NOVELIST

“The various effects which from love spring

By one same madness are brought into play.

It is a wood of error, menacing,

Where travellers perforce must lose their way;

One here, one there, it comes to the same thing.

To sum the matter up, then, I would say:

Who in old age the dupe of love remains

Deserving is of fetters and of chains.”

Ludovico Ariosto, “Orlando Furioso”

Milano, 1579 

This is all Ludo’s idea.
Not that I’m not flattered. Or was slow to say yes. That said, three weeks into my stay, I’m still not sure of the wisdom of the thing. What is it the children will learn about me beyond what they’ve already seen or heard? 

My misjudged, stumbling attempts to walk down villa corridors? 

My undignified, grunting collapses into chairs? 

What must they already think of me, their peculiar great- uncle? The crazy old man, all skin and bone and watery red eyes. Who is he, Mama? Why is he here? And why does he often walk out of rooms when his brother comes in? 

Overnight lightning hasn’t settled my nerves. Humid, restless sheets; shattered air, hammering rain blown from cool, lofty Alps. Sleep, when it did come, was full of dreams of old anxieties ‒ tugged or severed strings dropping me to the ground. 

Today, then, arrives hours before I’m ready to greet it. Noises of Milano pull me from my bed. (The way sound ripples around the place, muffled and softened by an abundance of wall coverings, is still a curiosity). The drift of moments lost pulse down across the years, unbidden yet urgent. I feel them press. 

Should I remain here? 

Am I in trouble? It’s hard not to wish the world away. 

But then, I ask again ‒ what about those children? A niece and two nephews. Their eight offspring. Eight! I’ve fewer chickens back on the farm! 

I hid from them at first. More young, soft surfaces around whom sound behaves differently. A swarm of new faces after so many years alone. 

Yet here I am. A previously unacknowledged terra incognita of the Cusmano family. My presence might be troubling for others, too. How many of my discoveries over the last month, travelling with Edo and Ludo, are widely known here? 

And, and, and. This whole thing is overwhelming. 

But Ludo is right. “This way,” he’d said, his arm wrapped around my shoulder in what, I suspect, is already a habit. “This way, Uncle, you can make up for lost time with all of them at once. How long would it take otherwise?” 

I overlook any veiled reference to my age and condition. 

I’m old, yes, but look older. Near toothless. Bald bar a few spidery wisps above a skull dried and mottled by decades of southern sun. Not to mention my bent-spined, skinny-legged shuffle or the small pebbles strung and hanging from an emaciated neck. 

Since breakfast, I’ve been considering what I, the brother of Grandpa Edo, might say to them all: this house full of youth and future promise. 

Ludo has told his sisters, Pia and Isabetta, to inform their offspring that I am (hear this) ‘a very famous storyteller’. 

Hah! 

Here I am, then, sitting nervously in one of the many reception rooms in Edo’s home, just half a mile south of Milano’s Duomo. Behind me, through ornate glazed doors, stretches a broad garden courtyard. 

The sky shows no hint of last night’s storm. 

The first of my guests arrive, brought in by Serena, Ludo’s wife. Her curtsy is, I confess, a pleasant and welcome distraction. Her children, a boy and a fresh-faced girl, all silks and white cottons, maintain a wary distance, claiming the chairs furthest from me. 

The dam is breached, and in come the other six, boys and girls of mixed age. That’s Matteo almost fourteen, nursing a look that’s half scowl, half reluctant curiosity. I’ve no doubt he’d rather be elsewhere. Their names, I confess, regularly escape me, though I don’t suppose it particularly matters. 

And what of my story? How much of it do they already know? The bare bones, I imagine. Even if Edo hasn’t told them, Ludo would have stepped in with something appropriate. 

Will my choices ‒ what to share, how to share it ‒ bruise any future affection for me? An old man with his strange ways. I wouldn’t blame them. I’d probably feel the same aversion. Instead, perhaps, my story will simply wash over them ‒ a passing breeze barely felt, on afternoons quickly forgotten. As for me? These memories stalk me, footsteps across an empty room. 

Either way, I’m quaking a little. 

I’m about to clear my throat when heads turn towards the sound of another reaching us. 

“Hello, my little ones. Are we all looking forward to Uncle’s stories?” 

It’s Hadice, their grandmother.
I didn’t expect her.
She moves amongst them to the last remaining seat, a broad sedan, and pats her lap. “Come, Caterina. Come sit with me. If my hearing fails, you can help fill in what I miss.” 

The youngest girl, carrying more than a hint of how her grandmother appeared in her own younger days, climbs up beside her, the warmth of the woman’s promised embrace already lighting her face. 

Hadice’s eyes, brown and clear even now, sparkle in the sun’s rays entering the room over my shoulder. Her dress, despite the hour, suggests the best of evening finery. We’ve shared family dinners many times since my arrival, but she looks different today. 

She repeats her question to the children while glancing briefly in my direction. “I know I have. It’s been so long since I had the pleasure.” 

A second glance, more deliberate, lingers on me. The air around the back of my neck cools a mark or two, or perhaps my own skin has momentarily flushed. 

This will not do.
If I don’t start now, I fear I never will.
“Yes. Hello, everyone. I’m Great-Uncle Nico. Your 

Grandpa’s brother. And it’s so very good to meet you all properly. A real honour and pleasure for me. Have your parents told you about what we’ll be doing?” 

Several nods. One quiet, “Yes, sir.” 

“In fact, my full name is Nicola Cusmano, just like my own Papa’s. I have spent all of your lives, and all of your parents’ lives, on a small island off the coast of Sicily. Do you know where Sicily is?” I pause, observing the mixture of nods and blank looks. “Anyway. I want you to know that I spent much of that time on a farm, on a hillside, in the company of my best friend, Baiardo. Pretty much since his birth, in fact. 

“But do you know that Baiardo, my longest and dearest companion, is a mule?” 

Small eyes widen just a little. And it’s good to hear some hesitant chuckles. 

“I miss him terribly. I’m told I spent almost thirty years in his company. For more than twenty of these, he was my only companion. We spent hours together every day, he and I, telling each other stories. He’s a poor old thing now. Being looked after by young Paolo. So, if you don’t mind, while I tell you about your Nonno Edo and me and our adventures together, I’ll just pretend that my friend is just over here, in the corner, quietly listening in with us. He’s heard a lot of it before, in truth, yet never in a way that ties it all together.” 

More polite nods.
I wonder once more ‒ what effect will my words have?
On those listening.
And on me.
So much needs to be explained. Argued.
I can taste it.
“Good. I think that will work really well, don’t you? So let me start by telling you what it was like when Grandfather and I were little...” 

© Graham Bullen, March 2024