Chapter 1

"Death in Girotondo"

A Novel by Philip Letts

Chapter 1 - The Last Meal

Angela carefully prepared the meal. She was nervous. It was Thursday night and Thursday nights were always nerve wracking. She could feel it in her stomach. Tight pangs of anxiety knotted inside her belly. And wow had she gotten a belly. For years she had been proud of her figure the one thing she knew she could control and then the late stage miscarriage, one successful pregnancy and the slowing metabolism of middle age had crept up on her. Every few months she would pinch her waist and over the years her pinch had changed from a playful two-fingered tweak to a full-handed tug until now when she didn’t pinch, tweak or tug it any more at all. Sometimes she sat it down on the kitchen bench and tried to soothe it with peppermint tea. But that was when she had the time during hunting season right now she had more imperative concerns.

She remembered how she used to sing to steady her nerves as she prepared Bruno’s meals early in the marriage, the pretty young wife eager to make the perfect meals for her strong handsome husband. No more singing now. Now she hummed - quietly. She hummed slowly and steadily. The humming felt more appropriate and would sometimes relax those knots without interrupting her work or disturbing his with some ill-considered verse. Even though every so often she had to stop herself. The humming could sometimes feel like a trepiditious count down. And all that unconscious foreboding was definitely not good for her stomach.

It was March. It had been a cold March unusual for Tuscany, more winter than spring so Angela had decided to cook Bruno a traditional winter meal. She spread all the ingredients out in front of her. The smells were strong. The salamis affected her the most. She could feel the warmth of their aroma hitting the back of her nostrils. It made her hungry. It always did and she broke off some pieces and threw them into her mouth. She thought to comfort her lack of self-control by a little white lie to herself that she needed to check the quality. But of course she didn’t need to worry about quality. The butcher always sold her the best, proud that a Grimaldi patronized his shop. The salami bit into her jaw and the salt dug into the callous she had been nursing the last few days. She stopped the humming. It hurt.

Angela scolded herself for getting distracted. She needed to get a move on. Bruno would be back soon and as surely as it was Thursday he would be in a bad mood. Thursday’s he met with his writer’s circle and listened to others reading their own work. He always started in a bad mood because he hated having to spend the time listening to anyone else but his editor had quite firmly suggested he get outside input so he had been forced to put together his little group. Unfortunately, the little group had recently been invaded by an Englishman who actually had some talent, and Bruno’s very real lack of talent had become starkly obvious. She always knew he hated listening to the others reading their work. It reminded him of everything his attempts lacked. He was under no more illusions about his talent but now everyone could see it, even if they wouldn’t dare say a word. After the meeting, he would have gone drinking with his usual gaggle of so-called friends, the hangers-on. It wasn’t surprising really - they got free drinks all night. Or almost free, the price, listening to Bruno’s latest stories, although that could be a steep price. The stories were so black as to provoke real suicidal thoughts or if not black absolutely pornographic which Bruno tried to pass off as love stories.

Angela forced herself to focus, to speed up. She became mechanical as she sliced salami piece after salami piece. The meat folded away from the knife and tumbled onto the bruschetta. The bread was still warm and the butter melted. The salami nestled into the golden butter and attached itself to the bread. Then she took out the garlic paste. It was fresh, its color opalescent, its fragrance rich. She layered the paste on the butter. The two melted slowly into the bread. She placed the bruschetta in the oven. She turned back to the large pine table in the middle of their grand kitchen. The bottles with olives sat on the table in anticipation. It was almost as though they were waiting at the beginning of a conveyor belt. These were the Grimaldi estate’s finest olives. They had only been picked a few months before. She had seasoned them. Now she had brown olives, green olives, spicy olives and the purest plain olives sitting proudly in nothing but their juices.

Angela suddenly felt tired and empty. It had been a long day and she had been preparing Bruno’s meal for several hours. She slouched unto the kitchen bench, leant back her head and closed her eyes. But she was still for only moment before the anxiety returned. She checked the lamb. It was perfect. She stirred the wild boar sauce. Her eyes streamed as the steam hit them from the bubbling pot of boar mingled with rich ripe-to-bursting tomatoes and fresh herbs straight from her herb garden.

She remembered that he had scolded her the last time for not having enough cheese with his appetizer. He liked cheese. It tasted great with his red wine. The Morellino from his family vineyards squared up beautifully with most cheeses. Angela darted to the walk in freezer. She pulled some red peppers out from the back. He always insisted on red peppers with his cheese. That and olive oil. She had run out of fresh red peppers. She scolded herself. She prayed he wouldn’t notice. Thank goodness she kept some frozen just in case. Mind you, she kept a back up of every kind of food conceivable in her freezer. The price for getting it wrong was too high. She shuddered at the memories of so many failed dinners, all the shouting, and the pain.

“Ciao Mama.”

Giuseppe appeared behind his mother. In the flurry of last minute preparation Angela had not seen him enter the kitchen. Bruno would be back at any moment but she melted at the sight of her son. He was so short, even for a three year old. And skinny, his pajama’s hung off him. He must have been the skinniest kid in the world. You could actually see his heart beat through his ribs and his hair was all patchy. It had only just begun to grow in. He looked like he had just walked out of a prison camp, except, of course, for the silk pajamas with the Grimaldi family crest. His glasses sat awkwardly on his crooked face. His face was always a bit crooked. Angela agonized that this was because he cried so much.

“Honey, you need to go to your room. Papa’s coming back soon and you should be out of his way.”

Angela stroked Giuseppe’s head to soothe and persuade him. She needed him out of the way quick.

“But I need to do a pee mama.”

“OK, ok, quick.”

Angela hurried Giuseppe to the bathroom. She pushed him on as if she could see Bruno stumbling towards the piazza, through the arches and to their front door. He always slammed the front door behind him. She didn’t know why and she never asked grateful for the thirty-second warning it gave them.

The door slammed. It was him. She froze. So did Giuseppe. Then, he sprayed his pee away from the toilet and onto the floor. Angela gasped. She shook Giuseppe clean, gathered up his pajama trousers and bundled him into his bedroom. Then she shot back into the kitchen. And she managed all of this before Bruno reached the bottom of the stairs. As she raced to get his appetizer onto the large, hand painted, Tuscan serving dish, she could hear him coming up the stairs. He was panting. His feet were thick on each stair. He was drunk. When he was drunk he always dragged his feet up the steps. Every pant was accentuated by a slide. She felt sick again. She remembered she had forgotten to pour his red wine into the decanter. She froze. That meant she wouldn’t have the time to wipe up the mess in the bathroom and an involuntarily whimper escaped her lips.

“I hope my food’s ready. It’s late.” Bruno bellowed.

“Ciao amore. Go right ahead. I’ll be there in one second.” Angela offered, hopefully.

She could hear him mumbling to himself as he stumbled towards the dining room. She knew she was safe in the kitchen. He never entered her kitchen. It was, after all, below him.

“Where’s my wine?” He shouted.

She sprinted into the dining room and poured the bottle into the decanter. She dared not look at him.

“And where’s my appetizer?”

“I’ll be back in one second, darling. It’s ready.”

“Hmm. I’m going to the toilet.”

Bruno pushed his chair back and sloped off to the toilet. Angela slumped and prayed he would be too drunk to notice the mess. If not this would not be a pleasant night. She closed her eyes and squeezed inside. She squeezed hard looking for some inner strength. She stumbled upon her technique a long while back when he started beating her. She discovered it as she clenched her stomach muscles when she was lying on the floor and could see he was about to kick her in the belly again, only harder this time. When she squeezed hard enough she didn’t feel a thing.

Angela walked back to the kitchen. There was no point in her making it worse for herself. It would be bad enough.

“Oh, my God. What is this! Oh Christ. This is disgusting. Christ, it’s the boy. Christ.”

Bruno had spotted the pee on the floor. He knew it must be Giuseppe.

“Ready darling!”

Angela shouted out. She prayed it would distract Bruno. It did not.

“Giuseppe. Come here, now. Come here this instant!”

Giuseppe could not hear. His head was under the pillow. His head was often under his pillow at night. If he pushed down hard enough he could almost entirely smother the shouting away.

“Giuseppe. Come here, right now!”

Bruno screamed out and then charged into Giuseppe’s bedroom. He hated the boy the instant he saw him buried under his blankets and his pillow. He looked so pathetic. He reminded him of Giacomo. Bruno snapped. He flew across the room and grabbed the pillow. He threw the pillow aside and grabbed the boy by his hair. Then he dragged Giuseppe out of his bed and across the room. Giuseppe was screaming. Angela appeared in the doorway shaking. Bruno saw her and yelled at her to get back to the kitchen. She hesitated and then she followed his command.

Angela could hear Giuseppe shouting for her as Bruno started hitting him. She was powerless. She was useless. She walked slowly to the kitchen. She shut the screams out and she hated herself for it.

Bruno punched Giuseppe once too often and the boy fell to the ground. Angela knew there would be bruises and lacerations on the side of his head. There always were. She retuned to the kitchen after having taken the appetizers to the dining room. Bruno ate alone. He had insisted on it many years ago. He said she was too much of a peasant to eat with him any more. He always said things like that when they fought but that time he meant it and she had preferred it.

Angela pulled the lamb out of the oven. She needed to baste it. She was worried to death. Giuseppe was too silent. She dared not check on him. Bruno would see her and she didn’t want to draw any attention in that direction so she kept basting the lamb.

“What is this?!” Bruno bellowed from the dining room. “What is this peasant meal? It’s no longer winter. We’re in spring. It’s March. I will not eat this food in March! Who the hell do you think you are!”

Bruno flung his plate across the table and stormed out of the dining room and into the kitchen. He was drunk and mad as hell. He needed blood. Angela looked at him shocked and then quickly put her head down and got on with her task. She dared not look up at him. She was carving the end of the lamb to see how it was cooking.. Bruno accelerated over to her. And then everything went into slow motion. He raised his arm and fist high into the air. He always hit her on the side of the head so as not to leave any noticeable marks and as his fist descended towards Angela’s head Angela squeezed so hard she seemed to squeeze right out of herself and watched astonished as her arm took action. It jolted forwards as if under its own instructions and pushed the carving knife deep into his belly. Bruno gasped and stared at Angela in total disbelief. Angela stared at Bruno equally dumbfounded. She had not ordered her arm to behave so. She found his stomach strangely tough to push against. More like leather than lamb. He stared at her with those eyes full of hatred. It seemed like a lifetime of those stares had passed through her. Then he mustered enough strength to punch her hard on the head. As he did she forced the knife deeper into him and yanked it up. This act she had quite consciously ordered her arm to perform from her safe vantage point overhead. She needed to end it. She felt the blinding pain in her head and she knew she was back.

They both slumped to the floor and lay next to each other. They had not lain next to each other for a very, very long time.

copyright ©Philip L Letts 2007

Chapter 2

Chapter 2 - Piazza Rimazza

Angela slowly opened her eyes. He had been silent so long she thought it would be safe. She opened one eye first and then the other. She used to do that as a child when she knew she had done something wrong. The one eye opened first and she wished with all her heart her sin would vanish by the time she opened the second eye. Someone, presumably God, would have eradicated it.

But, there he was, lying next to her on the kitchen floor, on the thick brown tiles, by the oven with food bubbling away inside and on top of it, still warm. God had not saved her this time.

The food cooked away, its aromas filling her senses and making her mouth water. She looked around her kitchen. It looked so different with her face to the ground. It was beautiful. The soft blush of the cabinets warmed the cream-colored room and the paintings with their strong swirling lines against fresh outbursts of colors worked perfectly. They were beautiful on their own but even better placed strategically one beside the other. She could lie a long time enjoying the simple beauty of her favorite room. But she shook her head. This was not the time for such indulgences.

She didn’t dare look at him in the face. She half expected that this new found quiet would prove to be a fleeting interlude to a fresh and even more violent outburst of wedded bliss. But she found some reserve of strength and forced herself to it. She grimaced at the sight of him, his nostrils didn’t move, his stomach didn’t move, his piercing brown-eyed stare seemed faded. The red cheeks were pale and flabby, the lips open. His entire six-foot frame was laid out dormant. A Gulliver, tied down by the little people or little wife she mused. Except of course he wasn’t tied down. Angela’s breathe quickened, maybe she should jump up and find some way to tie him down she thought. She shook with fear at the anger her little rebellion would foment. She yelled at herself silently, “get up, get up quick”. But her body had decided to do its own thing today and instead she just moved her hand.

It was bloody and it still clung vice-like to the knife. She could not give it up. She told herself to out loud in a clear ringing voice and her hand finally obeyed and managed to slide the knife away from her and across the floor. It clanked as it bounced off the tiles. Still Gulliver lay prone. She leant over her husband. She couldn’t feel his breath on her face. She felt for a pulse and couldn’t find one. But then, after searching for a pulse so many times with Giuseppe she knew she was useless at finding pulses. She kept her fingers pressed to her husband’s neck, then his wrist, then over his heart. Her hands trembled. She had not touched him this much of her own accord in years.

Then she saw the blood next to him. How could she not have noticed it before? She scolded herself again. She stared at his stomach. The blood oozed from his round belly, through his shirt and jacket and over the tiles. On the tiles the maroon blood collected and extended like a swelling amoeba. She became still with a sudden certainty he was dead. Clearly, she had overcooked.

Angela’s face became contorted with pain as she took in the enormity of the situation. Then she started crying slowly, whimpering and spluttering, nothing too violent. The tears were good she thought a bit of unrepressed human instinct was good. Human instinct seemed to be kicking in quite a bit tonight she thought and she enjoyed the taste of salt on her cheek. It reminded her of the taste of Giuseppe’s sweet baby cheeks. Her brain snapped back to the present, Giuseppe, his room was as silent as the figure lying beside her.

Angela scrambled up and with one unceremonious leap over Bruno’s body she shot across the kitchen to Giuseppe’s room. Silence, silence, he was still so silent. The anxiety returned her head spun and she felt the silence stab at her belly. This time she would be sick. What if she couldn’t find his pulse. She couldn’t go there. She would have to join him.

“Giuseppe, Giuseppe! Wake please, please. Oh, come on amore, please. Please wake up.”

Angela was sitting on the floor with her son draped across her. He did not move. She closed her eyes. This could not be happening. But, she dared not take his pulse. She would refuse to give him over yet. She wanted more of her son and God could not have him. It was too soon. She wasn’t ready yet. She wanted more time. She prayed to God. She prayed for her son to be ok and she cursed herself and her God for losing him and she decided to sin, to commit a mortal sin. What was the point of hanging around here anyway she thought if at least she could be there for her son. Finally she could put the inevitable off no longer. She reached for his neck, right below his ear and she felt it. She felt life. He was alive! He was alive! She smothered him with kisses. Her tears poured down his face even while Bruno’s blood poured across the tiles.

Angela put Giuseppe to bed. He was very weak. He needed rest. He seemed almost concussed. Maybe he was.

It was a while before Angela could take herself from her son. But in the end she did. She went into the dining room. She was somehow lured into this room where it always started. Where he shouted at them and then sped after them. This room felt like the enemies lair. It was dark. The terracotta colored walls blended in with the dark, antique mahogany furniture and the decanters of blood red wine. The pictures were old and somber all portraits of Bruno’s ancestors. Why he had insisted on hanging them she would never know. They always stared accusingly at him. In fact they stared accusingly at everyone and right now Angela felt the full brunt. How those stern faces had tormented him day and night. He had grown to despise them and mimic them at the same time. Angela decided she had to get out of that room immediately.

Angela sat on a chair by the bay window that looked out onto the Piazza. It was late, but she could still see the lights from across Piazza Rimazza. Signora Malaventa was still awake. She was always awake eager in her self-appointed role as the Piazza’s caretaker and resident nosy parker. She was always leaning out of one of her windows keeping watch. But Angela couldn’t see her, thank god. Angela could just see the houses of Piazza Rimazza around her, encircling and protecting her. The mist hung about the square and the ancient buildings lulled her. She stared out of her window as though into an ancient portal and lamented,

“How did I get here? How? Please God, how did I ever come to this?” and she lost herself in her melancholy thoughts while she waited for someone to wake up.

copyright ©Philip L Letts 2007

Chapter 3

Chapter 3 - Angela’s Youth

It was indeed a long path that took Angela to the point where she could kill her husband.

Armando and Maria Liguria were Angela’s parents and both were born in Girotondo, one of the magical hill top towns of Southern Tuscany. Both were born of peasant farmers and both had done well at school. This was more thanks to diligence than any great intelligence. Their parents were old fashioned and catholic and so were they.

Armando and Maria married young. Everyone did in those days, particularly in rural Tuscany. They tried for many years to have a child but never managed it. Armando reached the point where he could no longer take the gossip, so he persuaded Maria that they should give up. They were the talk of the town and that would do his ambitions to become bank manager no good.

Maria persuaded him that they should try once more, with the potions that her mother and the local doctor had concocted. Armando was such a prude. He hated the ritual. Strange soups, with oysters, pigs trotters and God knows what else. And her mother was always there with the Doctor as they ate their latest attempts. Armando would sit in his perfect black suit and waist coat wincing in agony as they conducted this bizarre ritual.

Then he and Maria disappeared upstairs while the mother in law cleared up. Their bedroom was scented with incense and lit only by candles. It was a miracle that the priest wasn’t present. But Maria knew how to soothe her husband and make him forget his prudishness.

And that was how Angela was conceived. She was a ’sixties baby, but in Girotondo, you would never have known it. Angela was beautiful to everyone the moment she was born. She had a strong crop of dark brown hair and huge brown eyes. They looked like the most perfect chocolate buttons surrounded by olive shaped eyelids. All of her limbs and her looks were stunning.

Angela was a difficult child. Her parents would always complain that she was way too sensitive and later that she was too spoilt. Her teachers that she was too easily distracted. For Angela was an artist at heart, even through she didn’t know it at the time. And she adored Girotondo. She would sit for hours on one of the many wooden benches that surrounded the town walls and stare off into the distance, to Monte Amiato. She always imagined that Monte Amiato was her Mount Everest or her Mount Kilimanjaro. Indeed, the plains of yellow crops or brown winter vines and old olive groves that led up to the wonderful old Monte could have transported many a mind to Africa, particularly that of a young girl with a fervent imagination.

The town she found less interesting, except for Piazza Rimazza, which hosted a weekly market with goods from all over the world. Well, actually from all over Italy, but to Angela they came form all over, wherever her history books were taking her at that particular point in time. So, the olives came from the hillsides of Andalusia, the spices from Zanzibar and the gems from the Far East. Angela would lose herself in the secrets of this market and the history of Piazza Rimazza.

The Piazza was a perfect square with twenty odd houses. Five on each side. They were all made of old, weathered stone and worn terracotta tiles. The grandest house belonged to the Grimaldi’s, but was always empty. It stood there noble and silent, bearing the Grimaldi crest proudly on its chest.

But perhaps Angela’s greatest love was wandering secretly through the Grimaldi family estate. The old Palazzo sat on another hilltop, right next to that housing Girotondo. Both hills sat side by side like two proud Neapolitan Mastiffs looking out at Monte Amiato. Palazzo Grimaldi was hundreds of years old. It sat like a fairy tale castle perched on it’s hilltop. A dirt road wound up the hill to the huge gates and twelve foot high stone walls that protected the place and its antiquated family. Down the hill cascaded some of Tuscany’s finest olive trees. The hill was surrounded from the bottom by vast woods on one side and the famous Grimaldi vineyards on the other.

In the mornings Angela would sit on top of the walls surrounding Girotondo and watch the mist encircle the Grimaldi’s vines and woods like a mystical serpent that would later on be magically vaporized by the midday sun. After school, before returning home, Angela would wander the Grimaldi estate like Sleeping Beauty. She knew that if she was caught she would get away with it, for her parents were so in awe of the Grimaldi family. Her father would have done anything for them. Indeed his bank did. And now that Armando Liguria was the bank manager, the bank probably did too much for them.

It was on one of these afternoon jaunts that Angela realized just how much she adored this estate. It was late September and she was barely twelve. It was a hot afternoon and she was hiding up an olive tree watching the grape crushing ceremony. You could see the heat. The haze made everything misty and translucent. But she could easily make out the women dancing and stamping in the huge wooden containers. Their skirts were lifted high as they crushed the juicy red fruit between feet, toes and sometimes even knees. It looked like they were bleeding as the red juice splashed across their limbs. But the women seemed to be having so much fun. The same women that worked the fields with only a smirk and a frown now became angels of delight for this one afternoon of the year. The men stood around talking and laughing and drinking wine.

Angela soaked in the occasion and as though tipsy herself she slid down the tree, shaking some diseased olives from their stems, before settling on the ground next to them. She rolled down the grass that surrounded the trees and lay on her back imagining herself as the young princess wandering her estate, her grounds, her people. She was in such a trance that she could never have seen him coming. But he saw her.

Conte Grimaldi was now in his late sixties. He was an old chiseled man. Crooked with age and deaf in his right ear from a lifetime of boar and pheasant shooting. He was a widower and a son of a bitch. His temper was famous, as were the stories of him with the young women that worked in the fields. He was feeling a little drunk after the wine crushing and so decided to take a stroll. It was not long before he spotted Angela. She looked older than the last time he spotted her wandering through their olive groves. She had become a woman. Her short summer skirt revealed a tanned, long legged beauty of a woman. Her socks had fallen to her ankles. As she lay on her back, he could see her brown hair lying across her baby breasts, covered only by a light cotton shirt.

Angela suddenly knew she was no longer alone. As she opened her eyes from her dreaming, she saw the old Conte standing over her. He was staring at her in such a strange way. Like a rancid dog sniffing at a bitch on heat. She was instantly terrified. She froze. He smiled at her. Then he knelt down next to her. He extended his arm toward her leg.

“Oh, Dio, you have scratched your leg,” was his excuse.

“Oh, no, it’s nothing.” Angela pleaded.

But she did not dare pull her leg away. After all, this was Conte Grimaldi, the most important man in Girotondo, and maybe even one of the most important men in all of Tuscany. Her father was always telling her and her mother how important he was and how thankful they and all of Girotondo should be for his patronage.

Was this patronage? Angela asked herself as he stroked her knee. She managed a smile, a terrified smile. Then he moved his hand up her thigh. He did not stop until his hand was between her legs. He pulled her pants to one side with strong, spidery fingers. Angela froze. What was she to do? Then she felt his fingers inside her, like two old twigs. She snapped. She froze. She had not been prepared for this. She had only ever been trained to be subservient, a woman in a man’s world. A Liguria in a Grimaldi universe. She felt sick. Her stomach took all her fear. She could hardly breathe. Then, she closed her eyes and resigned herself.

“Conte, Conte, are you there?” The voice called out in the distance.

“Christo!”

The Conte scrambled to his knees. Like a man caught sinning, he moved quickly and desperately. His expression was one of fear mingled with exasperation at being so rudely interrupted. He panted and sweated to his feet.

“Never mention this to anyone. And now get off my land and quickly.” He ordered Angela.

She pulled up her panties, buttoned her shirt and ran. She ran like she had never run before. She didn’t stop running until she reached her house. Her eyes were streaming so badly that she hardly saw her father as she careered into him, straight into his arms. She shuddered in his embrace. Finally she told him everything. When she had finished his face had changed. It frightened her. It made her feel like she was guilty of some terrible sin. She felt dirty.

“You despicable girl. How dare you tell me such lies. You dirty, filthy child. You make me sick. How dare you tell such stories of the Conte Grimaldi. It is his patronage that keeps us all safe, that keeps us all alive. You make me sick. Go to your room. I do not want to see your face. Go, now!” Was all Angela could hear as she scampered to her room.

copyright ©Philip L Letts 2007

Chapter 4

Chapter 4 - The Grimaldi’s

The Grimaldi’s were a strange family. Bruno’s parents, Virgilio and Theresa Grimaldi could not have been more different. He, unlike his father, the Conte, was tall and handsome. He had short black hair and dark eyes mounted on a strong proud head with a massive frame to hold it up. His wife was miniature. She had thin, scraggly hair and a mousy face. She never developed the traditional Italian woman’s middle aged pouch. She would always be as skinny as a rake and her breasts were almost non-existent, much to her husbands displeasure. But, she came from a good family and Bruno had married her to please his parents. Well, his father really.

Theresa had one exceedingly endearing feature. She was the only child of a wealthy nearby landowner and on his death the Grimaldi family estate would become significantly larger. Plus, his rich farmland would be a welcome diversification.

Virgilio and Theresa had two boys. Giacomo, the elder, resembled his mother and Bruno who resembled his father. The Grimaldi estate had forever been handed down from father to first son. So, the mousy, bespectacled, twitchy Giacomo would get it all. And both Bruno and his father hated it. Almost as much as Bruno’s father grew to hate his wife. Since they conceived Bruno, his father had refused to touch her. Just going through the motions to produce two boys practically made him ill. His only solace came in the arms of his long time lover, who lived in a nearby village. She was a widower whose husband had died under mysterious circumstances.

Virgilio pretty much ran the estate once the boys hit teenage Dom. Il Conte, nonno Grimaldi, was ill with what later became known as Parkinson’s Disease. It made him more angry and lewd than ever. He turned into an old twisted ferret.

And so these strange, dysfunctional, three generations of family all lived together in the ageing Palazzo. Antiquity was everywhere, both inside and outside, reflected in the architecture and every furnishing as well as in the poor soles that resided there. It was as if the life had been sucked out of this place a long time ago and now it stood for good, for the sake of survival and continuity.

Virgilio controlled everything, particularly his wife and two sons. She was not allowed to air opinions. His tool was his drunken rages and pitiful beatings. Her solace was the local church and her eldest son. He was so thin and frail and yet somehow different from the other Grimaldi men. Much different. He was profoundly intelligent and sensitive. He cared for the place in a different way and he had great ideas for how to modernize the estate. Giacomo was soft and generous and was interested in everyone that he came into contact with. He had a terrible twitch that almost connected his left eye with the corner of his mouth when he was most nervous, or around his brutal father or brother. He was nearly blind in one eye. He wore the thickest spectacles over both.

Were he not a Grimaldi, Giacomo would have had a terrible time at school. Instead he was bullied at home, often trying to protect his mother. And his shoulder would forever ache from the time his father dislocated it while teaching him to shoot correctly. Bruno and he then tried to force the shoulder back in, being only partially successful.

Bruno hated Giacomo more than life itself. Bruno was entirely the opposite of Giacomo. He was tall and handsome with his father’s black hair and temper. He was also a son of a bitch like il Conte and always had an eye for the women. Bruno was that kind of dumb person that always think their smart. He could never understand why Giacomo was born before him. He was so obviously the best person to run the estate. Over time he presumed his family may overturn tradition and put him in charge. How wrong he was. And how hard he worked to prove his superiority.

“Where’s Giacomo?” Was one of his many opportunities to outdo his brother.

“He’s in the fields with Marco. You know, Marco from school.” Bruno’s mother responded.

“Oh, no, not that idiot.”

“Don’t be silly Bruno. No, Bruno, leave them alone.”

It was too late. He was off after them. Marco was easy prey. He was two years above Bruno at school, but already Bruno’s pack of friends tormented his every moment. And Bruno was only thirteen.

Bruno found them in the fields by the edge of the vineyards, where the hay bails were stacked. The boys were prancing amongst the bails like two young, awkward stags. Bruno watched them from behind a nearby olive tree. He hated them both so much. He despised their weakness and girlish playfulness. He mumbled to himself something about how he was not surprised that their only friends were girls. Bruno squinted in the afternoon sun as he watched their every move.

The two, spindly young men had no cares that afternoon. This was rare for the worrisome, nervous and abused natures that propelled them. They knew they were safe here, so they played and they danced from hay bail to hay bail. Pushing and pulling and laughing. The sun’s rays were everywhere. They climbed up to one of the higher bails and fell off it, embracing each other as they fell. And they landed on the soft grass together, rolling and giggling. When the rolling stopped they lay, in each other’s embrace, just long enough. Just long enough to share a look, to discover something new, to catch each other’s breath. And Bruno saw it too. He had his weapon. Finally, he had his weapon for life.

copyright ©Philip L Letts 2007

Chapter 5

Chapter 5 - Bruno and Giacomo

“Hey, Giacomo, who were you playing with today?”

Was how Bruno always kicked things off.

Giacomo ignored him.

“Was it Daniele this time? Was it that blonde wimp?” Bruno knew it would work. It always did.

Giacomo kept quiet.

“Were you hugging him? Were you hugging too hard?” Bruno could see that his comments were hitting the mark. It always began once Giacomo’s nostrils flared.

“I know you were hugging. Did you squeeze him tight? Did you embrace? Did you do things you shouldn’t have? Did you? Should we tell Mama?” Bruno was not going to give up.

“Shut up, Bruno. Just shut up!”

Giacomo growled. His face was taught with anger and humiliation.

“Now come on. I know you love him. In fact we all do. But let’s tell Mama shall we? Let’s see what Mama thinks about your lover.”

Bruno was leaning right over the table, facing his older brother. Facing him down.

“ I hate you Bruno. I just hate you!” Giacomo whispered with a vengeance.

“I know, but you love Daniele, don’t you? Yes, I know you love Daniele. So fight me or I will go tell Mama. Fight me, you little queer. Come on, wimp, fight me, fight me…”

Giacomo had his cue. He had no choice. He knew Bruno would go tell her. He just knew it. And he was angry now. He was angry and confused. He would be married one day and run the estate. And then the mocking would end. But, for now, he had to do it Bruno’s way. He had no choice.

Bruno slapped Giacomo round the face. It was guaranteed to get things going. It did.

Giacomo chased Bruno to the servants’ entrance at the back of the house. That way Bruno knew he would not get interrupted by his parents. And today, he was bruising for a big fight. Giacomo was eighteen and about to finish school. They were already talking about Giacomo sharing the workload with his father. They’d even managed to get him out of the military so that he could start earlier. Their connections had swiftly arranged things. It was Italy after all. Giacomo was soon to commence the long, sure path to taking over the estate. It was the tradition. There was nothing any of them could do about it. Tradition was everything. How Bruno hated it. And he hated Giacomo with all of his life. So, today would be a serious licking.

As always, Giacomo ran at Bruno. Bruno easily side stepped him, glancing him a blow to the side of his head as he went past, making sure to pop his glasses off his face. Giacomo, blinded without his glasses, nearly tripped. But he didn’t. Giacomo ran at Bruno again, this time screaming. Screams full of hatred. Hatred for this despicable brother that bullied him like his father bullied their mother. Giacomo hated them both. So Giacomo screamed as he charged and he charged and he charged. And witheach charge Bruno hit him harder and harder. It was pure masochism, plain and simple. But, Giacomo was so emasculated that these beatings seemed necessary, part of the order of things, for now. But it would change. It would take time. And he would have to keep fighting for what was right and for what was his.

“Aaargh!” Screamed Giacomo as he threw his fist at Bruno.

Bruno confidently brushed the blow aside. Enough playing, he told himself. Time to get serious. So he did. First, he kicked Giacomo in the stomach, hard. As Giacomo’s head fell forward in response, he punched him. Bruno punched his brother so hard that his head flicked back like a broken doll. Bruno was trained to do this. After all, he was Tuscany’s junior boxing champion. Bruno got into the professional boxer’s stance, one foot in front of the other and one fist in front of the other. Both held high. Then he started punching, one punch after the other, with a steady rhythim. Not too hard to knock Giacomo out. Not yet, but just hard enough to start the bleeding. He loved watching him bleed. He loved it as if he was a cat playing with a baby rabbit. Breaking its body and soul bit by bit. Just for fun. Bit by bit, until the rabbit crawled away squealing, only able to crawl on its stomach, dragging its broken limbs behind it. Blood everywhere.

Bruno just kept hitting Giacomo. Each punch landed exactly where he wanted it to. As blood seeped from his brother’s face, Bruno delighted at the effects of his work. Then he saw Giacomo begin to tire. His legs buckled just a little and his shoulders sagged. His movements slowed and his soul sank. They both knew it would end soon. Giacomo resigned himself in self loathing and utter exhaustion.

Bruno seized the moment and threw his most powerful right hook. Giacomo’s head snapped back, unnaturally. Blood flew high into the air. Then Giacomo slowly sank down, down to his knees. Bruno lunged forward before his brother fell and took his chin in his hand to hold his head up. Holding his older brother’s head up high he smacked him down. Down into the mud. As Giacomo lay there motionless, his brother kicked him hard in the stomach and then slowly and deliberately stepped over his pathetic body.

Virgilio Grimaldi watched from a distance. As Bruno disappeared he walked over to his eldest son. He was shocked at how easily his heir was felled. He hated it. He needed him to be strong. He was old enough now. He needed to toughen him up.

“Get up Giacomo.” Virgilio stood over his trembling son.

Giacomo stumbled to his knees. He tried to stop the tears, but he couldn’t. So he looked up at his father with tears and blood and mud all mixed into his face.

“Giacomo, get up and get up now! Get up like a man.” Virgilio growled at Giacomo.

“I am!” Giacomo whined.

“You get up nothing like a man. You should be ashamed of yourself. You should be ashamed!”

“Oh, I am. I am, every day of my life. You can be certain of that.” Giacomo whispered in defiance.

“You had better shape up if you are to run this estate. And you had better shape up fast.”

“Let me guess. Or, you will give it to Bruno.”

Virgilio said nothing.

“Well you cannot give it to Bruno. It is mine, whether you like it or not. And I’m sure you don’t like it. But, it’s mine you hear. All mine!” Giacomo spat as his father walked away from him.

Bruno returned from his stint in the navy in his early twenties with a tan and a chip on his shoulder. He returned to Girotondo knowing that his brother was now managing the estate alongside his father and knowing that his own short career in the navy had been anything but remarkable. For there it mattered little that he was a Grimaldi. He was just another guy and not a very gifted one at that. He even failed at his boxing career. The other champions were much bigger and more powerful. They were trained on the tough streets of Naples a far, far cry from the genteel world of Girotondo.

And as Bruno returned to Girotondo weakened, he found a brother that was somehow stronger. Much stronger. Without Bruno, Giacomo had grown. His confidence showed in everything he did, and his ideas were already visibly improving the place. The vines produced better wine, the olives were somehow bigger and juicier and the crops more profitable. Giacomo even seemed closer to their father. Bruno noticed all of this and his chip got larger and larger.

And a few days after he had returned, when they were having breakfast, and Giacomo was out in the fields early, Virgilio told Bruno. It just came out.

“Your brother seems to have fallen for a girl. You know, it’s that Liguria girl. She’s very beautiful.”

Then Bruno knew what to do. Suddenly it was clear to him. He smiled at his father.

copyright ©Philip L Letts 2007

Chapter 6

Chapter 6 - The Wedding

When Bruno next spotted Angela it was at the Grimaldi grape harvesting celebration. It was a beautiful September morning. The sun was high in the pale blue sky and it radiated light and heat. It shimmered above Monte Amiato and rested its rays over Girotondo and Palazzo Grimaldi.

The huge wooden grape crushing caskets were full of women dancing and screaming. Their skirts were hitched up to their thighs and there legs were covered in red juice and grape skins. This would be a good harvest.

It took a while before Bruno spotted Angela. She was so different to the awkward girl he knew from school. She was now a woman. And what a woman. She moved gracefully, her long brown hair flowing around her as she spun. Her smile lit up the afternoon spectacle. She seemed so full of life and vibrant energy. Her curves were exactly as an Italian woman’s should be in her prime. And Angela was in her prime. He thought about how easy this would be for him. How pleasurable this task would be. He never even noticed that far behind him Giacomo was watching Angela too. But how could he, Angela had Bruno transfixed.

It did not take long for Bruno to woo Angela. He made sure to focus exclusively on the courtship until he had won her. And while he courted he even allowed her to distract him from any one of his numerous bad habits. He was particularly surprised at how he refrained from making love to the young servant girls while winning Angela over. But win her he did. And to ensure victory he even developed a side of him that no one else imagined. Not even Bruno. He was charming, considerate and attentive. Very attentive. But then he had to be, for she was an important catch. He would not lose this one to Giacomo. Not this one. But then, taking her away from Giacomo was not hard. Giacomo and Angela were little more than friends. Giacomo had not succeeded in progressing things further before Bruno struck. So Angela never imagined that Giacomo had affections for her.

Six months after Bruno had returned from the navy he proposed to Angela. She nervously accepted. He was, after all, a Grimaldi. And her parents so obviously wanted her to accept. When she described to her mother and father how Bruno proposed, her mother wept torrential tears of joy while her father opened his finest bottle of champagne. And he had never before opened a bottle of champagne just to celebrate something. As Angela took herself slowly to bed that night, before she prayed to God to give her strength, she watched as her parents slow danced in front of the fireplace. She could not remember when she had last seen them dance.

Bruno and Angela agreed to be married that June at Palazzo Grimaldi. Anyone who was anyone in Tuscany was invited. Angela was not born of nobility like Bruno, but her father was highly respected and more importantly Virgilio needed his money. Virgilio’s father, the old Conte, had since past away and could thus provide no opposition. So, this was a good marriage, Virgilio persuaded himself, and they would spare no expense. In any case, he would ensure that Angela’s father paid for it. The bank manager had more than enough money.

The time between Bruno’s proposal and the wedding flew by. Angela hardly ever saw Bruno, other than when they were choosing furnishings and interiors for their new house, owned by the Grimaldi family, given to them for their life. It was the largest and most handsome house in Piazza Rimazza. And Angela loved her new home. She threw herself at the project to refurbish it with a vengeance. It helped her to ignore her reservations and the anxiety that constantly rumbled inside her stomach.

And for those handful of months Angela was the centre of attention for everyone in Girotondo. After all, she was soon to become a Grimaldi. And they all treated the Grimaldi’s with great care and attention.

And Angela perpetually excused Bruno’s absence from her side. After all he was young and he needed to take care of a great deal before they got married. Plus, as he reminded her so often, he needed to start a career now that he had left the navy and was getting married. Everyone was a little surprised, though, when Bruno announced that he would become a writer and a poet. It seemed so unlike him. He had never cared much for reading. They all assumed he must have discovered literature when in the navy. No one would have imagined that he had chosen such a career because a great friend of his was the son of a leading Italian publisher and so he knew he would get published. After all, he was a Grimaldi.

But, Bruno never found the time to write before they got married. He did though find the time for the servant girls. One, in particular, he made a great deal of time for. After all, she was far too attractive not to.

Two nights before Bruno and Angela got married their parents threw a joint banquet for the about-to-be weds. A select forty were invited and they all sat around the grand dining room table in the banqueting hall at Palazzo Grimaldi. This summer Tuscan feast was extraordinary. Even Angela’s now advanced culinary skills marveled at the spread. The starter was the best Parma ham layered over the juiciest yellow melons. The pastas were laced with evocative sauces from throughout the region. And the fish served proudly by the new Conte Grimaldi, Bruno’s father, had to be seen. All the fish had been caught that day. The Spigola, Dentice and Orate held the aroma’s of the Mediterranean, sprinkled with limes and olive oil, and surrounded by crisp roasted potatoes.

The ancient Palazzo came to life again that evening. For Italians know how to make noise. The thick stone walls that had guarded this Palazzo for so long and carried it’s quiet and quirky owners through multiple generations now reverberated with laughter and delight. Voices rippled down walls and corridors. Some conversations meant to carry, some not.

The guests were the select few. After all, there would be over five hundred at the wedding. This was for close family and friends, plus of course special dignitaries. Tuscany’s two most powerful senators were there with their pristine wives. The vast majority were Grimaldi guests. And it would be the same for the wedding. Angela’s parents didn’t mind. They had few friends or family members that they felt comfortable inviting.

Everyone was dressed to the nines. Florence’s best stores and tailors had been bombarded. Angela looked a marvel. It had taken her and her mother weeks to find her evening gown. The cream colored silk creation was a dream. It hugged her tight and fell straight as an arrow. The back was low. Her hair shimmered against the silk and her face shone with beauty and nerves. Her mother insisted on making her up and she did it perfectly. Every beautiful curve on her face was imaginatively and subtly accentuated. All the men at the banquet were taken by Angela. And she finally felt like the princess in her dreams. This night she could not have been happier.

Angela sat on the right side of the Conte, while Bruno was at the opposite end of the table, next to Angela’s mother. No-one except for Angela saw his look. And Bruno revealed the exact same lewd, revolting, crazed gaze that the old Conte shared with Angela when she was twelve, before he pounced on her. She stared at him in disbelief. Her mouth wide open. She froze. Her stomach instantly ached. And Bruno was not looking at her. He was looking at a pretty young servant girl.

It was a while before Angela could move, but as the guests wandered from the dining table to pursue the ritual of coffee and cigarettes, she grabbed her startled mother and ran. She pushed open the massive double doors and went out to the garden terraces beyond. The ones that looked out over the vineyards and ultimately to Monte Amiato. The same terraces that basked in the sunlight during the day now shone in the moonlight. The terraced gardens were a fairytale. Carefully nurtured and recently restored thanks to Giacomo and his mother.

“What is wrong my darling?”

Angela’s mother spoke first. She was concerned and confused. She always spoke first when she was nervous.

“Mama. Mama, I think, I think…I’m nervous. I’m not sure this will work. I am so afraid.” Angela fretted.

“Oh, Darling, it‘s just nerves. This is quite normal, believe me. This happens to very woman. It even happened to me.”

“No, Mama, this is different. I swear. This is different. I’m not sure we love each other. And maybe everything has happened too fast.” Angela pleaded for her life.

“But, my love, you have always been a little impulsive. It’s ok. You’re only young. This is normal.”

“That’s the point Mama. Maybe were too young. Please Mama. I’m afraid. I’m afraid we have made a terrible mistake.”

Angela’s mother fell silent. She was suddenly frozen by the look in her daughters eyes. She had only seen this look a few times before, after Angela awoke from terrifying nightmares. Maria Liguria did not know what to say.

“Maria, Angela, what’s going on? What are you two doing out here?” Angela’s father asked as he approached the two of them.

“Oh amore, it’s ok, Angela’s just a little upset.”

“Why?” Armando Liguria was instantly concerned.

“I think we’re making a terrible mistake Papa. I don’t think we love each other. I’m not sure we are ready to get married.”

Angela pleaded again. Her mother could feel herself weakening.

Angela’s father stared at Angela. His entire body stiffened. Angela gasped as she saw the same look in her father that she saw when she ran into him after being accosted by Il Conte.

Armando Grimaldi grabbed his daughter by the arm and led her back to the banquet. Her mother followed obediently. He spoke firmly to Angela as he marched her inside. Once they re-entered the Palazzo they were greeted by la Contessa. Angela looked back as her father closed the big oak doors behind them. They clanged shut, wood on metal, closing her off from the outside world as if for good. She imagined Monte Amiato sitting there, the other side of those grand old doors, in the open moonlight. Angela fell silent as her mind whisked her away, whisked her away to another place as it would learn to, so regularly, from that moment on.

copyright ©Philip L Letts 2007

Chapter 7

Chapter 7 - The brute

Angela was in the kitchen preparing their dinner. Bruno would be back soon she kept telling herself. The weight of their first born was heavy in her belly now. And she was only half way through her pregnancy. She felt tired. And her bones ached. She so wanted to lie down a little longer. But she had already slept too long that afternoon and so was now rushing the dinner. And she so wanted this to be a nice dinner. For Bruno needed cheering up. He had just had his first book published. It was about the history of the Grimaldi family and estate. It had bombed and the critics mocked him so. They could be incredibly cruel when they wanted to, she thought. And she had tried to warn him that it might not be ready to be published. She did try. That was when his behavior changed. That was when he became suddenly colder and more distant. And that was when he started drinking more.

It was a warm, mid-summer evening. She felt too hot in the kitchen. She loved her kitchen. Even though they had now been married for a few years, she still adored her kitchen as though it was brand new. It was state of the art when they built it. She ordered all the latest appliances and they contrasted fabulously with the stone walls and oak beams. The walk in freezer always made her feel like she ran a professional kitchen that could compete with any restaurant and to prove the point she bought restaurant quality pots and pans and utensils, her knife set alone cost a fortune and she took great care to have the cleaned and sharpened regularly.

The sauce had been bubbling away for half an hour and the hot water for the pasta was steaming. The oven was on, ready for the fish to go in and the kitchen felt like a sauna. It only had small windows to the outside. Angela felt a little faint. She stumbled through their elegant living room and onto their balcony sighing at the evening breeze. It freshened her just enough.

Then she saw her husband enter the piazza. He stumbled too, but his was from drink. She could tell he was drunk. She knew most of his movements by now. She had learnt to read them. She had had to - his temper was so quick and so unpredictable. He would be mad tonight she concluded. She felt her stomach rumbling. She thought of their unborn child. She ran inside.

The front door slammed. She could hear him panting as he carried his large frame up the steps. And she could have sworn she heard him drag his feet up the stairs, each pant accentuated by a shuffle. Pant, shuffle, pant, shuffle. It was as though they were counting down to something. She found it quite mesmerizing. The hot water boiled over. Sizzling white bubbles and steam poured out over her cooker. She snapped back and cleaned up burning her wrist. It hurt like mad and she squealed.

“How’s my dinner coming along.” Bruno growled.

He was in a foul temper and he was blind with drink. He hated the critics with all of his heart. He could not get their words out of his head. God, he hated them so.

“What’s going on in there? I’m hungry.”

He would not leave it alone. Bruno stormed into the kitchen.

Angela was by the sink, washing her burnt wrist under the tap. She looked over at Bruno. She was surprised to see him in the kitchen. He never entered her kitchen. He was sweating profusely. She thought about how his already over heated state would ensure he didn’t stay long in the kitchen. It was far too steamy.

“Where’s my wine?” He mumbled.

“In the dining room. I decanted it. It’s ready.”

Angela eagerly responded. Thank goodness she had remembered.

“Mmm…”

He rumbled, then he headed off to his wine. And as he turned around she noticed something red smeared across his neck.

“What have you done to your neck?”

“Oh, nothing,” he hurried as he tried to cover it up. Accidentally he revealed more of it to her in the split second before he covered it for good. It was red lipstick.

“That’s lipstick!”

“No it is not.” He shouted back as he shot out of the kitchen.

Angela followed Bruno. She followed him into the dining room. The dining room with blood red walls. This was the room she liked the least. He had insisted on the colours and decoration as he had in his study. She mocked him sometimes about his room with blood red walls. She even read somewhere how you could tell a lot about a person from the colours they choose for their rooms.

“Who’s lipstick is it?” Angela insisted.

“It is not lipstick. Now, where’s my dinner.” Bruno responded firmly.

“Get your own dinner.”

With that Angela shot off into their bedroom. She promptly lay down.

Something snapped inside Bruno. Perhaps it was the drink. Perhaps it was the critics. Maybe it was Angela, or a combination of all the above. But all the same he snapped and he flew after her. Finding her on their bed only made matters worse. He pounced.

Within seconds he was dragging her by her hair from the bed to the kitchen. Angela was screaming. She could not believe it. She was terrified. She pulled back and he lost his grip. She shouted something bad at him. She could never remember what. She sat up. Lying down seemed both too subservient and too risky. He walked sternly over to her and punched her across the side of the head. She fell on her side. Her head hit the floor. Thank God for the rug. Then he walked calmly over to her and kicked her hard in the stomach while she sobbed hopelessly. He kicked her so hard that she thought she had lost forever the ability to breath.

But as she discovered a few days later she had lost much more. She had lost their unborn daughter. And so too, that terrible night, she now realized she also lost her husband. For from then on the beatings became a regular part of their lives and so too his infidelities. For the next fifteen years of her life she lived in terror. Sometimes he beat her so badly that she thought she would die. He would nurse her back to health only to do it again. She disappeared more and more into herself. She became quieter and quieter. There was never any solace. Her withdrawal at least slowed his beatings down and made them somehow less brutal. Her subservience was her survival. Her only comfort was her dreams. So, one day she started writing them down. She hid them way in the back of the freezer and wrapped them in tin foil so no one would ever find them.

copyright ©Philip L Letts 2007

Chapter 8

Chapter 8 - Torment

Angela awoke feeling groggy. She must have fallen asleep while reminiscing. She could not remember at which point she fell asleep. What does it matter, she scolded herself. Then she sat up. She sat up very straight. She recalled her fight with Bruno. She remembered the knife. She gasped. It was real. It had happened. She could not escape it. She fell onto her face in the living room and cried.

The enormity of what she had done the night before and the fear and paranoia that surrounded her acceptance of her frightening sin meant that she could only crawl. She couldn’t figure out why. Maybe it was an act of conscience, maybe it was an act of depression. Or maybe her life had just left her too broken, too exhausted to stand up. So she crawled. She crawled over to the kitchen. She had to check on Bruno. She had to verify whether or not he had awoken. Strangely, when she saw him there, still slumped on the floor, still exactly as he was the night before, she was somehow relieved. It was as though the final confirmation of his death made her feel better than realizing that he would survive. She hated herself for thinking this almost as much as she hated herself for killing him in the first place.

Angela sat very still, on the floor, keeping her distance from Bruno, and she watched him. Her stare was trance like. She had no thoughts, or at least no material thoughts. She just looked at him. He was so silent, so calm, so still. It was so unlike him. She thought about how everyone describes the moment someone passes away, when that person finds true peace, utter calm, and looks so rested. But she could not conjure up such thoughts. He was always so angry and now he was dead and he looked unnatural. And that was just that. Nothing more.

Then she remembered Giuseppe. She panicked. She despised herself for checking on Bruno first. What kind of a mother was she? Was her son still breathing? She got up and ran.

She found him still in bed asleep. He was breathing very quietly. She stroked his head gently, partly to check on the bruises. Then she gasped. The entire left side of his head was swollen and crimson. The lacerations crawled across his skull like rivers of blood. The skin was even broken in a couple of places. The blood was congealed and flaking in parts. Then she saw it. Then she realized the worse. His left ear was dripping blood. Slowly but surely, and the blood was emanating from inside, from deep inside his skull. She recalled stories of people beaten across the head dying, and blood coming out of their ears. She had let him die. She had left him here in his bed to die. Even now she could not force herself to call the doctor. Even now. The same fear that stopped her from standing between her son and his father’s fist for so many years now stopped her from calling the doctor in her son’s darkest hour. She froze. She didn’t know what to do.

Paralysis sometimes has a strange way of jump starting something deep, deep down in the human psyche. Of triggering some latent emotion. Of sparking a flame. And Angela snapped. She finally snapped. After twenty miserable years with that son of a bitch she snapped. And when she snapped she exploded.

She jumped up screaming and charged into the kitchen. She grabbed the corpse by its bloody lapels and she shook it. She shook it like a dog shakes it’s prey. And she didn’t stop shaking until she couldn’t remember why she was doing it. And then she spoke to him. Silently, but full of hatred. Full of an unimaginable hatred. She stared at him like a street fighter stares its opponent down and then whispered at him venomously. She reminded him of all his sins. She told him how much she hated him and how she should have done this a long time ago and she told him how she hated herself for not doing this sooner, for not stopping him earlier. For not saving her sons life and for letting him kick the breath out of their unborn daughter.

Then she fell silent. She fell very silent. For then, in that moment of whispering and hatred she finally accepted the truth. The truth that she had never accepted before but that now sank deep down to her very core. She had killed them all. She had murdered her husband, her unborn daughter and her three year old son. She was a mass murderer. That was the real truth. And as this reality sunk home, she slumped. Her entire body sank a few inches. It was as if someone had sucked the air out of her, like a deflating dinghy. Her face was the most somber face imaginable. Her eyelids never flickered. Her gaze hazed out. Her breathing slowed. Her soul died. Silence reigned. A bitter, cold silence that hung in the air for too long so as to remind her of the severity of her actions. Every one of them.

This silence remained for a while but proved only to be the lull before the storm. And what a storm. For Angela’s despicable and desperate hatred now turned on herself. Like a prize fighter she jumped to her feet with purpose. She struck a firm pose with both feet and bended knees and then she pounced. With her left and right fists she smashed into her face. Like a boxer attacking their punch bag with too much zeal, she struck her face. Left and right and left and right. Quietly, firmly, purposefully she struck and she struck and she struck some more. Until she felt the blood trickling down her nose into her mouth. Until it tasted sickly. Then she dragged herself to the kitchen. She looked at the old stone kitchen wall for a split second before throwing her head against it. Every time her head pounded the wall, she whispered “murderer”. And she must have struck the wall twenty times.

As her head swelled and throbbed, she changed tack. This next move Bruno had taught her. It always worked so well. She held her brown flowing hair in her hands and she dragged her head to their bathroom. She looked at herself in the mirror. She despised what she saw more than she ever imagined. She could not have hated anyone more than she hated herself. So, it was easy when she did it. And she did it harder than even he ever dared. She smashed her forehead against the mirror so hard that it cracked. And when she slowly lifted her piercing gaze back to the broken mirror she saw the blood. She saw her broken face. And she knew it was time.

In that instance, as she stood there in front of the shattered mirror she knew more than ever what to do next. The eyes said it all. They resigned themselves to what had to be done. They had resigned themselves so many times in her life, but this was different. This was final. So her eyes had life and finally had purpose. She led herself away. She took herself, slowly and finally downstairs. Like a corpse, she marched lifelessly down the steps to his garage. And like a lifeless zombie she returned to his dining room with the rope. For once she appreciated the blood red walls. For once she thanked him for the thick oak chairs. And for once she stared at the old Grimaldi family chandelier with appreciation.

It took her a while to tie a noose. In fact it took her a long while. She never had reason to tie one before, so it was bound to take a while. But in the end she did it and in the end she stood there under the chandelier, on the chair, with the noose round her neck. Finally she was doing the right thing. She welcomed her death. It was the least that she deserved. She closed her eyes and she said goodbye to everything she knew. Mostly she said goodbye to Giuseppe. She told him how sorry she was and how she would find him up in Heaven, even if she went to hell. Then she did it. Then she kicked the chair away and fell for the very last time.

copyright ©Philip L Letts 2007

Chapter 9

Chapter 9 - The Plan

“Mama. Mama. Wake up, Mama, wake up. Please Mama, please wake up.”

Giuseppe sat crouched beside the body of his mother. He behaved like a seal cub, lying next to the washed up body of it’s dead mother, still naively trying to find milk.

He pleaded woefully, “Mama, Mama, please wake up. Please Mama, don’t leave me alone, don’t leave me. Please Mama.”

Giuseppe moved to liberate his mother. Maybe it was the chandelier lying on her back. He crawled over to it and slowly, painfully dragged it off her. Then he crawled back to examine her face. To see if this had woken her up. But no. She did not move.

Giuseppe then decided that the rope around her neck must be the problem. He slowly, carefully peeled it away from her head. He was frightened by the blood on her face.

Then little Giuseppe, awkward little Giuseppe, broke down in tears. He sat all scrunched up by his mother and cried. He cried out of fear and he cried out of pain. Mostly he cried because instinct now told him that there was something terribly wrong. Nothing he did would wake her up. And he was so afraid of being alone, in this room, with it’s blood red walls and dark furniture. He never felt so alone. And the more he cried the more his head hurt and so he cried yet more.

He could not understand the silence. God, even the screaming and shouting he had to withstand was better than the silence of this house. The only noise he could hear was his crying echoing around the abandoned home.

Finally, Giuseppe became tired with all the crying and the throbbing of his head. He lay down by his mother, up close to her, and snuggled. He stopped his sniveling. And the silence was chilling, even with the afternoon heat.

“Giuseppe, Giuseppe. Giuseppe, are you ok?”

Angela slowly awoke. She could feel her son’s body trembling against hers. And now she was looking at his beautiful face with eyes closed. Then slowly, with fear in his eyes, he looked up at her. He looked up at her as if awakening from a terrible dream and he smiled. As his mouth stretched across his little face his eyes opened wide. And he, for once, experienced true relief and total joy. It was as if he was watching the most perfect sunrise for the very first time. The dark room lit up and his mother’s face was a painting. A slightly cracked painting but none the less a master piece.

And Angela struggled with all her being to figure out whether they were in heaven or in hell or still in Girotondo. Once she had the courage to look around her and she spotted the chandelier on the floor all broken and the rope next to it, she knew that she had failed. She had failed and she could not have been happier. Her face lit up with the realisation that she had bungled her own hanging and was now reunited with her son. They were both alive. And nothing else could possibly matter, not even the fact that she was a murderer. She hugged her son hard, harder than she had ever hugged anything in her life. And he felt it. He lit up inside. Finally she was protecting and holding him like he always needed her to and it felt great. He grinned like a Cheshire cat.

Than Angela started laughing. She laughed as she recalled smacking herself around and she laughed at the thought of her bungling her own hanging. And she laughed at the now broken Grimaldi family chandelier. The old relic had finally been broken. And it felt great.

Amidst all of her laughter Angela discovered a new desire. This was a desire that had died within her a long, long time before. Now she was going to not just survive, her and her son would survive and thrive. She just needed a plan. She needed a foolproof plan and she needed one fast. Then she would make sure to give her son a great life and a free one. No one would smother them again. No one would take anything from them ever again. No one would control or frighten or imprison them. No one.

And as if rising from the ashes with this new found strength, Angela conceived of her plan. And it was so simple. She would just pretend like nothing had happened, only that Bruno had fallen ill. It was a very rare disease diagnosed by a doctor friend from out of town who had visited them the day before. And his disease was contagious to most blood types, but not to hers. So she could stay and nurse him these next few months, but Giuseppe would have to move in with her parents. Their neighbors would be fine so long as they never entered Bruno and Angela’s house. In fact for the sake of being overly cautious no one could enter the house until Bruno was given the all clear. The only two permitted to enter was Angela and the friend doctor. Bruno would survive so long as he was well nursed and medicated. He also need peace and quiet.

And so Angela cleaned her husband’s stiff corpse up while she rehearsed her plan over and over. She would clean Bruno up and then get him into his arm chair, his favorite arm chair with wheels so that she could easily move him around the house and show him off sitting in the windows facing onto the piazza for everyone to see. And when she didn’t need him to be placed in one of the windows she would wheel him into her walk in freezer to keep him in tact. After all, she didn’t want the body to decompose. And she knew just enough to know that she would have to keep him frozen for as long as possible.

So, for the next couple of days she commenced her new ritual. She decided not to leave the house until she had her routine down. And she would not take Giuseppe to her parents house for another day or so. She had to master her story and her routine, she mumbled to herself as she wheeled Bruno into the freezer. Then she turned to her son. She had left him in his room to clean up while she prepared Bruno. And she spun her story for the very first time.

“Darling, Papa’s not well. He needs to sleep and rest a lot. Papa’s ill and so Mama needs to look after him and you will need to go and stay with Nonno and Nonna. Mummy will come and be with you every day. Ok, my darling, ok? It won’t be for long, I promise. And you know how Nonna spoils you so.”

Giuseppe looked at his mother sheepishly. But when she gave him another of her new and powerful embraces it was somehow all ok. He was ok with it. His new mother made him feel strong and happy for the first time and so everything was fine. Angela could feel it too and she knew she was doing the right thing.

So the next morning as Piazza Rimazza woke up and commenced it’s daily routine Angela began. She wheeled Bruno out of the freezer and placed him in the window of their living room. Then she pulled the curtains back for everyone to see. She knew that the inhabitants of Piazza Rimazza would look up at the window. They always did. It was a sign of respect to the Grimaldi family. And so, as the Piazza Rimazza neighbors started leaving their homes like rabbits exiting their warrens Angela got in position. She kneeled next to Bruno and with one arm she waved at the eager passers by while her other arm directed his. She grabbed him below the stiff elbow and waved his stubborn arm up and down. She even managed to growl a “buon giorno” using her husbands voice. She was instantly impressed at how well she had mimicked his sounds. It felt good.

The success of her first mornings maneuverings emboldened her for that afternoon. As everyone left their homes on the Piazza after their afternoon siesta, she was there with him waving again. But this time she feigned a conversation between the two of them. She ensured that his voice was hoarser than usual so he sounded ill. And they conversed well. In fact they had not conversed so well for many years. So she had to ensure that it wasn’t too fluent. She had to control herself.

But as that day ended and she watched and played to every inhabitant of the piazza she knew she was safe for now. No one suspected anything. No one had heard her fight with Bruno and no one imagined his death. She could see it in their faces as they passed by and she could see it in their actions. Even the old nosey Signora Malaventa from opposite suspected nothing. Even this watch woman of Piazza Rimazza had not unearthed her misdeed. Angela was safe and for perhaps the very first time in her entire life Angela felt almost free.

She went to bed that night knowing that the next day she must venture forth and face the world outside. Now she was ready. She could put it off no longer. So the next day would be critical. Giuseppe’s and her future depended on it. She prayed with all her heart that her act in front of her son had worked. That whenever he had seen his Papa he believed her stories about him sleeping. She even explained that his father had a kind of sleeping disease. And fortunately their son never went too close to his father to check. He was much too frightened of him. But she would find out if Giuseppe was convinced the very next day. So Angela went to bed early that night after cleaning herself up one more time. After cleaning her scars up and covering them over. And her stomach was a little anxious, but not in the usual way.

copyright ©Philip L Letts 2007