A Funeral in Fiesole (15 page)

‘Eh?’

‘You still make biscotti – it’s wonderful.’

‘Ha ha! I knew at thirteen I would die in the kitchen … some kitchen … somewhere. Now, drink your coffee, and I’ll take you inside – to my bedroom. I have something for you …’ She did not stoop or shuffle, something remarkable at her age. ‘And later, we will have some
vin santo
with one of those biscuits. Do you remember how …?’

I stopped. There was her enormous bed, and propped up against its foot was the painting. Basile’s painting. The umbrellas at Santa Maria. ‘Matilde!’ I whipped around.

Her face was solemn, her eyes bright. ‘Look at it, look at it. Beautiful. Your mother wanted you to have it, my love. It is only for you, a bit of a
segreto
, you know.’

I saw why it was a secret. So Mama knew how I felt at sixteen, at seventeen. She guessed about my affection for Basile. I tried to hold back tears, and somehow managed.

‘
Bello
, eh?’

‘Yes, beautiful.’ I leaned forward and peered closely at the picture. The paint had cracked and crazed a little, but it only made it appear more atmospheric, a bit hazy. There was Basile’s signature, on a small umbrella on the right, as I instantly remembered. ‘I came all the way to Fiesole, knowing it was the only thing I wanted.’

‘Take it with you to Australia.’

‘To Australia!’ It would have been too complicated to tell her I might be making other plans. Besides, they were not fully-formed plans yet. ‘Matilde – this is an incredible surprise. Where is … do you know what happened to Basile?’

‘Pick it up and bring it with you. You look like you need some
vin santo
!’ She laughed and walked back ahead of me. ‘Anna – pour the wine!’ Her
ciabatte
clattered on the tiled floor. They were the style of slip-ons she always wore around the house. Very little about her had changed. Her observations were no different. ‘So you all coped with the day?’

‘Suzanna … she coped by wearing red shoes.’

‘Ha ha!’

‘Brod and Nigel needed sympathy from others.’

‘And they found some in you, yes?’

‘I tried, Matilde, I said a few words to each of them, even Suzanna, but I don’t know … something in me keeps them distant.’

‘You are strong, Tesoro. But the strongest sometimes need the most sympathy. Who was there for you, eh? Who?’

She was not trying to comfort me, but to show me something. How could she guess my aloneness? It had to be plain in my face.

‘You flew alone from Australia?’

I nodded.

‘You do not seek sympathy. It’s not pride that separates you from your siblings, you know. Ah … in English you have no real word for
superbia
, but you know what I mean.’

‘You mean hubris?’

‘Maybe – you are insulated, like a … do you remember how Donato used to lag pipes? Insulated, in his way, to prevent things. You protect yourself before you are attacked.’

‘Do I?’

‘And surprises get you when you are least protected, of course.’

‘I know. John has left me, Matilde.’

‘Ah! I saw it in your face at the door. You have now … oh. Oh! There is no mother to comfort you now,
Tesorin
. Come here.’ She embraced me, so sweetly it was hard to hold back tears.

‘It was such a shock. So sudden.’

‘It clears the way, my treasure. It clears the way so you can find contentment. He could not have made his mind up in a day. Nothing is sudden for those who do the leaving. Your mother would have told you this. I tell you in her place.’

I could not say a word.

She let me go and gazed into my face. ‘Your mother …’ Matilde crossed herself. ‘She would have given you comfort. She would have understood, you know. Bless her dear heart. Your mother might have been impulsive, especially when it came to … listen – you are old enough now.’

I laughed. ‘I might be, Matilde.’

‘She said she would never find another love like your father, so it didn’t matter one way or another who she had fun with, or with whom she spent a holiday here and there. She was impulsive, not like you, and for an Englishwoman, quite
appassionata
, but … she and Basile!’ She cleared her throat.

I waited for her to pause, make her observations, and continue.

‘Basile was not of the same nature, you see. There was not an impetuous bone in his body, that man. Basile, after a while, removed himself from the picture, my dear. You might know why.’

I did remember how deliberate he was. How precise. It was why his portraits were so sought after, but he painted very few. Landscapes and streetscapes were what was he mostly did. I thought, and thought, but could find no reason why he would leave. ‘I don’t know …’

‘He did not love easily. We all know the type. But when he did, like Donato, he loved deeply, and forever.’ She leaned forward, and placed a hand on the small of her back. ‘You were very dear to Basile, Paola.’ There was a meaningful flicker in her eye. ‘And you know you loved him too.’

The hairs on the back of my neck prickled. ‘And Mama …’

‘Your Mama was not stupid. She might have been fancy-free and impetuous, but she liked spontaneity, not recklessness. She was a caring and careful mother.’

I didn’t know what to say. Emotion gripped me, and would not let go. I only realised my eyes were full of tears when Anna placed a small box of tissues in my lap.

‘So after a few summers, when you developed into a most delightful young woman – do you remember wearing your mother’s pearls! – after a few years, he disappeared. Not for him such sorts of complication. Not for him. A most moral and upright person. He never married, you know. Never.’

‘How do you know?’

‘His name! He became quite famous around Naples.’

‘He went south.’

She agreed, and indicated I should help myself to a glass from Anna’s tray. Her delectable
vin santo
. ‘Back to his people. Back to painting the famous bay. A couple of years after he died, there was a brief biography on the television.’ She nodded again, and sipped wine. ‘Have a
cantuccio
with this.
Perfetto!
’

Out of politeness I nibbled a biscuit and drank some of the wine. She was right, it was perfect. The reaction to hearing of Basile’s death, though, made me breathless, and I choked on a biscuit crumb, which made my tearful eyes worse.

‘
Tesoro! Carina!
You are moved by the emotion. My dearest Paola, he was an old man, and he left a wealth of paintings of the bay of Naples, of Pompeii, Solfatara, and other places around Campania. He became quite famous. They catalogued his works.’

‘There was a programme on television.’ Anna wanted to impress, and she did. ‘They showed how he was buried underneath a spreading tree, as his very name demanded.
Sottalbero
.’

‘What else?’ How could I have missed all this, all Basile’s life?

They told me as much as they knew. After half an hour, we loaded the painting into the boot of the small car, embraced, and I started the long way back, wondering whether I would ever see Matilde again.

Exasperation

Paola returned to find us all arguing on the terrace. I heard her climb the big staircase to her room, and she appeared a minute later in the terrace doorway, looking out to where we all sat. For a moment she cut a silhouette, but when she approached, there was no doubt, from the expression on her face, that she had heard our loud voices.

‘How was Matilde?’

Paola emerged onto the darkening terrace. ‘It’s chilly out here now. Have you been out here the whole time?’ She peered from one face to another, her mouth a straight pale line, her eyes sharp. Her expression no longer felt like she wanted to stick something sharp in each of our eyes. ‘What’s … what are you discussing?’ Her voice was not as composed as her face.

‘Are we being loud? Did you hear us …?’

‘I could hear you from the car.’

‘Arguing! About the will. Whether or not to accept it!’ Suzanna’s voice seemed a touch too soft, intentionally lowered, for effect. In the gathering dusk, she seemed ruffled, with pink cheeks and visible teeth; an angered cat.

I stood back and watched the three of them. Suzanna fidgety and fretful, Brod apparently guilty he had introduced the topic, even though he knew it would have to be mentioned at some point, and newly-arrived Paola perplexed and tired by her drive to Prato, struggling to stay calm. No, pacified by something. Her visit with Matilde must have made a difference.

‘Let me pour you a drink.’ I tried not to sound like a peacemaker, but it was precisely how it came out.

At last Paola answered my question. ‘Matilde is in excellent health and spirits. It was such a lovely visit. She’s well cared for by her niece. Quite easy to find, too – if you know where to start!’ She sat and sighed. ‘I’ll give you all directions – I wish I’d had some myself.’ She realized she had sliced our argument in half, and appeared like she had no desire for it to resume, even though it was she who wanted to discuss the will all along.

‘I’ll have to continue dinner soon,’ I said, further fracturing the momentum of the lively discussion.

‘I thought we were going out.’ Suzanna had settled somewhat.

‘And I thought we were all of one mind about accepting Mama’s will. There’s the important
documento
to sign.’ Brod stared at Paola.

Harriet placed a hand over her forehead in exasperation. ‘Brod – it was you who raised the question. It was you.’

‘And I was speaking to Nigel …’ He seemed to resent Harriet’s participation.

‘Oh!’

I remembered it was when Grant had quietly left the terrace earlier, leaving us to what was obviously a private family conference. I wondered if the others minded my wife taking such an active part in it, since even Lewis was invisible, heavy navy sweater zipped up to his chin, blurring into the darkening sky, happy to listen without saying a word.

Brod smiled and fairly bisected his face from ear to ear. In the deepening gloom, with the dusky indigo sky a backdrop emphasizing the size of his ears, he was comical. The moustache was awful. I had an idea he might have teased us all into a state of fury and doubt, quite on purpose.

He opened both palms and waggled long fingers. ‘It was a mere hypothetical. I asked what might happen if we didn’t all accept the will. What if one of us didn’t think it was equitable … and I didn’t specify who ... it could be any of us.’

Suzanna bridled. ‘And here I was thinking you were about to upset the applecart!’ Her own wide mouth smiled at her twin, but her eyes blazed, even in the half-darkness. ‘You were always one to make trouble when there was none.’

‘What!’ Brod burst into sarcastic laughter. ‘What?’

I quickly stood and started to say something. ‘And I think …’

‘You think you can pour Fiesole olive oil over troubled waters, Nige. I think we’d all better have a jolly good shouting match and get it over with.’ Harriet sat back, obviously fed up.

Paola’s eyes travelled from one pair of eyes to another in turn, bemused and mute. She seemed to have no doubt about anything at all. Her visit to Matilde had done something to soothe her, in her aloneness. ‘Let’s all go down to some bistro …’

‘The nice
osteria
…’

‘Oh, please, not where all the tourists gather, Brod.’

I put a hand up. ‘Let’s not fight about this too.’

Harriet stood. ‘If we want to avoid the tourists and have a nice meal at a long table … are Lori and Tad coming? …  in which case we should go to the place whose name I can never remember. The one with all the bikes hanging from the ceiling.’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Wonderful.’

‘Okay – lead the way!’

‘Can we walk?’

‘Is it far away?’

‘Won’t Paola be tired after her drive?’

It was clear we all wanted to clear the air. The mound of chopped vegetables could always be blanched and frozen.

My older sister regarded me boldly and without guile. When everyone had left the terrace, she hung back.

I stood with my back to the cobalt sky, where a threatening bank of cloud had gathered, feeling a chill breeze blowing past me from over Florence. The trees had all turned black. It was until then a beautiful clear night, but would grow quite cold later. ‘What is it, Paola?’

‘I’m very happy with how Mama apportioned the bequests. Aren’t you, Nigel? We … we all sat there, that afternoon, listening to the notary, hardly exchanging glances, all hoping it wouldn’t cause too much complicated calculation, division, signatures, powers of attorney, acting as joint vendors, buying each other out of things …’ She took a deep breath and took up one of the chairs to take inside. ‘I was afraid Italian bureaucracy and the funny succession laws they have here would make it all impossible to decipher and execute. He read it so it all sounded simple. Or is it too good to be true? Aren’t you happy with how Mama devised it all, Nigel?’

I picked up two chairs from their backs and started toward the sitting room door. ‘Of course I am. I’m delighted.’

‘I could see it in your face.’

Could she really? I tilted my head in question. Ah – my sister Paola. She had a habit of examining people silently, and it could be quite unnerving. ‘I thought Mama was very clever. I think it’s all perfect.’

‘And do you know what I think? I think Brod is stirring.’

I had to agree. ‘What he said last. A hypothetical, he said.’

‘Could it be he’s not happy, Nigel?’

I stopped to think on the threshold of the glass door to the terrace. Yellow light from the sitting room spilled out in a long rectangle onto the terrace floor. A curtain moved in the breeze. From somewhere in the valley, the sounds of a brass band were clearly audible. We listened together. American fanfare music; Sousa, as far as I could guess, in Tuscany.

I had to say something. ‘Brod can be strange, and he can fluff up all our feathers. He could have no reason to be unhappy with his portion.’

Paola shook her head. ‘No, no – I mean unhappy for some other reason. Something to do with his new relationship.’

‘But …’ I thought it over for a second. ‘They seem quite all right. Grant is a very nice chap. The only thing Brod should do is shave off his silly moustache.’

She shifted in the light from the sitting room, lifted the chair through, and walked along to the kitchen. She set down the chair, and faced me. ‘You can have two perfectly nice people, in a relationship with some very prickly problems. No one’s going to come out with their private stuff at a reunion like this. Things do surface, though, don’t they, despite all efforts to present a face. Behaviour and words … they betray everyone’s feelings and moods. Besides – we’re all here because Mama died.’ She looked at her feet. ‘It’s difficult to introduce more … more personal matters.’

So she knew something about Grant and Brod. I wasn’t about to ask. ‘More personal … like you and John.’

Her eyes were clear when her face rose to mine. She pushed at a lock of hair, which the breeze had blown into her face, with a steady hand. ‘I’m getting used to it. I’ll be fine. I’m going to be all right, Nigel. But no – you’re right. I’m not about to bring it up as a big discussion for all and sundry to tear apart and analyse.’

‘No.’ I agreed with her. ‘No one likes to have their marriage dissected at a dining room table, after the main course, before dessert.’

She laughed. It was good to hear her laugh in such an unusually hearty way. Something happened at Matilde’s, and it had lightened her heart.