The Maestrale Voice

The Maestrale Voice Dying is often a relief, especially if you are old and are going through bad days. In this case, the brief disease and following death came right on time. The old Honorable Member was eighty-six years old and, as most old people, clearly remembered past events but nothing about the last few weeks. At times, he was so focused and determined to impress even the biggest skeptics but often the senile dementia and obsessive s*x mania, obviously caused by his illness, made him believe he was capable of great achievements with the women. These achievements weren’t obtained with his smooth words, which in his youth were always clever and had brought him to capitulate to many good purposes, but obtained, so he believed, thanks to the charm of his old, nude body. Lately, nude, he’d face the balcony and call out loudly, with his shrill old voice, to his intended victims. Equally as loud, his better half Mrs. Helen, reproached him, open hearted. “Totò, shame on you! Look at what you have become! Actually, you have always been this way: a p*****t! Only God knows how many times you have cheated on me. And I have been quiet about it because I am a lady.” All this happened on the terrace of the building where a lot of people watched on, amused. At six in the morning the phone rang. “Hello,” Andrea Rao said, still sleepy and annoyed. “It's mom. Your grandfather is dead.” Andrea had been waiting for this news. His grandfather was sick and the last time he had seen him, just a couple of days before, the old man wasn't able to even recognize anyone. Nevertheless, the news was so final that his eyes tore up and it took a few minutes to collect himself and get dressed so he could go bless the coffin, which had been put in the ancient family estate. The gate was open and allowed a glimpse of the avenue of palm trees and flower beds that, in spite of the cold season, were flowering oleanders and geraniums. The enormous rocky cliff, the timpa, that covered the house, had a sort of powerful and dark look. The building at the end of the avenue was an old 1700’s construction. It reflected in its whole the comfort of which many Sicilian families had enjoyed up until the recent past, as well as its state of neglect, which reflected the crisis that followed. It was in fact possible to sense how, during the last years, the Honorable had neglected its upkeep. Andrea searched in his memory and realized it had been at the end of the ‘60s that the decline of his grandfather, and the rest of the family, had started. Strangely the period also coincided with the premature death of his brother, Uncle Peppuccio to everyone, but his grandfather was the one who suggested the initiative and gave him the strength and the courage to act. Since then, so many events followed, and all of them were disastrous. Thinking about it, Andrea was realizing that, during that time, not only had the fate of his family changed, but perhaps even the course of history. Yet this awareness did not give him the clarity to accept the facts calmly: he had lived them and he still wore the scars. Deep in his thoughts, Andrea did not notice he just had crossed the main entrance of the Villa, opened for this occasion. He passed the corridor that was leading to the grand room with its glass walls and, suddenly, he laid his eyes on the dead man, already inside the coffin and placed in the middle of the room. He asked himself, for a moment, if everything was real because, as God as his witness, apart from the coffin, it didn’t seem like his grandfather was dead: red silk robe, dark socks, scarf around his neck; his face was serene and smiling slyly with the same expression he remembered as a child. No, this must be a bad nightmare, made of various familiar faces sitting in a circle who, without leaving their positions, opened their mouths to echo cries, with mystical and painful tones. “Andreino, condolences,” someone called out. “Andrea, there's nothing we can do, it's life. The time comes for everyone,” said another one. “He did so many good things, rest in peace! Not many men are like him,” said Assunta Bonsignore, the old mother of Uncle Adriano. Andrea couldn’t adapt himself to these circumstances because, even though he was thirty-five years old, he had never attended a ritual of the night, the so called smortu cunzatu.” Actually, to tell the truth, Andrea had never seen a dead man before, even though he suffered the loss of a parent. A few years ago, his father had died, but he did not see the dead body. There had been no wake for him. The morning passed and as the lunch hour approached, the crowd of relatives began to wane. The grandmother, after facing the first long night, decided that it was better to go back into town before facing the next afternoon and the new night coming. Only then, finally, she would be able to bury him. She thought about closing the house for a few hours, going against the tradition, but Andrea decided to stay. “I am happy to stay with grandfather, so I can give him a last goodbye in the proper way,” he said, and he thought he had so many things to discuss with him that he couldn’t say in front of all those cockroaches of relatives, nor when his grandfather was in the cemetery, buried. Without looking into his eyes, it wouldn’t be the same. Andrea understood that this was a good time, certainly the last one, in which he could tell his grandpa what he had already said, but which the old man refused to understand. Now that his grandfather had a cleared vision of things he certainly would understand that Andrea had been right. Obviously, if he was able, he would have apologized for all the times his reactions had been so exaggerated and for all the times he had been disrespectful. And so, Andrea found himself face to face with his grandpa but suddenly all the previous thoughts vanished, leaving instead only the sweetest memories. They appeared like so many lights, the moments he had spent with him, starting with those of his carefree childhood. He saw himself at seven years old in his grandmother’s house in Collesano. On Saturday, perched on the railing of the terrace, he was watching the street below being crossed by several mules. He stood there and waited to hear the roar of the car and the arrival of his beloved grandfather who, along those curves, seemed like a great driver of the Targa Florio. He had to be the first to run to him and kiss him, waiting for him to say, “Now my little Andrea gets into the car and drives all alone.” At ten years old, at the stage of the Favorita stadium in Palermo, his expression was exulting and proud. He sat in the gallery of authorities, to his right was his grandfather and on the playing field his favorite football team, Inter, the one Mazzola and Buoninsegna played for. Of course, he would have loved to scream and cheer for them, but his grandfather had told him, “Andrea, in Palermo you need to support Palermo. You're Sicilian.” And then he was older, sitting on the rocking couch placed in the forecourt of the countryside where the bricks of cement in front of the house were burning from the early afternoon sun, radiating a stifling heat. But at fifteen years old, for Andrea and a few friends, getting a tan was the most important thing. His grandfather had just returned and had crossed the threshold of the house quickly, looking for cool air. Immediately he had heard the angry voice of his grandmother, who even then had found something to complain about. They fought for forty years now, but in such a cute way, and those arguments always made everybody laugh. His grandfather, still in his aquamarine dress, had filled a bag and returned to the car, according to the same old repetitive script. “It is over. I won’t sleep under the same roof with that woman!” he said. Andrea didn’t flinch and his grandpa actually never got into the car: maybe he was discouraged by the heat or maybe, and this was more likely, he was creating this scene because he liked them and his grandson did too. Suddenly, Andrea remembered how in the past few years his grandpa didn’t laugh anymore. Recently, he saw him cry once while watching the striped white and blue winter sea in front of him as he thought, he is getting older and losing his marbles. Now, Andrea understood that he was crying because of love and because he had realized he was old and useless and he couldn’t help anyone anymore. His entire life, every time he could, he took, but he also gave a lot, generously. So Andrea, through these memories, found the vision of his grandpa and what he had been: not the old man, with his easy ways and his light thoughts that annoyed him in the last years, but a friend and an example. A man that, for many years, had occupied the biggest spot in his mind and in his heart, the one you concede to the loved and idealized. The tears that had previously moistened his eyes now copiously flowed down onto his cheeks, while the sobs uncontrollably exploded. “My little Grandpa…” he kept repeating, with a broken voice. The noise of a car running through the avenue shook him. Andrea went to the bathroom immediately, washed his face and pushed all his feelings back. He always did so and maybe it was for this reason that he felt his soul was so heavy and troubled. His face instantly regained its composure and, given that according to the custom the visitors entered without knocking, he returned to the living room, glancing toward the door, waiting to see who would enter. In the corridor leading from the hall to the living room, three figures stepped forward. In the middle was an elderly man, his legs unnaturally arched, needing the support of a cane to walk. On both sides, slightly behind him, proceeded two young men, his bodyguards. Entering the hall, the old man took off his cap and looked at the corpse. “I had to come, even though I’m dog-tired,” the man said. Then, without even looking at Andrea, he sat on one of the chairs around the coffin and continued. “Honorable. You have been a lord and a father. I’ll give you that.” Then he fell silent and, with his chin on his crossed hands, which were rested on his cane, he didn’t move, like a sphinx. Andrea shuddered because he had recognized the character by his attitude and the way he spoke. Awkward and uncomfortable, he consumed himself with the thought that this man had dared show up. Andrea couldn’t believe that this man and his people, who were so detested and, at the same time, so feared, were here. Thank God it was over after five minutes when the old man, placing himself at the foot of the coffin, stretched out the hand that held his cap. “I salute you, Honorable,” he said. Then, he turned around and tiredly walked out of the room. Andrea was thinking about how his grandpa used to know them, and once, victim of irritability and agitation, he had blamed him for that, too. “What do you think, that living in this place burned by the sun and the fire of the mob is easy? Andrea, life is about giving and taking everywhere, and here it is vital. Everybody knows and shuts their mouths because they cave in. Don’t offend me. I am not one of them, but I have a duty to protect my family,” he told him, with a proud look. Andrea couldn’t reply and then he thought about the bomb that exploded in his father’s pastry shop when he was still a kid. Matteo Rao never touched this topic, but everybody said that he didn’t want to pay. Thinking about that scene, and with his mind filled with those thoughts, he looked at his grandpa’s face and felt his heart becoming softer. “You have lived as a main character for almost a century of history during which you have always played an important role, but most importantly you came out with honor. You realized you couldn’t excel anymore and you thought to die.” Visits were over. Andrea went into the kitchen and looked for something to eat, but apart from a coffee can, he didn’t find anything. After all, the house had been unused for years. Somber, he returned to the living room. He was about to enter when he sensed that during his absence, someone else had come in. “And now that you have left, who will I talk to? Confide in? We were the survivors of an era and we understood each other. God bless you, Totò.” An old man was bending over the coffin and caressing grandpa’s head. The man was surprised to see Andrea walk into the living room. Actually, his attitude was the same of that of a kid who had been caught mid-prank. The old man blushed and the red contrasted with the whiteness of his thick hair. His glasses had slipped down to the tip of his nose. He moved them up with his hand, pushing from the metal in the middle. “Oh, it’s you, Andrea,” he said. “You were very close with my grandpa, right?” Andrea recognized him. “Close? No, I don’t believe that is the appropriate word. See, nobody ever heard me call him by name. I beg your pardon.” “I am sure he would have appreciated it.” And since the man was standing there, embarrassed, Andrea invited him to sit. They sat in silence for a few minutes. “It’s lunch time and you probably need to eat. I'll leave. See you in church for the funeral,” said the old gentleman, as he left the little bamboo armchair he was sitting on. In his eyes, he read a great sadness and thought that the man was afraid to bother Andrea with his presence. Perhaps, until a few minutes before, that was true. “Stay, accountant Ventura. Keep me company. Let’s keep grandpa company.” Nino Ventura’s relief was obvious. The man returned comfortable to the chair. He was holding a walking stick resting on the side. It was made of a seasoned wood and had a beautiful pearl handle. Andrea offered him a cup of coffee and had one too. They began to talk of his grandfather, and about the family history, of eras and unknown events. The man talked, sometimes he stopped and smiled smugly, or a veil of emotion steamed up his face. Outside the house, the maestrale let his voice be heard loudly, almost as if it didn’t want those stories to reach the ears of any living being. Part One (1910 – 1940)