Adrian D'Hage - The Omega scroll

She poked her head around the open door.

‘ Buonasera! ’ she called.

Giuseppe was the first to spot her. Fat legs propelled him forward and he launched himself at his sister, grabbing hold of her habit.

‘Mamma! Papa! E Allegra!!’

‘Bambino!’ Allegra swung Giueseppe into the air. His dark brown eyes shone with delight. Then she gave her Mamma, Nonna and her brothers a hug. Papa was still shaving, but when he finished preening himself in preparation for his evening in the top piazza, he welcomed her with a hug.

The big rough wooden table was already set for la cena with one huge bowl, forchette and a thick wooden pane di tavola – the family breadboard. La cena was a simple affair.

‘You’re just in time, Allegra,’ her mother said, forking great strands of steaming linguine out of a big old pot that dwarfed the tiny two-ring burner that passed for a stove. She carried the large, chipped pottery bowl that had been around for as long as Allegra could remember and placed it in the middle of the table. Papa sliced the big loaf that Nonna had baked earlier in the day and Giuseppe reached towards it.

‘Giuseppe! Not until Allegra has said grace and Papa has been served,’ his mother scolded. Giuseppe withdrew his little paw and gave his sister a sheepish grin, his brown eyes sparkling mischievously.

‘Bless us, O Lord, and these Your gifts which we are about to receive from Your bounty. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.’

‘Amen,’ the family murmured and they all waited for Papa to pour some hot olive oil and garlic over the pasta and for Mamma to grate the cheese. Papa twirled a generous serving of linguine around his fork and then the rest of the family was able to attack the big bowl all at once.

‘So how are things at the convent?’

‘Fine, Papa,’ Allegra replied, quietly asking for forgiveness in the event that they were not. ‘And here?’

Her father shrugged. He was a tall, thin man but the years had brought a hunch to his shoulders. ‘ Non troppo bene. We need rain for the potatoes,’ was his simple reply.

‘I shall ask Mother Superior to include rain on our list of supplications,’ Allegra offered, ever the optimist.

‘It’s the same everywhere,’ said her mother. Caterina Bassetti was as short and plump as her husband was tall and thin. ‘La Signora Bagarella says it is El Nino.’

‘La Signora Bagarella,’ Martino snorted. ‘What would she know! It’s just a drought. Nothing more, nothing less.’

‘But we are getting them more often now, Papa. There was an article in La Gazetta only last week,’ Allegra declared, frustrated with her father’s legendary stubbornness. ‘The global warming is being linked to El Nino and the forest clearing. In the Amazon they’re destroying over six million acres a year. That’s seven football fields a minute!’

‘You read too much, la mia sorella piccola,’ Antonio, her eldest brother admonished, quietly proud of his clever ‘little sister’. He was often bemused by her passionate defence of the environment and a dozen other causes that, in his view, were equally wacky.

‘And you boys don’t read enough,’ their mother scolded. ‘The frogs are disappearing and that’s a sure sign that the forests aren’t well.’ She too had read the article in La Gazzetta del Mezzogiorno. Mamma Bassetti might have left school when she was fourteen, but like her daughter her inquiring mind never stopped exploring.

The meal finished and Martino Bassetti got up from the table, adjusting his old and battered felt hat on his grey, brushed-down hair.

‘It’s just a drought and La Signora Bagarella would do well to stick to her knitting,’ he grumbled stubbornly as he disappeared out the door towards the top piazza.

‘ Buonasera, Papa,’ Allegra called after the retreating form of her father. Martino Bassetti waved without turning around, already focused on the night’s activities. Ever since she could remember, every night after dinner Papa would trudge the short distance to either the wine bar or, on the first Monday of the month, to il cinema . The monthly western was for ‘Men Only’ and Martino Bassetti and the rest of the town’s menfolk would sit either side of the flickering projector, its beam of light probing a pall of cigarette smoke before landing uncertainly on a chipped plaster wall.

‘I don’t see why the western should only be for men,’ Allegra remarked defiantly.

‘Because the Bishop said it is,’ Enrico said smugly. Enrico was only one year older than Allegra and there had always been a constant tussle between the two ‘middle’ siblings. The previous week the Bishop of Tricarico had reminded them in his sermon that ‘westerns were full of temptation’ and that no self-respecting Tricarican woman should ever be seen in one of the torn canvas seats that littered the cinema’s dusty wooden floor.

‘The Bishop isn’t right about everything,’ Allegra retorted, getting up to help her mother clear the table. It was an early sign of rebellion against the restrictions of the Church and a male-dominated society. Coming home always made Allegra miss the normal life of the little village. She felt removed from the daily activities that her family took for granted – the evening promenade from the bottom piazza to the top piazza, gossip at the markets, chats with neighbours and friends – experiencing everything that life outside the convent had to offer. Occasionally she wondered what it might be like to have a boyfriend like some of the girls she had known at school, what it would be like to be totally comfortable with another person to voice her real thoughts and fears. Then her Catholic training would kick in and she would quickly admonish herself for such selfish and ungrateful thoughts and would later ask forgiveness in her prayers before bed. It was part of a constant tension between her faith and her own view that a woman should have a greater role in the world. An inner battle between accettazione and testarda – acceptance and rebellion.

‘Do you miss living in the village?’ her mother asked, as if reading her mind.

‘Sometimes, Mamma,’ Allegra replied carefully, as they finished the dishes. ‘But then it seems such a small sacrifice,’ she added quickly.

Her mother smiled, the laughter lines on her old but gentle face creasing even further. ‘We are all very proud of you, la mia figlia-molto orgogliosa.’ To have a daughter accepted for the local Order was almost as great an honour as having a son accepted into the seminary.

‘ Grazie, Mamma,’ Allegra said, picking up her wooden stool and following her mother out to join two of the next-door neighbours. La Signora Farini and the champion of El Nino, La Signora Bagarella, had already set themselves up at the bottom of the concrete stairs in the old cobbled street that doubled as a ‘lounge room’. The latter was repeating her assertion that the mysterious El Nino was responsible for the country’s woes.

‘E El Nino non e vero?’

La Signora Farini was having none of it. ‘No. E testamento di Dio! It is the will of God!’ she retorted passionately. La Signora Farini was President of the Bishop’s Ladies’ Guild and a leader of the ‘Will of God Brigade’. Last week, when La Signora Marinetti’s son was injured in a fall at school, it was clear and incontrovertible evidence of what befalls a family if they should miss a Sunday Mass. For many of the good citizens of Tricarico everything that happened in their lives was God’s will. To the believers God was all seeing and all knowing. Every thought, every transgression was recorded. If a child died or a building collapsed, it was God’s punishment on the sinful residents of Tricarico. It was retribution for failing to meet God’s standards.