CHAPTER FIRST
1991, Italy
Michelangelo walked to the entrance hall and stood, staring at the car that drove off the main alley of the estate. Enwrapped in his thoughts, he raised his warm eyes towards the family portraits in the gallery and started ascending the stairs.
The serious man in his late forties set the door slightly ajar just like his mother had done once upon a time. Then bravely, he pushed the door and came to a halt on the garret, and saw the forgotten, dusty chest.
The key! He could not remember any word about the key. But why, for God's sake, did he need the key to the past of his own mother? Who should have the right to know her but him? And who would give a damn for a broken chest in his own home?
A slog and the rusty the padlock, unused for years, fell on the floor. He lifted the lid, it creaked, and he jerked back to avoid the thick cloud of dust, which filled the air. The brilliance of the clothes inside had faded away. The newspapers and photographs were yellow with the ages. By the paled light of the window, he took in his hands each object in succession. His eyes moved from her personal diary with the tarnished covers to the photographs. For a long time, he stood staring at an article in an old magazine with glossy pictures of the star Sofiana Assenova, the best opera singer of Bulgarian origin, a soloist at the Italian "La Scala", the greatest opera theatre.
1937, Milan, a home close to “La Scala”
The last moment, in which Sofiana Assenova could say farewell to that part of her life, had arrived. She was always certain she would be proud of her achievement to be the brightest star on the stage. Yet confusion occupied her loving lodgings, before she left them lonely and abandoned by stealth like a thief. She could never learn to relieve easily sorrow from her spirit. Therefore her heart urged on escape as soon as possible and to remember them brimming with bright feelings, which she would like to experience again in one more life. They were a big gift of fortune.
The attractive woman touched her beautiful stage costumes, photographs, and articles and placed them very carefully inside a large chest. For the last time Sofiana cherished her artistic world, in which her heart had found its refuge in the past. At only thirty-four years old and despite anguish and sadness she left her pursuit of success, of fame and the constant struggle to win the love of public at every single performance because their adoration replaced her need of love in her private life. A beloved singer and a lonely woman she welcomed the moment she trusted her second marriage with the seventeenth Count Giovanni De Castellano from Sicily would fulfil the emptiness somehow.
Thereafter her brilliant career was over.
She closed the lid and locked it with a small padlock. The key remained locked in her cupped hand for some time.
Some days later, in her new bedroom, in the palace of the distinguished De Castellano family in a Sicilian town, Sofiana was secretly writing in her diary:
“Acquaintance with the whole of Gianni’s life is the only pleasant time to me now. He has known my past and I have been searching for his here. Many people tell me my husband was tenacious since his earliest years and his leadership qualities were indisputable since childhood. How could he understand that living in Sicily is a challenge for me? I was born an ordinary girl in all aspects and now I need tenacity more than those who were blessed with it at birth, the strength that lasts for a lifetime."
She was startled by footsteps entering the room. Her husband, the diplomat Giovanni De Castellano, looked at the open lid of the full chest and kissed her tenderly:
"Are you tired? Shall I call your maid to finish the work?"
"No! I am used to coping with everything by myself." She grew sombre and swallowed with difficulty: "This chest holds all things to which I could say goodbye but could not discard them.”
"I see." Count Giovanni nodded with understanding. "I will order the servants to move it to the attic. You would feel better if you do not see it every single day.” Her opened notebook also attracted his attention.
"Do you replace singing with writing? You always have a surprise that draws my interest."
"This is no book, just my personal diary for my hours of loneliness..."
"Loneliness? You have me," His warm brown eyes darkened.
"Gianni, I thank God for having you."
The two exchanged tender smiles before he left. Thoughtfully she looked at the diary in her hands. Gianni was right. As the costumes from her past on the opera-scene proved to be intolerable for her new relatives, here it would also be best for her to avoid her diary full up with sentimental thoughts. She placed the notebook on top of the chest.
Shortly thereafter, the Countess and two servants climbed the stairs between walls decorated with old icons and goblin tapestries dating back to the eighteenth century. Sofiana's eyes rested for a while on each one of them. She was searching unconsciously for something to ease her strained mind.
The servants carried the wooden chest to the attic of the palace and climbed down. Some minutes later the door creaked slightly and someone set it ajar. A streak of light poured through the thin slot. Sofiana Assenova stood there with her eyes fixed upon the chest. She did not dare to take a step further. Instead, she slowly left and closed the door. Forever! She convinced herself that she should forget. Who would ever care to remember what gave meaning to her days in times gone?
1991, Italy, Sicily, on the attic
"That is you, that were you, mother, my dear mother," the whisper was full of worship and sadness. “You were so beautiful, so popular and so much loved. Why were they and you hiding this from me?" Michelangelo began to turn the pages of the old diary at random then he approached the window of the attic. It surprised him that all of the content was written in Bulgarian. With regret, he returned to the previous articles in the Italian press.
And in those distant years nobody in his native house would experience the need to open the chest as if it was personal offence to her son. Their behavior was the reason for his expectations of discovering some guilt of hers. Fears had all been in vain. He felt proud of what he had found, and he could not forgive the foolish thoughts was assumed and throve in his mind. Why had he remained all unveiled at such later date so it was still forcibly enough to destroy the balance inside him? Rage, powerful rage shook him all over, and he clenched temperamentally his fists. Who had deserved the might of the passionate explosion of hatred inside him?
His spontaneous wrath gushed forth to the surface and Michele started a new journey to reach for the beginning of the story, which he regarded as his legacy. From this day ahead, his mind was feverishly penetrating into the vaguer memories, which were his beacon on the gloomy road of challenges. He should find out the answers, of which he used to get afraid.
He needed to find the truth!
The same need since his childhood…
CHAPTER SECOND
The 1950s, Sicily, the palace of De Castellano family
Standing on the main flight of stairs, the little Michelangelo with his cousin Donatela were enjoying their game of sliding down the railing and off the central staircase. Having escaped from the rooms on the upper floor and from the attention of the adults, the two children dedicated every stolen minute to their favourite enjoyment. At last, they jumped across the lowest step with a spring and stood in the central foyer among the family portraits. Sofiana's sweet son halted his steps there. With his eyes fixed upon his portrait that was now hanging in the place of his mother's, he moved forward. He could not stop staring at the favourite portrait of his father. Deep in concentration, he paid no attention to his cousin tugging at his hand. The warm, lively eyes of the little Count began to sink beyond that portrait, as if touched successfully the beginning of the twentieth century.
As if Giovanni De Castellano was the child sliding enthusiastically down the railing of the main staircase and landing after he had jumped across not one, but two stairs. His laugh was echoing through the hallways, while dark-haired and thin he was rushing into the open. One of the servants gave him his school bag. The little Count grabbed it and walked on in a hurry down the alley.
Passing by some streets, he uncontrolled cried out: "Marco, Marco, please, wait for me. See what I have." He showed his classmate and friend a new toy. It was a small soldier.
The two boys felt exhilaration: "We are soldiers, we are soldiers!" They entertained themselves by imitating shooting with guns. Even in the yard of the Catholic school, the two forming a separate unit.
"That must be the new one!" Marco exclaimed.
Between groups only one of the boys was standing on his own with his bag in his hand.
"He is so sad, standing aside…" Gianni was systematically taught the virtues of sympathy and goodness by Monsignor Ritelli, his confessor. And also having a very sensitive nature, the boy suggested to his best friend:
"Let's invite him with us."
"The others would not do such a thing.” Marco objected.
"That is why I am doing this, otherwise he'll remain alone."
The kids shook hands with Santonio, and the three boys headed for the classroom.
Some days later, the little Giovanni in the De Castellano family
The servant was not waiting for the little heir as usual, when he descended the stairs in low spirits. Instead, the boy saw his confessor and a smile of comfort cheered his face. Greatly surprised, Giovanni stopped in the middle of the staircase and heard the affectionate voice of his mother:
"Today you are not going to school, Gianni. Stay at home to have a rest, dear. You need to calm down. Moreover, you have a guest. Monsignor Ritelli, has come to see you."
"Good afternoon, Monsignor Ritelli!" Giovanni kissed his hand respectfully and crossed himself.
There was a shadow of tenderness in the eyes of his confessor. The thin, tall, almost thirty-five years old Ritelli caressed his cheek:
"I am glad to see you, my little friend. I search for our meeting before my departure for the Vatican. I was invited to do my service there.”
“No. You serve here”.
"Gianni, I will get back here several times within a year. By all means, I will come and see you."
"I let you take leave of each other." It was Countess Marzia’s intention to retire with tact. "I hope you will stay for dinner. Don Alessandro will be back for it especially for you."
"Thank you, with pleasure, signora Marzia. Let's have a walk in the garden my little friend."
Outside Ritelli spoke first:
"Do not grow sad Gianni, trust me, we’ll see each other soon.”
The youngster did not try to wipe the wet drops that had stuck to his eyelashes. He felt sincere affection for his confessor. The agreeable man was the only one, with whom the boy hurried to share the issues that were tormenting his heart, now stronger than ever.
"I trust in you, father.”
“And I guess you have something to share with me. Your mother mentioned about it. Gianni, let me help you.”
“I did nothing wrong, I was not an eavesdropper. I have just heard a conversation between her and daddy about my classmate Santonio. Father, you often tell me to treat everyone with respect, because we are all God’s children. Then why is my classmate Santonio different for my mother? He is a child of God, too, just like me and Enzo, and Marco. What will happen to him?”
The insistent Ritelli found himself in a difficult position. His subtlety suggested him how easily he might lose the boy's friendship with wrong words. He proceeded very carefully. "Gianni, adults have their rules. I am sad to say that even though you do not understand them you have to accept them. And it is out of my and your parents’ power to teach you everything. Some lessons you will learn directly from life.”
The boy was full of frankness and candour, especially with people most intimate to his heart:
“Father, would you speak with mom and daddy? They will listen to you.”
“I wish I could. One day you would get understand why I couldn’t, Gianni." He was such a bright child but now, immersed in thoughts, he seemed too serious for a boy of his age. Ritelli took him by the hand and they continued strolling along the pathway. He did not wish to leave the little boy bewildered.
"I am moved by your confidence in my precepts, Gianni. Keep them in spite of your confusion now!”
“I do. I would like to be as you…’
“My little, it should be our fate. At least one of each generation from our family makes a choice to dedicate his life to religion. For me, the fourth cousin of Don Alessandro it was a matter-of-course decision. For you, the first-born son and heir this should prove to be an impossible choice. So, don’t burden your little head with too big issues.”
Ritelli had lagged unnoticeably behind, and allowed himself the freedom to tear a twig, and with its leaflets, he tickled his little friend on the back of his neck. With pleasure, he heard cheerful laughter and the noise the little rushing feet of the boy raised between the bushes and branches. For the bright child, childhood should not be over here, with the first serious issue that he encountered.
1991, on the attic
His father’s memories… On the attic, in front of the old chest Michele remembered how many times he had listened to them by Ritelli. If only he could have his mother’s at his disposal, too. Those were never mentioned to him!
The pieces of the puzzle would be easily put together.
Now he would have to rely on his intuition, imagination, and life experience.
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I would love to receive some feedback about this story. It will be published in 2012.
Happy reading!
Borislava Borissova, the author