A Funeral in Fiesole (11 page)

Up and down, down and up

How sad to see Brod stop during his reading, close to tears. He swallowed and continued after a pause which was not too long, but he must have felt awkward. I felt for him, and felt the same lump in my own throat. He could not have remembered Papa’s funeral. We were all so young. I can’t remember what happened very clearly. Did we stay on at school? I hardly think it would have been the case.

But here, now, in Fiesole, it was different and strange because no matter whether we had been to other funerals, I did believe none could ever be like our mother’s. We were all bound up in grief, and because of our English-ness, had less ways to deal with it. We might have had Italian summers of passion and excitement and shouting and wild displays of childish emotions of all kinds, but when it came to the rites and rituals of life, we reverted to type.

I felt most sorry for Paola, who was unaccompanied, even though we were all there with her, her siblings. John should have been there and I felt angry at him for being overworked. Even though it was something I envied in a way, being so monstrously and noticeably unemployed myself. I envied anyone with any sort of an income, especially Brod and Suzanna, who didn’t have a worry in the world. Truthfully speaking, Harriet and I deserved the largest chunk out of Mama’s will, if the world was anything like a fair place. We cared for her so well. We spent so much in airfares and things while she was unwell. Back and forth, back and forth.

I shook my head in an effort to stall extreme annoyance. Well, fairness was most likely going to be the outcome, so how could I expect more? But we sorely needed it. I contained irritation and aimed it in my heart at Paola’s husband. Undeniably – work was not nearly a good enough excuse to allow one’s wife to travel to Italy alone all the way from Melbourne, and to live through what could be easily one of life’s most difficult four days. A week. Whatever.

Harriet would not have dreamt of leaving me to deal with my mother’s funeral on my own. We do things together, my wife and I. How peculiar to see John and Paola go about things in such a different way. Even Lewis, quiet and taciturn as he was, was Suzanna’s shadow, a loyal and true partner if ever there was one. I bet she would not have been half as successful without him.

I was honestly also a bit irate at Suzanna for asking so many questions about where this item and that object were. How was I to know what happened to the sideboard or bookcase or whatever the large piece of furniture was called?

She did come down to the kitchen the night before the funeral, breathless, as if she had gone through the entire house, room by room by room, seeking things she remembered.

I wanted to confront her, scold her for thinking only about material things at such a time, but I bit my lip and kept silent. I had to say something, though. ‘Shall I put the kettle on?’

She took three deep breaths. ‘Yes, Nigel. Do. Please.’ Quite out of breath. ‘If you counted the number of little flights of stairs and steps and staircases and whatnot in this house… phew.’

‘A hundred and …’

‘ … thirty-one!’ She remembered.

We would all, as children, play hide-and-seek, various hiding games, seeking games, shouting and silent games all through the house. One of the things we surely knew was the number of steps in the places.
Su e giù, su e giù,
we would chant, as Matilde had taught us.

‘Up and down,’ she said, taking a seat at the big red table. ‘Down and up.’

I didn’t ask whether she had been in every single room, because it was the kind of interrogation she expected, so I held back, spiteful, leaving it to her to state. She would not enter the rooms we were all occupying while we were there, anyway.

‘So what do you think will be in the will tomorrow, Nigel?’

I poured hot water into the big brown teapot, which steamed up my glasses, and said nothing.

She waited.

‘I was more … I’m more anxious and nervous about the funeral, Suzanna.’ There. I said it pointedly, to make her feel a bit like she ought to, rather than worrying about sideboards and carpets and what we would all do about selling the house.

‘I’m trying not to think about tomorrow.’ Her voice was muted in the large kitchen. ‘I’m trying …’

What was she trying to do – avoid the emotion? Postpone it? This was not what Suzanna was like. As a young person she confronted people, stared them in the eye. Demanded what she wanted. Asked what she wanted to know. Loudly.

‘Tomorrow will be over before we know it. It might feel like the longest day in our lives, but it’s something…’

‘I know what it is, Nigel. I’m not sixteen, you know! And I have been to a number of funerals. We have all lost friends, and parents of friends, and colleagues … oh, I have had my share of funerals.’

‘None of them like this one.’

She was silent for a minute, pulling the cup and saucer I slid towards her and clinking the teaspoon against the cup. ‘No, true. None of them as … significant.’

‘Or emotional.’

‘How many people do you think will be there?’

‘Certainly not more than about thirty. I think there are some older people down at San Girolamo who remember her well, and of course there will always be the steadfast churchgoer or two.’

‘Or six.’

‘Yes, who appear at every ceremony or mass or whatever, simply because it’s on.’

‘So we’ll have the village set there as well.’

‘No doubt. Do you want a biscuit with your tea?’

She made a face. ‘I don’t eat biscuits! It’s amazing, Nigel – I am fifty-three, and yet you guys treat me like I was still six or ten or thirteen. I might have eaten the odd biscuit Matilde baked when I was in ankle socks … but a lot of water has gone under the bridge.’

I didn’t say, Y
ou’re fifty-five
Suzanna
. I said instead, ‘And I might have collected anything and everything bearing a slight resemblance to a stamp when I was twelve, but I don’t any more.’

‘There you are!’

‘And I used to have everything pointed out to me because I was the youngest, Suzanna, but I can see things quite plainly for myself now.’ I formed my hands into binoculars, like a little kid, and ogled around the kitchen. A controlled effort, to keep irritation in check.

She laughed at that point. She took a dainty sip of the tea I made her and laughed again. ‘You’ll always be the youngest, Nigel.’

It was my turn to smile.

‘Now tell me what’s eating you.’

Oh lord – I was not about to tell her I’d been made redundant and having bills and things to pay that came up to my eyeballs.

And she saw I was not going to disclose what was eating me to her. Not then. Not ever.

‘Missing Mama, I guess. This is certainly not the best reason to have a family reunion, and even though Harriet and I and the children lived here when she was ill and … and … It’s still not comfortable or easy.’

‘No, it couldn’t be. Don’t think we blame you for things not being where we thought they’d always be, though, Nigel.’

‘Blame me?’

‘I can’t find the bookcase!’

‘Oh?’ I had to take a deep breath to stay calm. She was blaming me.

‘It wasn’t in any of those partially-renovated bedrooms in the wing. It would have been beautifully dry there. I can’t remember its condition.’

‘Did it have a deep bottom drawer which …?’

‘Yes. It did.’ She sipped tea. ‘Look. Forget about it. Now all we need to find out is what’s eating Brod. I don’t want to be the one to ask him.’

‘It had all those records in it, remember? Papa’s record collection. I’d give my right arm for them, today. Never gave it a thought when I was young. We’re music mad in my family – the kids both play. We have classical music in our blood. Harriet’s grandmother was a concert pianist. I wonder where all those records went, Suzanna – but stuff is like that. It goes. Like the bookcase. Like the one dining room chair. Like the curtains someone mentioned. Stuff vanishes.’

‘Do you think we should have been more … or perhaps Mama should have …? I don’t know!’ She huffed anger through her nostrils and took off on heels clattering on the old tiles.

A missing painting

Grant could be quite an amazing person. He was touched and worried about Paola, who was the only sibling there without a partner. She was quite as detached as our nephew Tad, who was only there for a while at the church, and disappeared afterwards. We wondered what and where the boy ate and how Harriet and Nigel managed his solitariness. If they thought it needed management at all. I guessed I would never understand children, although I did – as a youngster – occasionally go through phases I could liken to Tad’s behaviour. It was very probable this attitude thing of his was a phase too. My brother didn’t seem too worried about his son. He seemed burdened by something else.

‘I walked out in the rain to Paola,’ Grant said, ‘who was drifting out there, distressed, in the long wet grass, without an umbrella or anything. There were two old raincoats on a rail, so I put one on, and took the other out to her.’

‘Oh, Grant – that was nice.’ We walked down one of the steep narrow streets of Fiesole, which were made of steps. There was a break in the very changeable Fiesole weather which buoyed us; no need for an umbrella now. Window boxes full of flowers, high yellow walls, green-painted shutters and wrought iron balconies surrounded us. If we’d been tourists, it would have been hard to distinguish the
pensione
we were staying at from other large yellow houses.

I wondered how long the rain would hold off, but the strip of sky above us, at least, was a shade of pleasant blue. It was unusual to be in Fiesole at such a wet and chilly time of the year.

Grant walked along with his hands in his jeans pockets, looking at his feet as we descended one stepped street. ‘Brod, her husband’s left her. John … is it John?’

I stopped, gaped, and held my breath for a moment. This was incredible news.

‘… immediately before she flew out from Melbourne.’

Two surprises in two breaths. ‘Incredible!’ Of all the relationships in the family, Paola and John’s used to seem to me to be strongest. ‘Did she say why?’ Paola had chosen to confide in Grant – a perfect stranger – which was even more atypical of her.

‘He met someone.’

I could imagine Paola’s sarcastic voice and the way she would have pulled her mouth to utter those words. ‘What – so you walked in the rain and …’

‘It was awful … but good – you know what I mean? Do you know that rare instance when the time is right for someone to talk? I felt so flattered to be confided in, and by your big sister of all people. She stood and spilled it all out. How he told her before he jumped in a taxi to fly to Brisbane.’

‘Goodness. She must still be smarting from it all. I have to … should I? Should I talk to her? I think I should. Did she ask you not to tell me, or anything?’ I stopped in front of a sharp corner as two girls on scooters whizzed past.

‘No. She seemed relieved to get it off her chest. We both got quite damp in the rain. We returned and put the raincoats back, and she went in to pour us two glasses of the old cellared wine, and we sat in the room where you said you used to sit with your mother.’

I could see Grant there, with Paola.

‘She’s very nice, Brod.’

‘Of course she is.’

‘No … come on. You know what I mean. I first thought she was sullen and sarcastic … and prim. Now I know she had reason.’

I could not disagree. ‘Paola … she’s … oh, poor Paola. You know, she’s the oldest, the wisest, and has a fabulous memory. She remembers stuff from when she was four, and six, and fifteen.’

‘She says it’s a curse, and doesn’t mean it as a joke.’

I agreed. ‘She was always a sombre and serious type. Not given to joking.’

Grant moved to face me. ‘She can be bitingly … intelligently … funny. I mean her humour is dry.’

‘Humour!’ But I saw what he meant. I thought of something. ‘Grant … you didn’t tell her – you didn’t return the favour and confide in her, did you?’

‘Well …’

‘Oh, Grant. There was no need. We’ll sort it out ourselves.’ I hoped my voice didn’t whine, but I was annoyed.

He folded his arms. ‘I felt there was need. We found something, on a brief rainy walk. We talked. Properly, honestly, you know – no holding back. Besides, I wanted to get it off my chest.’

‘Paola would have thought you were telling tales. On me.’

He huffed, annoyed with me. Annoyed and exasperated with me. ‘Ah! Huh!’

‘Grant.’

‘Um – I asked her if she thought it was too old to think of adopting an infant at … if … when one is over fifty. I am fifty-eight, Brod. This is about me, too.’

I didn’t think Paola was the ideal person to ask, having no children of her own, and being my big sister. I said as much, and he must have seen the displeasure on my face. ‘So what did she have to say?’

‘She’s very nice, you know.’

‘You said that before.’

‘She pointed out the fact we’d be pushing seventy when the child was in high school, if we started now.’

I blinked.

‘And you have to admit we never thought of it in such a … a time frame. We’d be drained. On our last legs. I’d be exhausted. I don’t think I can push myself that far, Brod. I mean – we have such a nice free life now …’

‘Doing what we want.’

‘Mm.’

‘Let’s not talk about it to anyone else, shall we? No more. Until we finally resolve the … the situation, I mean. The decision. The pros and cons. Certainly not here, not now. Not with
my family
.’

‘Paola … it seemed to take her mind off her own problems.’

‘Did she say anything else?’

‘She talked about a missing painting.’

I rolled my eyes and thanked goodness we could change the subject. ‘Lots has gone missing. We all noticed. It gets on Suzanna’s nerves. Nigel doesn’t say anything, even if he and Harriet notice, or even know where some things have ended up. I tend not to register such things. Things, you know, Grant …
things
. Everything can be replaced.’

‘Not everything, according to your big sister. She said something about an umbrella painting, which used to hang in the drawing room.’

‘Oh lord – yes.
Ombrelli a Santa Maria
.’ The fabulous painting we all had imprinted into our minds as children was suddenly there, in my mind’s eye. ‘Basile painted it.’

‘Who?’

‘Basile – he was … like a family friend. I wonder what happened to him.’ Remembering Basile was like a strange flash from a forgotten part of my childhood. How could I forget Basile? What did I remember of him? He had a bright, lean face. His English was good; he had travelled the world, and his art was quite distinctive. Mama had met him at some artistic convention – goodness knew where. We did not know her exact movements when we were all away at school.

Grant and I got in the car and drove to Via Faentina, where there was a little restaurant I liked. A quick but relaxed lunch was what we needed, away from the big house for a while, and it was important to show Grant the rest of Fiesole.

I could not get the painting out of my mind, even when we sat at a small table. ‘It was special. All these coloured open umbrellas, leading to a church. Santa Maria. Important – but I don’t know why. Did Paola say anything more? Does she know if Basile ever took off as a painter?’

‘She described it so minutely, so cleverly. I could see it … in the rain. Me and your sister, standing there, getting very nearly drenched, and I could see all the coloured umbrellas, slick with rain, all grouped together, with the church in the background, like molten gold, she said.’

‘Yes. Yes!’ I remembered. The objects in our childhood which formed the stage backdrop of our little dramas disappeared with time. Yet when they were there, they were possibly what formed our opinions, taste, likes and dislikes. What we thought of art and love. What we adored about music. What we chose to read. The thumb of culture, around which a whole life’s choices were wound, like a length of yarn.  Like the thumb, influences were withdrawn and disappeared, leaving only what they formed. A weirdly-wound ball of impressions.

When we remembered them, we recalled the accompanying events. The people. Basile – what was his last name? He was a violinist as well as an artist. He played with a number of famous orchestras. Yes, Basile Sottalbero. Tall, thin, patient and very good-looking. Our Renaissance man. ‘He taught us about … who was the poet? Ah – Leopardi, or someone similar.’ I knew nothing about where he could be, or why he had disappeared out of our lives.

‘Shall we?’ Grant held up a menu.

‘This trip is turning into a pilgrimage, Grant. I’m sorry if …’

He leaned forward suddenly and grabbed me by the upper arm. ‘Brod, I love it. I never had this. It’s brilliant. Your family’s … I don’t know … they’re real. All memories, and questions, and quarrels and … I don’t know … you guys don’t even know how much you love each other.’

I lowered my head. We were all ageing. We didn’t love each other when we were youngsters. How could we now? What did Grant see that I didn’t? ‘Rubbish, Grant.’

‘Rubbish, then.’ He let go of my arm. ‘You know each other so well.’ He took up a fork and ate his salad.

‘We think we know each other – but it’s only what we remember of adolescent moods, silly behaviour, tantrums, childish habits. We’ve all changed. Mostly, we’ve changed because of the people we’ve chosen to live with.’

He smiled.

‘Yes – you’ve changed me a bit, Grant. I used to be so … slapdash. So bland.’

He looked up. ‘Hmm. You still wear terrible sweaters.’

I pulled a face at him.

Later, much later, after a mostly silent main course, he broke into his round brittle torta, which was covered in raspberry juice. ‘You treat each other like you’re all still teenagers. It’s hilarious.’

I didn’t think it was funny. It was devastatingly sad.