Chapter 48
Mario from the pizzeria and his father, officious in their hi-visibility vests, stood ready to halt the traffic.
‘I don’t fancy that job much,’ Amy said.
Stella laughed. ‘There’s going to be angry drivers backed up halfway to Sanremo by the time this procession has got up the road.’
It seemed that most of the village had assembled in the car park ready to accompany Pietro Parodi’s smooth wooden casket to the church.
Father Filippo, all robed in white, stood chatting with the mayor and other local dignitaries.
The shining instruments of the village brass band, the costumes of the choir and the banners of the local fraternities all added to the colourful spectacle.
The return of Pietro’s bones was a matter for celebration as well as sombre reflection.
All eyes were on Father Filippo, counting the minutes until he gave the signal for the procession to begin.
Amy seemed to be studying the banner of the local communist party portraying a bright yellow hammer and sickle.
‘Some people might not approve of politics on a day like today,’ Stella said. ‘But Pietro’s beliefs contributed to his death and his sister wanted to acknowledge that.’
‘I think someone wants you,’ Gino said.
Stella felt a tap on her shoulder. She swung around to see a strangely familiar woman of about her own age.
Stella blinked. The woman’s wavy chin-length bob and formal bottle-green dress disappeared, replaced by the long messy plait and a pair of blue jeans belonging to the tuba-playing teenager she’d once known.
Gino’s ex-wife smiled. ‘Stella! I so hoped I would see you today.’
‘Gaia, how long it’s been!’
‘Don’t look so concerned. I know you are seeing Gino and if you can make my grumpy ex-husband happy, you have my admiration. Besides, I have met someone myself recently.’
‘Who is he?’ Gino butted in. ‘And what do you mean by grumpy?’
Gaia laughed. ‘Never you mind. And you… you must be Amy. Leo has talked about you. Do you see that young woman in the striped dress with the clarinet over there? That’s his sister Isabella.
I used to play the tuba but Isabella is the musician in the family now.
She usually plays with an orchestra in Alassio but staying with her nonna so often, she sometimes plays with the village band. ’
‘You heard I was staying with Fernanda?’
‘Yes. That must be interesting.’ Gaia raised her eyebrows.
‘I hope you’re not insulting my mother,’ Gino said but he had a smile in his voice.
Someone crashed two cymbals together; Stella almost jumped out of her skin. She must have been so distracted by the appearance of Gaia she’d missed Father Filippo giving the signal for the procession to begin.
The religious leaders began to move out of the car park followed by the children of the choir all dressed in white smocks, their faces scrubbed and hair brushed until it shone.
One of the four pallbearers laid a spray of red and white flowers on Pietro’s casket before they carefully took it upon their shoulders.
The liturgical banners swayed. Stella, Gino and Amy joined the straggling band of ordinary folk in their Sunday best bringing up the rear.
Four young women wheeling pushchairs were the very last in line.
The pizzeria owner stood in the middle of the road, arms akimbo, defying any vehicle to pass.
A car hooted. Signora Togliatti, doused in lily-of-the-valley cologne, a boxy handbag dangling from her skinny elbow, adjusted her hat. They set off towards Sant’ Agata’s.
Stella walked by Gino’s side. The procession progressed slowly, hampered by the heat and by smart shoes that were better suited to a short walk from home to church.
At last, they turned into the high street, the villagers streaming across the road to assemble by the war memorial and join those who by reason of age or infirmity were only able to follow the procession for its final leg.
The traffic that crawled along behind them was waved ahead, receiving a chorus of toots and ironic cheers.
Signora Togliatti sank onto a bench to rub her swollen ankles.
Stella searched the crowd for Domenico. He’d been wanting to walk the whole route, stopped only by her threat to stop baking his favourite treats.
Eventually she spotted him, smart in a brass-buttoned blazer, standing right by the old memorial, examining a fresh wreath propped against its base.
With him were her cousin Luisa, a man in his early sixties and three young children, one clutching a knitted rabbit.
‘My husband, Andrea,’ Luisa said.
‘How lovely to meet you.’
‘It is nice to support the village at a time like this, even though the grandchildren may not appreciate it.’ He prised a small boy from his trouser leg.
‘We are not the only ones to come back…’ Luisa hesitated.
Stella glanced at Domenico. His grin was as wide as a slice of watermelon. ‘I took the liberty of inviting some relatives.’
‘Who is it? Who’s here?’
‘Over there, by the fountain…’
But Stella wasn’t listening any more. She was pushing her way through the crowd with a ‘permesso’ here and a ‘scusi’ there to where her brother and sister were standing.
‘Stella, oh, Stella!’ Giovanni pulled her into a bear hug.
‘We didn’t think we’d ever see you again. We thought you didn’t want to know us any more,’ Marta sobbed.
All the words, all the apologies and explanations Stella had rehearsed over the years had deserted her. She just clung to them, drinking in their dear familiar faces.
* * *
Stella and Gino took their seats at the back of the church.
She could hardly believe she’d followed the rest of the procession arm in arm with Giovanni and Marta.
Now her brother and sister sat within touching distance, just in front of Fernanda who had taken a seat nearest to the aisle.
Amy sat a little way in front, Leo by her side.
He had changed into a long-sleeved shirt and dark trousers but there were traces of stone dust in his hair.
Pietro’s elderly sister sat in the front row, sobbing softly.
Father Filippo gave the address. The service went on a long time, the way Stella remembered from her childhood when she’d itched to get away.
Now, she didn’t mind at all. The bible verses had a soothing familiarity, the children in the choir sang prettily and the sermon on love and forgiveness felt as if it had been written just for her.
‘Now we have come to the second part of our service,’ Father Filippo said. He nodded towards the mayor, who got up from his seat in the second row and walked to the front. He adjusted his tricolour sash and began to speak.
‘In a few weeks’ time we will be commemorating the eightieth anniversary of a calamity that struck this village, seventeen of our citizens struck down in a cruel and brutal massacre.
For years we counted only sixteen victims. It was hoped that Pietro Parodi, who disappeared that day, had somehow managed to escape.
But now we know that another family lost a son, grandson, nephew and brother, that Pietro was the seventeenth victim, shot by a coward as he made his way up through the hills.
‘With the return of the earthly bones of our beloved Pietro, all of the victims are back where they belong, sleeping their eternal sleep amongst us, their family and friends. Many of you remember the previous monument to those poor, innocent souls. Alas, a road accident led to its destruction when a lorry had to swerve. After too many years we can now unveil a new tribute to those men and women and one thirteen-year-old boy, victims of the senseless violence of war. I am honoured that I was invited to draw back the curtain to reveal our new plaque in this safe and holy space, carved by Leo Perillo, one of our own.’
He paused. It seemed as though the congregation held their breath.
‘But I am afraid I must decline our priest’s kind invitation.’
Heads turned; mutterings rose from the rows of seats.
‘What is he saying?’ Marta hissed.
The mayor rose a hand for silence, a smile upon his lips. ‘Instead, I would like to bestow the honour of the unveiling on someone who lived through the events this plaque commemorates… a devout lady, a pillar of this church, our very own Fernanda Oliveri-Perillo.’
Fernanda gripped the back of the pew in front. Slowly, she rose from her seat. Gino stood up to help his mother down the aisle.
‘No,’ Fernanda said. She indicated that he should sit back down.
Shaking his head, he did just that. He looked at Stella. ‘So stubborn,’ he muttered.
Fernanda advanced slowly across the stone flags, her stick tapping out her progress.
Her posture was a little bent, but her white quiff jutted out proudly above her forehead like a figurehead on a stately galleon.
She stopped at the end of the row where Uncle Domenico sat with his card-playing chums. She leant down, saying something Stella couldn’t catch.
Domenico stood up. He took Fernanda’s free arm. Together they walked towards the mayor and Father Filippo.
The mayor indicated the cord that Fernanda should use to draw the velvet curtain back. She handed her stick to Domenico, batting away the mayor’s helping hand. Fernanda pulled the cord. Necks craned towards the wall.
‘Brava!’ someone called, prompting a chorus of tut-tutting; they were in church, after all.
‘Grazie, Fernanda,’ Father Filippo said. ‘I understand our sculptor, Leo, made a final adjustment to the plaque, one which was not in the sketch submitted for approval but one I feel you will all applaud. Look carefully, Fernanda. Touch it, if you like, I know your hands are clean.’
‘What is it? What’s changed?’ someone in the row in front whispered.
Stella watched the old lady reach out, her shaking fingers tracing the stone. Fernanda turned to face the congregation, her face lit up as though she’d been painted by the same hand as the portrait of Sant’ Agata in the side chapel.
‘Violets,’ Fernanda said, her voice clear and strong. ‘Violets to remember my sister, Violetta, and all those others whose quiet acts of bravery and self-sacrifice we will never know.’
Domenico took her arm once more. Slowly, they made their way back down the aisle, each leaning on the other. It was hard to tell who was holding up who.
* * *
The piazza was buzzing. The few who hadn’t yet heard about Violetta’s bravery were clustered around Fernanda.
Father Filippo’s face shone with pride and relief.
Leo was equally in demand, accepting congratulations from every quarter.
Domenico was chatting to Signora Togliatti and the grandson who would become his new assistant in a few days’ time.
‘It’s so good to see Papà up and about. I can’t thank you enough for all you’ve done, Stella,’ Luisa said.
‘It’s nothing. I’m just glad he’ll be back behind his beloved shop counter on Tuesday.’
‘Thanks to you being willing to carry on part time. He’s not strong enough to open five days a week with just that young lad who’s still got everything to learn.’
‘It’s nothing,’ Stella said. She was glad to be able to continue in the shop for a few hours a week but it wasn’t enough to ease the worry of what came next.
Gino would have to invest all his savings into revitalising his grandparents’ old olive grove, she couldn’t – wouldn’t – be the weak link that scuppered his plans.
But this evening she wasn’t going to waste a precious moment worrying.
Pietro’s return, the unveiling of the plaque and the rehabilitation of Violetta’s reputation were all deserving of a joyous celebration.
And as if that wasn’t enough reason to drink and eat and dance and sing, she had her brother and sister back.
Tomorrow she was turning sixty; she couldn’t have wished for a better gift.
Stella scanned the crowd; Marta and Giovanni were standing with Gino. She excused herself and weaved her way towards them. The band was striking up.
‘Oh, good, you got away. I trust you wanted wine,’ Gino said, handing her a glass.
‘And I managed to fight my way to the focaccia.’ Her brother laughed. He offered round a paper plate piled with the salty tomato-topped bread.
Stella devoured a piece in just a few bites. She took a sip of her wine and slipped her arm through her sister’s.
* * *
Leo was surrounded by a bevy of admirers.
Amy couldn’t follow much of what was being said but she understood by the tone and hand gestures that even those who had been confident that he’d create a fitting memorial hadn’t expected something quite as intricately executed.
She’d tried to slip away and leave him to bask in their acclaim but he’d clasped her hand and every so often glanced her way with a look that told her that he wanted her by his side. And not just for this evening.
Amy’s phone vibrated in her bag; she ignored it. She didn’t want any messages from the outside world intruding on her evening. She couldn’t think about England, about going back home, applying for jobs, not seeing Leo again.
The band were playing ‘Bocca di rosa’. She’d heard them rehearsing it earlier in the day.
She drained her wine glass.
Leo smiled at her. ‘Would you like to dance?’
‘Yes,’ Amy said. ‘I want to dance all night.’