The Fair of Seven Sorrows

September 15, 1995

              “Red hot! Get your sizzling red-hot sausage and flaky piadina here! Want some onions, good lookin’? No onions? All right. How about some sweet peppers? Okay, you won’t be sleeping tonight unless you fill up on that red wine.”

Alessandro knew that he shouldn’t be eating sausage and piadina, but the hell with his diabetes. He wouldn’t drink anyway, so his blood sugar would probably stay down without taking another injection of insulin here on the street. He did have a yen for a glass of cagnina; it reminded him of his first forays in the big city of Russi when he was a teenager on the cusp of manhood, bicycling over in the evening from his village of Bagnacavallo when his parents finally let him have a little independence. 

Cagnina was Romagna’s very own Beaujolais Nouveau: it embodied the beginning of Autumn and opened the way for evenings by the fireside eating roast chestnuts. Sandro however knew that he couldn’t have any Cagnina tonight, not unless he wanted to shoot up right here in the street and that would not be a good idea, given the times. Sandro wandered through the town at twilight; the streets were lined with stalls filled with animated clocks from South East Asia, brilliantly lacquered boxes from Russia and trays and trays of polished stones from across the world. People were selling underwear and umbrellas and artificial flowers and card readings and rust printed kitchen linens. Occasionally, a small gastronomic stand hosted farmers selling their homemade honey or cheese aged in caves or the freshly made Romagnol autumn wine.

“Cagnina! Just squeezed and freshly made. Here, try a cup.”

The vendor proffered Sandro a tiny sample glass of the new wine, which he refused.

“Can’t hold it. Shouldn’t drink it.”

Sandro finished eating his sausage and piadina before he started to look down the midway where his older children were taking little Niccolo’ around on the rides, buying him whatever he wanted and having a good time. Sveva was at home, relaxing and fixing dinner; she needed her time without the kids. Sandro liked taking his children out; he saw them so little at home after work. The twins, Cristian and Argenta were always out at some sort of sports practice and working on a million projects and clubs at school.

Three perfect children Sandro had, and a perfect wife. Indeed, he would have had a perfect life if it had only been the five of them. But poor Sandro did have a mother and a father in Bagnacavallo. It was a fifteen-minute drive from Russi at the most, but his parents were constantly embarrassing him in front of his wife, so he avoided his mother and father as much as possible. Sandro had been bequeathed diabetes from his father’s line, and Sveva was none too pleased about that. What Sandro’s father had given him, Sandro didn’t want, and what Sandro wanted, his father didn’t give him: enough money.

As Sandro’s three perfect children grew, his old man was getting weaker and more inclined to indulge, not Sandro nor his wife, but his grandchildren. Or rather, Sandro’s Babbo agreed to pay for the kids’ schooling so that did leave considerably more money so Sandro could spoil his children. Only the best clothing for them, that had always been the rule, and every year each child got a completely new wardrobe in the latest styles. Sveva never thought twice about throwing anything away: shoes, books, even bread which would have been heresy if she had actually been born a Romagnola and not just in Romagna. There would always be money to get more of whatever she threw away, she knew that much, so she freely took apart her domestic world and bossily rearranged the people and accoutrements in it.

Sandro’s parents had been disposed of easily enough. They lived out in the country, and the children were so busy with school activities that, well, it just didn’t work out for Sandro’s first family to visit his second family very often. Sveva’s in-laws dismayed her constantly though she was ever too cowardly to say it in so many words. Sveva’s forthright manner and insistence on snidely speaking about all her favorite luxuries made it plenty clear to everyone, that she was holding her mother-in-law and father-in-law at a distance. Sandro and Sveva’s whole circle of acquaintance easily intuited that Sveva did not want her children to be contaminated by Antonio and Italina (Italina! What a name! And her mother-in-law was proud of it, to boot!)

Sveva had no more manners than a pretty bird in a cage: she didn’t care where or whom she dumped on. She presented herself well enough and was polite, but frankly she didn’t care a whit for where her food came from. Indeed, she never even thought about it, unless it was to marvel at how much money she was forced to spend on occasion.

“Money should never be a consideration. When you shop, you shop ‘til you drop, and the green light is on!” Thus went Sveva’s retail motto and she applied it with unseemly glee despite Sandro’s slightly more than modest income.

Sandro scowled at the stands with their cheap raiment and tawdry souvenirs. Why couldn’t he get into a better world than this, leave this podunk little town and move on? He had gone back to school and become a Notary Public which increased his salary considerably (he would never have made very much money as a high school teacher and soccer coach and the one thing Sveva had to have was money or she wouldn’t be happy). He never earned as much money as he wanted to, however. Truth be told, Sandro simply wasn’t diligent enough to do his job thoroughly, which might have compensated for his incompetence. He didn’t actually read letters or contracts. He just signed them and assumed that everything was in order. Whenever people wanted to screw his clients or him, they did. He accused his persecutors of being evil and unkind; he said they were jerks who were out to get as much as possible by making as little effort as possible. Sandro knew what he wanted and how he wanted things to be. But there is nothing like the facts, and since Sandro did not even read the facts much less know them, he rarely won a contestation or dispute. His clients had to pay him all the same of course.  As his reputation tarnished, his customer base shrank.

Sandro walked up the steps to a church and went inside to the altar dedicated to Our Lady of the Seven Sorrows; Maria’s eyes were raised heavenward, and seven real steel and brass trimmed swords protruded from the middle of her plaster sternum in a flashing halo of golden light. Her seven sorrows, what would they have been? Losing her son, losing her home, losing her husband? Who knew? Raised in a typically anticlerical Romagnol environment, Sandro had “re-converted” to Catholicism when he married Sveva. 

It was a great idea: hers was an easy, pick and choose Catholicism. You went to Mass at least once a week, especially on Saturday evening. This was very convenient, since you were already dressed up and after Mass you could take a walk and do some shopping in the square while everyone else was out to see you spending money before you went out to dinner. As a Catholic you had to oppose abortion and divorce and you had to pray. You had to give the church some money, and make sure the kids went to a good Catholic School and catechism and when they had their first Communion, you had to throw a big party. You mentioned in passing what you did that was religious. You forced your opinion about abortion and divorce on everyone around you, underlining your respect and belief in the sanctity of every form of human life. You let people know you were praying. You pointed out how well your kids were doing at the convent school. It was all easy enough and Sandro was proud of being his own kind of Catholic, a cosmopolitan, hardly Romagnol Catholic.  

Sandro looked up again at the gesso Madonna dressed in blue, a preposterous baroque crown tottering on her head. Poor Madonna! He should hate to lose one of his children, whom he truly adored. For an instant, he felt a pang of pain and sorrow. Whew! Now that was something he didn’t want to think about any more. So he dropped 100 lire in the tin collection box, lit a candle to the Madonna, and said a quick Ave Maria for his children.

Sandro left the church and wandered back behind the main square. The tiny piazza in front of the covered market was filled with caged chickens, tethered goats, and the occasional lowing cow, all being nonchalantly tended by recently scrubbed, well groomed farmers, drinking the new red Cagnina wine. They were joking and smiling, teasing one another with rough jokes, and all speaking in the coarse local dialect. Such ignorance! Such an ugly language! God was he glad to he wasn’t surrounded by it day and night. Alessandro saw Niccolo’ looking at the goats with his brother. Cristian was holding Niccolo’ in his arms to keep his shoes off the filth on the street.

“Papi! Look! Look at the goats! Aren’t they cute?”

At this, one of the ratty little goats lifted up his right rear limb in half an airy cabriole arabesque, turned his head around 180 degrees, and peed into his mouth! Everybody rocked with laughter.

“Okay Niccolo’, just remember that the next time you feel like eating some goat cheese! You know what it’ll taste like!”

Niccolo’ laughed and responded: “Goat wiener and goat peepee! Yummmmm! Delicious!” He burst into a series of giggles and squirms as his brother tried to hold him but ended up just letting Niccolo’ slide down his adolescent frame. Sandro hoisted him up again and shook him in midair, walking out of the square. He really couldn't have him walking around in all that animal shit. Sveva would kill him.

Argenta met them around at the corner and laughed long and hard at the goat story. “Well, I guess that’ll teach you to eat your goat cheese! It’s so stinky! Now we know why, don’t we?”

“Oh yes, it’s a delicious combination of goat weenie and goat peepee! Uhmmmm Yummmy!” And the whole family laughed again. Niccolo’, Sandro’s younger son delighted everyone; he was  a little squiggle of skinny jumping jack that never stopped laughing and shaking his head. He was so different from the other two: Argenta a perfectly poised little lady already at fourteen and Cristian, a good student, promising athlete and loving, quiet big brother. Sandro was constantly pleased with his children. They were the best part of the best thing he had ever done in his life, forming a family of his own with Sveva. Sandro and Sveva were devoted parents, always reasoning with their kids as they reared them, and treating them to most of the pleasures they asked for. It was so important to have a strong family, and it mainly involved spending as much time as possible with your kids.

The children were another reason Sandro had not met with great success as a notary. He didn’t work put in enough hours at his job. If Cristian was playing a soccer match, Sandro would take off work, and pass the client to someone else. If Niccolo’ was sick at school, he would go and pick him up and take her home to Sveva, no matter who was waiting in the anteroom. If Argenta wanted a new dress for a friend’s First Communion, well, it would go on the credit card and he would pay it off. Eventually. Sandro had to be careful nowadays and avoided taking the children any place that took plastic since his bill had been ratcheted up to the limit for the past four months now. He always paid off enough of it so he could splurge and charge another 500,000 lire if need be, because he knew his mother would be sending Sveva a monthly check for that amount.

Sandro liked the checks, but that was about as much as he thought about his mother; he thanked her for her monthly largesse at the beginning since Sveva would ask him to, and then forgot to do it thereafter. Sandro never discussed the fortune teller’s tragic reading of Italina’s Tarocchi cards just before Sandro’s brother was killed in a mountaineering accident in the hills. He hardly noticed her pain when he had moved from Bagnacavallo to settle down in Russi where Sveva had her family. Sandro and the kids never bothered to even drop in on Italina and Antonio. When the whole family attended his cousin’s wedding in far off Milan, he ignored his mother’s dismay at the fact that although Sandro and his family arrived at the hotel just after lunch, they didn’t try to get in touch with his mother and father; they just showed up at dinnertime. 

Even when Alessandro had told her about the onset of his diabetes, and asked her to come help him with the doctor’s visit, he barely took in the pain she suffered as she waited in the doctor’s office. When the doctor gave him his first shot of insulin, and his carefree life as he knew it had ended; he never saw her wincing as she patiently taught him how to give himself his injections, using an old grapefruit. When he drove her home and dropped her suitcase by the side of the road in front of her home, he didn‘t look back and see her waving good-bye to him as he drove back across the plain away from her to Russi.

He had his own family to think about.  Sveva told him: “You have two families now. The one here in Russi and the one in Bagnacavallo. You are just going to have to decide which one is your first family.” That was an easy choice. He really didn’t have to think about it; Sveva already had. 

The last time his parents had asked him again when the children were coming to visit them, he just had to tell them that Cristian might have a soccer tournament in the coming months, and they wouldn’t be able to make definite plans. Sandro told his parents he had two families now, and Italina and Antonio both listened to him on separate phones at their home in the country. Italina and Antonio’s combined silence on the other end of the lines never even registered with Sandro. 

When his father got off the line, Sandro remarked to his mother that the monthly check hadn’t arrived yet. Wouldn’t it be simpler for her just to set up an automatic monthly deposit to Sveva’s account? That way she wouldn’t have to worry about getting it signed and mailing it to them.

“I’ll look into it Alessandro.”

“Well, I guess that’s all for today. Sveva sends her love.”

“Tell the children we called. Your father certainly would enjoy speaking to them when they get the chance.”

“I’ll tell them.”

But Sandro never did. Indeed, he never called back when Italina or Antonio left a message in the answering machine; half the time he didn’t know they had called because Sveva or the children neglected to tell him. Sandro was so difficult to deal with every time he spoke to his parents, especially his father, that Sveva just preferred to ignore them discreetly. 

Of course Sveva loved and respected Italina and Antonio even if they lived in Bagnacavallo. What a name for your hometown: Horsebath. However Italina and Antonio were her in-laws, and in-laws needed to be loved and kept at a arm’s length. Sveva made sure everyone knew she had two families now: her husband, her children, and her brothers, sister, and parents in Russi, and then of course her second family, the Minardis in Bagnacavallo. You just can't always get around to everything, and her first family was her first priority. 

What had her father-in law given them recently? Diabetes for her husband and the same Sword of Damocles for her children. Now that was a nice legacy! Antonio hadn’t even offered to help with the medical expenses, or send Sandro to a private clinic and it was kind of his fault that Sandro had adult onset diabetes. Sveva was quite relieved that Sandro had managed to control his disease easily enough, but it still irritated her so that she shouldn’t feed her family the healthy meals of veal and pasta, piadina and salami, mutton and deep fried olives, cakes and pies that they were accustomed to. She never had liked fruit, salad, or vegetables herself; breaded shrimp and tenderloin were so much tastier.

“You know you’ve got to manage your diabetes yourself,” Sveva had told Sandro and he nodded his assent. He knew. The doctor had told him, that from now on, he was the only person responsible for himself, he had to take care of himself: check his blood levels, and dose his insulin according to the little machine he carried around. Sandro did. Diabetes was his cross to bear.

“Okay kids, whaddya say we head on home?” He walked them back to the car, packed them in, and chatted gaily with them all the way home.

They could smell the veal and potatoes cooking when they walked in the house and the children ran to take their coats off and turn on the television. Sandro walked into the dining room and saw the table had been laid; Sveva was in the kitchen, sipping a glass of wine and opening the oven door.

“Hi honey!” She turned and gave him a big peck on the cheek. Sveva adored her husband, especially when he did what she asked him to, like taking the kids out for a couple of hours. The phone rang. Sandro picked it up.

“Hello Alessandro! Did you have a nice time at the fair?”

“Mamma? Is that you? How did you know we were at the fair?”

“Oh I called an hour or so ago and Sveva told us you’d be back about now. Your father wanted to speak to you about. . . “

“Honey, can you help me in the kitchen?”

“Just a moment, Mamma. What do you need, honey?”

“I need you to stir the pasta and carve the meat.”

“Mamma, I’m sorry this is just not a good time for me to speak. Sveva needs me in the kitchen.”

“Well, I understand. Could we say hello to the children? Your father is so looking forward to speaking to them.”

“You know, this is just not a good time. They’re watching The Simpsons and we’ll be eating in about fifteen minutes. Maybe we can try and call after dinner. But I’ll tell them you called. Give Papi my love – Bye!”

“Honey, honey, honey, honey! Here you go. This is your spoon for the pasta.”

Sandro stood and stirred the pasta. “How many minutes left?”

Sveva looked at her watch. “Ten.”

“Then I need to check my blood sugar and shoot up.”

“I wish you wouldn’t make it sound like you were taking a hit of heroin.”

Sandro walked back into the dining room and privately performed his insulin ritual. When he came back, Sveva handed him the plate of meat to carve up and told him to get the children to the table. After they said the blessing, and the children passed their bowls for the pasta, Niccolo’ could hardly contain himself.

“Mamma, you’ll never guess what we saw this afternoon!” Argenta shot her brother a look that intimated the wisdom of changing the subject. Cristian raised his eyebrows too, which definitely meant that Niccolo’ was not supposed to say anything at all about the goat. Sveva apparently did not notice this, and smiled. “What honey?”

“We saw, we saw … Our Lady of the Seven Sorrows in the Church. (Cristian and Argenta breathed audible sighs of relief). She had all these swords sticking out of her dress. It wasn’t very pretty. Why did they stab the Madonna, Ave Maria Holy Mother of God, Blessed is she among women, and then put the statue with all those big sharp swords sticking out of her heart in the church?”

“Oh honey, I don’t really know why. It’s probably not a real story, but just a description of how sad Mary must have been when they took Jesus from her and put him on the cross. You should ask the priest when you go to Catechism tomorrow. I’m sure he can tell you everything; he’ll know all about it. Now eat your pasta before it gets cold.”

The chatter at the dining room table turned to sports and the children’s various volleyball and soccer matches. Sandro passed the meat and then everyone had dessert. Even Sandro had a little dollop of ice cream. The kids scattered for their bedrooms to do their homework or read and Sandro helped Sveva clean up in the kitchen.

“Isn’t Niccolo’ just a riot? How does he find these things, like the statue of the Madonna with swords sticking out of her chest? You were with them the whole time, weren’t you?”

“Well, not exactly. They ran off. I gave Cristian enough money to keep them out of trouble, but you know what Niccolo’ is like when he gets an idea into her head. He was just dying to see the animal market, and that’s where I found them.”

“Well, where were you all the time? Not in the church either apparently.”

“Oh I went there too, and lit a candle. Then I stopped to get some red hot sausage.”

“Oh, so that’s why you didn’t finish up the veal. You know we agreed that the children should have their own identities, and we need to nurture their personalities and protect them from the ugly side of life as much possible. I know they keep that statue of the Madonna in the church, but that’s not how I want to think of Mary – with swords sticking out of her heart and blood dripping on her clothing. I don’t think it’s good for the children either, to see things like that. We have to be alert about keeping it from their little eyes. Even going to see the animals, well, I suppose there’s no harm in it, but it certainly isn’t the cleanest place for them to be walking. I just think we need to pay a little more attention, don’t you?”

“Oh, the children are coming up just fine, don't you think?”

“Well, I just hope Niccolo’ doesn’t turn into some coarse, dialect-speaking ruffian. There are better things for him to become. If he likes animals that much, maybe we should get him into horse riding. That’s a good idea, don't you think? He’d be around people who will help him grow, and not people who will show him the dirty side of life.”

Sandro thought horse riding was a great idea. It was a little expensive; not many people in Romagna rode but Niccolo’ would get to know a certain set of people who rode among the limited upper class of Russi. He would certainly meet people who could help him later on.

“That’s a great idea.”

“Now honey, what did Niccolo’ really see? I could tell something was up when Cristian and Argenta gave him those looks at dinner. Come on, tell me the truth.”

“Oh nothing, really. When I found them at the animal market, Niccolo’ was looking at the goats when one of them lifted his leg and turned his head around. He peed right into his own mouth!”

Both Sandro and Sveva laughed long and hard. “I’ll bet that was funny. Oh well, I’m sure there’s no harm in a little barnyard humor now and them, but we do need to be careful about them, don’t you think?”

“Well honey, there are basically only three reasons for the fair: Our Lady of the Seven Sorrows, the livestock market and the new red wine. I mean, this is our heritage in Romagna.”

“That nasty red wine? Just the smell of it reeks el cheapo to me. Well, at least they weren’t drinking that. Now we agreed on letting the children form their own personalities, without looking back at the past, the way some people do. I just think it’s best if we focus on them and their future, and not their great-grandparents, who are dead.  I mean, one day the kids will want to leave our little town, I hope, and start their own lives someplace that is fresh and new and filled with nice people. Knowing about the livestock market in Russi for the Feast of our Lady of Seven Sorrows and drinking Cagnina won’t help them with that at all. Why does there have to be a reason for everything, why does this festival have to focus on someone’s unhappiness and the lives of all these red-necked farmers? We have the power to create our own identity, to establish our own, pleasant, well regulated world. At least that’s what I learned from my parents. You know they escaped from the Nazis in Yugoslavia during World War II and fled down the coast to Russi. They never talk about it. It just wasn’t nice, and I don’t see how knowing exactly what they suffered is going to make life better for anyone.”

Sandro could see her point. Even if he hadn’t, he would have done what she wanted him to do. She was usually right. The children were perfect. Sveva’s parents and family were all delightful and quite well off though there was always subterranean bickering about who was getting how much money from her parents. They all confined their thinking to themselves and their needs. Sveva’s relatives all seemed so happy and they never embarrassed Sveva or him or his children. However, the core fact of the matter was quite simply that Sandro was deeply and passionately in love with Sveva, and no matter what she said, he would gratefully hang onto her apron strings for dear life.

“Well, once again, you’re right honey. I think probably the best thing is just to get the kids to focus on their sports as much as possible. That should keep their minds busy and their bodies strong. And keep them out of trouble.”

“Oh honey, I love you so much!” Sveva threw her arms around Sandro and gave him a big long kiss. “Now let’s find the best place for Niccolo’ to take riding lessons. I mean, it will serve him more to know about horses than it will about goats, now won’t it? And as for his worries over Our Lady of the Seven Sorrows, we can shift his attention to the Madonna at the main altar in the main church, all pretty and blue, standing on her cloud, ready to help us whenever we need her. That’s what the Madonna really is for after all: interceding with God and Jesus to extinguish our sins and meet our needs.”

* * * * *

Alessandro’s phone had clicked before Italina had had the chance to say good-bye. She hung her receiver back on its hook. Alessandro had sounded happy enough. She was sorry she didn’t get the chance to speak with her grandchildren, but well, one day when they had time, she would speak to them. Maybe it was not just such a good idea to call Alessandro at home. They were always doing something and Italina always had the feeling she was interrupting them. She could just call him at the office in the future. The children would call when they wanted to anyway; there was no use in forcing them to do something they didn’t want to do.

”Lina,” called her husband from the den. “Are they on the phone?”

 “No, dear. I’m afraid they were getting ready to sit down at the table.”

“This late? Well, I suppose the children need to eat late after they do their studying. How are they doing?”

“Oh, fine I think. At least that’s what Sveva told me when I called earlier. They had been out downtown at the Fair of Our Lady of Seven Sorrows. Sveva said that Cristian is already taking about going to the university these days.”

“Well let’s just hope he settles on my Alma Mater – the University of Bologna. There’s not a finer  . . . “

“He’s already talking about wanting to study in London.”

“London, well  . . . . I suppose he should study where he wants to. That’ll be expensive though, won’t it?”

“Oh, honey, you know you can help him with it.”

The clock ticked on the mantelpiece while Italina and Antonio looked long and hard at one another without saying a word. Antonio picked up the paper and started to read it when Italina stood up and went into the kitchen to fix dinner. “It’s just about time for you to shoot up, old shoe” called Italina from the kitchen. By the time Antonio had taken his insulin in the bedroom, his favorite history program was on. Italina turned on the television in the kitchen while they ate and watched a documentary about the Canadians’ liberation of Romagna from the Germans in WW II.

“Did Alessandro say they might give us a call after dinner?”

“Yes, he did say something, but you know how busy they get.”

Their attention returned to the television set. Antonio seemed to have lost his appetite. While Italina cleared his plate, and he wheeled himself back into the den.

“Well, I must say we are very lucky.”

“How so, dear?”

“We’re lucky we have such three wonderful grandchildren.”

Italina smiled. The kids were pretty close to perfect, even if she realized she did not have an unprejudiced viewpoint.

“You know Italina, Alessandro and Sveva have done quite a job rearing them.”

“That they have, dear. They spend a lot of time with the children,” Italina said and nodded in agreement.

“I’m grateful, so grateful we have such a perfect daughter-in-law. She’s a good wife and an excellent mother. We could hardly expect more than that.”

“That’s true dear.  Now, let’s get you ready for bed.”

While Antonio was lying in bed, reading his book, Italina took her time cleansing her face, brushing her teeth and applying her night creams. She could not avoid noticing the chagrin in her mirror. Even though her son only lived a little over fifteen minutes away, they barely got together twice a year. Italina briefly established a relationship with her grandson Cristian when he was a little boy, but as he grew older, he never seemed to have the time to talk to her. As for Argenta, she was a charming little lady, really quite engaging, but somehow her volleyball games took precedence over seeing her grandparents. And even though Niccolo’ was almost six years old, Alessandro and Sveva had never sent the little boy to spend a week with them, which at least they had done with Cristian and Argenta when they were preschool age. 

Italina despised telling Antonio that she had not managed to speak with the children, because they were watching television. She detested Antonio’s polite responses, masking the deep pain he felt at being shunned as an inadequate grandfather by his son and daughter-in-law.

The final dagger in Italina’s soul was her most heartfelt prayer when Alessandro was standing at the altar during his wedding: Italina had prayed to the Madonna in her blue dress in the cloud hovering over the bridal couple, that Sveva be a good wife and an excellent mother. Italina’s prayer had been entirely answered. Antonio never stopped repeating that Sveva was a good wife, and an excellent mother and they could not ask for more than that from their daughter-in-law.

Italina turned off the light in the bathroom and walked into the bedroom. Antonio was gracelessly snoring and his book had fallen to the floor. As Italina pulled the sheets and coverlet over the both of them and turned to switch off the night table lamp, she found a stale crust of solace: whenever Alessandro or the children needed money, Antonio would be able to give it to them. He could make a difference in his grandchildren’s lives. Italina knew that Alessandro loved his father, and she knew that Sveva loved Antonio, too. 

They just loved his money, more.