Corleone. When dreams were born in Piazza Soprana E-Book

Vincenzo Ruffino

• Herausgeber: Youcanprint
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

Corleone is alive and in fervent enthusiasm: courtships, weddings and baptisms enliven families and neighborhoods in the frame of moonlight enchanting serenades. Luca is part of the brood of post-war children that crowd the streets of Piazza Soprana. Inseparable from Giuliana from an early age, their complicity is lifeblood that makes him strong. With puberty, a tender love blossoms with Giuliana. Suddenly, too early, the spell breaks: sadly, many are forced to close shop and immigrate to distant countries in search of a well-being, aware that they would never see each other again. Luca suffers a very hard blow when Giuliana leaves with her family. He too immigrates to the far away England, where he has to fight against his siblings' atavist prejudices. His independent character gives him the strength to rebel against and, still a teenager, he lives a romantic love escape. But, Giuliana remains in his heart: he never abandons the dream the see her again. Turiddu too, Luca's father, had been put to the test when, returning from the war, he lost his head for the sister of his closest friends. Opposed and offended, out of an absurd sense of honor, he was pushed into an unfortunate gesture that he would never have wanted to commit.

Leseprobe

Contents

Introduction

The Hovering City

The Children of Piazza Soprana

The Tailor’s shop

The New Life

The Return to Piazza Soprana

Appendix

Vincenzo Ruffino

Corleone

When dreams were born in Piazza Soprana

Memories

Titolo| Corleone when dreams were born in Piazza Soprana

Translation from “Corleone quando i sogni nascevano in Piazza Soprana”

Author | Vincenzo Ruffino

ISBN | 9791220330176

© 2021 – Copyright – all rights reserved to the Author

This work is published directly by the Author by means of Youcanprint selfpublishing platform and the Author is the exclusive owner of every and each right. It is strictly forbidden to reproduce this work or part of it without the preventive written approval of the Author.

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Introduction

Down memory lane, I am pleased to present these reminiscences of my childhood, put together without a chronological link. It is basically a realistic reconstruction with no claim to historical authenticity or to reporting the events as they actually happened.

I was born in Corleone, Sicily. As I traveled, I realized that a terrible reputation accompanied the name of my beautiful hometown. To mention Corleone was to evoke the mafia, its crimes and its criminal activities. Which I vigorously rejected. I could not forget the blood shed by magistrates, police officers, entrepreneurs, journalists, common people victims due to the ferocity of these gangs; and of the struggle of the representatives of legality against organized crime.

I rejected this label of then and now because I know that my city is populated above all by people of good principles, simple women and men of culture, writers, artisans, poets, entrepreneurs, patriots and artists. A community of people who, despite many difficulties, have given much and are continuing to contribute to the development of my beautiful Country.

Corleone after the war was a lively city, full of life and ferment, with village festivals and fairs that followed one after another in a perennial challenge between neighborhoods of those who celebrated with more pomp their patron saint. Engagements, marriages and baptisms cheered up relatives, friends and the whole neighborhood, and dancing parties were excellent occasions for new encounters and new love affairs.

The children of Piazza Soprana lived in the largest freedom, away from home from morning until late at night. Except for the days when the alarm about "gypsies" was given in the city, they roamed the streets of the neighborhood at will and parents were confident that nothing bad would happen to them.

The city was alive. The boys, once they left school - some because they had no will of studying, others because they had fulfilled their obligation - followed their parents to the countryside or were sent as apprentices to artisans. Similarly, many girls learned the secrets of dressmaking and hairdressing. Apprentices rarely enjoyed rewards, and even their hope of earning a little money - in the form of tips from clients on delivery of work - was largely dashed. The liturgical formula of thanksgiving

"U Signuri tu paga! U Signuri t'ava a binidiciri!"

(“May God reward you! May God bless you!”)

should have gratified them, but it left them empty-handed: they would have much preferred a few cents.

Facts and characters are indicated and invented for narrative purposes. Therefore, any reference to existing people or to actual events is purely coincidental.

I would like to thank my dear friends who have supported me in this endeavor, starting with Nonuccio Anselmo, who with his blog informs weekly about the past and present life of Corleone, about its heroes of yesterday and of today, and from whom I have drawn heavily and who is therefore the main reference, even if not expressly mentioned. I am grateful to Nonuccio for the profound restructuring of this novel.

Special thanks to Giovanni Saladino for having guided me on the historical coherence of the narration.

Heartfelt thanks goes to Francesco Bentivegna for his encouragement and advice.

Sincere thanks for their great and unconditional support and advice to:

Valentina Strada,

Renato Frezza,

Dina Anselmo Gariffo,

Anna Gariffo Patella,

Gina Marino Polzner,

Celeste Vaccaro Marino

and to my nieces:

Filomena Di Gregoli Talamo

Iana Fauci Navarra.

Thanks to my grandniece Maria Luisa Cocchiara for the illustration.

Thanks for their valuable advices to:

Liliana Costa (Bristol)

Maria Giovanna Boccadifuoco Ricca (Pozzallo)

Maria Vittoria Rufino (Manila)

Asunta Ruffino (Manila)

Amadis Ma. Guerrero (Manila)

Joanna Robinson (Rome)

Abdulrauf Wood (Sultan of Oman’s Royal Yacht Squadron)

Hitham Said Abdugany (Muscat)

Thanks to Carmelo Puleo, Mimmo Miranna, Luchino Gariffo and my brothers-in-law Ettore and Salvatore Piccione and many other friends for the details on the characters of that time. Surely, I have forgotten someone; in any case, thanks to all.

I dedicate this book to my mother, whom I have never met; to my father, who was a tender mother and father; to my sister Pina; to my long-lost brothers and sisters Biagia, Giovanna, Totò, Calogero, always united by deep and unconditional affection; and above all, to Leo and Maria, who inspired many of the stories narrated here.

The Hovering City

Corleone is a small town not far from Palermo, about thirty kilometers by air, fifty along the state road 118, which most probably originally was a mule track, and therefore it is tortuous, long and slow beyond the acceptable.

The name Cor (Heart) Leone (Lion) itself says it all, even if doubts about its etymology have never been resolved. It is therefore a city destined to rule, like the king of the savannah.

Although with a strong character, indeed very strong, Corleone has always been hovering between a city emblazoned by a shining history and a simple country village. Between an economically independent town and a fief of sovereigns; between rigor and unruliness; between genius and apathy; between culture and illiteracy; between heroism and indifference; between rigorous respect of traditions and yearning for a future finally free from the obsessive "what will the neighbors say about it."

It is a city of a hundred churches, linked to saints beyond belief, whom the city celebrates in a crescendo of processions, a city that lives moments of sincere mysticism and at the same time is just religious enough.

Piazza Soprana, located in the upper and oldest part of Corleone, nurtures all those connotations and, at the same time, it is different from the rest of the city. It is an integral part of it and is a center of its own. The way of speaking is also different from that of the other neighborhoods, although it shares the same language.

The protagonists of this story, Turiddu and Luca, are born at Piazza Soprana and there they grow up. In addition to being respectively father and son, both are characterized by many unique coincidences: both are marked by a journey; both, consciously or unconsciously, differ from the dominant mentality; both reject it and both are pushed to accept it. Both are opposed in their loves and both are put to the test by destiny and need an uncommon strength of will.

Can they find it? Will they be able to take the no-return route to overcome adversity? Will there be any saints willing to support them?

Let us proceed step-by-step.

The Children of Piazza Soprana

The octagonal fountain was the focal point of the hangout, especially in the summer. At sunrise, the birds would arrive one after the other as if calling each other back. Fluttering their wings and dancing with joy, they would rest there to quench their thirst and, with their chirping, cheerfully woke up the neighborhood.

In the morning, the long line of terracotta quartare and bummali pots at the fountain and the chattering of lively voices of the women could be heard as they waited to fill them. They were complaining to one another about how much work awaited them that day and how they were despairing about their brats who had returned home the previous evening, covered from head to toe in dust and dirt. That communal meeting point at the fountain to collect the day’s water in clay pots, which would keep fresh all day long, was the moment they had been waiting for to confide in one another, under sacred oath, about unspeakable truths that they could barely keep for themselves only.

What a lovely and magical atmosphere was experienced by those seated at the local Farmers Club, as they heard the distant ring of cowbells that announced the return of entire flocks of sheep. They were passing from mountainous terrain to lowland pastures under the watchful eyes of the sheepdogs and shepherds.

Piazza Soprana -the town upper square-, packed at every hour of the day, was the haunt of everyone in the neighborhood, especially of the boisterous baby boomers of the post war period. The picciriddi kids inevitably ended up soaking wet from relentlessly splashing around and waging never-ending wars at each other. The most daring climbed the central column and sat at the summit victoriously. Tired, they quenched their thirst with abundant gulps of that fresh and inviting water. The youngest ones, used to drink by wrapping their lips around the cannolo tube, the water tap. There was no shortage of rascals, who secretly smeared it with spicy red pepper: the burning sensation that hit the unlucky ones was that of pure fire, which not even the water could extinguish. The culprits were almost immediately exposed: they would be the first to scamper at the sight of mothers and sisters running to the cries of the little ones.

Summers were hot, and therefore the children wore very light clothing, such as shorts and T-shirts, but heavy boots were a must both in the summer and in winter, as light shoes would quickly wear out. When the heat became unbearable, many could not resist the temptation to take them off and cool their feet. Some ended up in the water because they lost their grip along the slimy sides of the fountain or because they had been pushed in by the more mischievous ones. Soaked-through and dripping wet, they would be lifted out of the fountain by passers-by. The loud cries did not deter the spanking dished out by the mothers who, recalled by the screams, did not pass up the chance to threaten the culprits as they fled the scene.

Soccer became very popular. Every street corner and square was packed with shouting children engaged in very long matches, all running after the ball. Two boulders demarked the goal; there was no referee, no kit. Although it did not even remotely resemble a football pitch, the road alongside the church of Santa Rosalia, flat, long, and smooth-surfaced was the preferred spot. Every afternoon, everyone turned up without fail: young children and teenagers came from every street and animated the square with cries of "come on, pass the ball" and cheers of joy at every goal scored.

It was the source of despair for Anna Maria's grandparents and for Don Totò Crapisi, who was not able to take a nap, and neither could his daughters – the strict and beloved teachers. Up from the balcony, he would shout to the children to quiet them down, telling them to go and play elsewhere and threatening to slash the ball. For a while, the sound of the voices subsided, but then they resumed with renewed vigor. At times, Don Totò would lose his temper and start flying around bucket loads of water. However, it was all in vain, as the match would quickly start up again. Only the spikes of Saint Cristoforo’s chapel gate had the power to silence and disperse the children. Those spikes were deadly: hard to miss, the rubber ball would inevitably land on them and pierce, deflated forever. The game would end abruptly, only to resume with a ball made out of newspaper.

Luca was among the most scoundrel ones and the most respected in Piazza Soprana while Giuliana was the girls’ leader; they both dictated the rules of the games to their peers. Friends since day one, they loved spending many hours together, both playing games outdoors and at home.

Luca was the first of the twins to be born, a chubby and beautiful baby. Such was the happiness in welcoming the newcomer, that nobody noticed that there was another; not even Donna 'Ntonia, the midwife, who had a vast experience having delivered hundreds of babies. They all devoted themselves to cleaning Luca, with cries of joy and happiness because he really was a handsome baby, and because everything had gone well. His mother, who had not suspected that she was carrying two creatures in her womb, even though her belly had been more voluminous than before, only realized this when the second, left alone, started wriggling.

Donna 'Ntonia meanwhile had already gone to assist another woman in labor, when young Maria ran to call her back. By the time Maria reached her, Donna 'Ntonia had already covered the distance between the two houses and, out of breath, was climbing the two flights of stairs with a lightness of foot, spurred on by the increasingly acute screams of the woman who was already at a very advanced stage of labor:

«Donna 'Ntonia, there’s another picciriddu baby in my mom’s womb! Please, hurry back! »

«Whatta you say, Marì? There’s two of them? How is it possible, where was the other one hidden?!»

«There’s two of them, and my mom needs your help otherwise the picciriddu‘s gonna die!»

Surprised and startled by those words, the midwife started to make her way back in an attempt to correct her mistake, conscious of the severe damage that her carelessness could have inflicted on the second twin, when a high-pitched shriek emanating from the other woman averted her attention upwards as the relatives raced to drag her up the stairs:

«Come on, Donna ‘Ntonia, the picciriddu’s coming. Hurry up!»

She had no choice; she sped upstairs as fast as she could. A beautiful baby girl was already coming to light: little Giuliana was born.

Meanwhile, Luca's twin had to make his own way out, struggling for a couple of hours to pass that never-ending tunnel to finally breathe a lungful of air. With a meaningful squeal, he made hear his protest for the carelessness of the midwife, who at that very moment had turned up overwhelmed and out of breath!

«This one’s beddu handsome too!” they all exclaimed, as the child squealed as loud as he could. Luca also squealed, most likely out of instinct. They calmed down when upon their mother's chest, they felt themselves reunited again, each reassured by the warmth of the other.

In reality, the second one was not as handsome as the first. Indeed, he was smaller, with a bluish-purple hue due to the lack of oxygen, but he had a survival instinct and a voracious appetite.

The twins and Giuliana were baptized by Father Salvatore in the church of Santa Rosalia. Being close to the two families, the children developed a special affection for Father Salvatore and looked up to him. Father Salvatore was an exceptional person, reserved and devoid of omnipotent temptations; he was humble but of firm character. Somber, tall, and dynamic with agile legs, he was fittingly known as Father Bicycle. Despite his seemingly strict look, he had a soft spot for the children that cheerfully surrounded him. He shared home with his sister in San Michele Arcangelo Street, halfway up the hill, and lived with little, donating charity to the church and the poor. Cultured, witty, and smart, he steered clear of politicians, restricting his interactions with only those who mattered and exclusively within the range of his duties, preferring to devote his time to young people and reading. His only weakness was smoking: he loved cigarettes with a particular aroma.

Luca’s mother passed away when he was very young; he had not yet turned a year old. His paternal aunt, za Binna, wanted him with her, with the intention of raising him as her own son. He lived there for a short while until his sister Maria rescued him when she learned that prankster spirits lived in that house. Za Binna was not afraid of them, rather she bragged about interacting and openly dialoguing with them. She used to say that the poltergeists often made the child disappear and that she challenged them by threatening to retaliate:

«Scoundrels, where did y’all hide my picciriddu baby? I’ll beat you with a stick if you don’t let me find him. »

She would duly discover him locked in a closet or chest of drawers.

Little could Maria do, however, to protect her little brother from the wickedness of their stepmother, who soon took place at their father Turiddu’s side. After he lost his wife, he became overwhelmed by the anxiety of having to look after his large brood, including two very young children. The stepmother soon proved to be severe, showing a particular dislike towards Luca from an early age, punishing him for the slightest misbehavior.

Strong-willed, Luca grew up independently, his mighty personality was able to withstand adversity, and he was determined to live by his rules without bending to anyone. He was intolerant of abusive behavior and bullying by others, but always ready and willing to defend the weakest. Sticking close to his twin and always caring and protective of him, he took the blame for their mischief, including those not of his own doing, and spared him any grief. If there was a weight to bear, Luca stepped forward:

« It’s too much for you, leave it with me, I’ll take care!”

Ready to intervene if someone attacked his twin, he was ready for a fight, regardless of the size and age of his opponent: he did not want anyone to hurt his brother.

Giuliana was the youngest of three sisters: beautiful, affectionate, and with a higher than average intelligence. A model child since kindergarten, she soon became the favorite in her house. Her father, the owner of a popular barbershop looking out onto the fountain of Piazza Soprana, having a soft spot for her, spared her the strict discipline he had given to her older sisters. He granted her the freedom to play outside with friends, but always keeping a watchful eye on her.

Giuliana, also being rebellious in her adolescence, never thought twice about challenging the boys, either at the fountain or at their favorite games. Escaping her father's watchful eye, she teamed up with Luca for group challenges, not fearing the competition. The deep understanding between them was watertight. Even Giuliana would regularly return home soaked to the bone but pleased at having set straight those idiots who dared challenge her, thinking that they had the upper hand because she was a girl.

Always together, Luca and Giuliana loved wandering around, hand in hand, through the streets of the neighborhood, checking out the local artisans at work. Around the Piazza Soprana and adjacent streets, there were, in fact, numerous putìe shops and laboratories: groceries, the bakery, a rope store, two shoemaker shops, a wine cellar, two olive oil mills and crusher, the puppet theatre, a dance hall – exclusively for men- and the Farmers’ Club.

The artistry of the scarpara shoemakers, in particular, left them speechless, and, when they could, Luca and Giuliana would rush over to sit on the steps of their laboratories to watch the creation of boots by hand-stitching. They loved everything about it: the setting, the movement of the hands, the grimaces on the faces, and even the songs sung to figh back fatigue.

Their favorite shoemaker was Mastru Viché u Foddu, Master Viché the Mad One. As soon as they spotted him, a look of understanding crossing their faces, and the two could not wait to take their front row seats to watch him at work. Seemingly grumpy – but deep down glad of their company – he always ended up entertaining them heartily.

«How come you’re here? Ain’t you got anything betta to do today?»

He would say as he gruffly welcomed them.

«Mastru Viché, will you show us how you make the scarpuna boots?» Luca pleaded.

«Come on in, sit down boni-boni, calmly and quiet, don’t make baccanu noise and I will sing you a song. »

And he began with:

«Bedda arrispigghiati1

cu sonnu è viziu!

Veni u disliziu vicino addo te!»

Then in a poignant voice:

«And don’t call me laido

And don’t call me brutto!

Se no mi pilu tutto

Tutto mi pilerò!»

Then tenderly:

«If I had a pencil

branded Fabritro

All I would paint

with all your beauty!»

Finally, he closed with:

«And don’t call me grotesque

and don’t call me ugly!

or I’ll tear my hair out!

all I’ll tear my hair out!

‘Nzà, ‘nza! »

And he would pretend to tear out his hair. Luca and Giuliana burst out laughing with joy, amused and fascinated

Mastru Viché u Foddu the cobbler was everyone's friend, but he had no friends of his own. Small in stature, hunchbacked, with a blackened face and week-long stubble, with half a cigar permanently hanging out of his mouth, his nose flattened and wide, his mouth semi-open in a sneer. All in all, he looked like the old man out of the Western movies who diligently steered the horses. He had dressed in his least bad attire with black, frayed trousers, garish shirts, a cap rendered colorless by the grease that covered it. In his few trips out to the shops to buy food, he would walk at a pace to avoid having to stop and talk to anyone. Reluctant as he was at socializing with whoever greeted him, he never went beyond a few exchanges with those who asked him how he was doing.

In his little laboratory in a small alley, Mastru Viché u Foddu, was an artist at work. The rite, consolidated over the years, was set in stone. It always began with him moistening his hands abundantly with spit; then he rubbed them repeatedly and bandaged them with leather strips, blackened from their use. He carefully waxed the string and applied a needle made by horsehair to it, licking to make it smooth. With the awl, he pierced the upper edges, passed needle and waxed string, and with all his might tightened the knots: the grimaces on his face reflected the amount of effort exerted. He finished the shoes with the application of nails and metal tips, to preserve the heels. The boots made by Mastru Viché u Foddu were sturdy, lasting forever.

Sarcastic towards those who asked him for impossible repairs, he looked at the shoes and then at the customers’ eyes and then at the shoes again. He remained silent and then with a downcast tone:

«What d’ya wanna do with these shoes, you wanna go ballari, to dance? Off to a wedding, to a matrimoniu? Are you meeting the Lord Mayor, u sinnacu? »

«Mastru Viché, you gotta repair them, because I ain't got money for new shoes! »

«Don’t ya see? They’re rotten, it's better to throw them away!»

He was, however kind-hearted, empathized with the hardships of those who asked him for help and ended up pleasing everyone. He got paid little and lived with enough to survive.

Long before, Mastru Viché u Foddu had a wife, whom he had treated respectfully. During that time, he worked day and night, always holed-up in his lab; and often stayed there to rest, sleeping a few hours in a makeshift bed. One evening, after dining, as usual, he told his wife that he would go back to work and sleep at the shop because he had a pair of shoes to finish and deliver as soon as possible: «The client is going to get married!»

Instead, he returned home early and unexpected. He found his wife in the company of his best friend. He threw her out of the house, not wanting to see her again, despite pressure from friends and family. He distanced himself from everyone, from that evening living a life of solitude, but always with his head held high. Because of his determined and rough ways towards neighbors and customers, even with those who had previously been his friends, he was considered odd and eccentric, and perhaps a little mad.

After seeing Mastru Viché, Luca and Giuliana would run to watch the cuffaro rope maker. They were appreciative of how those weaving plant fibers created excellent ropes and bags. Then they would go and watch the nearby stagnataru tinsmith, always intent on repairing huge copper pots. Hand in hand, they sneaked around overlooked by their elders in the mills for squeezing grapes and olives, hooked into watching the production of wine and oil.

There was, however, one man that mesmerized them even more, the only one able to distract them from any game: u-zu Brasi, the town crier. He alone knew how to catch the attention of children and young people whom he was able to draw to him just like a new Pied Piper.

U-zu Brasi was a short and sturdy man, already of age. He would occasionally show up at Piazza Soprana and, positioning himself near the fountain in order to be seen and heard by everyone, with his tambourine and horn, he called the neighborhood’s attention. The children surrounded him merrily; everyone stopped, pricking up their ears to listen and curious to hear what u-zu Brasi had to say; his messages were always important.

Upon ascertaining that everybody was quiet, with his full sonorous voice he would make announcements about the most random matters of interest to the townsfolk. Such as: interruptions to the supply of water and electricity; vaccinations; the disappearance of animals; the arrival of a large batch of fish; permission to harvest grapes; disinfestation; patrols of dog catchers; the arrival of the equestrian circus; movie projection.

«Sintiti, sintiti! Hear yee, hear yee: an equestrian circus has arrived, and the picciriddi can get in free! »

«All hear, all hear! Next week, there will be pest control disinfestation against mosquitos. Lock up your gaddini chicken! »

«All hear, all hear. A mule has disappeared, whoever found it is invited to refer to the mayor! »

Once the announcement was made, u-zu Brasi would continue from street to street mucking about with the children who gleefully followed him like a swarm of mice.

Mischievous, naughty and rebellious as they were from a very young age, Luca and Giuliana made the perfect partnership. They could not stand being told what to do. Towards their playmates, they were dominant and, with a tough hand, asserted their rights to dictate the games and establish the rules. At home, they forcefully expected to have everything they wanted to be bought for them, both ready to create a scene if necessary – Luca with his sister Maria, Giuliana with her father – as they had to have their ice cream every day without fail. Of course, their temper tantrums would be a re-occurrence at every event and neighborhood party because of the cotton candy and cubaida nougat sweet. The stallholders knew them well and were aware of how impatient they were!

Always at exactly the same time, as if decided by a municipal resolution, an unmistakable whistle blow announced the gelataru ice-cream man. White shirt, white trousers, and white shoes, proudly donned as uniform, he pushed his tricycle. A colorful ship-shaped caisson took pride upon this, with two wells of ice cream inside, one with lemon and the other with cream or chocolate.

He really struggled to make it up the hill: sweaty but punctual, at four o'clock in the afternoon, he would show up in Piazza Soprana. Not even the hens would think of waking up in that sultry summer heat. The dogs, usually irritated by and angry at any kind of noise, would seek shelter in the few available shaded corners. The children were the only ones unfazed by the heat; they stepped out of every door excitedly, money in hand, racing ahead to get there first and taste the ice cream that u gelataru, the ice cream man, with orchestrated sweeping and scenic movements put into the waffle cones. Luca and Giuliana had to be amongst the first.