The Twelve Day Muse

It was as majestic as ever. Dominant and empowering, it was so magnificent it was cried over and lauded with superlatives. Before church, the worshippers began to gather in the soft sheep-white snow, rejoicing in its alpine beauty. For the occasion and much to Bellini's annoyance the square was blocked off to passing traffic. From behind the golden, tinsel-strewn counter Gianni Bellini picked at his moustache and raged to his wife, Franca, who was busying herself laying ashtrays on empty tables.
'Who will stop to have a coffee and a pastry when they cut the road off like that? Tell me who? It doesn't matter how much I grease up to that Tomasino, he always pushes the council in the direction most likely to cause me grief '.
'Stop complaining you old wretch' said Franca. 'We'll still get everyone from the village. So what if we miss out on a few stray Romans! Franca let slide the tea towel from her shoulder and threw it towards her husband where it landed in a dry, empty sink, peppered with coffee powder.
'Silly woman. Look what you've done. You always take their side. Well at least they haven't hung the same absurdities on the poor thing. Do you remember last year? Those mismatched coloured shoes. What the hell was that all about? Some garb about Romanian orphans. What ever happened to a little tradition and looking after your own? Desecration. It was against everything I stand for, against everything that's great about this whole region, this entire country. The English would have been mortified if they knew how we defiled their generous contribution. Bloody Communists!'
'Then be grateful it's so beautiful. I for one am going to indulge in a little community spirit and pay my respects' said Franca. She was already out of the door and fastening the buttons of her overcoat when the speckled black cloth mutely hit the pane of the door behind her.
Franca extended her still slender neck to raise her head to the sky. Her bones were feeling the cold but her face took in the brilliant, effervescent light of the sun. She was grateful for the brief respite. There would be plenty of time for this mob later on.
Several of the adoring flock had hurled themselves at its feet the day before, promising a thousand undeliverable sacrifices. One boy, Stefano, ashamed of the thought, nonetheless wondered if there wasn't a way to relinquish Nonna of her one remaining asset, her tired but trusty old goat, Giusi, and deliver it up by way of an offering. In exchange, 'perhaps, grazie a Dio, I might have some luck for a change' he thought dreamily. Graziella would cook up a comfortably abundant dish of heavenly rolled crespelle, those infamous oven baked pancakes stuffed with spinach and the freshest of ricotta on a 'to die for' base of sun-loved tomato and basil for which she had received more than her fair share of marriage offers in her day.
Not wishing to be seen giving into suspicion and the rigid rites of folk lore and for fear of his wife's tongue and his sons' mockery, Fernando had resolved to make his usual midnight drop near the base of the trunk and move on in apparent and utter oblivion. On the evening of the Vigilia, Pupito was taking an evenly paced stroll to take his mind off the severity of his prolonged gout and his daughter's continued relations with the charming but inappropriate Abdul when he chanced upon Fernando's secret excursion.
His overcoat was heavy, his scarf and hat thick with concealment but Pupito recognised his old schoolmate from the slight limp he sported from childhood football heroics.
'Hey! Is that you Fernando?' he shouted. 'Must be making a gift to the Muse' he thought but before he could continue, Fernando had darted around the corner of the town hall to hide in the blackness of the parking lot. He pressed himself back against the copper crust of the wall and held his breath for fear of having his game given away.
'That pesky Pupito! Always in somebody else's business. But he'll have been drinking and who would ever believe him?'
With stealth, and taking encouragement from the seven fish courses he had earlier devoured, Pupito crossed the dark road and stood in front of the gracefully lit guest. The long slender branches danced gently to the wind, masterfully conducted to the accompaniment of the night's whistle. The lights did not cram the tree but adorned it at long, symmetrical intervals. They did not detract from the organism itself but assisted the onlooker to focus on the sight before him. There were perhaps no more than two dozen inoffensive upturned lights in total, a mere speck of sun for a beast of this proportion. After all the upheaval caused by Bellini and his crew the year before Tomasino and the rest of the Council had commissioned a simple but dignified decoration for the tree in the hope of avoiding another embarrassing controversy.
'It sure is beautiful, how does Tomasino do it?' mused Pupito.' He's really surpassed himself this time, he's done the whole village proud.' Pupito didn't give a stuff what they hung on the blasted thing, he just couldn't believe that fifty years after the end of the war Tomasino was still able to persuade the English to fork out for it.
The brown-papered parcel was tightly bonded with industrial strength string and lay at his feet. He picked it up and it was light enough to warrant a good shake. Whatever it was, it was already in several pieces and sounded as only shattered crockery can: that terrible hum of irretrievability. In his haste Fernando must have ruptured something of great delicacy. Although intrigued by his friend's feigned loss and subsequent flight he didn't have the strength to go running after Fernando or whoever it was that had decided to offload himself of this burden. Pupito chuckled to himself and thought: 'Do people still believe in these old tales? I once believed in such things with all my heart but life beats out wishful thinking and where does such innocence get you? Look at my beautiful Rosaria for instance, dead in her prime from an unwanted, barely perceivable, chocolate-coated blemish that spread through her body like a bolt of electricity. Only it put out her lights, each and every one of them. That ungrateful Abdul, after all I did for him, I'll kill him if he's laid a hand on my daughter.' His thoughts continued to wander: 'Oh my God, how did Pina manage to caramelise those king prawns so flawlessly? And that risotto with sea bass was just exquisite¦'
Pupito placed the parcel in the spot of its deposit and took himself off home lest he be found loitering underneath the tree and accused of tampering with the gifts. A sharp gust of wind momentarily displaced his balance as he pulled his collar up to the high of his chin and paced off into the night.
This much was true: whatever was abandoned at the foot of the tree would be gone by Christmas morning. The older folk did not doubt for a second that the visiting giant accepted the gifts with mute grace, consuming them in silent appreciation while the village slept through the night. In return for these twelve days of good will, the tree would reward the village and its kin with twelve trouble free months of health and happiness.
When enough time had passed for Fernando to suppose that Pupito would have been on his way he brought himself out of the shadows and wiped away the orange dust from the macaroon suede of his coat. He too made swift his exit.
During the night the snow had fallen without respite. From the weight of the fresh drop the village appeared to have sunk slightly into the soil, its stature reduced by a good two inches. The children remained in ecstasy, dancing and leaping through the fine powder.
The village would soon be gathering in the main square, Piazza del Castello, named so for as long as anyone could remember despite the obvious absence of a castle. The service was hours away and Bellini was behind the bar. Franca had returned from her stroll and was being asked ever so graciously to do this and that, and then that other thing once more in case she hadn't done it right in the first place.
'Would you be kind enough to wash all the plates and saucers down with vinegar amore! Oh, and make sure all the tablecloths are neatly pressed at the corners would you, my sweet.'
Bellini only ever used terms of endearment towards his wife when giving orders and when he knew he was already on shaky ground with her. He had been out drinking again the previous night and gambling too, but at least she wouldn't know about the lost takings until the end of the month so there was still some time to win it back and make amends. Then there was that matter of the insatiable Eva, fresh from Krakow, whom Sergio had refused to release at any kind of a bargain. A very uncharacteristic display of Christmas humbug.
Franca was perfectly aware of the hour at which Bellini had returned and she knew from the receipts and the absence of notes in his pockets (he always made sure he left the house with at least two hundred euros) and the stench of smoke and sweet smell of lipstick fused with cheap fragrance on his collar whose house he had passed the early hours of the morning in.
'Did he really think her so stupid?' she wondered. 'And did that pimp Sergio truly believe that the village's women didn't know what went on in that house or stew at the remarkable coincidence of his frequent trips 'out of town' followed a couple of months later by the sudden arrival of a few high-cheeked, sullen beauties barely out of school and incapable of responding with anything more than a fleshy flashed thigh should they ever hear those fateful words of doom: 'documenti per favore' which might spell a speedy turnabout journey-depending very much on the sexual temperament of the Carabiniere putting the question- and a failed return for Sergio's investment.
Franca bit her tongue and licked the small drop of blood from her lips. Soon she would be away. Despite ten years of effort Franca had been unable to get pregnant and she saw little point in hanging on with Gianni beyond the New Year. He would never change his ways. She tied a rose-adorned apron to her slip of a waist and welcomed in the first customer of the morning.
In the square a quiet but rising commotion had settled. Luca, somewhat of a local tearaway of around twenty but nonetheless a handsome, athletic boy who had been out with his father on errands of sorts, rushed into the bar shouting:'
'The tree, the tree! It's happened again, I can't believe it! You've got to come and see. Come on, come on! He gestured to Franca and the solo customer, Alberto, who had perched himself at the counter and was on his second custard slice already which he had laced with the froth of his cappuccino, and even to Bellini who he had never been especially keen on.
There it was. Still magnificent, oversized and coated in white. Yet on several branches were hung unframed painted canvasses. The crowd recognised in an instant the work of the errant, aged artist: Zio Leonardo. Abstract and vague, incomprehensible subjects; long, mad sweeping strokes and terribly gaudy colours.
'See' cried Luca. 'See what he's done, he's crazy, Leo's made a 'mostra' of our tree.'
'If he thinks that this show's going to make the world sit up and listen he's in for a painful lesson' bemoaned Sister Maria, making the sign of the cross as she spoke and adjusting her habit which had been blown about in the wind.
The village continued to gather and remained dumbstruck at the sight. Franca giggled to herself finding the whole spectacle rather amusing while Bellini, too proud to reveal any signs of curiosity, stayed inside, pretending to look busy. Fernando and Pupito eyed each other with suspicious caution, wondering if the other had had a hand in this frolic. Some children zoomed past noisily on their vespas, hollering and blowing their horns as they launched an attack of firecrackers in the vicinity of the crowd who drew back and threw their arms up in the air at the insolence of those petulant kids.
The lights remained affixed to their respective branches but there were over thirty paintings stretched across the vast expanse of the tree. A seasonal, colourful tale linked one work to the next. Beginning on the lower branches and despite the complex abstraction to the theme the more erudite of the audience made out a touching account of a lonely, orphaned boy with only the company of a locally feared, wild boar for company who believed neither in the mercy of God nor in the wonder of Christmas. The story's happy end culminated on a tiny cloth canvas, which sat in place of the star on the apex of the beast: the boy finding himself blessed with a new family and recovered faith.
Pupito wiped a tear off his cheekbone: 'Beautiful. Simply beautiful!'
'The old fool' muttered Fernando to himself.
The momentary calm did not last long. A thin, gaunt, bearded man with the look of Rasputin in his eyes came racing into the square. He stopped in front of the tree and fell to his knees, clasping his hands together, bringing his teeth down to crunch on his bare white knuckles.
'Oh my God, it's exquisite! My life's work realised!''
A commotion of sorts could be made out from Bellini's. A chair, maybe a table had been knocked over. Gianni himself came storming into the cold, hurling his stained apron to the ground. The barber's scamp of a son claimed it as his own and ran off towards the canal.
Bellini went straight over to Zio Leonardo, pulling him up to the ground by the torn collar of his thin, undersized trench coat.
'You've all gone too far this time! I refuse to remain silent any longer! Who put you up to this?' he bellowed with fury at the terrified figure. Refusing to release the artist from his grip he pushed him around the gathering with a view to rooting out any accomplices.
'You would never have had the balls to carry this out alone' he ranted.
'But¦ but¦.I never¦I don't understand', the artist's words faltering in the face of the bar owner's resolute anger.
'Since when have you ever stayed quiet?' said a gentle voice from the rear of the crowd. Tomasino had been watching events unfold from a respectable distance before revealing his presence. He stepped forward to face Bellini. He exuded perfect calm, he was virtually impossible to ruffle. Tomasino stood perch upright, his cashmere coat weighing lightly on him, like a crown to a king. The village uttered a unified sigh, Bellini's control of the scene immediately diminished.
'I knew you were behind this, you and your filthy commie council! I should kick your arse back down to the heel.' Tomasino didn't respond but smiled with amusement at his troubled adversary's predicament.
Zio Leonardo had taken advantage of the Mayor's arrival to free himself from Bellini's unruly hold.
He whimpered: 'You're a lunatic Bellini, this was nothing to do with me. I think they look spectacular up there but I had them all boxed up and ready to be shipped to England for my first major international show. When I woke up this morning everything was gone, I thought I was having a terrible nightmare. I threw a bucket of water over myself and slapped my face as hard I could. But I didn't wake up again and then I heard everyone shouting my name outside and I came to look. And it's a vision, really a vision.'
'You're a bully and a coward and you wouldn't know you were in the presence of beauty if it gave you a free enema' proposed Franca who had all the while been dying at the spectacle of her husband's boorishness.
The village laughed mercilessly at the public showdown Bellini had brought upon his own head.
'Don't embarrass yourself, my love' he said with failing conviction.
'Embarrass myself? Perhaps we should talk openly about where you were last night and which sick fantasy you were acting out using the money you have me slaving for. You were happy to pick on poor Leonardo in front of the whole town so while you're at it let's air some of our own business: the compulsive gambling maybe? Or we could chat about you being the real reason why I've never had a child and not the lie you put in people's coffee.'
'Come come Franca, let's go inside and talk about this rationally. I'm sure these good people aren't interested in our goings on.' Bellini tried to usher his wife away, looking to the jurors for sympathy but the balls of their eyes revealed their judgement. He tried to slip a strong forearm around her waist but she slapped him right across his left cheek, its sting resounding like the crash of a cymbal. The smart, either from the stroke or the humiliation, came up scarlet as a cherry.
The village, its interest in the morning's proceedings unwavering, gasped in absolute harmony. Gianni, palm to flesh, fought his withdrawal through the throng, withdrawing to the refuge of his bar.
Tomasino took the opportunity to re-establish order. He positioned his steady, firm frame underneath the tree; to his immediate right hung an early episode in the boy's story. He is seen scampering through a field of tall grass with the boar but his way is often hindered by older, stronger boys. The bullies are too rich and too loved to be anything other than vicious. At a gesture from the boy, the boar would tear them to their bones. They know this. They taunt from a safe distance and position themselves on the hills in such a way as to make the boy's route impassable.
Around the Mayor, layer after layer of smooth, white sheets had spread. Tomasino's feet were thick with it, up to his calves. He removed his hat, shaking the snow against his left palm and smoothed out the curls of his thick whiskers. He scratched his head, still forgetting that he had no hair and that his scalp would soon come up in a rash of blotches if he didn't stop. Tomasino's beautiful black locks had abandoned him almost twenty years ago but he had never felt truly comfortable with their permanent absence.
Tomasino hadn't brought gloves and he needed to dance his fingers around a little. He ran on the spot to build up some warmth. The village looked on in knowing bemusement while the highly respected Mayor readied himself for his address.
Before Tomasino had concluded his exercise regime, another voice spoke above the throng, echoing through the icy air. The tones were dulcet, imbued with restraint but whatever was being said it was incomprehensible. Some put this down to the cold. Perhaps this man was shy, afraid of his own convictions or Bellini's right hook? Nobody had yet identified where the man was situate. He had failed to present himself at the helm of the crowd.
The voice of calm continued in its gentle protestation. Tomasino ran into the villagers, searching frantically for the man behind the message. He slipped on a patch of ice, but managed to steady himself up in front of a tall, gaunt-faced man sporting a tweed jacket and wide corduroy trousers The thin moccasins looking after his feet would surely have drawn a gasp had they remained uncovered by the snow. A flat cap covered his head but he had no overcoat to speak of and neither gloves nor scarf. Notwithstanding his lack of colour the orator appeared utterly unaffected by the inclement weather.
The recognition was instantly mutual. The two men clasped each other as if they were the oldest of friends who had not met for half of century, and even now they had only been brought together by the slightest of coincidences.
The two men, both in their mid-fifties, had just met for the first time. As physically different as men can be they seemed like reunited twins, each torn from the other at birth.
Tomasino addressed his visitor, keeping hold of his friend's forearms in his hands.
'You are Mr Oliver Jackson, I knew it straight away'.
Tomasino turned to the eager audience, proclaiming in the most spirited of voices: 'Everybody! Listen up! This is Mr Jackson all the way from England. You will not believe it but he is the son of the man who, for the past forty five years has been responsible for sending us the most beautiful of trees during this season to the absolute envy of all the neighbouring villages. Oliver's father, sadly, passed away early this Spring but his kind son has promised to keep up his father's tradition for as long as the trust fund allows- which I might add has been designed to last for at least the next one hundred years.' A collective gasp belched forth, followed by a ninety second ovation, much whooping, emotive cries of 'Grande' and the release of firecracker reserves from the scooter terrors.
'We've become the best of pen-pals. I begged Oliver to come and stay with us, to witness first-hand the results of his father's ongoing generosity but he was unsure of work commitments and the prospect of bad weather. But he has made it, really made it, I can hardly contain myself'.
'Why did your father do this for us Signor Saxon? Who were we to him and why are you still interested in our small village? We've always known of this curious English gift each year but nobody has ever told us why' asked Pupito, utterly captivated by this beautiful mystery, unravelling itself like a yarn of cotton on a downward-spiralling, green elevation.
Tomasino replied for the stranger: 'Yes, of course, a few words from our guest. Please, Mr Oliver, come this way. I think it only proper that you explain. Please speak freely and I shall do my best with my poor skills of translation'.
Aided by the Mayor's stilted yet able interpretation Oliver wrapped up the proceedings. His father had been fighting his way through Italy since his landing in Sicily in 1943. His Company lost, Jackson senior found himself isolated and on the run in Central Italy during the latter stages of the war. A group of boys found him stinking, starving and cowering in a stable. They pronged him with a pitchfork but he could tell it was just for fun. The boys demanded some caramelle and cigarettes in the hope the soldier was an American laden with gifts but he presented his hole-ridden pockets to them and shrugged his shoulders in regret. A passing farm girl of about twelve chanced upon the scene and took Jackson home with her. Antonella showed her find to Tomasino's father, Carlo, whose family hid the hungry soldier for close to six months until the last of the occupiers had departed. Neither Tomasino nor Jackson's offspring had yet been born. The two men forged an unbreakable bond. Jackson picked up scant Italian, giving English lessons in return. They played chess, exchanged magic tricks to the delight of the children and shared whatever food the Germans had left behind. Everyone in the village knew of Jackson's presence save for a few random, lingering sympathisers.
A sobbing, hysterical pensioner threw herself at Oliver's feet. Oliver divined the woman's identity and helped her to her feet. He took her into his arms and embraced her, stroking her ferocious black curls.
'Let me introduce my dramatic sister, Antonella to you Mr Oliver!' said Tomasino.
'I don't believe it, my treasure, truly my treasure!' wailed Antonella.
Stepping out of the confusion emerged a dignified man of antiquity dressed in his Sunday best. Frail in body he edged slowly towards Jackson junior. He fixed his steely proud gaze upon the man, moved his daughter gently to one side and clasped Oliver's hands between his own.
'I am Carlo, a good friend of your father's'. Carlo released Oliver from his grip but continued to hold him in his eyes.
'Every inch the father' he said in commendable English, patting Oliver firmly on the back
'I was most sorry to hear about the passing of your father. Despite our correspondence we never met again and I have always missed him and his what do you call it ah yes his "witty chat.'
'He was a most remarkable companion, a splendid chess player, an adequate magician and a lousy cook!'
The emotional tension having subsided, the town erupted into laughter, sighing itself into collective relief.
'Thank you, thank you for your words and condolences' said Oliver in laudable Italian. Swooning in wonder the town could not believe how many surprises it was being dealt today. Tomasino could not hide his delight, rasping his hands with glee and grinning from one side of his face to the other.
Addressing the whole community Oliver continued:
'Yes, my father never forget his lessons with Carlo. He tried to pass on what he could and I have done a little solo studying. I wanted to be ready for today. I wanted to be ready for you.'
'You cannot imagine how it warms me to meet you after all these years Carlo and to see how well you are. My father always said you were strong as an ox. Oh and stubborn too.'
The sun was high now, unimpeded in its objective to warm up the ground and melt the village down to its required height. The well-being of Citerna and its kin gleamed in its scorch. Figurine shadows formed in the snow, now melting in part.
'There is another reason I came' went on the Englishman. The town was ready to burst. How much could they be expected to take? And it would be lunch soon and the church bells had been angrily ringing for the last quarter of an hour as the priest readied himself to address an invisible audience from the pulpit. But nobody moved. Don Felice stormed into the square in search of his wandering congregation. He demanded to know what was going on and was soon hushed up.
'I am also here for Zio Leonardo whose work I have commissioned for a private show in London. Leonardo came across my father when he was sleeping in the barn and stopped to draw him. When my father awoke there was nobody there but this small, beautifully executed drawing which lay by his side. His scared youth, mucky golden fringe and emaciated looks had been captured by a most sensitive soul.'
Oliver took a tattered piece of cardboard out from the inside of his jacket and passed it around. The hum was appreciative. Zio Leonardo was rooted to the spot. The people urged him forward and when the drawing reached him he stared at it in disbelief and burst into tears.
'Knowing what I know now Leonardo must have been no more than fifteen at the time. He never made himself known and my father wasn't exactly in a position to go making enquiries about the village. But our dear Zio signed his opera and my father swore he would track down the person who immortalised his stay among you. His time ran out before he could fulfil his promise so I sent a friend and art buff here some months ago who hunted for and chanced upon Leonardo's work in local restaurants. The subject matter was a whole other world, a far cry from a young boy's passing sketch of a stranded, sleeping soldier but the style was indefatigably the same. My friend, Mr Summers, who met with Leonardo without exposing my involvement, could not contain his excitement and insisted we bring Leonardo over for a major exposé. At this point my plan was hatched. I arrived late last night and went straight to his house together with some extortionately priced scooter lads and took away all of his work.'
'This time it was his turn to sleep on. What you see before you is only a fraction of this wonderful man's lifetime achievements. I hope you don't think me too ghastly and I am sorry for the shock I gave you this morning Zio Leonardo. You already knew about the show through Summers but I thought that it was only right that your village see the full extent of the talent it has been living in union with for over half a century before we whisk everything away for the next six months. Not even Tomasino knew. I so wanted this surprise to come off.'
Turning to Oliver Jackson and continuing to clutch at the frail cardboard Zio Leonardo spoke with grave, wistful tones:
'He was the reason I stubbornly pushed on. I was so happy with that drawing. I really felt I had caught him and all his fatigue. I had to give it to him as a gift. I later looked for your father but everyone said I had made the whole thing up. I was just a boy and they couldn't trust me with that kind of information. But I've never forgotten him. Never.'
'No, I'm not angry about your borrowing my pieces. I was shocked but truly honoured when I saw them out here on show. I know I'm considered a little eccentric but this town means as much to me as my work. Thank you Mr Jackson, thank you so much'.
They shook hands and embraced, the emotion getting the better of the old man once again. Applauding the visitor and Zio Leonardo the town glowed in its own warmth while much of the less resilient snow rearranged its form into slush. Stomachs were rumbling and Don Felice knew he stood little chance of getting anybody into church at this late hour. He held a brief, impromptu service in the square while the children jumped in and out of the wet.
Franca had been having a good day. She reflected on the Muse and how it would see her right after all. She took leave of the square and made her way home to pack Gianni's bags for him.