uniformly gray-the hard-packed dirt road, the stones, and the dust on my shoes-all the color of granite crushed down to powder.
Doors were shut, and no curious villager peeked out at the two strangers walking in their street. One of the doors was painted with a black streak, over which per mia madre was written in white.
'For my mother?' I asked Sciafani, guessing at the words.
'Yes. It is a sign of mourning in these villages.' He looked at the ground as we walked, avoiding my eyes and the scene around him. He seemed uncomfortable, and I wondered if the poverty and grimness we had encountered was embarrassing to him or if it reminded him of part of life in Sicily he didn't want to think about.
Another door was hung with black cloth. Another had nothing but a slash of black paint, weathered and cracking in the dry air. Death was everywhere, even far from the battlefield. A low rhythmic sound echoed from the stone walls. A chant. We stopped, and a priest in a black cassock came from around a corner, his hands holding up a prayer book, his skirts brushing the dirt. Behind him four little children held their hands in prayer as they followed in line. Six men held a plain wooden coffin on their shoulders. The wood had a fresh-cut look to it, and I could smell it, the aroma of pine and sawdust lingering as they passed by. Women dressed in black wept as they brought up the rear, shuffling along with veils covering their faces, the only brightness evident in small white handkerchiefs fluttering from pockets and disappearing beneath gauzy black veils. We watched the small procession make its way across the piazza and around the church, probably to a graveyard where someone had hacked a hole out of the stony earth.
'Pleasant little town,' I said.
'This way,' Sciafani said, ignoring me as he turned right at the entrance to the central square. He strode ahead of me, eyes on each house, looking for Signor Patane's. Then he stopped short and fixed me with his eyes, his face flushed.
'I come from such a town as this. It is a very difficult life, one you should not mock.'
'I wasn't mocking,' I said, holding up my hands in protest, or perhaps surrender. 'I didn't mean it that way, I'm sorry.'
'Very well. Come, this is the house.'
'Wait a minute,' I said, grabbing him by the arm. 'I thought you said your father was a doctor in Palermo. I don't see many doctors coming from a village like this.'
He pulled his arm from my grasp and turned away from me. He wiped his face with one hand and breathed deeply, as if readying himself for a difficult task. 'I did come from a village much like this one. I was adopted by a husband and wife who could not have a child. He was the doctor from Palermo. As often happens, as soon as they adopted me, she bore a child. But it did not matter to either of them-we were both treated as blood.'
'What happened to your parents?'
'We should not keep il signor Patane waiting.' With that, he knocked on a bare wooden door, the grain bleached to a light gray by the harsh Sicilian sun. It seemed odd to me that a guy who was adopted would be the same one who preached about only trusting family. Trusting them to do what, that was the question.
I followed the good dottore in as Patane opened the door. The room was cool, a relief from the heat. An old tasseled rug covered the stone floor, and the walls were bare of decoration, except for a picture of the Virgin Mary, her immaculate heart in flames. The furniture was old and worn but clean. A side table gleamed, a thin coat of dust starting to coat the glossy wax shine. Signora Patane took her housework seriously. Her kitchen was spotless too. I waited there while Sciafani and Patane went into the bedroom off the kitchen, where I could hear a harsh cough that wouldn't stop. The coughing continued through softly murmured words, and I knew she was very sick. I got up and looked around the kitchen. Pots on a shelf gleamed. Iron skillets still damp from oil rubbed into them hung from hooks on the wall. Jars of seasonings were lined up full along the counter. Dried peppers and garlic cloves hung in twisted strands from a rafter. Everything was ready, clean, and in order. Irish or Sicilian, it didn't matter. I knew a woman who kept a kitchen like this yet didn't greet her company on her feet with cakes at the ready was in bad shape indeed. From the look of how stocked everything was, I thought maybe she didn't expect to be back on her feet any time soon.
I wandered to the rear door to check for an exit. Another row of houses backed against this one, a wide alley separating them. Plenty of room to run. A wash bucket on the stoop caught my eye. Water had splashed onto the stone and hadn't dried yet. Patane must've put it out here as we knocked on the door. In the bucket, floating in sudsy water, were white handkerchiefs, spotted with blood. I thought about the white handkerchiefs in the funeral procession, and wondered if he'd be able to clean these. And if he'd paint his door black, or drape it in cloth.
A wave of sadness passed over me. This village was awash in death, an everyday occurrence. Not from the war, but from a lifetime of killing labor and poverty. This was what my family had left Ireland to escape. This was what Sciafani couldn't escape, even with his position and education. The life of suffering of the peasant. It had descended upon him as he walked into the village, apologizing for the smell. It is better when it rains.
Sciafani and Patane came into the kitchen, shutting the door behind them. Patane looked to the dottore, hope battling with fear in his eyes. Sciafani shook his head gravely as he put his hands on the old man's shoulders and spoke to him, softly, gently, masking the harsh words with an apologetic tone.
Tubercolosi was all I could make out. It was enough. Patane nodded, receiving the news he knew was coming with as much dignity as he could. His eyes welled with tears, but he did not give in to the emotions playing across his face. Sciafani dug into his pocket and pulled out the other fifty-lira AMGOT note. Patane refused, but Sciafani pressed it into his hand, nodding his head in the direction of the bedroom. It wasn't much. Four bits, but that would buy some good food for Patane's wife. He took it.
I waited while they spoke more in Italian. Patane pulled a bowl from under a counter and gave us each an orange. He smiled at me as he said something I didn't understand. I shook his hand and felt it tremble in mine. I could tell he was proud to be able to give his company something, and probably right now, with the war about to appear on his doorstep, a couple of oranges were one helluva gift. I felt the handkerchief as I stuffed the orange into my pocket, and for the first time realized that it could mean something for the people of Sicily as well as for the GIs who might have to fight their way through this town. If the Mafia boss could keep enough Italians out of it, villages like this might not be caught up in heavy fighting.
I thought about Signora Patane. She had a right to die in her own bed without artillery shells and machine guns all around her. She should have a nice funeral, with the chanting priest and small children leading her to the grave. Signor Patane should come home and smell the herbs his wife had collected for him, sit in their kitchen, and remember all the meals they had shared there. None of that could happen if tanks rolled through here, if bombers dropped their loads on Italian soldiers barricaded in houses, their polished furniture thrown up against doors and windows to protect them.
'Let's go,' I said.
'Yes,' Sciafani agreed. 'There is nothing I can do here.' It looked as if the thought pained him, or maybe it was memories. Having said goodbye to Signor Patane, he squeezed through the narrow doorway as quickly as he could and stood in the street, letting the sun wash over him. There was nothing he could do, about the dying woman or the ghosts of his own past.
CHAPTER SIXEEN
We passed the cemetery in the rear of the churchyard as we walked out of town. The funeral was over, the little group of mourners clustered under the shade of a beech tree. The tears and wailing were past; sadness had given way to quiet talk and closeness. Some wandered among the markers. One woman led a little girl, pointing to a grave, telling the story of her family. I couldn't hear her words, but I knew the gestures. Here is your great- grandfather. Here is your poor cousin, only a baby.
'How long will it be for Signora Patane?' I asked Sciafani.
'Difficult to say. Too long at the end. I pray she can die in peace.'
I was about to protest that Italy was not at peace, but I understood what he meant. Their young men had been taken away to war, but the people of this village knew little of the outside world. If life was hard, it was also tranquil. Unless and until the armies decided to fight over this piece of land. Could it be important? It was on a back road through the mountains. Ahead of us was an intersection with a wider road. Good place for a pillbox. The
