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THE MADONNA OF PISANO (The Italian Chronicles-Book 1)

By MaryAnn Diorio

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THE MADONNA OF PISANO
by MaryAnn Diorio

Chapter One
Pisano, Sicily, September 1891

She had no other choice.
Maria Landro led her little son by the hand as they hurried down the winding road from Bella Terra toward the village. Distant, dark clouds gathered in the morning sky.Looked like a storm coming. The anxiety that had been churning for days in the pit of herstomach now spread to chill every part of her body. It was all she could do to keep herself from turning back.
Nico tugged on her wrist. “Are we almost there, Mama?”
She squeezed his hand in return, the hem of her skirt rustling against the pebbles as it swished along the cobblestone road. “Almost, darling. Are you all right?”
He looked up at her. He had her father’s eyes. Kind, deep, and probing. They always made him so easy to love.
“I’m well, Mama.” But his fingers fidgeted in her hand.
His nervousness only fueled her own. She squeezed his hand more tightly. Please let the village be kind to him. Regardless of what they believed about her.
A sudden gust of wind caught the edge of her headscarf, pulling it back past her temples. “My, the wind is getting stronger. Let’s hurry before the storm breaks. We don’t want you to arrive at school soaking wet on your very first day, do we?”
“No, we don’t, Mama. I would look silly.” He laughed, and an arrow pierced her heart.
If anyone hurt him …
A hay-filled wagon rumbled past them, its wooden wheels creaking against the
pebble-strewn road. The driver turned his face away as he passed.
She winced, pulling her son closer to herself to hide him.
“Will the storm carry us away, Mama?” Nico laughed again. “Maybe the wind will pick me up, and I’ll fly like a bird and land on the school windowsill, and my teacher will laugh.”
She tensed. Nico’s teacher. No, Don Franco would never laugh. If only she could have chosen someone—anyone—else to be his teacher.
But not in Pisano.
The tiny village had only one schoolhouse and one teacher.
As they turned a bend in the road, she caught a glimpse of her family’s large tan stucco house. It sat majestically atop the hill, like a queen on her throne, surrounded by sloping fields of fragrant orange and lemon groves, purple-red vineyards, and golden wheat fields. Nestled among a cluster of tall poplar trees, would the queen soon be forced to give up her throne?
Was the farm’s failure Maria's fault as well?
She looked down at her little boy, all dressed up for his first day of school. She’d made him the pair of navy-blue cotton britches the school uniform required, topped by a white, short-sleeved shirt and navy-blue ascot. His new black leather shoes, though a bit too big, would soon fit his rapidly growing feet.
As they approached the village, she recoiled at the sight of the medieval church steeple reaching toward the gray morning sky. The church stood in the middle of the village as a sign of God’s central position in the lives of the villagers.
She hadn’t stepped foot in it for nearly seven years.
Pinwheeling out from the church, little pastel-colored stucco houses lined dirt roads framed by borders of yellow pansies and russet daylilies. Next to the church stood the rectory, its burnt orange tile roof in much need of repair.
She averted her eyes.
A few drops of rain splashed against her kerchief and sprinkled her face. She looked up just as a streak of lightning slashed the eastern sky. Then, with a loud clap, the clouds broke loose, dumping their reservoir of rain. Why hadn’t she brought an umbrella?
Gripping Nico’s hand, she started running. The rain pummeled her head and her back as she tried to guide her little boy around the puddles.
“Oh, Mama. My new shoes. They’re covered with mud.”
So much for showing off her son. After six years of hiding him, she would see her bold, triumphant moment ruined by mud.
“Don’t worry. As soon as we get to the school, I’ll wipe them off for you.”
Just as quickly as it had started, the rain stopped. She took out the handkerchief she’d shoved into her large canvas bag, next to the fresh fruit and nuts she’d brought for Nico’s snack, and wiped her son’s wet face. Wet from the rain, she hoped, and not from tears.
She couldn’t take tears. Not from him. Not from herself.
As they entered the village square, shouts of haggling customers caught her ear. Young mothers with babies on their hips bargained with shopkeepers over the price of peppers, eggplant, and squash. At the far end of the square, old women dressed in black shuffled out of the Church of the Holy Virgin, fresh from hearing daily Mass.
Nico pulled at her hand. “Mama, so many people. I never saw so many people.”
He seemed like a new puppy let loose from his cage. “Yes, my son. The village is
full of many people.”
Her eyes scanned the bustling square where she’d once spent many happy moments at Luigi’s outdoor café, eating pasta and sipping espresso in the company of family and friends.
Deftly skirting farmers pulling wobbly carts laden with lemons and oranges, she guided her child through the market crowd. Small groups of old men, their heads covered with flat-topped coppola hats, huddled at little round tables, chewing on long pieces of fennel while playing chess. A young mother, dressed in the black attire of year-long mourning for a deceased loved one, held onto a toddler with one hand while, with the other, she sorted through artichokes, cucumbers, and leeks. The smell of freshly caught tuna, squid, and mussels, fruit of the nearby sea, turned Maria’s empty stomach.
She led Nico through the square. Her face grew hot as neighbors and one-time
friends raised their eyes to her. Old women shook their heads, while younger ones scanned her from head to toe, then turned away with uplifted chins. Men of all ages scraped their eyes over Nico then leered at her.
The skin prickled on the nape of her neck. “Come, Nico. We must hurry so we won’t be late.”
“Yes, Mama.”
Wide-eyed, he drank in the new sights. Poor child. He’d been sequestered on the family farm his whole life. He knew nothing of this world beyond Bella Terra. Whispers grew into mumbles and then into shouts, roaring in her ears as she hurried through the gathering crowd.
“Can it be? Maria Landro? And that must be her bastard child.”
She stiffened.
“What are they saying, Mama? What does ‘bastard’ mean?”
Keeping her eyes straight ahead, she guided her child toward the school just beyond the square.
“Bastard! Bastard! Bastard!” The word echoed after them.
“Mama, what does ‘bastard’ mean?”
Her stomach tied itself into a tight knot. Lowering her head, she quickened her pace.
“I’ll explain at another time. Right now we must get to your school, or you will be late.”

* * *

Don Franco Malbone froze as he read the name on the student roster. Nicholas
Joseph Landro. First Grade. Born January 13, 1886.
Impossible.
He rose to open the large casement window to the right of his desk. Perhaps some fresh air would clear the sudden tightening in his chest.
A sparrow landed on the window ledge, startling him. The little brown-headed
creature stared at him for a moment then flew away as quickly as it had come.
Taking a deep breath, Don Franco returned to his desk. He read the name again. Nicholas Joseph Landro. Unless adopted, an illegitimate child always bore the mother’s name. And Maria had no brothers.
A cold sweat seeped through his pores as his mind performed the mental calculations. Yes. A child conceived that fateful day would now be
of school age.
He dragged trembling fingers through his hair. Perhaps she would not come.
No. Maria would come. She would want her son educated, despite her shame. Her
own education at the very school where he was now headmaster had opened her eyes to the world beyond Pisano. A rare privilege afforded to few girls.
His hands shaking, he withdrew his pocket watch from a fold in his cassock. Seven-thirty. In one hour, the students would arrive.
He leaned his head against the back of the chair. If only he could turn back the clock.
If only he had not succumbed to her beauty.
If only he could undo what he had done.

* * *

Luca Tonetta took his place of daily prayer by the window of his tiny bedroom. The early morning rain danced on the rooftop as he knelt and raised his hands in worship.
There was nothing more wonderful than basking in the presence of God’s love. He knelt for several moments, praising his Lord. Casting his cares upon Him. Asking Him for His help for the new day.
Then, rising and taking up his worn leather Bible, he sat at the small walnut desk by the window and opened the pages to the tenth chapter of the Gospel of John. His eyes fell on the tenth verse: “The thief cometh not, but for to steal, and to kill, and to destroy: I am come that they might have life, and that they might have it more abundantly.”
He raised his eyes from the page. Why was he not enjoying this abundant life? He certainly didn’t want for any material thing. And it wasn’t for lack of trying to enjoy life.Did he not faithfully follow the rules of discipline he’d set for himself? Time with God each morning. Study of the sacred Scriptures. Boundaries regarding his relationships with women.
His shoulders rounded as the guilt of his reproach settled over him once again. He hadn’t meant to exchange his virtue for shame.
The words of the Scriptures fell lifeless on his soul. He closed the Holy Book, then walked to his small kitchen overlooking the main street of Pisano and gazed out the window. Already sounds of a new day stirred in the square below as merchants set up fruit stands, vegetable bins, and fish stalls. The aroma of freshly caught squid mingling with that of vine-ripened oranges filtered through the slightly open window. Soon customers would be arriving at his door, needing the town tailor. His father would have been proud of his twenty-five-year-old son’s success. God had made him prosperous, and
he lacked no good thing.
Except a good wife.
His three-room, second-floor apartment needed a woman’s touch.
Luca took a pale-green ceramic bowl from the cupboard, the one that had belonged to his father. He filled it halfway with freshly brewed coffee then poured milk over it. He added a tablespoon of sugar and stirred the ingredients. As was his father’s custom, he took a chunk of day-old bread, broke it into small pieces, and carefully dropped them into the hot liquid. Then he sat down and gave thanks.
Suddenly it seemed as though his father were sitting there with him once again, as he used to do every morning, enjoying his caffelatte from this very bowl. Luca ran a finger over its chipped edge. Seven years had gone by, and still he could hear his father’s laughter, smell his clothing, see him smooth his moustache.
How he missed Papa!
The bell hanging over the front door clanged in the shop below. Luca glanced at the ornate German wall clock, a relic of his only trip outside of Sicily. Quarter to eight.Someone must be in a hurry—the shop didn’t open for another fifteen minutes. He grabbed his black leather apron, and, running down the steps, tied it securely behind his back.
He unlocked the narrow wooden door. As he opened it, a blast of humid air filled the little shop. He drew back. “Buon giorno.”
“Good morning.” A man in his late thirties stood at the door, holding a canvas bag.
“I’m looking for Luca Tonetta.”
Luca smiled. “I am Luca Tonetta. How may I help you?”
“My name is Giulio Genova. I’m sorry to have disturbed you. I thought you opened at seven thirty.”
“Come in, Signor Genova.” Luca motioned the man into the shop, closed the door behind him, then opened the shutters on the front window to let in the light. "Maybe we'll get some sun later on, I hope."
Luca walked past the two brown leather chairs in the customer waiting area and took his place behind the counter. “What can I do for you, Signor Genova?”
“I have come all the way from Trapani on business and heard of your fine reputation. Would you have time to alter this suit for me by this afternoon?”
Luca smiled. “Trapani. That’s a long way.”
The man smiled in return and pulled a suit from his canvas bag and laid it on the counter. “I need this suit altered for my upcoming move to America. I will be leaving in one month.”
America. The word tugged at Luca’s heart. Although he loved Pisano, for a while now he’d wondered if his destiny lay elsewhere. Several men from Pisano had already emigrated to what was being called “the new Promised Land.” Reports were trickling back of the unlimited opportunities available for those who were not afraid of hard work.
“Where are you going in America?” Luca studied the knobby texture of the gray
woolen suit.
“Philadelphia.” Giulio’s eyes widened. “My cousin is already there and doing quite well. From what he tells me, it’s a worker’s paradise. The hourly wage is ten times what it is here.” He chuckled. “In fact, my cousin says that tailors are doing especially well and are in great demand.”
Luca lifted his gaze and focused on the man before him. “Is that right?”
“Yes.” Signor Genova laughed again. “No one knows the tailoring business like the Italians.”
Luca smiled. “You’re right, my friend. God has especially gifted us with this art.” He handed Giulio the suit. “I’ll need you to put this on so I can take your measurements.” He pointed to a small dressing room to the side of the counter area. “You may change in there.”
“Thank you.” Giulio took the suit behind the curtain.
The shop bell sounded again.
“Good morning, Luca.” Teresa Monastero’s bright cheery voice burst into the room, followed by its owner, the woman who couldn’t seem to understand that no, he would not marry her. Despite the fact she was, indeed, an exquisite specimen of feminine beauty and a woman of impeccable taste, as revealed by her finely tailored linen dress.
Setting her richly textured tapestry bag squarely on the countertop, she gave him a sidelong glance. “Well, how is my favorite tailor today?”
He didn't miss her emphasis on the word favorite. “I’m well, thank you. And you?”
His question was like a magnet that drew her to his side. She tilted her head. “I’d be a lot better if you would come visit my parents sometime. After all, our families have known each other for generations.” She curled her lower lip downward and batted her eyelashes.
Giulio emerged from the dressing room, his eyes focused on his pant cuffs. “Signor Tonetta, you’ll notice these are much too long for …” He looked up and stopped himself. “Ah! I’m sorry. I didn't know your wife was here.” Giulio extended a hand in greeting.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Signora Tonetta. I … uh …” He looked down at his baggy pants then back up at Teresa. “Please forgive my appearance.”
Beaming, Teresa gave Luca a quick glance.
Luca’s jaw clenched. “Signor Genova, this is not my wife but Signorina Teresa
Monastero, a longtime friend of the family.”
“Oh, I’m sorry again. You two looked as though you were married.”
Teresa grinned.“Why thank you, Signor Genova. That’s quite a compliment.”
Luca pushed a stack of fabric between himself and Teresa. “I’m working on several urgent projects at the moment, so a visit will have to wait until later.”
“Very well, then.” She removed a garment from her bag. “I’ll just leave Papa’s coat here. Since he’s already spoken to you about it, there’s no need for me to wait. You can bring it by this evening.”
“I’m going to church this evening.”
The familiar pout appeared on her lower lip. “You’re always at church. You spend so much time at church, you will never find a wife."
H e grabbed his tape measure. No wonder the serious young men of the village
avoided her. Who wanted a wife as brazen as she?
“Please tell your father he can pick up his coat late this afternoon.” Luca knelt to measure Giulio.
The customer stood ready, his arms outstretched to the sides as if he’d
done this many times before.
Teresa cleared her throat. “Of course, you could always deliver it to him and get a good meal in the process.”
Luca held his tongue. “Your father’s coat will be ready late this afternoon.”
“Very well. Good day, Luca. And good day to you too, Signor Genova.”
The shop bell clanged a little more loudly as she pulled the door after her.
Luca sighed in relief then redirected his full attention to his client.
Giulio chuckled. “I think she’s in love with you.”
Luca spoke around a pin in his mouth. “I know she is. But I am not in love with her.”
“Ah, one of life’s greatest tragedies. When one loves another and that love is not reciprocated.”
“True. And it’s also a tragedy for the one unable to reciprocate the love of another.”
“Well, you make a good point. I imagine the pain, although different, is on both sides.”
“Yes, it is, especially for the one in love, I suppose.” Placing a pincushion bristling with straight pins on the floor beside him, Luca measured the proper length for Giulio’s trousers then inserted pins to mark the hems. Next, he stood and measured the sleeve cuffs. Satisfied, he looked up and smiled. “There. All finished.”
While Luca filled out a work order, Giulio returned to the dressing room to change back into his street clothes. When he came out, he removed his wallet from his back pocket.
Luca raised a palm toward him. “Pay me when you pick up the suit.”
Giulio replaced his wallet. “Now I know why you have an excellent reputation.”
Luca smiled. “Perhaps you will think differently when I tell you that I won’t be able to have your suit ready until late tomorrow afternoon.”
“No problem. I’ll be leaving Pisano tomorrow evening. I can pick up the suit on my way to the train station.” He put his wallet back into his pocket. “You’re quite a busy man, I see. Perhaps you need to get yourself some help.”
“Actually, I’ve been looking for help, but I haven’t found the right person.”
Giulio winked. “You need a wife and a seamstress. Too bad Teresa is not to your liking.”
Luca’s cheeks warmed. “She’s just a family friend. Besides, she can’t sew.” He chuckled then grew serious. “I want a wife who is—”
“Beautiful? Smart? Patient?”
Luca handed Giulio his receipt. “Forgiving.” He laughed, his chest tightening. “But beautiful would be nice, too.”

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