And you, ugly, obscure cloud
Why have you come? . . .
No! Go away to your obscure places
Where the cock doesn’t crow
And there are no horse hoof prints
I BROWSED THROUGH MY BOOK ON MAGIC IN THE SOUTH DURING Pisticci’s five-hour siesta and came across a whole chapter just about storms. Specific spells could undo an approaching storm that threatened the harvest. After the chant, a circle would be drawn on the ground with a sickle, which was then raised in the direction of the threatening clouds. It was the opposite of a rain dance.
I thought about Giuseppe’s grain harvest and wondered if it would turn out all right. His wheat was standing tall somewhere out there in the distance. And I knew a hard rain could destroy it. “There is an Italian saying about the wheat my mother used to say,” Giuseppe had told me. “With snow you get bread, with rain you get hunger.”
Just as I was thinking this, I heard thunder. I thought I was imagining it. It had been sunny and stiflingly hot just an hour ago. But the clouds had since gathered and the humidity was about to break. It hadn’t rained since I’d arrived.
Thunder cracked again, this time louder, and closer. I realized I should go out and witness the real thing and maybe throw a chant or two Giuseppe’s way. So I put down the book, grabbed my small umbrella, the thunderclaps getting closer and closer, and headed to my favorite spot in Pisticci.
It overlooked the Dirupo, the part of town on the edge of Pisticci that had fallen off many times in landslides. The most famous was the landslide of 1688 and the most recent, 1976. There was a scientific explanation for why this land kept sliding off the cliff—the erosion of the Pliocene clay that made up the calanchi. But some superstitious townspeople still blamed the devil.
Grillaio falcons and rondini, small black swallows with white breasts, were here each and every afternoon flying in manic circles around and around as the sun set. Horses galloped on the farms below, proud roosters crowed, and sheep bleated like crying babies in the distance. I wondered if Vita had stood here as well, staring down with her two sons. I wondered if she felt more free here than she had in Bernalda. And more peaceful.
It wasn’t raining yet. But the rain was on its way. In the distance was a huge black mass of clouds with a white shaft—the falling rain. It looked like a mushroom cloud and was heading straight toward Pisticci and eventually Marconia, toward Giuseppe’s farm. The lightning was maybe a mile away, and every thirty seconds or so I would see its jagged jolt rip through the sky, over the small farmhouses and olive trees in the distance. The falcons and rondini were flying in mad circles over the Dirupo, just like they did during sunset.
I silently said an Our Father and asked that the storm bypass Giuseppe’s farm. Suddenly the wind seemed to change and the storm looked like it might veer out toward the sea and away from us. “Thank you, Jesus,” I said, laughing and looking up at the brightening sky. I decided to take a walk up to the Chiesa Madre, the sixteenth-century mother church where I was sure Vita had gone to Mass. I would say a longer and more formal prayer there, not just for Giuseppe and his family but for myself, that I would find Vita’s story.
The Chiesa Madre, also called St. Peter and Paul, was at the very top of the town. With its tall beige bell tower in my sights, I climbed the steep hill. Up here the streets were bordered by red brick steps, but the center path was smooth and made up of a collection of actual stones of different shapes and colors. The street resembled a riverbed.
I had been up to Chiesa Madre years ago and knew that its main building, tall bell tower, and rounded cupola had been built by brothers who had fled to Pisticci from their hometown of Mantua after being accused of murder. Just another Italian murder story for which I didn’t have the details.
Halfway up the hill, with the cathedral in sight, the storm veered back toward Pisticci. I felt the first tentative raindrops. “Oh Jesus,” I said, opening my umbrella. It was so hot out that the drops were like flames falling from the sky. I sprinted on up the hill, but the storm was moving much faster than I was. The sky grew even darker, the rain grew thicker, and hail started to fall, ice balls the size of lemon drops. So much for my prayers.
The umbrella couldn’t handle the onslaught, so I made a break for the church, which was locked tight. With the ice balls stinging my skin, I knocked on the giant arched door. No answer. Etched images of Sts. Peter and Paul stared back at me from the metal door panels. I pulled hard at the handles but they wouldn’t budge.
I looked at the handle and thought of jimmying the lock with a credit card—something I’d learned years ago in Jersey City from some of my more notorious friends. But I had no credit cards. The replacements from the stolen wallet still hadn’t arrived. I considered picking the lock and wondered what I might have in my backpack that would do the trick. But Peter and Paul stared back at me and seemed to scold: “Don’t even think about it.” Besides, these locks were ancient and likely beyond picking.
The rain fell even harder now, and faster. I scurried around to the back of the church and cowered under my now-battered umbrella and waited for it to slow down. But it just kept falling. As the cloud settled over Pisticci, I started to think more seriously about the lightning. Worried the metal umbrella frame would attract a bolt and that would be the end of me—fried to bits at the top of Pisticci—I closed it and tossed it on the smooth stones at my feet. I could just see the headline now: STUPID AMERICAN ELECTROCUTED BY LIGHTNING NEAR CHIESA MADRE. I imagined my family back home getting the bad news. I found an archway and settled under it. And waited. And waited. Aspet. Aspet.
That cloud, like the church door, would not budge.
I peeked my head around the corner and saw that the stone path I’d just climbed to the top of the hill was now a wide waterfall, the rain flowing in a steady pour down its indented center. The street was a true riverbed now. The torrent swirled around to the next level below and then shot out through ancient gutters that dropped the water down, down to the next level and the next, where it circled around and then deposited itself farther down into town and finally down the side of the clay mountain and into the valley below. The power of the storm, and of nature, was overwhelming and for a minute I pictured myself swept away by the water, hurled down the mountain in a giant landslide.
But Pisticci was built to withstand the rain. The engineering was simple but effective. The church had a very deep foundation to stop it from slipping down the mountain.
So I just relaxed and began to enjoy the downpour. It was exhilarating. All the Pisticcesi were locked safe inside their homes, away from the elements, napping or eating a big lunch. But I was out here, soaking wet, and a part of the storm.
When the rain slowed down, I took out my phone and texted Giuseppe to see if the hail had hit his farm. “No,” he answered. “We are fine here. No hail. I finally have some luck.”
I headed back down the hill, drenched to the skin, but feeling clean and wide awake, as if newly baptized.