaded into the furnace, coffee and newspaper vendors shouting their wares and people scurrying about like ants in my mother’s larder, so sure of their destinations. Overawed and overwrought, tense and exhausted from lack of sleep, I was all set to turn tail and run away from this new world, back to the bus to climb aboard for the return journey to Sansepolcro. I hurried back to where I had alighted and came face to face with somebody I had hoped never to encounter again.
Chapter 5
Giuseppe
It was Fausto.
I knew him only too well from school in Rofelle; he was a year older than me. His father was the village butcher and I’d often pictured his son as a Chianina bullock; big and beefy, like the carcasses hanging from hooks at the back of his father’s shop. He used his size to pick on younger children, hiding their copy books to get them into trouble with Professor Daniele. And he would steal mid-morning snacks from the pockets of coats hanging at the back of the single classroom, where we huddled as near to the stove as possible. These treats were simple: a piece of bread and herring or an apple or pear – some morsel to fill a hole in the stomach after our long, early morning walks to school. Nobody dared report him. I’d watched him mimic Marisa from Montebotolino, as she hobbled across the piazza to his father’s shop. Once only had I dared to stand up to Fausto, when he tripped up poor Alessandrino, a sickly child suffering from polio, his right leg encased in a heavy caliper splint.
‘Don’t you ever, ever talk to me like that again, you little piece of chicken shit,’ he whispered, holding a sharpened pencil in his fist, like a dagger, ‘or you will feel this go right through your eye-ball.’
And I had no reason to believe he wouldn’t do this.
‘What brings you down here, clodhopper?’ Fausto leered over me, barring my way, hands folded over his chest.
He was flanked by two other boys. I knew one of them: Geremaia, an altar boy, from the village of Colcellalto on the road to Sestino. I’d never had any bother from him. He smiled and raised a hand in greeting. ‘Leave him be, Fausto,’ said my saviour. Geremaia came and stood next to me so that he and I were facing Fausto and the other boy, very tubby and vaguely familiar. He gestured to my suitcase, ‘I reckon you’re off to the same place as us, Giuseppe. Did Don Mario manage to convince your folks too?’
I was surprised to learn I wasn’t the only new boy and wondered why the priest hadn’t arranged for us to travel together. Maybe it had something to do with the times I’d confessed my evil thoughts about Fausto. He probably sensed I would have refused to leave if I’d known of the presence of this loathsome oaf - and he would have been correct.
‘Just as he convinced yours,’ I replied. ‘Do you know how to get there?’
The tubby lad standing next to Fausto responded that he remembered but he was starving and wouldn’t go another step until he’d eaten something to give him energy.
‘But I gave you some of my food earlier on the train, Agostino,’ Fausto said.
‘I didn’t like the ham,’ replied tubby Agostino, wrinkling up his piggy nose, ‘I threw it out of the window.’
And then I remembered who he was. A relative of the bishop, Agostino had spent one week up in the mountains a couple of years earlier, eating Don Mario out of his presbytery. He’d found our games too exerting and preferred to remain slumped in the square under the shade of the lime trees.
The four of us trooped to the centre of Arezzo where a market bustled with colour and confusion. Agostino pulled a leather money pouch from his jacket and bought a portion of fried sardines, wrapped in a twist of oily paper. Fausto dipped in his hand and Agostino allowed him to help himself. I wondered what kind of arrangement the pair of them had. No doubt Fausto had ingratiated himself with the promise of protection, in the knowledge that Agostino’s purse was full. Later, when we passed by a stall laden with fresh bread, I saw Fausto steal a roll while the baker was busy slicing a loaf for a customer. Geremaia and I exchanged looks and he rolled his eyes.
Agostino led us down a dusty alleyway off the market square. From the windows grey washing flapped down against grimy walls. At home my mother and sisters always spread laundry on bushes to dry in the fresh mountain air. I wondered how washing could ever come clean in a city. Pigeon droppings lay thick on ledges, window sills and the ground; the musty smell of dirt and decay lingered in the narrow passage way. Agostino stopped to pull on a wire in a niche in the wall bes
ide huge arched wooden doors, taller and wider than any I had ever seen. They creaked open like castle portals in a fairy tale. A fat friar with a shining, beaming face welcomed us in. The door squeaked again as he pushed it to and when he slid the bolt across, the sound echoed within the depths of the building.
All I could think of were lines we had learned at school by heart from Dante’s Inferno:
“Through me the way into the woeful city,
Through me the way to the eternal pain,
Through me the way among the lost people…
Abandon every hope, ye that enter.”
(“Per me si va nella città dolente
Per me si va nell’eterno dolore
Per me si va tra la perduta gente...
Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch’entrate.” [Canto III])
It felt like we were passing through prison gates and I stood there, trying not to tremble, wondering if the others felt as nervous as me. By this time I badly needed a pee but didn’t dare ask, wishing I’d done it in one of the alleyways that stank of cat piss.