A Death in Tuscany

Recalling the Fall

Recalling the FallIn a family gathering that night, we spoke of Nonno Filippo and his life at the Castello.

“He was the cornerstone of that estate,” my father said grandly.

My mother had great love and respect for Nonno Filippo but had spent relatively few years in close contact with him. She didn't work in the vineyard as I had and, despite her sense of loss that evening, I still knew that my grandfather's passing would have the most lasting effect on me. My brother, Mike, or Michele to the family, was unhappy but not distraught.

“It'll never be the same,” my father intoned. “The Castello dei Trantini was his and his alone.”

“But it belongs to all of the family,” my mother said while clearing the dinner plates and wine glasses. “Nonno Filippo was only the guardian of the estate,” she added, even while still acknowledging that he was the proprietor of record.

“Yes, yes,” my father replied, brushing away her comment with some impatience. “But without my father, the wine would never have progressed as it did all these years.”

Throughout dinner, our conversation centered on the somber news of Nonno's death, no one raised the matter of inheritance. Of course, my father and mother knew that the estate was destined to fall to me, but no one brought it up.

We talked about attending the funeral. My father couldn't return home due a persistent medical condition, and my mother wanted to stay behind to care for him. Someone had to watch the bookstore we owned, so my brother volunteered to remain in Maryland. This would ensure that I, as the obvious family representative, would be able to travel to Tuscany to represent the American branch of the Trantino clan.

“What do we know about this accident,” my father pressed.

I was the one Santo called but he relayed only the essential information to me, so I couldn't tell my father much other than that Nonno Filippo had apparently fallen out of the window of the second floor. That the police had investigated and determined that this occurred in the early evening and the evidence indicated a tragic accident, without any indications of foul play.

It was later, once I was in Italy, that I first heard the details of the accident. Santo and his sister Rita took me aside at the cemetery. Children of my father's older brother, Santo and Rita had not grown up in the Castello, but loved it dearly, nonetheless. Santo worked at the Castello, managing the accounting matters and Rita sometimes helped him out. They weren't there at the time of the accident but had gathered all of the information to share with me.

“Remember the tasting table in the room, Filippo?” Santo asked me.

Certainly I did. That room was Nonno Filippo's wine library, and he spent many evenings there tasting different blends of wines from bottles standing majestically on a large, ornately carved, mahogany table. That was his favorite part of the day, and he spent it in his favorite part of the house. The wine library's walls were dark, heavy wood panels with exquisite carvings lining the edges of each panel.

There were two large windows on one wall, with low sills and two grand panels of glass that could be swung outward to open the windows to the fresh air. These were the source of most of the light, but a chandelier in the middle of the ceiling provided other, softer light, which could be turned up when Nonno Filippo needed more for the tasting. A tray with a dozen clean glasses always sat next to another smaller tray with a simple corkscrew, linen napkins, and a magnifying glass. A spit bucket stood near the edge of the table.

The only chairs in the room were placed around its perimeter, since chairs were seldom used during a tasting. In fact, Nonno Filippo was the only one who used this room, except on the rare occasion that he would invite the estate's winemaker or one of the family members to join him.

As children there were many times we — the cousins — spied on Nonno Filippo as he sipped wines in that hallowed room. He always seemed to be in another world, and it was clear he was as content as any man could ever be. Just as the furnishings of the wine library reflected his reverence for the activities conducted there, so did Nonno Filippo's appearance. He always dressed for these tastings as if he were attending a formal event. It was a ritual that he celebrated each afternoon, and it required ceremony.

“Well, close your eyes and picture him in that room,” Rita suggested.

“What would he be doing?” was Santo's next question.

“He would be standing at the table, comparing the wines, and occasionally sipping from one of the glasses.”

“What else?” Santo pried.

“Well,” I continued, “then he would walk around the table to look again at the bottles on the other side. That table was too big to use from just one side, you know.”

“Yes, we know, Filippo,” Rita said, revealing some impatience in her voice. “What else?”

“When he found a wine that he particularly enjoyed, and one that he would enjoy drinking instead of spitting out like those on which he was taking notes, he would pour some into a glass and walk toward the window that overlooked the di Rosa vineyards.” With my eyes closed the image was so real that I could see the smallest detail of my grandfather's appearance and behavior.

“Then he would stand there with his left hand behind his back, and the stem of the glass squeezed between the thumb and first two fingers of the right hand. He would look out the window, and occasionally take a sip from the glass, never taking his eyes off his cherished vines that stretched out into the distance.”

“Exactly,” Santo concluded, though I couldn't yet understand what he was driving at.

“What would he do then, Filippo?” Rita asked.

“Well, he would sip the wine until he had drained the contents of the glass, then he would turn and walk back to the table. He would place the glass there among the bottles…” and then with a nostalgic smile I added, “I remember how he would always empty all of the glasses into a silver bucket so no one could guess which wine he had deemed good enough to actually drink. As if anyone ever snooped around to find out.”

“I did once,” Santo remarked, recalling a grandfather seen through a child's eyes. And then suddenly serious, “What if I told you that Nonno Filippo's glass was found on the windowsill, and that there were still a couple ounces of wine in it?”

I didn't know how to answer, but I felt that this was not important information. Obviously, if he had accidentally fallen out the window, it should not be surprising to find artifacts of his final moments there. I told Santo this.

“Yes, but did you ever see him set the glass on the windowsill?” Santo asked.

“No, I guess I didn't. He did have a habit of always holding onto the glass until the last drop of liquid was drained from it. But what is this supposed to mean?”

“And what about this idea of his falling,” Rita chimed in.

“I really don't enjoy conjuring up images of my grandfather's fatal fall, but if you insist…”

“We do,” said Santo.

“Alright, I suppose he leaned out the window — and I remind you that he did that occasionally to inspect the work being done below — and perhaps leaned too far. Lost his balance and fell out of the window.”

“The police found the fabric of his trousers to be snagged, as if it had caught on the edge of the stones lining the window,” Santo said, and added coolly, “in the back of his trousers.”

“And if he had merely fallen accidentally, how would he have had time to set the glass neatly on the sill?” Rita reminded me.

It was peculiar. The bit about the trousers convinced me that he had fallen backwards out the window, but he never turned away from the view until he had finished the wine. And the wine glass — still with some wine in it — was on the windowsill as if he had set it down in mid-thought, and I knew of no thought that Nonno Filippo considered more important than another sip of wine.

“Well, then what are you saying?” I asked.

“That he was pushed out the window,” Rita said triumphantly.

“Why would anyone want to push him out the window?” I asked incredulously. “You can't even make a good argument that he had any enemies. All the employees loved him, the other winemakers of Tuscany respected him, his merchants always said he asked too little for his wines. He was roundly liked by everyone he came into contact with. Who would push such a man out the window?”

“We don't know,” Santo responded, looking down at the ground, “but we were hoping that you would help us find out.”

“Santo, I loved the man more than anyone,” I said, almost pleading for logic, “but you are making some very wild assumptions about the nature of a man's death, declaring the coroner's report to be in error, and launching into an investigation of a crime that probably never occurred.”

“It did occur,” Rita said with an eerie confidence. “We are certain that Nonno Filippo was murdered. We don't know why yet, but we will find out.” Then more timidly, “And we want you to help us. For our sake, but also for your own, because when the murder is proven, you will never forgive yourself for not having helped to identify the man who did it.”

“Or woman,” I added, my Americanism showing through.

“No,” Santo replied quietly, “we know it was a man.”

“What?” I said, startled that there was evidence not yet related.