Chapter 10

Chapter 10 - Il Mercato

It was a Tuesday morning. Two days had passed since Angela had killed her husband. She knew it was Tuesday because Piazza Rimazza was already busy with it’s weekly market. Twenty odd stalls assembled every Tuesday morning offering foods and flowers and kitchen utensils and toys. This was nothing like the market of Angela’s youth, where double the amount of stalls from all over Tuscany assembled. But with the development of supermarkets and up market stores in regional towns, these markets had diminished throughout Italy, particularly in the winter and spring when tourists were not around.

As Angela savored her coffee she smiled out of the living room window as she remembered her youth and how she imagined that the goods from Piazza Rimazza’s market came from throughout the world, weathered and traveled. She would stare at the objects, visualizing their roots and their perilous journey to arrive at Girotondo. She would created elaborate and intricate adventures for the gems. She created hero’s and prince’s and knight’s as owners for the knives sold innocently by chubby Italian men. Simple, Italian made kitchen knives suddenly became swords of honour and battle for young warriors fighting back the infidels to protect their women and to save their country.

Angela looked over at her son playing happily on the floor next to her. She couldn’t remember when she had last allowed him to play in the living room. Bruno had always insisted that the living room and dining room should be kept free of children. And so Giuseppe could only play in his bedroom or his playroom. No where else. But now it was ok. Now he could play wherever he wanted. And he wanted to play near his mother. That made sense, Angela told herself as she peeled herself away from the window and went to get their coats.

From the wardrobe she pulled out lighter coats than usual. Winter was over. She could feel it in the air. And Italy is simple that way. One day winter ends and that’s that. It will not get cold again until the end of the year. And its so obvious when that day arrives. Everyone instantly knows it and just as instantly sheds their winter coats and winter demeanor. Italians light up like fairy Christmas trees and they stay that way until at least October. It’s just the way of things. It’s the secret to Italy. And that year, this day arrived at the beginning of April. Sometimes it came a little earlier and sometimes a little later. But it was always obvious when it arrived.

And it wasn’t just that the weather gets warmer, even though it does. And it wasn’t that the sun shines brighter, even though it does. This first day of the end of winter is marked most clearly by the air. It, all of a sudden, gets warmer and lighter and stiller and smells so sweet. It smells of the Mediterranean. Warm and salty and fresh. It lifts your being and heightens your senses. It awakens you from your winter like an animal coming out of hibernation. Maybe it’s this change in the air that lets animals know when to stop hibernating. It certainly tells the Italians and they wander out that first day instantly lighter and happier. Their conversation has a brighter sparkle to it and their laughter sings like humming birds. They touch each other more and they linger for longer at everything they do, particularly in their conversations with each other.

And Angela breathed the air in deeply as she finally exited their front door. She squeezed Giuseppe’s hand as she stepped into the chaos and buzz of the morning market. By midday the market would be all packed up and gone until the following week. So, at around eight in the morning it seems as though all of Girotondo is there, at least all of the women of Girotondo. Piazza Rimazza reverberates like a packed sports stadium as the teams finally leave their dressing room. This perfect square protected from all round by the old stone houses echoes the sounds of the market. The air holds the smells of fresh tomatoes and herbs, of cheese and fish.

The little café perched inside the Piazza is packed. And that is where you find the men of Girotondo, and particularly the men of Piazza Rimazza, throwing back an espresso and a joke with their neighbors before heading off to work. Sometimes the conversation gets heated as if the coffee has hyped their nervous systems, but really it’s the politics. The Italian men, particularly in provincial towns and villages and particularly in their favorite coffee bars set the world straight as they sip espresso‘s together before going to work. They cackle for hours about what their latest government isn’t doing for them. They blame everything on their political leaders. They’d even blame their head aches on them if they could, and some try.

And the buzz of Piazza Rimazza’s Tuesday morning market rang louder than usual in Angela’s ears that day. It made her pause for a second, standing at the entrance of her house, holding her son. It contrasted so starkly with the silence of their home. It was as if she had savored for the first time leaving her house after a lifetime being locked away. She laughed the thought away. Then the first of her neighbors greeted her and she was off.

“Ciao Angela, ciao Giuseppe. He’s getting so big now.”

“ I know, he’s nearly three, isn’t that exciting.” Angela politely responded.

“Che bello, che bello.” The neighbor clearly meant it and she dutifully squeezed Giuseppe’s cheek.

“How’s Bruno?” The neighbor continued.

“Oh, not so well unfortunately.” And Angela began.

The neighbor was enthralled. Italians love to share stories of other’s unfortunate ailments. It’s almost a hotter topic for Italian women than politics is for their men. And boy do they spread the stories quickly. So, before Angela would return to Piazza Rimazza later that morning she knew she would be approached by neighbours that had heard of Bruno’s illness via the gossip chain rather than from Angela directly. But they would still go scampering over to Angela to check their story and get the full details directly from the horses mouth, so that later they could share the most up to date version. And so Angela spun her story carefully and accurately, remaining on message throughout. Consistency was the key, she kept reminding herself.

“Yes, our doctor friend, who’s such an expert on all diseases, diagnosed him with a rare strain of influenza, all the way from Asia. We don’t know how he caught it. Maybe it was on one of his trips to Rome.”

“Oh Dio, Oh Dio, you poor things, you poor things.” The neighbor responded, speaking on behalf of a few.

Angela was now surrounded by a minor gaggle of women. They had somehow spotted that this chat was hot, so they moved in.

“Yes, and it’s contagious so he has to stay at home for a while. But it’s not that dangerous, so long as we’re careful. So none of you need worry. But I’m ok to look after him. I have a special blood type that is totally immune. I’m leaving Giuseppe with my parents for a little while, so I can focus on Bruno.”

“Brava, brava.”

All the women soberly supported Angela’s approach. And Angela didn’t need to explain much more. She had provided enough information for the group. And they didn’t want to ask too many stupid questions. After all, Italian women are supposed to be experts on ailments and in any case Angela was practically a Contessa and you never asked too many questions of a Contessa.

Angela could leave the Piazza knowing that she had spread the word and done so convincingly. No one had quizzed her too much and no one looked unconvinced. Angela sighed a sigh of relief as she left the Piazza and headed up towards her parents house.

On the way, she bumped into Giacomo, Bruno’s brother. He always had a soft spot for Angela. She smiled as she approached him and she squeezed Giuseppe’s hand in trepidation. It was somehow harder than she imagined facing up to a Grimaldi. Much harder. Thank goodness it was Giacomo, he was always so sweet to Angela.

“Ciao Angela. How nice to see you both. And how’s my favorite nephew?” Giacomo reached out to Giuseppe.

If you were a stranger you might have thought the two were father and son. And you would feel sorry for the son. Giacomo had changed little over the years. He had less hair and some early wrinkles. Perhaps a little more confidence, but he was always the spindly, ugly duckling with the strangest wink and the thickest glasses. Giuseppe loved the wink. He thought it was reserved for him, to entertain him, and so it always made him laugh. Giacomo never minded. Giacomo never felt sorry for himself around Angela. He was way too busy feeling sorry for her. He had figured out a long time ago that his brother abused her. It didn’t surprise him in the least. And he knew all too well what Bruno’s beatings did to you. Whenever he left Angela he would always mumble under his breath “that son of a bitch”.

So, as usual Giacomo fussed around Angela and Giuseppe and entertained them with his latest stories from the estate.

“Oh, Giacomo, you’re always so full of life. When will you get married? You have too much to share. You will one day make such a great father too.”

Angela always ended their conversations this way. And she meant it.

“Oh, we’ll see. Maybe one day. When I get older. I’m still far too young.”

Giacomo responded with his standard jest. It was the best way to brush the topic off. For he knew he would never get married. He knew all too well who he was by now. His father never guessed and so he just kept promising him that one day he would get married, when he found the right woman, and they would have their next heir to the Grimaldi estate. But Giacomo had not figured out his father’s plottings. And his patience was running thin. Very thin.

“Oh, Giacomo. Always joking.”

“So, Angela, how’s my favorite brother?” Giacomo had to ask the question.

“Actually not very well…”

Angela repeated her story about Bruno’s influenza. She spoke slowly and carefully. Giacomo was far too smart for her to make any mistakes at all. And it would be he that would pass the word onto his parents, the Conte and la Contessa.

“Oh, so we won’t see Bruno around for a while? That is a shame. Oh, well. Now, you be careful Angela. I hope you and that doctor friend are entirely sure that you’re not at risk. Would you like a second opinion?”

“No, no. He ran tests. I’m fine.”

Angela was firm. This was her first challenge and she needed to be resolute. She expected this suggestion from family members and she had rehearsed her response many times.

“Well, you must represent Bruno at family events. I insist. I will arrange it. And ask me if you need anything at all. Anything.”

Bruno was adamant on both counts. Now he could finally help Angela. He could help her to get out a little and to get away from that son of a bitch.

“Serves him right.” Giacomo whispered to himself as he walked away from Angela.

“Ciao Mama.” Angela shouted out as she opened the door to her parents plush, brick house on the edge of Girotondo. It was kept as immaculately as ever.

“Ciao amore. Ciao bimbo.”

Nonna Maria grabbed her grandson. She was so excited when her husband told her that Giuseppe was coming to stay after he got off the phone with Angela the night before. She had already prepared his room and had gone to the market early to get his favorite things. She was going to drop by Bruno and Angela’s house and then she remembered that she wasn’t allowed to because of Bruno’s influenza. She scolded herself, as always, for being so stupid.

Angela chatted for a while. Her mother tried to give her a million remedies for Bruno and she managed to refuse nearly all of them. And then the moment came. The moment came for her to say goodbye to her son and to go off on her very own for the first time in her life. She chocked. She battled with herself. She had ordered herself a thousand times not to be over emotional in front of her mother. She must not be too upset. So, in the end she kissed Giuseppe hard, said she’d pop by later that day and ran. She ran and she ran and she ran. She ran to the very outskirts of Girotondo. She ran to where she used to sit when she was young, by the outer walls of the town next to the woods, overlooking Monte Amiato. She threw herself down on the park bench relieved that no one had bumped into her. And she cried. She cried tears of sorrow and then she cried tears of joy. And for one short instant and for the first time in her life she felt free. And she dried her tears and brushed away her fears and looked up at Monte Amiato as she did when she was young. And that beautiful old mountain reaching to the sky made her smile a smile that she had not smiled since she was a little girl staring up at her favorite mountain holding all of her fairy tales. Her, always the princess, always saved. And now finally she was.

copyright ©Philip L Letts 2007