Simple Prayers
Copyright © 1994 by Michael Golding
All rights reserved.
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First eBook Edition: April 1994
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ISBN: 978-0-75952-153-7
Contents
for those who have taught, encouraged, and inspired me — with gratitude
Where is the end of them, the fishermen sailing Into the wind's tail, where the fog cowers? We cannot think of a time that is oceanless Or of an ocean not littered with wastage Or of a future that is not liable Like the past, to have no destination.
— T. S. E
LIOT
“The Dry Salvages,”
The Four Quartets
“I have a hundred sheep to go to market,” replied the archpriest, “but I wouldn't want the same thing to happen that occurred today.”
“Goodness, no!” said Pirolo. “We won't ever be that unlucky again!”
— I
TALO
C
ALVINO
“Lose Your Temper, and You Lose Your Bet,”
Italian Folktales
The Italian words used in this novel are a mixture of standard Italian and Venetian dialect. It is the author's hope that this
misto
works in the novel as it works in life.
P
iero had barely traveled past the first clutch of pine trees when he came upon the body. The fog was still in and he couldn't see where the island met the water or the water met the sky, but he could see the body. It was lying, facedown, in the inlet that sloped to the water between Siora Bertinelli's hovel and the Rizzardellos’ salt shed. It had obviously washed in with the tide, and he knew without even approaching it that it was not the body of anyone from Riva di Pignoli.
He did approach it, however. He stepped off the Calle Alberi Grandi, down into the wet soil, and walked to where it lay like the washed and withered stump of an old tree. Crouching down beside it, he said a brief prayer; then he drew back the arm that covered its face and gave a slight push to the torso so that it rolled back onto its side.
It appeared to have been dead for quite a while. Great knots of seaweed were tangled in its hair, its limbs were swollen heavy with water, and it gave off an odor of urine and dead violets. But what disturbed him most were the strange swellings in its throat and side: purplish black on the outside, pure pitch at the center, they had a hard vitality that sent a chill down Piero's spine.
He didn't know who the body had belonged to. He didn't know where it had come from. He only knew that he had to get rid of it before the rest of the village found out.
T
HE ROOM WHERE
Albertino sat was not really a room — that is, it had no roof, no door, no
vasi di fiori
hanging from the windows. There was no table, no chair, no desk, no bed — no piece of hand-worked cloth, no favorite churning stool — still, to Albertino it was a room. Set out near the old cemetery, on the tiny island just north of the island where Albertino had been born, its sunken walls rose like a fortress against the waters of the lagoon. There was a north wall and a south wall, an east wall and a west; like everything else in the lagoon, they echoed the points of the fisherman's compass and smelled of the dark, bitter algae that washed in from the sea.
The west wall was largest. Albertino slept with his head at its foot on a stack of old blankets the Vedova Stampanini had given him: first the chestnut, then the azure, then the crimson; next the emerald, the ocher, the violet, the rust, the gold. The Vedova Stampanini had been careful to instruct him on the names of the colors and to show him the exact order in which they were to be placed, and though he could never remember any of the names, once a month Albertino would shake them out and lay them back precisely as she had indicated. They were worn, and filthy, and in various seasons hosted various pests, but they were Albertino's bed and he was happy with them.
After the west wall came the north wall. Albertino lit his fire there, and hung his boots out, and cooked his meals. The east wall was hardly there at all: at its highest point it came up to about waist level and at its lowest point stood right above Albertino's knees (Albertino considered this part the door). But it was at the south wall, in the protected hollow of what once must have been the hearth, that Albertino kept his boxes. Great somber caskets with intricate clasps, delicate coffers of frosted ivory, wood chests carved over with fabulous three-masted ships. Albertino's boxes were his only vanity; he saved most of the money he made selling fruit and vegetables to go once a year into Venezia to buy a new one. When he left the island, even just to row across the water to fetch fresh dung for the radicchio patch, he carried them to the cemetery and hid them in the bottom of an empty vault he'd discovered behind a shock of cypresses. He kept them oiled and waxed and brushed and varnished, but most of all he kept them empty.
“I don't own anything nice enough to put in them,” he explained to his brother, Gianluca, who thought he was
pazzuccio
to spend his money on such extravagant affectations and not even use them. But the truth was Albertino liked his boxes empty. They seemed more honest to him that way.
Spring hadn't come to Riva di Pignoli that year. Rosebuds opened hollow with a sudden crack and a trail of dry smoke. Turnips and cabbages were yanked from the earth like snapped fingers and shrunken heads. The trees stayed bare; the strawberry patch stood firm with tiny pellets of hard, unborn fruit. The weather grew warmer — sultry, in fact — but in the small fields along the island's southern shore, and the gardens that bordered the docks, nothing happened. Nature just didn't respond.
The people tried everything. Midnight incantations and morning prayers. Peppering the land with bits of
bazzatello
and
salsiccia,
hunks of old bread —hoping the soil might recognize, and remember, and thrust up something into life. The other islands were fine: Torcello and Burano to the north, Chioggia to the south, and the great Venezia, which prospered no matter the season or the circumstance. All across the lagoon it was a spring like any other spring, with bright patches of green appearing to balance the surrounding blue. But on Riva di Pignoli the palette never quickened. Brown stayed brown and gray stayed gray, and it might just as well have been midwinter.
Ugolino Ramponi said that it was because Saturn and Jupiter had aligned themselves in a cross-conjunction with Mars. Giuseppe Navo said that it was because he had pulled too many fishes from the sea. But Albertino wasn't fooled. Albertino knew exactly what had caused the troubled earth to hold back its offspring.
“It's that damned Ermenegilda,” he said to himself as he lay on his back on his stack of tattered blankets. “She smears herself with so much lilac water and jasmine, and stuffs herself with so many eggplants and artichokes and onions, the damned things just don't want to come up this year.”
Ermenegilda was in love with Albertino. The youngest daughter of the only wealthy family on Riva di Pignoli — the only family to have a stone house, the only family to have chickens
and
pigs
and
cows — Ermenegilda would have given her life for Albertino. That her father, Enrico Torta, had chosen to live on Riva di Pignoli in the first place seemed a somewhat perverse joke: Enrico Torta was rich enough to live wherever he liked, and Riva di Pignoli was hardly the sort of place one “chose” to settle in. Besides that, Enrico Torta did his business in Verona and had to travel an absurd distance — a journey of several days — to reach his isolated island home. But most everyone on Riva di Pignoli knew that Enrico Torta would have done his business in Africa if he could have been certain of a good rate of exchange. The farther away he could get from his family, the happier he seemed to be. His wife, Orsina, was a great explosion of a woman, with red-hot eyes and a mouth that poured smoldering lava. Together they had four daughters: Maria Prima, Maria Seconda, Maria Terza, and Ermenegilda (Orsina had wanted to name Ermenegilda “Maria Basta,” but Enrico pitied the child and chose “Ermenegilda”; it was only then that the first three girls considered themselves to have been fortunate in their naming). Each daughter was fatter than the former, each uglier, each angrier. Whether their anger came from Orsina's blood, from Enrico's absence, or from the frustration of being wealthy on an island where there was nothing to buy, it was potent enough to make the Ca’ Torta a place where even the most courageous Riva di Pignolian was loath to go. Maids and cooks came and went weekly; they could often be seen waving to one another as their boats passed in the lagoon. Women were sent from Padova, Mantova, and Milano to instruct the Torta girls in sewing and weaving; they generally ended up racing from the lavish home with spindles of brightly colored thread ricocheting from their heels. Invitations to dine at the Ca’ Torta — which Orsina insisted on sending out, despite her hatred of the villagers — were tossed into the canal, or burned in the hearth, or buried beneath the roses (Siora Scabbri suggested that this was why the spring hadn't come). Only a handful of the people of Riva di Pignoli could read, but everyone knew the kind of hell that was implicit in those carefully calligraphed lines. Orsina made a weekly venture of going about town to draw the latest invitation out of the drinking fountain or the pig shit, and then taking it home to pin to the kitchen wall; it was one of her favorite ways of keeping her anger freshly fueled.
Ermenegilda, infant of the household, was especially malevolent. As a child she liked to go from field to field tying the animals’ legs together, until the island was reduced to a bestial symphony of grunts, bleats, and squawks. Later she delighted in pouring rubbish into people's wells and unmooring the boats from the docks so they drifted out to sea. When people saw Ermenegilda coming they shut their shutters. Even the fishermen were afraid of her; they felt she set up a vibration that sent the
salmone
swimming back downstream. But though Ermenegilda was easily the most insufferable of the family, she was also the one for whom there was the greatest hope: Ermenegilda knew how to love - deeply, passionately, without caution or reserve — and in that capacity lay the possibility of her redemption. In Albertino's presence her anger cooled into a kind of glassy-eyed splendor. For a moment of his attention she would sacrifice the most deliciously malicious scheme that boiled in her eighteen-year-old brain and become a great, silent mass of perfumed flesh.
Albertino, on the other hand, couldn't stand the sight of Ermenegilda. Though somewhat odd-looking himself— he had a sort of pasry-nothing face that exhibited the same neutral expression no matter what he was feeling — Albertino was exceedingly sweet of nature. That he chose to spend one afternoon a month with her, however, baffled everyone but Gianluca. Gianluca knew that Ermenegilda gave Albertino boxes. The dazzling silver box with the smooth disks of jade along the rim. The heart-shaped box of red Murano glass with the dancing
pesci gatto
for handles. Albertino could not resist them. So once a month he would walk down the Calle Alberi Grandi with her, and hold her sweaty hand which felt like burst sausage, and sit on the dock at the east of the island while she talked. Ermenegilda spoke sweetly when she was with Albertino. She imagined that she was sylphlike and beautiful, and her wrath dissolved around her like smoke into the damp sea air. If he closed his eyes, Albertino could even bear her stories of crusading knights and their faint, fair maidens. But when the stories ended, and he turned to look at her, he could only wonder himself that a new box could mean so much.
It has to be her, he thought to himself. Who else could scare the blood out of the soil like this?
Albertino rose from his blankets and went to the east wall. He'd lived in his room that wasn't a room for eight years, ever since the great storm that destroyed the hovel that had been left to him and Gianluca when their mother had died. He'd planted the radicchio patch that first year he'd moved in; each spring the purple-and-white heads made him feel hopeful and invigorated. Now, as he looked out over the garden through the morning fog, he saw nothing but an empty expanse of dry, clotted earth.
He climbed over the wall. He walked toward the cemetery. But though it was silent as always, it now seemed to have extended its quiet out to the meadow and across the water and over all of Riva di Pignoli. He walked until he reached the small juniper tree that stood halfway between his room and the cemetery gate. Every year he'd watched it shoot up a little taller, and spread its spiny needles, and drop its tender cones upon the grass. Now there was no grass — and the juniper tree stood naked as December.
