Woven in Time Read online

  Woven in Time

  Claudia Davison

  Austin Macauley Publishers

  Woven in Time

  About the Author

  Dedication

  Copyright Information ©

  UnoCasale, 1867Benvenuto Farné

  DueSampierdarena, 1880Andrea Vassallo

  1883

  TreCasale, 1885Flaminio Farné

  Casale, 1895 Flaminio Farné

  Campasso, Genova, 1912

  QuattroMontescudaio, 1887Letizia Bartolini

  Montescudaio, 1890

  CinqueSampierdarena, 1900Emilia Vassallo

  Sampierdarena, 1905 Giuseppe Bernascone

  1913

  1915

  1918

  1929

  SeiGenova, 1925Fenelia Farnè and Alfredo Tagliasacchi

  Marzo 12, 1925

  Luglio, 1925

  Sampierdarena Primavera, 1926

  Estate, 1926

  Autunno, 1926

  Venerdì

  Domenica, la prossima settimana

  Lunedì

  Martedì

  Primavera, 1927

  1928

  1930

  Genova, 1934

  SetteSampierdarena, 1953Vittorio Tagliasacchi

  Casale, 1937

  1943

  1945

  1948

  1954

  Marzo, 1955

  Maggio, 1955

  OttoSampierdarena, 1940Vittoria Bernascone

  Ottobre, 1942

  Aprile, 1943

  28 Aprile 1945

  1946

  1951

  Maggio, 1955

  RicettiArrosto Di Maiale Al Finocchio (Roast Pork with Fennel)

  Barchette di Zucchini farcite (Stuffed Zucchini)

  Biscotti

  Bruschetta alle melanzane (Eggplant Bruschetta)

  Crostata di pere al cioccolato (Chocolate Pear Tarte p.22)

  Chocolate filling:

  Cuculli (with chick pea flour)

  Cuculli (with potatoes)

  Focaccia

  Frittata (Zucchini)

  Melanzane (Eggplant Parmigiana)

  Minestra al Pomodoro (Tomato Soup)

  Minestrone di Fagioli e Lattuga (Bean and Lettuce Soup)

  Pane (Tuscan Bread) Sponge

  Patate all’alloro (Potatoes with Bay Leaves p.22)

  Pesto

  Pesce, Pesto e Pinoli (Fish with Pesto and Pine Nuts)

  Polenta

  Polloalla Cacciatora (Chicken Cacciatore or Hunter’s Chicken)

  Stoccafisso in umido alla genovese Baccalà

  Tomato sauce:

  Italian Words and Phrases

  References

  About the Author

  Claudia Emilia Tagliasacchi Davison was born on June 3, 1963, in Sampierdarena (Genova), Italy. Her family moved to Canada in 1967 and she grew up in Chatham, Ontario. She earned a BA and MAT at Andrews University, Michigan and an MEd at York University, Toronto, with an English Specialist from OISE, Toronto. She has been teaching English, French, Italian, History and Music in high school for over 30 years. She is a public speaker, musician, composer and recording artist. She lives in Cavan, Ontario, with her husband, Neil Davison. She has three children, Jumaani, Skaai and Canaan, and one grandchild, Percy.

  Dedication

  To my parents, Vittorio and Vittoria;

  my children, Jumaani, Skaai and Canaan; daughter-in-law, Mady, my grandson,

  Percy, and those whose names are not yet known.

  With gratitude for those who came before me and in hope for those who will follow.

  Copyright Information ©

  Claudia Davison (2020)

  The right of Claudia Davison to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

  Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 9781788783569 (Paperback)

  ISBN 9781788783576 (Hardback)

  ISBN 9781528955430 (ePub e-book)

  www.austinmacauley.com

  First Published (2020)

  Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd

  25 Canada Square

  Canary Wharf

  London

  E14 5LQ

  Uno

  Casale, 1867

  Benvenuto Farné

  “Dai, si comincia?!”

  “Every time there is a new government, they change the name.”

  Carlo and Emilio walked the road from Guardistallo to Casale. Carlo saw the old wooden signpost with the arrows pointing west to Cecina eleven kilometres, and Montescudaio five kilometres, and south to Casale two kilometres. The sign to Casale Val di Cecina was new.

  “What does it matter what the name is, Carlo? È lo stesso.”

  “It’s not the same. It’s the pride of King Vittorio Emanuele II di Savoia.”

  “Non viol dire come si chiama. È lo stesso!” Emilio flipped his hand upward.

  “Cosa vuol dire? I grew up in a town called Casale nelle Maremme. Now what is it? I can’t even remember.”

  “The name changed five years ago. It’s Casale Val di Cecina.”

  “I’m eighty-three years old. Five years is a blink of my eyelashes.” The fingers of his hand pulled together, pumping up and down. He huffed, “Besides, we already have a Cecina.” Emilio shook his head. He waved Carlo away.

  “You old fool. You’ll never change.”

  *“Non cambio. Ormai è troppo tardi.* But too many things are changing. No one will remember us, the way we live, the people who were here,” Carlo whined.

  Emilio looked at Carlo. “Sul serio?”

  “Certo!”

  Emilio stopped.

  “Look at those long yellow flowers taking over the countryside and the purple petals of these weeds that grow along the road. They’ve been growing here long before this 2000-year-old road existed.”

  Carlo plucked a stem and put it in his mouth. He stopped, happy for a chance to catch his breath. Emilio continued.

  “When you look at this flower,” he pulled at the purple petals, “You see the generations that came before. It’s the same with us.”

  “È lo stesso?”

  “Sì.”

  “We are like the flowers?” Carlo said sarcastically.

  “Non ti preoccupare. Things have been the same for thousands of years in these parts. A little variation in the name of our town…” He shrugged. “Next year, we’ll forget all about it.”

  “Attenzione! Chi viene?”

  They ambled on again together and acknowledged un ragazzo walking toward them at the pace of youth.

  “È Francesco. Buongiorno, Francesco. Dove vai?”

  “Buongiorno Signor Carlo, Signor Emilio. Vado a visitare un amico.”

  “Fai presto! You’d better hurry if you are going to get home by sundown.”

  “Si, grazie. Faccio presto,” Francesco lied. He was not planning to be home by sundown. In fact, he was not coming home at all. Not today.

  The morning sun kissed his eyelids lightly e
nough to wake him. Benvenuto Farné saw the first daylight glisten through partially closed curtains; the curtains his mother made him years ago when he complained that his room wasn’t dark enough. His mother. He missed her. He slithered out of bed, peeled back the curtains and paused for a few moments looking out at the silhouette of Casale.

  The town was built on a collina. Its roads sloped upward to the very top, where stood the church of Sant’Andrea, the patron saint of Casale. Benvenuto could do without the blessed saint. He didn’t believe in him. He didn’t believe in much anymore and, as a result, hadn’t attended that old church for more than a year. Before that, he and his brother, Francesco, older by a year, had attended faithfully with their mother and father. But a lot can change in a year. Benvenuto was seventeen.

  Although he ignored the pinnacle of the town, he dreamed of unburdening himself of the family farm and building a house in Casale.

  He splashed his face. Was there any coffee? Some days there was, some days there wasn’t. He grabbed a piece of yesterday’s bread, plopped the dry thing into his mouth and waited as his saliva made it chewable. He jumped into his shoes and began his day on the farm.

  Benvenuto worked the farm alone, now. He did the work of four people and not very well. It was just a family farm; a little bit of land, but it had been their livelihood. First, he fed the chickens and the donkey. He tilled the soil growing wheat and vegetables. He tended fruit trees, a small olive grove and their grape vines. At harvest, the villagers gathered to help reap and collect the produce. It would be an impossible task without their help. Still, he had the lonely and heavy burden to husband the farm on his own.

  His brother, Francesco, had a different routine. On a good day, he arrived home in the early morning, slept until noon, made a meagre lunch for himself and his brother out of guilt and penance and then slept the rest of the day. Before Benvenuto’s work was done, Francesco dressed. He and Gianni Foti, who lived down the road, travelled the two kilometres to Guardistallo or five kilometres more to Montescudaio to enjoy the evening with friends.

  Unfortunately, Francesco hadn’t had any money since his parents died. All their money was tied up in the farm, which his brother spent his life’s breath working. But, Gianni often picked up the slack with the understanding that he will be repaid in full when the time comes.

  Benedetto Francesco Farné, named after his father, was the older of the two brothers. People called him Francesco to distinguish him from his father. Since the tragedy, Francesco had not been much help. When he made the effort to return home in the morning, he slept for the remainder of the day.

  If Francesco drank to forget his troubles, Benvenuto worked to forget his. Laughter and merry making with his friends subdued Francesco’s demons. Benvenuto used the resentment he felt toward his older brother as fuel to power his work on the farm. He was all but crushed under anger and unexpressed grief. He steeled himself under that weight with gritted teeth, resolving to get through one more day. Each day turned into the next day and so it happened that a year had passed. The only positive thought that resembled a hope was Benvenuto’s dream to sell the farm, buy a shop in town and build a house in Casale. But that depended on the success of the harvest and that depended on working the farm and that was nearly impossible alone. Alone is how he found himself.

  Benvenuto wiped a sweaty brow with his forearm. The sun was nearly at its zenith. One more small task and he must rest and get something to eat. He walked toward the house and stopped at the well. Benvenuto heard the door open.

  Francesco stood in the empty space. He stretched, yawned and called out to his brother,

  “O, hai fame?”

  “Maledetto! Vienimi a aiutare!” Benvenuto shouted muttering curses.

  “Ti preparo un po’ di pranzo,” Francesco said, ignoring any creeping feelings of responsibility. Benvenuto heaved the bucket full of water and carried it to the kitchen.

  "Quanto tempo ci vuole?" Benvenuto asked.

  "Mezz’ora,"

  Francesco prepared Minestra Al Pomodoro: he sliced the bread, poured oil into a saucepan and added garlic and sage, cooking the garlic until it became golden brown. He added the bread allowing it to absorb the oil for about two minutes. He peeled the potatoes, boiled them and added them to the bread mixture. He let that cook for a few minutes then added the broth and let it all simmer.

  Francesco put the filled bowl in front of his brother.

  “Non c’è più pane,” he said.

  Benvenuto wanted to yell at him, ‘If you had gotten out of bed and gone to Casale this morning to buy some bread, we’d have some bread!’ Instead, he held his tongue. He gave Francesco a look that seethed resentment and then, with head down, began to eat. The elder brother brought his bowl to the table and sat across from Benvenuto. Together they ate in silence.

  When he finished, Benvenuto rose from the table, washed his bowl and spoon and turned toward the door to go out. He stopped. Without looking back, he asked,

  “Are you going to help me today?”

  “Vado a dormire dopo mangiato, then I’m leaving.”

  Benvenuto continued out the door and slammed it shut returning to his work. By late afternoon, Francesco walked out the door, fresh and clean. He waved to Benvenuto and started walking north toward Gianni Foti’s house. Benvenuto did not wave back. He returned to the garden and muttered, “Maledetto.”

  It wasn’t supposed to be this way. The four of them had prepared to sell the farm and move to Pisa to live like gentlemen. Okay, maybe not gentlemen but at least they wouldn’t be stuck on the farm. When Benvenuto and Francesco were young, their father taught them to look into the heavens and see what Galileo saw. Their mother taught them to read and write and do arithmetic. She had been a school teacher before they were born and wanted her boys to know more than just the family farm. They could continue the Farné tradition of farming. But more than anything, she didn’t want the farm to be a chain that embroiled the boys’ dreams. Benvenuto remembered her saying that she wanted to give them the wings of opportunity by teaching them so they had choices in life. Choices? What choices did he have now? He could only hope to reap a plentiful harvest of olives and grapes for the oil and wine that he could sell in the village the rest of the year. The garden was for food. The chickens, too. But he never thought he’d be doing this all alone.

  Most days he was lonely and discouraged but there was always one more thing to do so he didn’t have time to wallow in despair. Veramente, his father left the farm to the two brothers. When they finally sell it, and Benvenuto would make sure that they do sell it, the money would have to be split between them. When he thought of this, something in Benvenuto’s chest churned like milk into butter. Slowly, his heart became hard with anger and resentment toward his lazy, selfish brother.

  Every day was the same. He woke at dawn, worked until noon, worked into the evening and collapsed in his bed at sundown. Francesco slept till noon, made lunch for the two of them, then disappeared again until the next day. Benvenuto did not know specifically where Francesco went or with whom he frequented. All he knew was that Francesco drank heavily and that he was with Gianni Foti.

  Gianni Foti had not been born in this area. He did not grow up with the kids who were now young men picking up their fathers’ trades in the Tuscan countryside. His family had relocated from Messina, Sicily. His father was a businessman. That’s what he called himself but no one knew exactly what kind of business he was in. His family had a beautiful house down the road from the Farné farm. They employed contadini to work their land and servants to run their household. There were many reasons Benvenuto did not trust Gianni Foti. One was that he dressed everyday as if he were going to church. The second reason, he didn’t want to think about. Why would his brother want to associate with the likes of Gianni Foti?

  The next morning, Benvenuto got up at sunrise, pulled open his curtains and looked out his window. The sun tingled light on the top edge of the collina. Benvenuto remained motionless.
The rays began to slow dance with the town’s silhouette like a scoundrel stealing a friend’s dance partner with a smirk.

  There was no coffee. Benvenuto started his work without breakfast.

  Francesco wandered outside in the late morning looking for his brother who was in with the chickens gathering their eggs. Benvenuto saw him pass, walking toward the field.

  “Maledetto,” he whispered and kept working.

  “O! Dove sei?” Francesco’s voice startled Benvenuto.

  “Maledetto,” he called. “Perchè non mi aiuti?”

  “What do you mean? I’m here, aren’t I?”

  Benvenuto sneered. He continued gathering eggs from the scaffali his grandfather had built. The hen remained at her post. He slipped his hand under her to retrieve her eggs. She squawked.

  “C’mon brother. I’ll make you lunch.”

  “Lasciami stare. I’ll come when I’m ready.”

  Francesco backed off. He walked into the house to prepare food.

  They sat at the table eating pasta with salsiccie in silence. Benvenuto couldn’t bear to look at Francesco, so he avoided eye contact.

  “Luigi stopped by here yesterday,” Benvenuto broke the silence.

  “Luigi? Luigi who?”

  “What other Luigi do you know?” Benvenuto had little patience.

  “I’ve known a few in my day,” he remarked, trying to be difficult.

  “Oh you have? Because you are so well-travelled?”

  “Luigi with the store in Casale?” He saw the anger waiting in the wings and decided to drop it.

  “He wanted to tell me that there is a spot for sale right in the middle of town.”

  “You’re never going to sell this farm, Ben. You love it too much,” Francesco said with a smirk.

  Rage quickly surfaced in Benvenuto’s seventeen-year-old heart. He felt old. He felt tired. He wanted a life of his own. He wanted to stop carrying his older brother who should know better; who should do better. It was ridiculous. He had never known any family where the younger sibling took care of the older.