A Funeral in Fiesole (10 page)

A forgotten photograph

I was surprised, but certainly not disappointed, by Mama’s will. The notary’s English was good, and I was grateful Mama chose him so well. After his initial long-winded introduction in Italian, he lapsed into formal English, so there were no language hurdles to vault. Still, the complication of what he read us was impossible to unravel; and it was plain after the time he spent explaining the complexity of Italian succession law. He said there were two kinds of succession, intestate and ‘testamentary’ succession.

‘You are all four of you very fortunate to have had such an intelligent and far-sighted mother. She has left a very detailed testament, which means a lot of time will be saved, because of the clarity and the fairness she achieved by understanding the law.’

Still, surprises filled the day. I excused myself and left the room when he was finished, making for the far field behind the house in the dark, until I walked into the railing overlooking the lane leading down to the street. It was covered with creepers and weeds. Light from street lamps below helped my eyes adjust to something more than darkness.

Revelations were the order of the day. First it was Suzanna turning up in a designer batwing outfit in deepest black, accessorized with brilliant red shoes. Mama would have loved her for it, even if it was less defiance or thumbing her nose at Italian convention than a stand for attention, but all eyes went to Suzanna’s feet. Why I kept thinking of those red shoes was not clear. It was more envy than annoyance. She carried it off.

It was the first time I saw my nephew Tad during the weekend. I did hear his voice, though. He stood at the back of the church in a too-small threadbare school blazer, combing a nervous hand through his hair several times during the service. He disappeared soon afterwards and was absent at the reception, where we all were served tea and delicate English sandwiches, which some Italian guests regarded a bit curiously. Suzanna observed there might be a few Italian funerals adopting the strange catering after today. It was all about trends, she said. She should know, being such an entrepreneuse.

My reading, and hers, went well. I read first, and when I listened to Suzanna, felt disappointed in my voice, my lack of elegance, and the altogether awkward figure I presented. It was partly to do with my mood, I suppose, my preoccupation about John, and my fear grief would overwhelm me in the middle of a sentence.

Well, whether he ever existed or not, whether I believed in him or not, it was not my wall god Neptune, but Saint Paul, who was by my side as I read his letter to the Thessalonians, and I did not miss a word or mumble, or have to take a sentence from the beginning. It was when I stopped wondering why Mama had chosen the reading. It was the bit about church traditions, and without a doubt the mention of work ethics. Traditions, traditions – she held them, broke them, respected them, felt they were like anchors in her life.

I was quite cool in the end, and looked up to see a blur of faces in front of me. The group was intimate, with only a few people there. I was surprised to see our old neighbours from Cornwall, the Edisons, who talked a great deal to Nigel and Harriet outside afterwards. Nigel said later they were staying in Florence and might pop up to the house in a day or two.

To my utter surprise, Nigel read a long piece from one of my books, which he translated himself into Italian. It was not a great success in my opinion, but seemed well received, and I felt it satisfied him in some weird way, which was, I supposed, the main use for funerals apart from celebrating the life of the departed, and furnishing some sort of elegant, human conclusion to a life.

Brod surprised me by faltering during his reading. He had to swallow hard and found it difficult to go on. The silence in the space when he paused was not embarrassing, but endearing. He surveyed the scene and seemed to take in the lilies, the candles, and everything he found – because we were all so unused to churches – a bit startling and awkward.  I think he too felt the sympathy awash in the church for him. His high voice was a touch too loud, but much more contained and more muted when he continued, and I felt for Grant, in the row of seats behind me, who felt as though he held his breath the entire time Brod was reading.

Why Harriet wore such a drab coat and a French beret was beyond me. It was as if she went out of her way to make herself dull and dreary, in Suzanna’s words. She didn’t wear her usual lipstick, either, and went for a shade that blurred the outline of her lips to a wine-coloured smudge.

It was a grey day and we all wore grey and black. If not for the splash of Suzanna’s red shoes, it was bleak and cold and grey, grey, grey; until Lori played her cello, which gave the proceedings a bit of a lift. Harriet had passed around cards printed with the order of readings and music, and I did read
Ombra mai fu
, but no one said it would be played by Lori. Beautifully done, I did concede, and very appropriate. A difficult piece to play unaccompanied, but she is a talented girl. Handel is always fitting, in a way.

I closed the card – stiff, and the colour of clotted cream – and folded it, and was startled to find on the front an oval portrait of Mama in black and white, which Nigel must have found in some old album.
In remembrance of Nina Larkin
. It appeared to have been taken when Papa was still alive, and showed her young and healthy, with eyes almost squeezed shut and untidy hair which meant she was out in her beloved garden. Not one I would have chosen if he’d asked, but I supposed it was quite a suitable choice in the end. I stared and stared at it, and remembered the way she would stamp her feet on those mats before tracking soil onto the tiles in the lower room overlooking the hills at the back. How she would laugh at her own badly-pronounced Italian. How she would gather us together in the kitchen and dole out little errands and tasks, which had to be completed before we could all sit down to some board game or other, or before she would drive us all to the communal swimming pool at Sesto Fiorentino.

My shoes hurt, and I wished I had worn something warmer. I wished for thick socks. I wished for a companion I could exchange glances with. Someone to hold my hand. There was no one in the world who could take the role. Unaccompanied, I felt like a maiden aunt, a spinster, despite having emerged – quite in one piece, I suppose – from a long marriage. I was uncomfortable and longed to return home. For the first time in my life … no, it could not have been the first time; I yearned for a daughter. She would have led me home. I swallowed hard.

Where was home? I was suddenly drifting and had no anchor, no home port. No real mooring. If my home in Melbourne had any meaning left, it was the location from where John had left. Had left me. I was starting to form the unfortunate decision to sell, despite all the thought and love I had poured into the place. Ah – the gorgeous garden, the absolutely perfect rooms. They would now serve only to mock what it was all about. Comfort without warmth, with no sympathy, would be the only thing they would provide.

Did I only think such thoughts because I was so far away? I needed a home rather badly now, and my old room up in the Fiesole house would have to serve. Nigel would have to ‘turn up the heating a notch’, however, or I would die of cold and damp.

One of the final clauses in the will left us all perplexed. We were all urged to pay special visits to Matilde, on separate days, in order not to tire her out. Why Mama made it so plain in the will was understandable to a point, but mystifying in another way, since it was inevitable we would visit the old woman who was such a faithful old nurse, cook, maid, nanny and everything else to us in our childhood, for the last time. She and Mama had a special friendship and understanding. Of course we would all go. She did not have to bid us to do so in such a formal, legal way. The notary peered over his glasses at us, one by one, giving Brod’s name three firm syllables,
Brod-er-rick
, and nodding when he saw agreement in all our eyes.

What he might not have been prepared for was our gasp when the details of who was to get what were read. I was left stunned, stunned, but rather satisfied. I had never expected such an outcome, and of course deciding whether it was equitable was not an issue, because it was clear Mama had calculated the values of properties very, very carefully. Recently, too. We all gave each other silent stares when the notary read the date of the will. It was barely five months before she died. He explained how he had made his way to the hospice and ascertained and confirmed she was of sound mind and good intent – as signified by two signatures of competent witnesses, one of them Mama’s doctor – to dictate a will to nullify and cancel all others.

‘The aspects of Italian law were all followed to the letter – of that she made absolutely sure.’ He lowered his eyes to the papers, and up again. ‘And of course I was there to guide her in each of the aspects.’

I did not have a sense, when we all emerged from the library where we had all gathered, how any of the others might feel about the contents of the will. There were a few details about some small items. I was to get all the books in the house, and Papa’s youthful portrait by Daniele Brigante. Nigel was given the entire collection of marble busts and some of the wine; Suzanna all the clocks and barometers of the house, which amounted to quite a number, and some named pieces of furniture she might choose from an inventory; and I was happy to hear the chess set, three paintings, and various bits and pieces of Papa’s, which were in safe dry storage, plus more than half of the wine store, were to go to Brod.

Each single piece of her jewellery was itemized, valued, and apportioned to one or the others of us, and it was touching to listen to it detailed, and equally poignant to see how fairly she had figured it all out. Among other things, the pearls I hated went to Nigel for Harriet and later for Lori. The emerald earrings went to Suzanna, whose eyes brightened at once. Brod was given the beautiful gold Swiss wristwatch Papa used to wear when we were little, and I … I was happy to hear her brilliant set of diamond rings was mine.

Lori came in at the end with a tray on which Harriet had prepared a bottle of grappa and a host of small stemmed glasses. Dottor Ugobaldi stood and joined us, and elegant discretion demanded we did not discuss the will at that point. Discussion about the other astounding bequests would have to wait until he got into his lavish Alfa Romeo and whizzed down the driveway, past the cypresses in a row, past the dismal and ugly empty pots, which should have been full of some sort of shrub, and down the winding hill towards Fiesole and his home or office. That was an opportunity for me to disappear.

‘Where are you going Paola? Aren’t you …?’

I swept past Nigel. He was beaming, so pleased about Mama’s foresight and benevolence he was dying to talk about it, to gauge our agreement – or resentment – about his very good fortune.

I was not about to discuss Mama’s wishes with him. Not right at that point. I could not help one observation. ‘You did play a requiem in the end, Nigel.’

Surprise paled his face. ‘Er … um … Mozart’s. Only recorded music – did it sound okay? The sound system was appalling. I know Mama did not put it on her list, but …’

‘But?’

He seemed close to rage. ‘Listen, Paola. Trying to please everyone is darned difficult. We had time for one more piece, so I thought, what would be appropriate? And we all did sing rather pleasantly to
Abide with me
.’

I held back a sigh. ‘I’m not scolding, Nigel. Only making an observation.’

He took a deep breath and hurried into his question. ‘So what do you think …?’

‘Not ready to talk about it yet, Nigel. I don’t want to talk about money and houses and … or anything of the sort.’ And I took off across the front veranda, past the drenched marble table. Someone, possibly Harriet, had taken away the fallen beach umbrella, and wound back the awnings over the French windows, so it was tidier out there than when I had driven up the first day. All in honour of the notary, who would not have given a second glance to such things.

I was not ready to discuss my own fortune with my little brother. Or his. No way. No. Not yet. I could scarcely believe it myself. Clever Mama. Clever, clever Mama. She knew us all so well, even in her old age, after we had all flown off to live out our individual independent lives. To live out our problems.

I walked down to the grass terrace where the large pots stood, stopped, and gave them a visual test. All still sound and usable. Huge and round-bellied, they stood, sodden and darkened by the rain, only half full of spent soil, with dead sticks which were once shrubs, blackened with mould, sticking out, all angled in defeat. I pulled one out and it came away without protest, so I threw it to one side and saw when I peered in the gloom there were dozens of tiny little green shoots, less than a centimetre high, pushing their way through the cracked surface.

New life. New plants. New weeds. There was a chance someone might see to them soon.