AT SEVEN-THIRTY IN THE MORNING, all five cars of the train were packed. We wound along the mountain tracks, swaying with the curves. A soft breeze blew through the open windows; the smell of dew still hung in the air. Within half an hour we were at Gimigliano, where about half the passengers, including Martha and me, got off. We had decided to walk the procession from Gimigliano to the Madonna di Porto. The rest, including my parents, stayed on the train to the Porto, where they would await the Madonna.By the time we got to the Chiesa S.S. Salvatore, a large crowd had already gathered. We lost hope of getting any closer, let alone going inside. There was a reverent calm in the piazza, punctuated by the squeal of children playing. Over the balconies, villagers had hung handmade blankets woven in the typical Gimiglianese herringbone pattern, some red and yellow, some white and red, others black, with red and green.
After about twenty minutes, the church doors were flung open, and the people in the piazza gasped in unison, then burst into claps and cheers. The procession sang the Ave Maria as the five-foot-high
Archiropita made its way outside and down the stairs. I could barely see the men supporting it, so Mary looked as if she were floating.
Fireworks erupted all around us, and the brass band struck up something joyfully bombastic in a major key From the balconies, old men and women threw buckets of confetti. The young and middle-aged women cheered; the older ones cried and prayed.
Martha nudged me. “Mark, the band is playing Sousa. Wait, that’s ‘Stars and Stripes Forever.’”
She was right. And from that point on, the band played Sousa marches exclusively as it led the procession through the alleys of Gimigliano. Martha and I fell in at the rear. Confetti descended on our heads as we funneled through the narrow passageways. I was amazed at how many people I recognized in the crowd. I spotted Tonino’s family along with a few friends of my cousins who had joined us at the restaurant in the Sila for Pasquetta. I waved to Maria, who owned the bar in Inferiore, and to her husband, Cecco.
“Marco, Marta!” I heard someone call out. I looked through the crowd and saw Giuseppe standing on his toes in front of his store.
Elena joined us in the procession. She pointed down in front of us. Many of the older women, and some young ones, walked the three miles to the church barefoot to demonstrate their devotion. Others compromised by wearing socks.
“I used to do that, too,” Elena said.
“What made you stop?” Martha asked
“It wasn’t very comfortable.” Elena laughed.
The procession circled back to the piazza, and before it continued, the Madonna stopped and turned to face the crowd. Once again everyone gasped in unison; many people approached to pin hundred-thousand-lire notes to the Virgin’s frame, about fifty dollars, more than a small family might spend on groceries for a week. Martha and I made our way just behind the band as the procession continued even farther above Gimigliano Superiore, to the houses of the wealthy Soon the road turned to the left and cut through green, lush woods of chestnut and red-leafed cherry. The band played “Semper Fidelis.” We passed through a tunnel of cheering people.
The band paused to catch their breath and let the Virgin and the rest of the procession catch up.
The sun rose high, and a cool wind rustled through the trees. Gimigliano fell away from us as we continued up the mountain road, passing through intense sun and patches of breezy green shade. I turned to look at the procession behind us. Older women sang; young mothers and fathers pushed baby carriages; old men casually strolled with their hands clasped behind their backs as if they were walking the passeggiata.
Mimmo Morante announced the next piece, another Sousa favorite, “The Washington Post March.” He winked and started up the band just as the procession joined us. Behind us, the pilgrims closest to Mary were singing the Ave Maria once again. The bright brass brand at first overwhelmed the slower, unaccompanied singing, but as the mass of voices began to build, the dissonance blended pleasingly
The road curved ahead of us, and I looked down through the chestnut trees at the valley and church. The fairground in front of the church pulsed with people circulating among rows and rows of stalls. It seemed as if tens of thousands of pilgrims had made the trip. The surrounding fields were covered with picnic blankets. I wondered how I would ever find my parents.
The band led the descent, once again at a smart clip. At a pause Mimmo joined us.
“The music last night was all Italian. Why is there so much Sousa today?” I asked.
“Sousa’s music is more celebratory.”
“Isn’t there any upbeat music by Italian composers?”
“You need it for your book, don’t you?” Mimmo said, grinning.
“It would help,” I said.
Mimmo corralled the band, directed them to flip a few pages ahead, and started them playing. He walked back to me and pointed to the music, a march from Verdi’s opera Ernani.
“Italiano!” he exclaimed, and ran back to the front of the band.
Martha and I had wanted a closer view of the confruntu, when
Joseph, who lives in the church of the Madonna di Porto year-round, greets the Virgin at the church steps. We slipped away from the procession and snaked through the endless aisles of vendors. It took us at least twenty minutes to get through.
Directly in front of the church, a man sold cards printed with reproductions of the painting, as well as rosaries, fans, and floatable key chains. There was no sign of my parents. We made our way to the front of the steps. Being taller than the old men and women who had gathered early for an optimal view, we could see over everyone. Again I looked for my parents, but every Calabrese man looked like my father: dark-skinned with sunglasses, a polo shirt, and a full head of graying hair.
The crowd parted in a wave. The Virgin Mary floated to the steps of the church. The doors behind us swung open; more confetti floated from the sky A statue of Joseph and the child Jesus emerged from the doorway The entire crowd of people sighed, and many held their hands to their chests.
We parted to let the statues move into position at the top of the steps. The Virgin wove her way through the crowd as Joseph and Jesus descended the steps to greet her. The three figures stopped within fifty feet of one another.
The band stopped. Chatter rumbled through the crowd of pilgrims. Then, in a single motion, Joseph and Jesus lowered themselves and, in a swift jog, swooped up to greet Mary. The crowd screamed. I thought of my grandmother participating in this same ritual forty years earlier, and for a moment I felt that she was with me. The hair on my arms rose. I looked at Martha. She was crying.
Jesus and Joseph and Mary began to circle one another in a mystical dance. The crowd let loose, an almost mournful wailing quickly giving way to elated cries. The three figures turned to face the church. Confetti poured down, the band played Sousa, and everyone joined in song as Joseph and Jesus escorted Mary to their house.
I spotted my mother standing proudly in front, a white tissue at her eyes. Beneath a chestnut tree just behind her my father alternately clicked away with his camera and wiped his own eyes with his
forearm. For me, the reunion of Joseph, Jesus, and Mary was the reunion of my own family.
That evening a mile-long, candlelit parade escorted the Virgin back to Gimigliano. Fireworks lit the sky all the way across the peninsula.
The next day Giuseppe saw us off at the Gimigliano train station.
“When will we see you again?” he asked.
At that moment I didn’t want to say goodbye to Giuseppe. How could I possibly have thanked him for sharing his world with me?
“Soon” was all I could say “Probably next year or the year after.”
“Yes, you tend to come every two years,” Giuseppe said. “Como l’ulivo.” Just like the olive, which bears its fruit every other year. “This year we were lucky,” Giuseppe said. “You arrived like the fig—twice in the same year.”