Miguel Bornaschella - The satisfaction of having achieved my aims

But my father did not only write. He also sent money at regular intervals. All those who had migrated had the imperative need to show that their adventure and effort had not been in vain, and that they could help those who had remained in the other side of the world, with the hope of improving their lives. Even though there were exceptions. That was the case of Carmelo. Carmelo had already settled in his new homeland and he was having a lot of fun. Some Italian countrymen pointed out and warned him about the fact that his family in Italy was going through difficulties, then he could not find a better way to comfort and help them than by writing some words to them: “Dear family, drink and eat happily, don’t worry about me”.

Once, between one letter and the other, the news that my brother Angel should leave, with his early sixteen years old, finally arrived. It was 1952. Our uncle Fortunato had sent for his wife Maria Antonia and for his daughter Ana, and in order to complete the party, he decided that it was the right time for him. My father’s project was going on as planned, and while my mother suffered more and more, in silence and in her loneliness, I became more and more my mother’s owner. She wandered from one place to the other all the time, between the job in the valley and the jobs at home. I must confess that the cleaning and tidying of the house was not her priority, because the food and the economic situation did not leave her too much time. The kitchen, the place where we used to eat as well, was always smoking and dyed everything, changing everything into yellow. To forget the reality, my mother started to paint. The tools at hand to do this job were a thick branch, long enough, to reach the ceilings of the house and at the top some flowers of maize well tied. The homemade paintbrush was immersed into white lime dissolved in water… and there was Doña Filomena(Mum) painting everything with all her strength and passion, keeping her feelings inside, in silence, with all the memories of her husband on the other side of the world. She would paint the walls, splashing the floors, the furniture, and every single thing that appeared in front of her, on this side of this sacred world. And she repeated this again and again waiting that Don Giovanni decided that everything was in good conditions and hoping it was the right moment for them to come back and finally be together once again.

Working in the farm and doing any other kinds of jobs was a usual and natural thing for my mother, and no matter how hard it might be, she would never complain and always went on working and doing her duties naturally. But there was something quite important that worried her and it was the taxes she had to pay. In Italy most properties had a tax and it was necessary to be punctual at paying them because if they did not pay, the object could be lost. People had to pay taxes for the house, for the land and for the animals, the exceptions were the guard dogs and the chickens. Whenever the due date arrived and if Mum had not been able to collect all the necessary money, Doña Filomena took some wool from the mattress, exchanged it for money, paid the tax and finally filled the gaps in the mattress with some corn husks. With our mother, we were safe and protected from everything, and it was not that the lack of her husband had made her wiser. Her ability to overcome difficulties was due to her natural gift, and my father took advantage of her grace, since she used to say it had been his idea, his view. All the same, the world kept on turning and every August 16 th the town had a party, the celebration of its patron saint: Saint Roque. Everybody went into the streets and for two or three days the people forgot their problems and worries, they ate and drank in community, with a feeling of affection and without bad memories. The party was supported with the life of a pig which walked around the town for a whole year, fed by all the neighbours to be finally sacrified with pleasure in order to be sold after being chopped. Once the regional bishop arrived at the celebration and he would have come again if he had not been surprised by the speed of the horses which pulled the carriage with the mandate of taking him from the railway station to the town. The person in charge of taking him was well known for his ability at riding horses. He used a method which was not very conventional, but it worked. He would utter insults to the horses all along the road, which were conveniently joined one after the other and they reminded their ancestors, their private parts and all their essence, pronouncing all the Christs, their Mothers and other gods. Sin or virtue … the fact was that this contrivance was effective and the animals made good progress. However, when he was entrusted to take the Bishop to the town he was begged till the last minute not to use his technique in this trip, and to ride the carriage more slowly if it was necessary. However, the bishop’s impatience to arrive earlier made the driver return to his traditional method and speed up the pace of the horses. Soon the bishop had started to complain quietly for the slowness of the horses and the driver told him the way he could make them go faster, but since he would use inappropriate words, insults and blasphemies, he had not implemented his strategy. The bishop was feeling sick, due to the heat, the dust and the delay so he accepted his unscrupulous method. As soon as they had arrived at the town, the bishop confessed that he had never heard, not even from the insurgent and rebel believers, such undiplomatic, inappropriate words, so many, so varied and of such high immoral tone, but at the same time so effective.

Not only did the members of the Church participate in the celebration. The music band was essential. The musicians went and played in the town under the condition that the neighbours in the town offered them their houses and each of them would have a good place to sleep in and to rest. But this casual organization to distribute rooms was not free from defects and mistakes, some of which were dangerous. Once, after one of the nights of the celebration had finished, Jeremia Ricci and his wife went back home. They were going to bed when suddenly and for their surprise they found two musicians in their bedroom, sleeping in their bed. After playing the musicians went to the wrong house which as it was usual had not been locked. The houses were not locked, the keys were not used. Even today, in the town, people do not lock the doors. The real fact is that those two musicians entered the house and simply went to bed. Jeremia Ricci thought it was a joke at first, but then he took his rifle and pointed alternatively at one and the other musician, threatening them with death. “We are the musicians, we are the musicians”, they said again and again until Jeremia understood the situation.

All these tragicomic episodes happened in different parts of the town, they were typical and traditional and have been shown in many Italian films, but at the age of five I became the main character of one of these. Once when I was five years old, a fifteen year old girl stopped in front of our house to ask if anybody had seen and found a ring of hers that she had lost. At that moment I was illuminated and thought it was the right time to do justice, my own way, with a girl of similar age as mine but who usually teased and mocked me. I pronounced some words with moderate conviction but without childlike innocence, and said that I had seen when that girl had picked it up from the ground and surely still had it. The result of my speech was almost immediate. We all, my mother and me, the girl falsely accused and her parents and the fifteen year-old girl with her parents, had to go to the Police station. Soon I was faced to the fact that I had told a lie. This, I think, provoked my first serious shock in my conscience. My mother angrily reprimanded the authorities for taking my words into account so seriously and thus making such a meaningless nuisance. Well… the mentioned ring was never found, but my useless regret and my emotional distress deserved the need for Antonio Ricci, my godfather’s action.