Floti couldn’t get what he’d seen out of his head. Tossing and turning in his bed, he thought of the umbrella mender curled up on the bottom of that hole and asked himself how he’d dug it, and why there, and what had killed him. No one, no matter what, would ever come looking for him, no one even knew who he was, after all. He certainly hadn’t carried any documents that declared his identity. He didn’t have a family, or if he did, they weren’t the kind who would take the trouble of trying to find him.
Actually, there was a possible explanation, seeing as the umbrella mender did believe in that golden goat: the man had gone out one night, got himself a shovel and started to dig, hoping to find it. Maybe he did find it, who knows, in the end? Floti had always heard that the ancients would bury their treasures when there was an invasion or a war, then whoever had buried it ended up killed in some raid and the treasure got forgotten about. So, Floti reasoned, maybe the umbrella mender wasn’t alone that night, maybe someone saw him as he was trying to pull the thing out and gave him a hit on the head with the handle of the shovel. At that point, the gold statue was this guy’s for the taking and the umbrella man got shoved into the hole.
But the golden goat didn’t exist. It had never existed. So who would ever have attacked a wretch like the umbrella mender, covered with rags and without a penny to his name? The only possible motive was revenge: the man had spent his life wandering from place to place, from village to village, hiding for months in a stable like his own and then heading out again because, in reality, he was running from someone. He must have committed some crime, molested someone’s daughter or wife, and that someone had finally made him pay up.
Floti fell asleep thinking that they’d done the right thing in burying him and not leaving his body to the mercy of dogs and wolves. May the poor man rest in peace.
Before long, the family turned to other tasks. Harvesting hemp was much more laborious than reaping and threshing put together. Once it had been cut, the hemp was gathered into bundles and thrown into the ponds they used for steeping. Each bundle was weighed down with big river stones so it would remain under water until the fermentation process had detached the fibers from the woody part of the plant. At that point the stones were removed one by one and piled up around the edges. They were covered with algae by now and easily slipped from their fingers and it was twice as hard to fish them out again. Then the bundles were removed; saturated with water, they weighed ten times as much as they had at the start. The men worked inside the ponds, with the water up to their waists. The damp and the stench of fermentation permeated the air all around them, stagnant and fetid, in the intolerable midday heat.
It was like working in a cesspool.
Once the bundles of hemp had dried completely, they were beaten against a wooden board at the hottest hour of the day so the fibers would detach more easily from the woody stem. Only the strongest of men could bear up under such strain; the weaker ones simply dropped. You’d see them swaying, then getting pale and clammy. If the others got to them after they fainted, they were carried under a tree and well water was splashed on their faces and heads. When they came to, they were given water to drink, made tepid by the sun. A little at a time, as much as they could hold, until they felt the need to urinate. There were stories about those who gulped down cold water and ended up kicking the bucket.
Usually the head of the family, or the foreman if there were outside workers, gave these unfortunates the rest of the day off. The women in town, as in the whole province of Bologna, were only given light tasks, like raking the hay or taking care of the garden patch, unlike the women in nearby Modena. In the Modenese countryside, women were sent out with spades and shovels, even when they were pregnant.
By the end of July, their work was finished. The hemp fibers had been wound into balls and were ready to be whitened. The dry, lightweight stems had been bundled up and stored in the hayloft. They were worthless as wood: they’d make a big white flame that crackled and sparked and went out right away, but they were handy for starting a fire. All the men had left to do was give one last spray of verdigris to the grapevines and cut back the shoots so that all the nutrients would go straight to the grapes. They readied the crates and the wine presses and soaked the tubs, the vats and the barrels in heated water until they were as watertight as a glass.
The women picked the leaves from the elm trees used to prop up the vines so they would not overshadow the grapes. They fed the leaves to the cows and oxen, for whom they were a real treat. The elm leaves were tough and scratchy and were hell on a girl’s hands, but they had their tricks. A soaking in the whey they got from the dairyman made their skin soft and smooth as a baby’s again. Never soap. Clerice had always said that the last time she washed her face was the day she was married. Everyone had nagged her about it: “Wash that mug of yours, before you go to the kneeler!” They convinced her in the end and she gave herself a good scrubbing with the soap they used to wash the sheets. And she was still ready to swear that she’d never been the same since.
The same stories, like a hundred years before, like a thousand years before them. Stories of a life in which the Brunis found many moments of serenity, if not actual joy and happiness. The girls thought of their futures, hoping that one day they’d meet a young man as intelligent and good-looking as one of their brothers. The brothers thought of the girls in town, or—those with the most daring—girls from the next town over, since venturing out involved the risk, or even the certainty, of a fistfight with the young blood there who didn’t appreciate the competition. But as one day led to the next, Callisto could feel the approaching winds of the storm the umbrella mender had warned him about the morning he left. Who knows what had become of him, Callisto thought. Perhaps he’d been wise enough to go far away, to Cremona or Treviso, or maybe he’d even made his way to Genova, where he could get on one of those steamers that went all the way to America. He was no longer a young man, certainly, but perhaps there was still a way for him to seek his fortune there. Or maybe he’d be back with the first snows.
Callisto could never have imagined how close he was, curled up on the bottom of a hole inside one of the four hills of Pra’ dei Monti, where maybe he’d be found one day by another seeker of the golden demon.
Toward the end of the month Callisto went to the mill to make arrangements for grinding the wheat, and saw the first page of Avanti! on display on the notice board of the Working Men’s Society. The headline was printed so big you could see it from a distance: Austria Declares War on Serbia. He got closer and saw an article entitled Italy Can’t Sit Back and Watch. But the lettering was too small and the wording too difficult for him to read it. In front of the notice board stood Bastianino, the tailor, with a pair of glasses at the end of his nose, reading out the words one by one under his breath. Callisto, who had been about to ask, “What does the newspaper say?” stood silently and listened, pretending to be reading the article as well. As Bastianino progressed in his reading, Callisto felt a wave of fear and anguish engulf him.
At the end, the tailor read the signature of the journalist who had written the article: “Benito Mussolini.”
“But why does this Mussolini want to go to war?” asked Callisto.
“It’s not that he wants to go to war, it’s not like he’s the king,” replied the tailor. “He says that Italy should step in to combat Austria, to liberate Trento and Trieste, which are Italian cities.”
“But Avanti is the socialist newspaper; they’re supposed to be on the side of the tenant farmers and workers. Why would they want to send our boys to war? How will we manage? Who will work in the fields? Who will care for the animals? And how many of them will never come back?” As he was speaking he felt a knot squeezing his throat, thinking that he had seven boys of his own, all good to serve the king.
Bastianino turned towards him and saw the tears in his eyes. “Don’t fret, Callisto,” he reassured him, “we’ll stay out of this. Italy will stay neutral. It says so right here, see?”
“What does that mean, neutral?”
“That we’re not on one side or on the other.”
“That’s not easy.”
“No. It won’t be easy,” admitted Bastianino.
Callisto continued on his way until he reached the mill, set up in a little church that had long been deconsecrated. On the back wall you could still make out a faded crucifix though, and everyone was careful not to pronounce the Lord’s name in vain while inside. Callisto entered and looked at that poor tortured boy hanging there on the cross and had to turn his eyes away.
“Is it all right,” he asked the miller, “if I bring you the wheat tomorrow evening?”
“Not before four o’clock,” replied the miller. “I’ve got lots of work to do.”
Callisto walked out, his head thronging with terrible thoughts.
The grape harvest went well and everyone participated, the boys and the girls and even family friends and neighbors because in the end everyone got to take home a demijohn of wine and three flasks of must to boil up into a sweet grape syrup. The young men showed up willingly for another reason: when the women and girls crushed the grapes under their feet in the wine press, they had to pull up their skirts to move more freely and thus show off their thighs.
And then there was the party held on the threshing floor, where everyone danced, with three musicians: an accordion player, a clarinet player and a guitar player. The boys had strung up a rope from one side of the courtyard to the other and hung any number of brightly-colored paper balls with candles inside to create glowing lights. Rosina was so beautiful that all the young men couldn’t keep their eyes off her, but even Maria, who was only fifteen years old, found a suitor: a young laborer from a family that came from San Giacomo, in the province of Bologna. His name was Fonso. He went up to Callisto and asked permission to dance with his daughter. “You can dance with her,” replied the old man, “but behave like a gentleman.”
Fonso was not a looker. His chin was too square and he was already starting to go a bit bald, but he was a great talker, a rarity among the others his age, and the girls listened to him raptly. You could see that Maria was struck by him, although they’d just had a couple of dances together, and she spent the rest of the evening listening to him tell stories.
Floti glared at the laborer with a look of distrust. “Who’s that?” he asked Checco.
“A day laborer that the league sent over.”
“Do you know him?”
“I’ve talked to him. Seems like a good bloke. What I do know is that he’s one hell of a worker; gets more done than two or three combined.”
“But he’s getting all lovesick with our sister.”
“They’re just talking,” replied Checco. “He’s not going to eat her.”
“I don’t like it. She’s only fifteen. I’m going to tell him to butt out.”
“Oh, leave him be. I don’t see why they can’t talk. Don’t worry, nothing will happen. But hey, if they do like each other, what’s wrong with that? The important thing is that he’s honest and a hard worker.”
Floti didn’t say anything else, but he continued to keep his eye on the laborer the whole evening, until the musicians got up and passed around a hat, in case their listeners could afford a bit of generosity. The fact that a day laborer was dancing and chatting with his sister annoyed him; it was a question of standing, after all. Floti was the one offering work here, and the other was his subordinate; if a laborer didn’t find a job for the day, he didn’t eat. In any case, there were no further encounters between the two young men for a long time; there were no more big jobs that required hiring extra help, and if there had been, Floti would have found a way to avoid calling on Fonso.
For All Saints and All Souls the weather was cold and clear, and for Saint Martin’s Day as well. The leaves on the grapevines had turned red and yellow and the Lambrusco leaves were violet, a real treat for the eyes. The first snow appeared on the peak of Mount Cimone. Clerice told everyone to thank God that they had a roof over their heads, enough food and good wine, and to pray for those poor souls who had been turned out by their landlords and were now wandering about in search of someone who would take them in to work a plot of land.
“Pray to God that He wards off this war,” said Callisto. “The tailor, who reads the newspaper every day, tells me it’s a slaughter, everywhere, and that we could be next.”
Floti tried to reassure him: “What does the tailor know, papà? And those newspaper writers, they can say whatever they want; they’re just people like us, you know. I think that seeing what’s happening all over Europe, our government will do everything they can to stay out of the war.” Clerice watched and listened without saying a word, but her eyes brimmed with tears and in her heart she invoked the Madonna, who knew what it meant to lose a son, asking her to keep them safe from this scourge.
Callisto worried and worried and as winter approached he hoped the umbrella mender would show up, as he had for many years now. He wanted to ask him more, to have him speak about what he saw in the future, but the days passed and he never came.
“What could have happened to the umbrella man?” he would say. “He’d always be here by the first snowfall.”
Gaetano shrugged: “What does it matter, papà, he was just here to eat off of us. I say, if he never comes back, good riddance. If he had at least given a hand! No, he was always out there in the stable sitting and waiting for a bowl of soup. We haven’t lost a thing.” But Callisto was uneasy, and kept fretting over the failed appearance of his guest. When Floti was involved in the discussion, he’d try to change the subject, because what he and Iofa had seen was best kept secret. One day, tired of all that talk, he said that he’d heard that the umbrella mender had sailed to America in search of a better life, and they shouldn’t expect him back any time soon.
“Ah,” said Callisto, “I thought so,” but it didn’t set his mind at rest.
In the spring, rumors that Italy would enter the war became more insistent, but they were also contradicted by actual events. The pastor, interpreting the growing anguish of his community, used the homily one Sunday morning to explain just what was going on: the king was willing to go to war to liberate Trento and Trieste which were still under the heel of Austria, but the majority of parliament—and they were the representatives of the people—were contrary to the war. Since the government couldn’t go to war against anyone unless the parliament agreed to it, nothing would happen. It was best nonetheless to raise their voices in prayer to ask the Lord to make the atrocious conflict end and to keep their beloved native land out of it.
Even Bastianino, the tailor, approved of what the pastor had said, and this reinforced the common opinion that there was no need for fear.
Until one day the mailman arrived in the Brunis’ courtyard, the leather bag tied to his handlebars bursting with postcards marked with the shield of Savoia. He left one addressed to Gaetano Bruni.
It was a registered letter. Floti signed on behalf of the true addressee, who was in the stable, but he sent someone to call him. Gaetano was shocked because he’d never received a letter in all his life and it frightened him greatly.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Read it,” said Floti, “it’s addressed to you.”
“It’s written too difficult,” said Gaetano, running a trembling finger down the typewritten lines. “You read it.”
Floti, who’d already realized what it was, looked into his eyes and said: “It’s the king calling you to arms. You have to leave for the war, Tanein. In four days.”
“Are you sure?” asked Gaetano. “Is that really what it says?”
“I’m sure,” replied Floti.
“Can’t I say I’m sick?”
“They’ll send out a doctor, who’ll write that you’re fine and then you’ve got to go. And if you don’t go, they’ll say you failed to report for military service and the carabinieri will come and arrest you. If you’re lucky they’ll send you to the front; they say there’s a special battalion destined for desperate actions. You’d be a goner in no time. If you’re unlucky, they’ll put you in front of a firing squad.”
Gaetano lowered his head, tears brimming in his eyes. Clerice, who happened to be passing by, saw the scene and understood instantly what was happening. She whispered: “Oh Lord, oh most holy Virgin, no . . . ”
In a matter of minutes the whole family was standing in a circle on the threshing floor around the two brothers.
“What’s there to gape at?” said Floti. “It’s the postcard: it’s Gaetano’s turn to leave, but more will be coming soon. It depends on how many die at the front and need to be replaced.”
Callisto looked at his boys one by one, shaking his head with a confused and incredulous expression. The storm clouds foretold by the umbrella mender were gathering over the Bruni home, blacking out the sun and unloosing a boundless disaster. There was nothing he could do to avert the catastrophe. All of the sufferings borne over a lifetime were nothing compared to what was happening before his eyes in that instant.
When the day of Gaetano’s departure dawned, Iofa came to get his friend with his horse and cart: he wanted to be the one to take him to the train station, just as he’d taken him a year before to visit the notary in Bologna, the day they brought home all that wheat for the family. Gaetano wore a pair of fustian trousers, a white hemp shirt with a detachable collar, a cotton jacket and a pair of cowhide shoes stitched up for him by the travelling shoemaker. His brothers hugged him first: Floti, Checco, Armando, Dante, Fredo and Savino. Then his sisters, Rosina and Maria, who burst out weeping. Callisto, whose chin was trembling like a child’s about to cry, was biting down hard on his lip, and Clerice dabbed at her eyes with the corner of her apron.
“Don’t cry, mamma, it’s bad luck,” said Gaetano, embracing her. “You’ll see, I’ll be back.”
Callisto patted his son’s shoulder. “Watch out for snipers, my boy,” he said, “and never smoke at night because they can see the glow of your cigarette.”
“Don’t worry, papà, I’ll make sure they don’t get me.”
“Write when you can,” Floti told him, but he immediately bit his tongue. Gaetano hadn’t picked up a pen since third grade. “Find someone who knows how to write for you.”
Gaetano got onto Iofa’s cart and set off. Everyone stood at the side of the road, waving goodbye with their hands and their handkerchiefs until he disappeared from sight. Then each of them went back to what he’d been doing, still incredulous at what they’d just seen.
Over the next two weeks, Dante left, then Armando, Checco and Floti, and then it was Fredo’s turn. Savino, who was only sixteen, remained. The same harrowing scene was repeated, in the same way, for each one of them.
When even Fredo had gone, Clerice knelt alone in the middle of the deserted threshing floor and prayed for her sons.