A Cuckold

Family saga

Lorenzo was celebrating his eighteenth birthday in the kitchen of the family’s small farmhouse at the end of the workday, having a chat with his mother, Micia. They were drinking espresso and eating the sponge cake she prepared for the occasion. Lorenzo was an only child, still living at home to help his widowed mother squeeze a meagre living from the small plot of land left by his father. During the past few months Lorenzo thought a lot about his future and this day, he decided to share his sentiments with his mother.

“Ma,” he began, “given our situation, there is no future in the village for me. I cannot support a family with this small piece of land. I would need to buy more land, but we barely survive as is. Where do I get the money to buy land?”

Lorenzo paused for a moment to observe his mother’s reaction. When he saw that she was listening attentively, he continued. “I think it would be best if I went to Venezuela, where many village folk have made their fortune.”

Micia had anticipated this revelation from her son. Although she was aware that her life would become even harder without him, she also knew that her son was right, and she had already resigned herself to his eventual departure. Still, hearing her son’s words gave a painful reality to her fears.

With a poorly concealed sadness she replied with a quiver in her voice. “I will miss you, son, but I know you must go. I will help you get ready for your new life.”

No other word was spoken that evening, except for the bedtime ritual when Lorenzo asked for his mother’s blessing and Micia responded, “You are blessed, my son.”

Mother and son started making the necessary preparations in haste. They began sending letters to various paesani who lived in Caracas to secure a place where Lorenzo could stay and get help finding a job. Then they visited the village agent who handled the paperwork for emigrants. When the day of his departure arrived, Lorenzo went from house to house through the village to say his goodbyes to friends and relatives. Finally, he was accompanied by a friend to the train station in Milazzo for the trip to Naples where he would embark for Caracas.

In Caracas, Lorenzo joined three young paesani he grew up with and who rented a room in a small house owned by a middle-aged couple on the outskirts of the city. The house consisted of two bedrooms plus a large room in the middle that served as kitchen, dining room, and living room. The bathroom was attached to the back of the house but was accessed from the outside. It had a toilet, a sink, and in the corner, a pipe bent at the top which carried cold water and served as a shower. Lorenzo found a job cleaning horse stables thanks to the trainer who was a paesano. It was a hard job and paid little, but every day brought him a bit closer to his dream. Each morning he got up at five and walked for an hour to the stables. He usually skipped breakfast, but took along a large piece of bread, some fruit, and a large bottle of water for lunch. Sometimes he gave himself the luxury of a couple of boiled eggs. In the evening, the four friends cooked a soup, took a cold shower, and did some nostalgic reminiscing before going to bed.

“Do you remember when we would get up early in June to gather fresh figs and eat them sitting in the tree?” asked Nino one evening.

“How could I forget that delicious fruit?” Carmelo replied. “One morning I leaned forward on a branch to pick the largest fig and almost fell right off the tree.”

“I preferred cherries,” Lorenzo interjected. “I remember climbing a cherry tree holding a split bamboo stick to hold them by the stem and I sat under the tree and gobbled them up.”

“With cherries you have to be careful,” Nunziato added. “If you eat too many of them you get a good bout of diarrhea.”

“I know,” Lorenzo said. “I made that mistake once and ended up with some stuff in my pants before I could reach the outhouse.”

Although the four friends heard those stories dozens of times, they still enjoyed in them and had a good laugh which served as an effective sleeping pill.

Hard work and low pay did not discourage Lorenzo. At the end of each day he forgot his aching muscles, the growling stomach, and the smell of manure that slowly penetrated his skin. All he could think was what he had earned and the dream it would help realize. Before going to bed he would thank God for another workday and repeat in his mind, “a few more square inches of land.” This would appease his soul, relax his muscles, and help him get a good night’s sleep.

Sunday was a day of rest and well-kept traditions for the four friends. In the morning they gave their bodies an extra scrubbing, and then sat down to plan the Sunday meal. The act of planning had effectively become a ritual because the meal was always the same: noodles with tomato sauce and meatballs, a poor imitation of the Sunday meal their mothers prepared at home. In the afternoon the four friends dressed up in their “good” clothes. Nino, Carmelo and Nunziato went for a walk, stopping at Café Italia for an ice cream and to meet other paesani to exchange bits of news they had received from home during that week. Their favourite topic was the status of the young women in the village. “Has anyone become engaged?” one of the young men would ask, each one rejoicing when the answer was negative.

Lorenzo always stayed home. He calculated even the cost of ice cream in terms of square millimeters of land. Then he multiplied this amount by fifty-two in order to determine the amount of land the ice cream would cost him over an entire year. No way would he give up so much land for a weekly ice cream. Whenever his friends asked him to come along, he would simply reply, “Sorry, I have to write a letter to my mother.”

His sacrifices paid off. After ten years he had accumulated enough savings to buy a good piece of land in the village, sufficient to support a family. He remained in Venezuela for another year in order to save enough for a wedding and then informed his mother that the time had come to seek a wife.

The routine for finding a wife in the village had changed a lot since many young men had started to seek fortune in foreign lands. In earlier times, these young men would have remained in the village and had the opportunity to watch the young ladies grow up and develop. They would spend Sunday morning strolling with their friends in the vicinity of a church, changing churches and time each Sunday to cover the entire village and observe all the potential brides. After a while they would make a choice, and from that time on they would frequent only the church attended by their chosen one so that they would be noticed and could establish eye contact. This way, the selected young lady could prepare herself emotionally for the formal marriage proposal that would be made to her parents.

This approach to courting was not available to the emigrants. For them, the long courting process of the young village men had to be compressed into three summer months when they would come back for the selection, engagement, and wedding. These time constraints fostered the development of a different method of selecting of a bride.

Micia rejoiced and went immediately to visit don Filoramo, a well-known member of the community and a recognized expert in arranging marriages, as several couples could attest.

“Don Filoramo,” said Micia, “you know my son. He is a good boy, hard-working, parsimonious, well behaved, and respectful. He wrote to me that he would like to come back this year for a visit and to get engaged, and then return for good next year and get married. You have to help me and do me the great favor of finding him a suitable mate�"a young woman of good heart, hard-working, and respectful.”

Don Filoramo listened attentively without interrupting. After a few minutes of reflection he replied, “Leave this matter to me. I will let you know in a week.”

Don Filoramo watched Lorenzo grow up and knew the type of wife he needed.

“She cannot be too young,” he spoke aloud, “because she would not be satisfied with farm life. She must be at least 25 years old. At that mature age, she will be happy to find a husband. She must be experienced with farm work because she has to help her husband in the land. There is no need for a large dowry because Lorenzo himself does not bring much to the marriage.”

With the requirements determined, don Filoramo started to peruse in his mind the memorized catalogue of eligible ladies in the village that would fit his criteria, making mental notes about their degree of suitability. He went over this process several times, each time shortening the list and occasionally exclaiming as if arguing with himself, “no, that one is not suitable.” In the end, he selected a young woman, Rosa, who was a few years younger than Lorenzo. She was part of a family that eked out a meagre existence as farmers, all four of them�"parents and two daughters�"working the land.

“The younger daughter would be preferable,” thought don Filoramo, “but she is already engaged. I think that the other one will do for Lorenzo.” Don Filoramo prepared himself to communicate the good news to Micia at the earliest possible occasion.

Micia welcomed the goods news with great joy and immediately informed her son by mail. Thanking his mother and don Filoramo, Lorenzo gave the green light to go ahead with the formal proposal. The process proceeded in accordance with old traditions. Don Filoramo visited the parents of the prospective bride, who immediately understood the reason for his visit.

The parents covered the kitchen table with the best tablecloth, the white one that had been embroidered by Rosa, and furnished it with a bowl of biscottini and a bottle of home-made anisette liqueur. Don Filoramo, wearing his dark suit and the vest lined with silk to honor the solemnity of the occasion, was greeted with great courtesy by Rosa’s family. The conversation started with the banalities that usually precede important subjects, such as the weather and the daily hardships of life, and then moved to the purpose of the visit. Don Filoramo finished drinking his glass of liqueur, wiped his lips with the embroidered napkin, repositioned himself in the chair in a manner that exuded authority, and initiated his well-rehearsed speech.

“Don Francesco, donna Caterina.” He started his proclamation as if he were delivering a church sermon. “Everyone in the village knows that you have two outstanding daughters, hard-working, virtuous, and obedient. One of them is already engaged and the other, I am sure, has many suitors. I have come today on behalf of one of those suitors. You know him well and you know his family. A hard-working young man, with strong Christian values, gentle of disposition, and with no vices. He is not rich but has enough land to support a family. The most important thing, however, is that he will be a loving and caring husband, I can guarantee you that; otherwise I would not be here presenting a marriage proposal. I am referring to Lorenzo, the son of Micia the widow. He has been in Venezuela for ten years and has been quite successful in his work. If you accept his marriage proposal for your daughter Rosa, he is ready to come back for the engagement and then to return for good next year to get married and settle down in the village.”

He paused, looked at husband and wife, who listened silently to his speech and relaxed in the chair waiting for the father’s reply.

Don Francesco, who had listened attentively to don Filoramo’s speech, cleared his throat with a sip of liqueur, placed his elbow on the table, rested his chin on his right hand, and uttered the equally well-rehearsed and expected reply.

“Don Filoramo,” he started, “your visit does honor to our family as everyone in the village knows your honesty in everything you do and your integrity in matters of marriage. You have presented us with a good young man who comes from a good family, and we thank you for that.”

He paused and then tried to lighten up the conversation, saying, “Have another glass of anisette liqueur. It is home-made and is refreshing.” Then he continued on the marriage subject.

“As you know, we parents have big responsibilities with our children, especially with our daughters. We must ensure that they find good husbands, who can take care of them financially, be God-fearing, and be good husbands and fathers. It’s not so easy to fit those shoes. Many of today’s young men are lazy and unreliable. Some parents have ended up supporting daughter and son-in-law after the marriage.”

He paused again to give the impression of offering the well-reasoned answer of a wise man.

“Your proposal is an honorable one and my family will give it the serious consideration it deserves. Let’s meet again next Sunday and you will have our answer.”

Having accomplished his mission, don Filoramo got up, exchanged thanks with don Francesco and his wife, and returned home. The family’s decision was made the same evening, but tradition required the passing of a minimum period of time before giving the answer.

The following Sunday’s meeting was very short. Don Francesco went to don Filoramo’s house to show his respect and announce his decision.

“Don Filoramo,” he said, “we have completed our family deliberations. As usual you made a wise choice, and we are satisfied that Lorenzo will be a good husband for Rosa. You can tell him that he can come any time for the official engagement.”

Don Filoramo communicated the good news to Micia and she informed her son, who immediately made plans for his visit to the village.

Lorenzo purchased his boat ticket immediately and in two weeks was back home. To avoid wasting time, he presented himself for the official engagement the day after his arrival. His mother had already purchased the engagement ring and prepared a nice bunch of flowers. With the bouquet in hand and the engagement ring in his pocket, Lorenzo joined Micia and don Filoramo in their walk towards the house of the beloved, which was located about one kilometer away. They paid the visit late in the evening and Lorenzo was placed in the middle of the group trying to hide the flowers from the curiosity of the village folks they encountered on the way.

When they arrived at don Francesco’s house, they knocked at the door, which was unlocked. They were invited to go up to the second floor and meet the family in the small waiting room. The three went up the stairs in single file, with don Filoramo leading, and were greeted by the hosts, who were standing in line as if waiting for a military inspection. Don Filoramo, Lorenzo, and his mother lined up in similar fashion in front of them. In the rush of the engagement process, Lorenzo had not yet had a chance to see a photo of his future bride and did not know to which of the two young women he had to present the flowers and the ring. He used his elbow to attract don Filoramo’s attention.

Don Filoramo understood the nudge and whispered, “the one on the right.”

Lorenzo stepped forward moving slightly to his right, and without uttering a word gave the flowers and the ring to Rosa. The engagement was now official.

The wedding was a traditional affair, carried out with simplicity and taste. Saturday morning at eleven, the young couple, together with their parents and close relatives, went to church for the religious ceremony. Then they went to the house of the bride for their festive meal. This meal was an elaborate affair. It started with platters of antipasto containing homemade salami, pickled olives, pickled eggplant, and dried tomatoes, and was followed by a soup with tortellini stuffed with cheese and then by rigatoni in a rich tomato sauce. Meatballs and breaded veal slices fried in olive oil were served as the meat dish. All this food was washed down with copious amounts of special wine that had been made by don Francesco. Fresh fruit of the season completed the meal. When the effects of the heavy meal and the wine started to weigh heavily on the eyelids, everyone went home to take a rest and get ready for the evening festivities.

At eight in the evening, the wedding party convened in the basement of don Francesco’s house, which had been cleaned and decorated for the occasion. This was one of the few occasions during the year when young and old, males and females joined together in traditional dances, hopping around to the tunes from records played in an old RCA gramophone which had a dog painted on the horn to which was attached the needle and the inscription “your master’s voice.” Energy was injected into these dances by generous servings of homemade biscotti washed down with mandarin and anisette liqueur.

At two in the morning, everyone went home exhausted but happy, some men leaning on their wives to maintain a steady step.

Lorenzo and Rosa went directly to a small house located some distance from both sets of parents that had been given to them for temporary use. This house had been assigned to Rosa’s sister as part of her dowry but could be used by Rosa until her sister got married. It was a small house, all on one floor with a room right off the entrance that served as kitchen, dining room, and living room, a single bedroom and a bathroom. Later in the morning the two mothers came to visit the newlyweds to inspect the bed in which the newlyweds had slept the night before to check for blood stains. As Micia was busy analyzing the sheets, Caterina was smiling, content that the family honor had withstood the test. The sheets were spread over the attic’s balcony for everyone to see.

Lorenzo was happy that all his dreams had come true. Each morning he woke up early and, without bothering with breakfast, left for the plot of land where he worked the entire day to improve the economic conditions of his new family. Rosa joined him when there were additional tasks that required her assistance, but generally remained at home to take care of the domestic chores. Lorenzo tried to minimize the farm responsibilities of his wife to demonstrate his affection for Rosa and show to the village folks that he was capable of supporting a family.

The new home life afforded Rosa more rest, but she also started to feel a sense of loneliness that she had never experienced before. Her workload had diminished since her wedding, but so had her human contact. In her family, the pain of the hard work in the field was always tempered by the laughter with her mother or her sister. In the new home, the free time that was suddenly available to her intensified her loneliness and made her restless.

As weeks went by, Rosa tried to subdue her restlessness by making mental preparations for the evening when Lorenzo came home. She imagined romantic dinners and some private time spent with her husband. She made extra efforts to prepare special meals, not just as a means of keeping herself busy, but to entice her husband to greater intimacy. Lorenzo was thankful for Rosa’s culinary expertise and never failed to express his appreciation for having married such a good cook but was too tired from a hard day to meet Rosa’s expectations. Only on Sunday was he rested enough to spend time with her. Longing for more human interactions, Rosa started to go outside the house door after her husband’s departure with the excuse that she wanted to keep the sidewalk clean. This activity not only gained her greater respect among the neighbors, who praised her love for cleanliness, but provided the opportunity for human interactions with those passing by.

This external activity caught the interest of a local young man named Cosimo. One morning, when he noticed there were no neighbors around, he ventured towards Rosa’s house and greeted her while she was outside cleaning the sidewalk.

“A pretty woman like you should not be doing this dirty work,” he said. “Please, let me help you.”

He took the broom from her hands and finished the job. In gratitude, Rosa invited him to the kitchen for a cup of coffee but left the door open. He introduced himself as the son of the neighbors just around the corner and started small talk aimed mainly at getting information about Lorenzo’s daily activities. Rosa’s eyes fixated on Cosimo’s body, scanning with a desire that did not go unnoticed. Emboldened by Rosa’s revealing glances, Cosimo decided to take his chance.

“I have never seen the inside of this house,” he said. “Do you mind if I look around?”

“Go ahead,” Rosa replied automatically, without giving any thought to what she was saying. “There is not much to see.”

Cosimo got up and first walked towards the front door.

“It’s windy this morning,” he said. “It would be best to close the door, or the house will be filled with dust.”

He waited a few seconds to observe Rosa’s reaction. When he saw that she remained silent, he closed the door and walked directly to the bedroom. She followed him silently as if pulled by a force beyond her control. No more words were exchanged between the two and, after spending an hour with Rosa in the bedroom, Cosimo silently left the house, checking first that nobody would notice his exit.

For the next week, Rosa was not seen outside her house. Cosimo was on the prowl each morning but did not dare knock at the door. Rosa knew that she had committed a mortal sin and her soul was tormented. She went to confession and promised not to commit that sin again. This confession appeased her soul temporarily, but neither the closed door nor the daily repetition of prayers of penitence could extinguish the burning desire that was tormenting her body and erase from her memory the images of her encounter with Cosimo. She needed to share her agony with someone, to get comfort and strength for resisting those temptations, but there was nobody she could talk to. Her mother would not have been able to handle such tragic news, and Rosa knew that no friend in the village could be trusted to keep to herself such a valuable piece of gossip. At the end, exhausted by this unending interior struggle, Rosa decided to resume her outdoor cleaning activities.

Cosimo recognized the signal and presented himself again to resume the encounters, which from that day on followed an unwritten and unspoken script. Rosa would wait for her husband’s departure before opening the door and starting her outdoor activities. Cosimo would linger in the vicinity until all the neighbors had gone away or were too busy in their homes to notice him, and at the opportune moment, he would enter Rosa’s house, quickly closing the door. The encounters were usually conducted in silence to minimize the risks of detection and Cosimo was always careful to ensure that the coast was clear before exiting the house.

Unable to appease her conscience by periodically going to confession to ask pardon for a sin that she knew would be repeated, Rosa decided to compensate for her guilty feelings by increasing her expressions of affection towards her husband and by catering to his needs with increasing solicitude.

Lorenzo had no idea of his wife’s unfaithfulness. He did not know how to express his happiness. “What a fantastic choice don Filoramo made,” he would repeat in his mind every day. “I could have not made a better choice myself.” And these feelings gave him more strength to work in the fields to provide a better living to such a worthy companion.

This happy triumvirate lasted for a while, until one morning Lorenzo forgot the daily lunch bag prepared by his attentive wife and had to go back home. With her mind occupied with her lover’s approaching visit, Rosa did not notice that the bag was still on the kitchen cupboard after her husband’s departure. She had been with Cosimo for a short while when the two lovers heard the door open and Lorenzo’s voice calling out, “Rosa, I forgot my lunch bag, where did you put it?”

Not seeing his wife in the kitchen, Lorenzo proceeded towards the bedroom. These events unfolded so rapidly that Rosa and Cosimo had no time even to move. For a moment the entire scene was like a still picture: Rosa remained covered under a sheet, covering her shame. Cosimo was motionless as through struck by lightning, and Lorenzo was standing by the door, with his eyes fixed on the bed, an expression of astonishment that quickly changed to uncontrollable anger. Then pandemonium broke loose. Lorenzo ran to the kitchen to grab a knife while Rosa stayed still under the sheets praying to God to have mercy on her soul, certain that her husband would kill her. Cosimo, awakened by fear at the sight of Lorenzo with a knife in his hand, jumped out of bed and leaped through the bedroom window.

The two men were seen running through the village streets, one naked and the other dressed, but with a large knife in his hands. Youth, the absence of encumbrances from clothing and the fear of death and going to hell won over the uncontrollable fury of Lorenzo whose speed was hampered by the large work boots he was wearing. When he went back home defeated, Lorenzo did not find his wife there. She ran away when she found herself miraculously alive and watched her husband run after Cosimo.

Rosa was not seen in the village again. Her parents were mortified for the loss of family honor caused by the shameful behavior of their eldest daughter. They were also concerned about what might happen to the engagement of their second daughter. Who would want to be part of a family whose honor was so tarnished? Did this immoral streak run in the family? These were heavy questions to ponder. All three family members tried to avoid contact with other people in the village, leaving the house extremely early in the morning and returning home very late in the evening when most people were either in the kitchen eating or in bed.

Lorenzo did not know what to do. Ten years of slavery in a foreign land to save enough for a wedding and for raising a family, and all those sacrifices for naught. Worse than that. At least as a bachelor he would still have retained the honor that he guarded so carefully even in a foreign land where he was free to take a wrong step without being noticed. He would not take that risk. All that mattered to him was to save so he could buy a piece of land large enough to support a family. It was not even don Filoramo’s fault. Rosa came from an honest family, hard workers beyond reproach. As a wife, she worked hard and behaved towards him with respect and kindness�"even affection. He needed to do some thinking about his future.

Finally, Lorenzo decided to leave the village for a while, at least until all the gossip subsided. He asked his mother to seek some help in keeping his plot of land in production, left her his belongings from the small house where he lived as a married man, and departed. Nobody in the village knew where Lorenzo and Rosa went. To the nosy people who ventured asking, the parents would answer politely but firmly that they had no idea about their children’s location. Even the mailman, who paid particular attention to the letters and postcards addressed to Lorenzo’s and Rosa’s parents, was unable to resolve that mystery. That adventure, which originally was told by eyewitnesses, had with time become part of the village lore. The basic elements became embellished as the story was retold many times and by different people until it became part of those stories, part truth and part fiction, narrated by the ambulant troubadours.

A few years later, Lorenzo returned to the native village on the occasion of his mother’s death. He was invited to stay at his friend Gabriele’s house because he did not feel comfortable staying alone in the house where his mother’s dead body had rested just a couple of days earlier.

After the completion of the interment ceremony and the acceptance of condolences offered by relatives and friends, Lorenzo returned to his friend’s house. Following Gabriele into the house, Lorenzo was met with a shocking surprise: there, in the corner, sitting on a chair was Rosa, wearing a black dress as a sign of respect for her deceased mother-in-law. She was thinner than the last time Lorenzo saw her, and her face indicated aging beyond the passage of time since their separation. Her eyes were still sparkling but her countenance indicated inner suffering.

Lorenzo stood motionless, not knowing how to react. “What is Rosa doing here? Why did my good friend play such a trick on me?” These questions that started to occupy Lorenzo’s mind were quickly interrupted by Gabriele’s prepared speech.

“I know that you are surprised, Lorenzo, and perhaps angry at me,” he started to say, “but you have to hear me out. Rosa came to pay her last respects to your mother for whom she had genuine affection. It’s true that she made a grave error and hurt you badly, and I will not make excuses for that. Our pardon of the wrongdoing does not make it right. But Rosa is a good woman, and except for that false step, she was a good wife to you. She has been suffering from guilt ever since. Her health has suffered and, as you can see, she has become quite thin. I think without your pardon she will soon join your mother in Heaven.”

He paused at this point to regroup his thoughts for the conclusion of his speech; then, taking a long breath concluded, “Rosa would like to ask for your pardon and return to you as a loving and faithful wife.”

Lorenzo had remained motionless during the entire speech, but the expression of his face had changed slowly from surprise to anger and finally to compassion. He wanted to speak to Rosa but could not bring himself to address her directly. He turned to his friend and said, “Gabriele, tell Rosa that I thank her for showing her proper respect for my mother. What has been done cannot be undone, but life is full of marks that are never erased.”

He paused, started walking towards the door, and said to his friend, “I am going for a walk, I have some thinking to do. I will be back soon. Tell Rosa to wait.”

When Lorenzo returned, he saw Rosa sitting at the kitchen table. As Gabriele left the room, Lorenzo sat across from Rosa. They remained silent for a few minutes, occasionally lifting their eyes to look at each other. Finally Rosa gathered the courage to whisper,

“I am really sorry, Lorenzo.”

“You know Rosa, our marriage was arranged, but I loved you from the first minute I saw you.”

“I liked you too, Lorenzo, I really did.”

“When I saw you in the bedroom…not alone, my world crashed down on me. I was out of my mind. I could have killed both of you.”

“You would have been right.” She wept as she spoke.

Silence again filled the air.

“I will never forget that moment, and I am not sure whether I will ever be able to forgive you.”

“I understand,” Rosa replied. “What has been killing me ever since that day is the realization of how much I hurt you. I would like to have a chance to show you that I will never, ever do anything to hurt you again. I know I do not deserve your trust and certainly do not deserve your love, but I need the chance for redemption.”

There was silence again. Then Lorenzo got up, moved slowly to Rosa’s side, put his arms around her, and said, “Maybe that’s God’s will. I will pick you up tomorrow morning.”

Before leaving the village, Rosa and Lorenzo went again to the cemetery to pay their respects to their dear departed. They were placing flowers on different tombs when don Filoramo entered the cemetery. He noticed Lorenzo and walked in his direction to greet him. On his way he saw at a distance a woman strikingly resembling Rosa. Don Filoramo stopped to greet Lorenzo and then casually inquired, “That woman at the corner resembles Rosa a lot.”

“You have good eyes, don Filoramo,” replied Lorenzo. “It’s Rosa herself.” Then, anticipating his next question, Lorenzo added, “Dear don Filoramo, I know what you are thinking; if that woman is Rosa it means that they have reconciled and are together again.”

“No,” replied don Filoramo, showing a little embarrassment as if he were waiting to be scolded for making such a disastrous choice.

“Don’t be concerned, don Filoramo. You think you made a bad choice for me and feel a bit guilty and now you are thinking, how come Lorenzo has forgotten his dishonor and is back again with his wife?”

After a brief silence, Lorenzo looked don Filoramo in the eyes with a humble expression and proceeded, as if telling a story that had happened to somebody else.

“Don Filoramo, I am a cuckold, and the stamp of that symbol is imprinted in my forehead. Neither water, nor soap, nor lemon juice will ever get rid of it. On my forehead is written in capital letters: LORENZO, CUCKOLD. Every woman can read it from a distance. Which woman that marries me now do you think would remain faithful after looking day after day at that sign on my forehead? Rosa has repented and does not want to look at the inscription because it reminds her of her shame. For her it is like a beacon that reflects that symbol onto her forehead. Now we can come back to the village, together, and re-start our life.”

With those words, Lorenzo said good-bye to don Filoramo and started walking towards Rosa who waited patiently for him.

Reviews

[JayG]

I'm not going to make you happy, I'm afraid, but since your professional training and experience is getting in the way of your writing, and, it’s a problem that tends to be invisible to the author, I thought you’d want to know.

In this, you, the narrator, are telling the reader a story—transcribing yourself telling it to an audience. But that can’t work for several reasons:

• Verbal storytelling is performance art, where how you tell the story—your performance—counts as much as what you say, because it’s in the performance that the emotional content lies. As part of it you vary the emotion in your voice, its intensity, and the cadence. You use facial expression, eye-movement, gesture and body-language to replace the performances of the actors in a play or film. But how much of that performance reaches the reader? None. So what the reader has is a storyteller’s script, minus the stage directions.

But you’ll not see that because for you the performance takes place each time you read, because you cheat. Before you begin reading the setting is in your mind, as is the character’s backstory, mood, situation, and desires—plus your intent for how the words are to be taken. The reader has the emotion that punctuation indicates, and the meaning that the words suggest, based on their background, not your intent.

• Ours is a serial medium, where everything must be spelled out, one item at a time. So while on stage or film the reader gets the visual ambience and situation in an eyeblink, on the page a picture takes four standard manuscript pages, or 1000 words. So every word of unnecessary description serves only to slow the narrative. That’s why, when writing fiction for the page, we limit the visuals to what matters to the protagonist in the moment they call “now.” Ours isn’t a visual medium, remember, so instead of focusing on what can be seen and heard, we take the reader where film can’t go: into the protagonist’s mind.

• The reader isn’t seeking to know what happens. That’s a report, and as exciting as a history book. The fiction reader seeks an emotional, not an informational experience. As E. L. Doctorow put it: “Good writing is supposed to evoke sensation in the reader. Not the fact that it’s raining, but the feeling of being rained upon.” And no way in hell can we do that with the fact-based and author-centric skills of nonfiction.

But…during our public education days, we were being trained in a set of general skills that employers find useful. And in the case of writing, employers mostly require reports, papers, and letters—nonfiction. That’s why we were assigned so many reports and essays and so few poems and stories in school. How much time did your teachers spend on such a basic as why a scene ends in disaster for the protagonist. Most spend none.

And universally, we forget that professional knowledge and technique—like those of fiction—are acquired in addition to that basic set of skills. So, when we turn to recording our stories, not realizing that we left our school years equally qualified to write fiction and pilot a lunar lander, we use the skills that we already possess.

But since we read our own work with full knowledge of HOW we want it performed, we’ll never see a problem. If we see it as a reader, though, who requires context as, or before, a given line is read, things unnoticed by the author pop out at us:

• Lorenzo was celebrating his eighteenth birthday in the kitchen of the family’s small farmhouse at the end of the workday, having a chat with his mother, Micia.

This is a report, presented by a dispassionate external observer. And it supplies lots of unneeded detail:
1. We don’t need the mother’s name because he never uses it, and changing her name would have zero effect on the narrative. So why bother with it?
2. You say “small farmhouse.” But what’s a small farmhouse in one country may be huge in another. And we don’t know where and when we are, or even the century. And, won’t the reader know it’s a farmhouse when farming subjects are discussed? Won’t they know it’s the kitchen when they do things kitchen related? If they don’t why does where they are matter? Remember, the reader cannot see the image you hold, and unless it relates to moving the plot, meaningfully setting the scene, or developing character, it does nothing useful and serves only to slow the story and dilute impact.
3. I don’t know about you, but in all my life, I have NEVER celebrated my birthday by having a chat. And if the chat is about celebratory things, won’t we learn it as they talk?
4. That they HAD been chatting is irrelevant. It’s what happens, not what happened before we arrived that matters.

But, let's leave the author’s study, and the author, forget about hearing everything second-hand, and head to that farmhouse AS Lorenzo, focusing on what matters to him as he lives the scene, moment-by moment:
- - - - - -
Flip the lights on, Lorenzo,” His mother said as he came into the kitchen.

He did, and as he came to sit at the table where she was shelling peas, she added, “So…how does it feel to be eighteen?”

He laughed. “I feel just like I did after a day of cutting hay yesterday. And tomorrow I’ll…” He took a breath, blew it out, and said, “And that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
- - - - -
They're not your characters, and it's not your story, of course. It’s just a quick parallel, using a different approach. In it, we learn the character’s name, that it’s his eighteenth birthday, that we’re on a farm and it’s the end of a workday. We know who he’s talking to, and that she isn’t using frozen or canned peas, implying that they were grown by the family. But of more importance, we learn it in context, not as a lecture from someone neither on the scene nor in the story.

And look at the flow:

• In telling him to “flip” on the lights we know the era is one where there is electrical power. She calls him by name, which gives us gender, as well. and incidentally, we learn that we’re in a kitchen.

• He reacts by doing as asked, then comes to the table. So, time is passing for us as it is for him, each action a tick of the scene-clock.

• As he comes to join her he notes what she’s doing, as a bit of scene setting.

• Her remark tells us that it’s his birthday in a natural way.

• His reaction tells us that he sees it as no special event. And his remark confirms that.

• He then takes an unexpected turn and, obviously, readies himself for a task he feels won’t be easy.

• That done, he announces that he wants to discuss something he feels is important. And now, knowing his mindset, and that he doesn’t see what’s coming as easy, the reader WANTS to know. In other words, it’s a hook.

The technique used is called Motivation/Response Units, and they mirror how we live our lives, which, from waking to sleep are an unbroken chain of cause and effect. The technique presents that sequence fully within the viewpoint of the protagonist, in a way that the reader is always aware of the protagonist’s state of mind and desires. In other words, we calibrate the reader’s view of the scene to that of the protagonist, so that when we read of something happening, or said, our reaction will mirror that of the protagonist, and we will feel the sting of rain that’s peppering the protagonist’s cheek.

Make sense? It’s not a matter of talent, or how well you write. It’s that we’ll never address the problem we don’t see as being one. As Mark Twin put it: “It ain’t what you don’t know that gets you into trouble. It’s what you know for sure that just ain’t so.”

A good place to begin acquiring those techniques is via a text or two on the basics. Personally? I’d suggest starting with Dwight Swain’s, Techniques of the Selling Writer, which recently came out of copyright protection. It's the best I've found, to date, at imparting and clarifying the "nuts-and-bolts" issues of creating a scene that will sing to the reader. The address of an archive site where you can read or download it free is just below. Copy/paste the address into the URL window of any Internet page and hit Return to get there.

https://archive.org/details/TechniquesOfTheSellingWriterCUsersvenkatmGoogleDrive4FilmMakingBsc_ChennaiFilmSchoolPractice_Others

Read a chapter or three. I think you’ll be glad you did. That book has over 300 5-star reviews on Amazon. And it can bring a HUGE boost in how much fun the act of writing is, because using those techniques places the protagonist at your shoulder, as your co-writer, whispering suggestions and warnings in your ear.

So, I know this is pretty far from what you were hoping to hear, and having been there, I also know that something like this can hurt. But on the other hand, every successful author faced the same problem, and, you have a LOT of company. About half the hopeful writers travel that road. The other half present what reads like a chronicle of events. Neither work.

But wherever you do, hang in there, and keep on writing.

Jay Greenstein
https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/the-grumpy-old-writing-coach/