The Maestrale Voice

V

V1918

In Granata even the children knew about the wisdom of Uncle Fulì. Fulì U ’Serbaggiu. The Savage was a farmer, owner of his own land. He was almost as ignorant as everyone else, though he had a natural intelligence which was often enough for him to correctly perceive both positive and negative aspects of the known facts.

A few days after Vittorio Veneto, after the news crossed Italy and arrived in Sicily, the celebrations for the victorious end of the war began. People poured into Corso Garibaldi, and for three days in a row they partied. The south, as always, was hungry and peace had brought along a feeling of hope.

“What Garibaldi Pippinu started, the king ended,” Fulì said, sitting on the farmer’s circle.

“Zittitìvi!6 U’santuzzu, has spoken” Pinù ‘Fifteen coins’, his disciple, echoed.

The silence was immediate and Fulì watched the people who were impatiently waiting for the rest of the prophecy.

“The country is united and the king will return to the people,” Fulì continued. “But if that does happen, there will be another war,” he ended.

A painful hum rose from the mouths of men who had heard the words of the visionary. And Pinù Fifteen Coins clung to the iron he had between his thighs, performing the ancient propitiatory ritual.

“But how many years do we have to feel safe?” he asked, almost desperately.

“Time will tell. For now, let's celebrate,” Fulì said, scratching his head.

The next morning, U 'Serbaggiu had the victory. And the Italian tricolor with the Savoy royal coat appeared on the big rock of Petruso. Uncle Fulì was the owner of that hill. It towered aloft outside Porta Palermo and faced the sea.

Fulì U ’Serbaggiu was an odd man and most of the residents thought he was some sort of myth: half man and half wizard. Actually, much of his prestige had been questioned since a rumor started circulating that he was looking for a wife.

“That would be the end of the world,” said Pinù Fifteen Coins, wandering the streets.

The ‘wizard’, however, was silent on the topic and had reduced his appearances at the club. The children of Granata often came to see him to enjoy the fruits he produced, but then, they ended up spending hours listening to his wisdom.

That was a special time. A new era seemed to hover everywhere. The great events of history brought along with them new expectations and tensions, and even the children were aware of these feelings. Indeed, their imagination led them to be addressed as the true interpreters of the new era.

Totò Musumeci and his cousin Ignazio Reitano, also known as The General, were the leaders of a crew and they used to hang out in Uncle Fulì’s gardens. Being educated about the meaning of the united country from Sicily to the Alps, one day, they had decided to pay tribute to the flag that was waving on the Petruso rock.

Totò Musumeci was thin, dark-skinned and had a horrible bristling tuft of hair on his head. He was running with the others. At his side was Nino Ventura, his right-hand man and an aspiring barber.

“Let's go see Fulì U’ Serbaggiu’s flag,” said Totò, while he turned left, taking the mule track. “Totò, it’s so far away and we’d have to climb,” said Nino Ventura, unable to hide his disappointment.

“Run, Ventura. I promise you that it’s important. Also, my father says that Uncle Fulì is a great man.”

“But they all claim that he is a fool.”

“He is not a fool, he sees the future.”

The final part of the mule track was in terrible condition, even for mules. It was steep and full of large stones. The balatoni, which were pushed back by the rush of the first climbers, fell, rolling onto those who followed in line. The rascals began to group at the foot of the hill that towered majestically at the end of the path. One of the last was spitting saliva on his knees, injured by the balatoni. Nino Ventura, who had reached the top first and stood with his hand on his forehead to deflect the glare of the fierce sun, even in November, was trying to watch for the masterpiece of Fulì, but did not see anything.

“Totò, the flag has disappeared,” he said.

“Call General Reitano. This is his case,” Totò said to the troops.

Ignazio Reitano, regardless of his nickname, was not the brightest bulb, not in running, nor in intelligence.

Nevertheless, he pretended to be a great expert on military tactics and stories of courage. He was an aspiring windbag. Totò Musumeci knew him well, but to keep him devoted he did not miss any opportunity to let him solve a problem.

“What is it, Totò?” the General asked, making their way through the kids.

“We have to find the flag; it’s not here. Take care of it, my General,” replied Totò.

General Reitano, among the amused smiles of the slackers of Granata, put his hands on his hips and puffed out his chest, trying to strike an attitude.

“It's easy. You have to send the infantrymen to assault. Men, on the attack!” he shouted, pointing with the index finger to the top of the hill.

Among wild shouts and taunts, the g**g moved and began the final climb. Boys grabbed the chunks of coeval rock with their hands, which were soon just as skinned as their legs.

“Totò, you always make him look like a fool. After all, The General is your cousin,” said Nino Ventura, when they were alone.

“I know, Ventura. But the picciotti7 should be entertained somehow. Otherwise, they’ll leave,” said Totò, wrinkling his big nose.

The attackers reached the top of the cliff and between the blades of the prickly pears of Uncle Fulì they found the flag.

Nino Ventura arrived just in time to witness the scene of General Reitano, who was tearfully kissing the banner. He stayed until sunset and with the others, he ate some tardive fruit. Then, as the maestrale began to sweep the big rock, Totò Musumeci sang the song of Piave, echoed by all. He directed the choir with a piece of cane.

In Station Plaza the day’s rhythm was marked by bags of durum wheat that were piled on the forecourt of the Musumeci mill, waiting to be loaded on freight cars, as every day, leaving to Parma and destined for the Barilla pasta factory.

The years after the disappearance of Turi Musumeci had been hard years, but Vincenzo was able to go on. Quite mild by nature, he had resisted, with diplomacy, the offers from the prince’s men, who wanted to buy the company. Then came the war and the many duties of His Excellence had lessened his pressure. So Vincenzo geared the factory towards the production of special brans to make pasta; he had begun to offer a high quality product for the best pasta makers, local and national, satisfying a certain kinds of baker, but not a sufficient number to compete with the mill of the lord of Granata.

The bran, however, unlike the flour, had a higher value and the Musumecis were getting rich. The amount of cash they kept in the banks was remarkable and continued to grow, thanks to the new supply contract that Vincenzo had just signed with Achilles Antonelli’s pasta factory of Venice.

Sitting at the desk that once was his father’s, Vincenzo looked at his cousin Enzino Reitano Musumeci who came into office. Gloomy as he had always been, Enzino looked like a vulture. Eternally dressed in black, he wore a flat cap backwards. He was an asshole, but being heir of the dear departed Aunt Norina, his father’s sister, he was also an associate of the mill.

“My dear cousin, did you want to see me?” Enzino asked, sitting down on the other side of the desk and stretching his feet below. He then put both thumbs in his black waistcoat.

“Enzino, I think we can do better,” Vincenzo spoke softly, persuasive and courteous. “We have to take advantage of this favorable time. Business is going well and the prince is busy with political matters. Well, I think that it’s time to build a pasta factory,” Vincenzo said, and waited for a reaction.

“The Musumeci factory!” Enzino exclaimed, a dreamy look like he was ready to make the history and not for sure from the back door. “That is wonderful news. But are you sure that the piccioli8 are available?”

“We have it. In any case, if you agree, we will give a share of the company to my sister, Maddalena. I think she has some to invest.”

“That’s fine, Vincenzo. The important thing is to open the pasta factory,” he concluded with a half-mocking smile, before leaving.

“Lena,” Vincenzo said slowly, once alone. He tried to imagine her. He hadn’t seen her for six years and so many things had happened during that time.

Vincenzo Musumeci had gone to Africa for four weeks in 1912. Officially, it was to consider the possibility of doing business with the colony of Eritrea. But actually, he had responded to a request of Lena who had expressed a desire to spend time together, even if just for a short period.

It was an unforgettable month and, though with an obvious sense of guilt in his heart, he was as happy as he used to be.

Lena lived in a house with a patio, full of bougainvillea in Bianchi Street, in a neighborhood of cottages, the elegant residential area of ​​the bourgeois of Asmara. When he had arrived, she had asked the manager of the hospital, where she worked as a pediatrician, to take unpaid time off. But despite this, the Sisters of St. Anne and the Comboni Fathers came to see her every day at home, bringing her children in need of care. Lena dedicated a few hours in the morning to those little, unhappy children. It was very sweet, especially with the mestizos, sons of the indigenous and Italians, who had an uncertain future and were unpopular with people, both colonists and local populations.

In the afternoon, they walked into the King's road, ate ice cream and exchanged small talk with friends. She introduced him as her brother who came from Sicily. Vincenzo smiled awkwardly at the lie, but it was their secret.

They traveled. They visited the plateau and then went down to Massawa, to swim in the Red Sea. The Gurgussum beach was charming: miles of sand and lonely sea under the African sun of the tropics. Away from prying eyes, Vincenzo loved her and made her promises for eternity. He began to love those distant lands where Lena had chosen to live. During one night spent together in a cottage at the edge of the Valley, he said he had decided to stay in Africa.

“Come here, Vincenzo. Hug me.”

Then cut him short, placing her index finger on his mouth. She made love to him, looking into his eyes. It was an unforgettable night.

“You have to go back to Ada,” she told him later. “Your place is there.”

A year later, he received a letter. Lena briefly informed him that she had taken a husband and given birth to a son, named Giuseppe. Since then, he had received no news. He had only guessed, reading between the lines, the reasons for the long silence that followed.

But now the circumstances had changed, the construction of the pasta factory represented an opportunity to resume contact. He wrote her and directed the letter to Dr. Maddalena Ventimiglia Musumeci, at the Regina Elena Hospital in Asmara. Then, he stamped the envelope and, for a moment, looked at the old brand of the Musumeci Mill. Returning to work, he signed the request for the quote he was submitting to the engineers Mario and Giuseppe Braibanti from Milan, who were to provide the modern presses and dryers for the new pasta factory. He picked up the two letters, and left the factory, going to the post office.

At noon, on time as always, he returned home. Donna Gaetanina opened the door of the house. In the dining room he found Ada putting her final touch on the table.

“Good morning, Ada. How are you?” He asked, kissing her on her forehead.

“Well, my husband. Do you like the table?”

“It's beautiful.”

“Vincenzo, our son has not yet returned,” Ada said, changing the subject. “The kid is always out. If I lecture him, he says he has to party with others about the end of the war.”

“Don't worry, Ada. It is an important time for him too.”

A clamor of kids on the street announced the arrival of Pupu Niuru’s group. It was the nickname people gave Totò, because of his dark complexion. The doorbell rang and shortly after the brat came panting into the room, finding his parents.

“Totò, your mother was anxious. You must not be late,” said Vincenzo.

“Dad, we went to see the flag of Fulì U 'Serbaggiu,” he justified himself.

“See, Vincenzo. Your son speaks slang like the kids he hangs out with,” intervened Ada.

“The nicknames are a vice of the people of the country.” said Vincenzo, addressing his son. “You must know the customs, but you also have to force yourself to not take on bad habits.”

“Okay, Dad. I'll remember that.”

Cries of joy announced the arrival of the twins, Annetta and Maria Carmela, who went to hug Vincenzo. They were six years old and were very lively. Vincenzo took the opportunity to pretend to forget about Totò and the reproach. His son left the room and went into the bathroom to wash his dirty hands.

After lunch, Vincenzo Musumeci stood up firmly but, before leaving to return to the mill, went to the other side of the long table and kissed Ada. Totò had been going back with him every afternoon for some time now.

“Dad, I want to become an orchestra conductor. Last night I directed the band as they sang the Piave Mormorò...9” said the boy, taking up the song.

“Tell me, Totò. Would you not feel ashamed abandoning your father, and the company that carries the family name?” he asked, shocked. “It would be like betraying your homeland.

Totò did not answer, but stretched out a hand. Vincenzo took the end of it, squeezing it tenderly.