Death in August

Dante began to talk about Rebecca’s funeral, and all fell silent, including Fabiani, Canapini and Botta, who knew nothing about her death …

The basilica of Santa Croce felt bigger than ever, as it was almost empty. It was August, after all, everyone was on holiday, and hardly anyone knew that Rebecca had died. The Morozzi brothers and their wives stood motionless in front of the coffin, dressed in mourning, tiny under the gaze of Christ and the saints. Signora Maria was whimpering in a corner, nearly hidden behind the funerary monument of some illustrious poet; every so often she let out a sob that echoed throughout the church. Sitting in a central pew were three of Rebecca’s lady friends. Dante knew them and greeted them from afar with a nod. All three were widows. They returned his greeting and whispered intensely among themselves, shaking their heads. There were some six or seven unknown old ladies scattered about, kneeling with hands folded, their jawbones trembling with prayer and Parkinson’s. They weren’t there for Rebecca, but for the mass. In the last pew was a man of about sixty, tall and rather good looking, whom Dante didn’t know. Despite the heat, he wore a jacket and tie. He stared at the casket from a distance, sweating and weeping. He left just before the Ite Missa Est, hastily crossing himself and walking out.

‘I am sure that handsome gentleman was my sister’s lover,’ said Dante. ‘He looks like a professor, no?’

The priest was a fat, likeable little man who spoke with the accent of the Romagna. During the homily he launched into a fine speech on the serenity of the immortal soul and the resurrection of the flesh, and at that point Dante interrupted him, approaching the altar, voice booming in the empty church. The priest gave him a dirty look.

‘Mo ben! This is hardly the moment, you foolish lug!’ he shouted.

Dante apologised, yelling that he was distracted and that such things happened. Lost in his thoughts about immortality, he had very nearly lit a cigar on the spot.

After the service, the bier was transported to the cemetery and inserted in the appointed vault in the family chapel, a nineteenth-century Gothic Revival structure covered with curlicues. The stonemasons were ready with their bricks and cement already mixed. It took them scarcely ten minutes to finish their task. The Morozzi brothers stood stonily in front of the chapel, looking disoriented. Signora Maria glared at them with disgust. When the ceremony was over, Dante energetically shook the hand of each of the brothers, which as usual felt spongy and sweaty, and slippery as fish. Behind their oversized black sunglasses, their wives looked saddened, heads down and muttering.

‘Poor thing.’

‘What a shame!’

‘Poor Auntie, to die so young.’

Hearing these comments, Dante burst out laughing, his mind on the will. At last he lit his cigar. After kissing Signora Maria one last time, he went home, collapsed in an armchair and, with his first sip of grappa, burst into tears.

‘But that’s not very interesting,’ Dante said to the dinner guests. ‘Would you like to hear about the will?’

They all said yes. More grappa and cigarettes made the rounds. Dante clutched his cigar with his teeth, to free up his hands. He liked to draw in the air the things he described.

‘All right. Imagine a beautiful room with wooden bookcases up to the ceiling, full of thick tomes with gold- inlaid spines: Plutarch, Herodotus, Roman law, The Guild of Notaries, the History of Italy, a Bible, and then some large oriental vases, a clock under a bell-jar, some bronze statues — a female nude, an Indian on horseback … Hanging from the ceiling in the middle of the room, a large, unlit chandelier with crystal pendants, a very fine Persian carpet on the floor, and an enormous desk, perfectly uncluttered … All this in penumbra, since the shutters are closed outside a row of three tall windows. The secretary shows us in, has us sit in the five chairs already lined up for us, and with a cold smile, she says: “Mr Balatri will be with you in a moment. He apologises for the lack of light, but he’s just had an operation on his eyes.” Then she leaves, heels clattering on the floor. We waited a good ten minutes without saying a word. I felt like laughing, but managed to restrain myself. Then the lawyer comes in, a tiny, quiet man who looked like he was in pain, wearing tinted glasses because of the operation. He sits down, looking us straight in the eye, and says, “My condolences.” He had a funny voice, all nose, but maybe it was just me who thought it was funny, since I knew what the upshot of the whole business would be.’

Dante savoured his story between mouthfuls of smoke.

‘The lawyer then opened a drawer and pulled out an envelope, which he opened with a paper knife, extracting a sheet of paper. Glancing again at all of us, to see if we were ready, he began to read: “I, the undersigned, Rebecca Pedretti-Strassen, being of sound mind, declare that upon my death, the following shall be done according to my wishes: I bequeath all my possessions, including the villa and paintings-” and here the lawyer paused, coughed into his hand and cleared his throat, as the nephews leaned forward in their chairs “to the convent of the Sisters of Monte Frassineto, with the sole exception of…” At this point confusion broke out: some started scraping their shoes against the floor, Giulio bit into his fingernails, drawing blood, and the lawyer politely asked for silence, so he could go on. He resumed: “… with the sole exception of a small painting of a purple sky, which I leave to my brother Dante, with my best wishes for a long and happy life; a sum in the amount of three million lire, to be given to Signora Maria Dolci, with my sincerest affections; and four photographs, attached hereto, which I leave with all my heart to my beloved nephews, Anselmo and Giulio Morozzi, and their lovely wives, that they may keep the memory of their dear Aunt Rebecca forever alive … Here are the pictures.” All four reached out to take them. It was a beautiful shot of my sister standing in front of the villa. Four copies, one for each, so they wouldn’t quarrel over it.’

Dante chortled and applied a match to his cigar until it caught flame. Then he knocked back a slug of grappa and took three deep puffs, filling the air with a great smelly cloud of smoke.

‘There was pandemonium. My nephews were nearly in tears, the wives started shouting and pounding the desktop. Gina stood up without a word, took one step, and collapsed on the carpet. The lawyer was shocked, his hands were trembling. He summoned his secretary and told her to call an ambulance, but then Gina suddenly woke up and started punching her husband, who had come to her aid. “Stop, darling, don’t hit me like that,” he said. And so the lawyer dismissed the secretary with a gesture and then threw up his hands. “Please give me your attention for a moment. There is also a codicil to the will … Feel a little better now, signora? Come, think you can get up now?” But Gina only burst into tears and lay down flat on the carpet like a spoilt little girl, kicking her shoes off. Angela was biting her finger and moaning. The lawyer ignored them and turned back to his document; it was clear he couldn’t wait for it all to be over. He raised his voice a little, so they could hear him over the whimpering, and read: “Codicil. Dear Anselmo and Giulio, dear Gina and Angela, I anxiously await you …” Ladies and gentlemen, please! One more minute of your attention … “Dear Dante, please be good to Gideon, I entrust him to your care as if he were my child, since I have none …” And so on and so forth. There followed some instructions as to the care of Gideon and a fond goodbye to yours truly, full of praise … private stuff, in short.’

Dante then lowered his eyes, perhaps thinking of that fond goodbye, and remained that way until Bordelli asked him who Gideon was. Dante roused himself and pulled on his cigar, but it had gone out again.

‘Who’s Gideon? He’s the cat.’

‘Then I’ve seen him. He’s a beautiful cat, big and white,’ said Bordelli. Dante threw up his hands.

‘I wouldn’t know. I’ve never seen him.’

Botta chimed in that he really liked that sort of name for a cat. Then he squirmed a bit and said that he, too, had a story to tell. As nobody objected, he sat up straight in his chair.

‘I’d like to say something about the Germans. It’s true they did a lot of horrible things, but something happened to me which … well, it made me change my mind a little. Not that I think well of the Nazis or anything, but Nazis are one thing, and people are another, if you know what I mean. Maybe it’s better if I get straight to the story and cut short the preamble.’ He took a quick sip and went on.

‘In ’45 I was taken prisoner by the Germans, up in the north, along with a lot of other Italians. There were about sixty of us. They had us digging ditches and chopping wood and treated us like slaves. They gave us hardly anything to eat, and if anybody complained he got a thrashing or worse. One day the Americans bombed us, and it was like the end of the world. One bomb smashed open the wall of the room where we were imprisoned, and after hesitating for a moment, we all started running away like rabbits, every man for himself and God with us all, the bullets flying over our heads. I ran until my legs gave out, breathing hard as if the air itself was freedom. I ended up