Valentine's Day

The sun shone on Valentine’s Day, sending its golden rays to brighten the winter sky and warm up the light westerly breeze. As usual, that Sunday, Donna Rosalia got up at seven o’clock to attend the early Mass and later to prepare the Sunday meal. Every year, she did something special for this feast, cooking home-made macaroni with sugo using her secret recipe, and grilling a large plate of braciola�"tender slices of veal basted with olive oil and covered with seasoned bread crumbs and provolone cheese. For dessert she prepared a dozen cannoli, half stuffed with sweetened ricotta cheese and chocolate shavings and half with chocolate pudding.

Donna Rosalia was a short and stout woman in her mid-fifties. Her round face and darkish skin offered hints of peasant origin, but her demeanor showed the pride of a woman who knows her value. All through her marriage she honored her husband Salvatore, known in the village as don Turiddu, a stocky man in his early sixties with grey hair and a pot belly that advertised his wife’s culinary skills. She raised her only son Francesco, a young man in his thirties, built like an ox and called Ciccinu manazzi because of his huge hands. She took care of her father, whose body and mind had become progressively feebler since the death of his wife five years earlier. He lived in a small house a couple of blocks up the road, but she visited him twice a day to bring him lunch and to check that he was alright before he went to bed at night. As a devout catholic, she also took care of God. She got up every morning to attend the early Mass at Our Lady of the Rosary church, participated in all novenas, was always in the first row of the processions, walking barefoot for the procession of Our Lady of the Carmen, huffing and puffing as she moved her well-rounded body up the steep incline of the cobblestone road leading to Saint Rocco’s church. She soaked her feet in warm, salty water for one hour after each procession, always repeating the same comment: “My feet are killing me, but this is a small sacrifice for the Madonna who saved my life when I gave birth to Ciccinu.”

Donna Rosalia’s family lived in a large three-story house in the middle of town with balconies on each floor giving a clear view of Piazza San Francesco. It was built three hundred years earlier by a local duke. Don Turiddu was able to purchase it from the duke’s descendants at a bargain basement price as payments for debts they had accumulated over a period of time and that had grown rapidly through the compounding of exorbitant interest rates and creative accounting. Don Turiddu spared no cash in renovating the old palace, making it the symbol of his power in the village. In the summer months, when the sweltering heat baked bricks and stones, husband and wife enjoyed Sunday evenings sitting in front of their house, soaking up the admiration of the village folks.

“Baciamu li mani, don Turiddu,” they would say as they bowed gently in front of the couple, adding, “donna Rosalia, you look like a countess sitting in front of your palace. God bless you both.”

“Grazii pi l’onuri,” don Turiddu would reply, and donna Rosalia would add, “everything comes from the blessings of the Holy Virgin Mary to whom, as you know, I am totally devoted in prayer and penitence.”

Every year, don Turiddu offered to take the family out for dinner on Valentine’s Day, but donna Rosalia refused, giving the same explanation.

“I have taken care of this family from the first day we got married and I am not going to change now.”

Her husband and son showed their appreciation by bringing two large bunches of flowers. Don Turiddu brought an arrangement with a dozen red carnations surrounded by a border of feathery green, and Ciccinu gave her a beautiful vase filled with tulips, daffodils and freesias. She thanked her husband and then gave her son a warm hug as tears slid down her plump cheeks.

“I am so lucky,” she said, turning to the picture of the Lady of Carmen and thanking the Madonna for her blessings.

After the meal, around two o’ clock in the afternoon, don Turiddu and Ciccinu retired to a side room, which was originally used as a library and had a door leading directly to the outside. The antique bookshelves made of walnut with elaborate carvings on the side and dainty glass doors were now bare. The paintings that had once adorned that stately room were removed by the duke’s heirs before the palace was purchased by don Turiddu. The only ornament on the walls was a large Crucifix that had been placed on the long wall by order of donna Rosalia. This was a room used for conducting business and it needed the minimum of furnishings: a small desk and four chairs. Don Turiddu and Ciccinu spent an hour in that room, debating back and forth in a low voice. Then Ciccinu made a phone call and shortly after father and son left quietly and unnoticed.

Donna Rosalia cleared the table and washed the dishes. She was expecting her sister Sara and wanted her dining room and kitchen to be clean and tidy. As usual, she did not pay any attention to what her husband and son were doing. She did not want to know anything about their business. Her place in life was to feed her family, make sure that her husband and son were dressed with clean clothes, keep the house tidy, and protect the souls of her family members by attending Mass daily and reciting the Rosary every night.

At five o ’clock, donna Rosalia and her sister went to their father’s house for their regular Sunday afternoon visit. Sara had provided her father with his meal at lunch and donna Rosalia was now doing her part by bringing him dinner. At seven o’ clock the two sisters went to church to recite the rosary with the parish prayer group and to thank the Virgin Mary for her blessings. On the way out they met Lucia, Sara’s neighbor. She appeared to be agitated.

“Do you know what happened this afternoon? Somebody killed Miciu menzaricchia.”

“Gesuzzu, Giuseppi e Maria,” donna Rosalia exclaimed in astonishment. “Who would do such a thing?”

“He was such a nice man,” added Sara. “Santa Virgini, please console his wife Maria and the poor innocent children. They have to grow up without a father. Oh, Santu Spiritu, have mercy on them.”

“Are you sure that it was murder?” donna Rosalia asked.

“It was murder all right,” Lucia replied in a tone of indignation, “my husband saw the dead man up close. He was stabbed in the chest three times.”

“Where did it happen?” Sara asked.

“Right in front of his pizza place,” Lucia answered with the pride of one who has exclusive news to offer.

“But his restaurant is closed on Sunday afternoon. It opens at seven o’ clock!” blurted donna Rosalia, who was still incredulous.

“I don’t know,” replied Lucia, who was getting annoyed at donna Rosalia’s questions. “Maybe he had a special meeting with somebody. Only he knows, and he cannot tell. Anyhow, I have to run now. I have to see my sister and tell her.”

The two sisters remained silent for a minute. Then donna Rosalia said to Sara, “I better go home and prepare dinner. The two men in my house have great appetites and do not like to wait when they are hungry.” She turned around and marched towards Piazza San Francesco, picking up the pace as she went along. When she entered her house, she saw that don Turiddu and Ciccinu were sitting in the family room adjacent to the kitchen, watching the soccer news on TV. She noticed right away that Ciccinu had changed his clothes.

“Where did you put your dirty clothes?” she asked Ciccinu.

“I put them in the basket on top of the washing machine, Ma.”

“I am going to start a load now and then I will prepare dinner,” said donna Rosalia, and walked towards the laundry room. As she picked up the dirty clothes, she noticed that Ciccinu’s shirt had a couple of large blood stains.

“Did you hurt yourself, Ciccineddu?”

“Just a scratch,” replied Ciccinu casually. “I did not realize I was bleeding and made a mess of the shirt when I touched it with my hand.”

“You better put a Band-Aid on; you do not want the scratch to become dirty.”

“I already did it,” Ciccinu answered. Then he added casually, “by the way, Ma, I was at home the whole afternoon; you saw me, right.”

“Of course, I saw you. You were in the library,” donna Rosalia replied. Then she turned to her husband and asked him, “where you also in the library the whole afternoon, Turiddu?”

“No, Rosalia,” said don Turiddu, “I was at uncle Sal’s house, playing cards with him, cousin Johnny and cousin Vinnie. I have already called them.”

“Ma, aunt Sara must have also seen that I was in the library the whole afternoon.”

“I am sure she did. I will call her right away to make sure she did.”

That evening, donna Rosalia felt the need to pray the Rosary again. When she finished the recitation, she added an extra prayer.

“Biata Madunnuzza, intercede with your Son for the soul of poor Miciu menzaricchia and do not abandon his wife and children.” Then she made the sign of the cross and added quietly, “Blessed Virgin, take care of my son.”

The news of Miciu’s murder spread quickly through the village. It had been twenty years since the last murder in the village, when Iapucu mustrazzuni shot his wife for infidelity. The maresciallo began his inquest in earnest but with caution. First, he went to see the parson.

“Padre, I am trying to find out who committed this horrible act. I know you are bound to secrecy, but I wonder if you know anything about Miciu that may shed some light on this tragedy. Did he have any enemies?”

“Maresciallo, in this village people don’t talk outside the confessional. Miciu’s wife is a devout woman and comes to Mass every Sunday. His children are well behaved and participate in the catechism classes, but I saw Miciu in church only at Christmas and Easter. I never talked to him.”

“Are you sure that you never heard any gossip about him?”

“Maresciallo, you have been in this village long enough to know that talking out of turn may be dangerous. Here people mind their own business. What happened to Miciu is tragic, especially for his widow and children, but I doubt that you will be able to find out who killed him and why.”

The maresciallo decided then to talk to don Turiddu, more as a sign of respect than to seek information. At don Turiddu’s house he received a warm welcome.

“Come in, maresciallo. We are always honored by the presence of the authorities who maintain law and order in our village. Please, sit down.”

As he ushered the maresciallo to the living room, he shouted to his wife,

“Rosalia, bring two bicchierini of anisette liqueur and a plate of almond cookies.”

“Don Salvatore, Miciu was your friend, right?”

“Oh yes, he was a good friend, and a very good pizza maker too.”

“Did he confide with you about enemies or threats that he might have received?

“Maresciallo, real men don’t talk about these matters. They take care of them personally.”

“And you, did you hear any rumors about Miciu?”

Don Turiddu straightened his posture to project an image of self-importance and replied in a solemn voice,

 

“People come to me only when they need a favor. They say nothing else, and don’t ask. I just help them when I can.”

He returned to a more relaxed posture and added with a nostalgic tone, “these are strange times, maresciallo. People in this village used to know their proper place in society. That’s what kept peace and order. Not anymore. Without respect, how can we have order?”

Don Turiddu’s expression changed to a look of concern.

 “I need your advice, maresciallo. I feel bad for Miciu’s wife and her two children. It’s hard enough to grow up without a father, but they will have some financial difficulties. I would like to help. Would you be willing to talk to the widow?”

“Don Turiddu, you know I come from the North and I am not familiar with the local traditions. I do not want to risk offending anyone. It may be better if you talk to the parson.”

“Good advice, maresciallo, good advice. I know her. She is very proud and would not accept charity even from a friend.”

The maresciallo realized that he was not going to get any useful information from don Turiddu and changed subject.

“How is your son?”

“Cicciu is up the mountains with his cousin preparing the land for planting. He will be back for the funeral though.”

Not wanting to waste any more time, the maresciallo excused himself and, offering his thanks to donna Rosalia for her generous hospitality, departed. He would continue his inquiry, but he already knew the conclusion.

The funeral took place on Wednesday afternoon. Don Turiddu spread the voice that he wanted this to be a memorable funeral. He also ordered the band to play at the funeral and told the florist that he would pay for all the flowers, regardless of who ordered them. He also made a special donation to the church to ensure that the parson would deliver a eulogy that would make Miciu’s two sons proud of their father.

The procession from the main church to the cemetery began at 4 p.m. The priest, accompanied by the sacristan and two altar boys, led the procession followed by four pallbearers carrying the casket and 4 alternates by the side, the widow dressed all in black with her children and Miciu’s close family members. In the next row were the widow’s relatives together with don Turiddu and Cicciu, both wearing their Sunday clothes, and finally all the paesani. At the end of the eulogy, the widow brought her two children closer to each other and, pointing a finger unobtrusively in the direction of don Turiddu and Cicciu, bent her upper body so she could whisper to her sons,

“Do you see those two men? When they come to offer their condolences, look closely at their faces and stamp them in your memory. When you are old enough, I will tell you why.”