4. W.I.H.E. Festival: Re-Member - Sallie Durham - Plumpton England

 The Revenge of the Widow Guiliana Govini

Domenica. Sunday. Once it was the most welcome and tranquil word in the Italian language – now it’s a mockery to me. Domenica, Domenica – the day when everything changed. A bright, spring morning of broken promises. Matins done, and the Vespers bells not yet singing on the hilltops of Umbria. The smell of jasmine, before, so sweet and innocent, stinks of betrayal now. 

My son, Guido, coming back from the Church of St Mary of the Consolation, running into the kitchen, his curls flying, his mouth wide with happiness – I will never see him like this again.

Mama! I’ve invited someone to lunch, do you mind? He’s from Rome and he’s been watching our choir. He’s very important. His name is Signor …

Guiseppe Tarantino, a man says, stepping into my kitchen – the cheek of it – no man has crossed the threshold since my poor Antonio fell to the waves. Then he bows. He’s wearing a buttoned burgundy jacket and a fine hat with a black feather which he sweeps on the floor. 

Forgive the intrusion, Signora Govini. Your boy insisted, but I will leave at once if you want me to.

Remembering that I’m the mistress of my kitchen I recover my voice. Please stay to lunch, Signor Tarantino. It’s nothing fancy, just a plain rabbit stew and some rough bread, a local black wine. 

Perfect, Signor Tarantino says, unbuttoning his jacket and settling at the sunny table. Mille grazie. 

As we eat, Signor Tarantino begins to talk about songbirds. First, I believe him to be a man of science, or perhaps a poet. Seduced by his words, I imagine larks fluttering down to the table to peck at crumbs. It’s charming, I smile a little when he says things like – his soprano leaps and thrills like a nightingale – there’s a velvet thrushlike sonority to his tone – if the Sistine Chapel could sing it would sound like him.

    Suddenly I understand what the man is saying: my son is to be sacrificed on the high altar of art. The songbirds have lost their lightness and they become heavy like eagles, full of predatory menace.

Guido is silently lifting and dipping his spoon, his narrow aqua eyes never leaving the animated face of Signor Tarantino. 

And so, the great man says, brushing a crumb from his mouth with the back of his hand. If you will release this songbird from his cage, he will soar to such heights that he’ll be sure to touch divinity.

So you want to take him away from me? My voice is low, my head is bowed.

He will come with me to Rome, yes, if that’s what he chooses. He will stay in my house, under my protection, but he’s not a prisoner – he can visit you whenever he likes. There will be women to attend him, he will have everything he needs. They will look after him, care for him … 

You mean, when they cut off his balls, Signor Tarantino?

Guido laughs, but it’s not meant to be a joke. I look at him now, trying to read his thoughts, trying to grasp his soul. My only son. I thought his heart belonged to me, but I can see that holding onto it might be trickier than catching a fish with my bare hands.

Signor Tarantino gulps some wine, puts his cup on the table, lays a warm hand over mine and says, let me assure you, Signora Govini, the surgeon who will perform the procedure is the very best we have in Rome. 

There are thick hairs on the backs of his fingers. I slide my hand away. 

Why don’t you say the word, Signor Tarantino? Say what you’ll do to him and let him listen.

Guido is pressing a crumb of bread into the tabletop with a concentrated expression.

Your son will be castrated, Signora Govini. I have already explained the procedure to him and why the removal of the testes is crucial in preserving the angelic quality of the voice. 

We’ve discussed it again and again and Guido is willing to go through with this because he knows what a sparkling career awaits him. At the very least, he’ll have a place in a castrati choir – the highest paid in Rome and sanctioned by the Pope.

I look at Guido with tears filling my eyes. Do you want to be dismembered? Is this what you choose? There’s no going back, you know. You cannot re-member yourself.

My voice will be remembered, Mama.

And where do you think, after you die, your voice will go? 

With a glance at Signor Tarantino he says, it will gather in the highest clouds and it will echo round Heaven for eternity.

No, Guido. You are deluded. Your voice will be dismembered, the same as your testes, and it will fall as silently as a leaf from a tree. That’s if you don’t bleed to death first.

He shrugs, and smiles – so pretty, like a girl. Well, you could fall under a cart tomorrow. 

His coldness cuts me like a knife. I stand up and begin to gather plates. 

Guido stands, holds out his hands in a gesture of supplication. I thought you’d be pleased and proud. You always said I had a beautiful voice – and now Signor Tarantino has given me a chance to do something with it.

He really is exceptional, Signora Govini says.

One day I’ll be rich. I could be the next Farinelli – then you won’t have to worry when you’re old. 

I face my son in the dying light of the afternoon. Is this what you choose, Guido? To become a eunuch? You’re only ten years old and it’s too young to decide because you don’t know how you’re going to feel in the future. 

It’s my body. I know what I want. My voice is God-given and he wants me to use it.

You will never have children, think of that. Is this what God has chosen for you? Are you happy to deprive your Mama of grandchildren and let your Papa’s name be forgotten? As to visiting me – you will forget me. I will die lonely and alone. That is my future. 

    Signor Tarantino stands up, clears his throat. I’m sorry you feel this way, Signora Govini. I wish you could imagine the brilliant side of this. You and your boy must come to an understanding. I will return in a week and if you agree to it Guido will come to Rome with me. 

She will agree, Signor Tarantino, Guido says in a bullying tone. 

Thank you for your hospitality, Signora Govini. You’re a very fine cook, by the way. He sweeps up his hat and is gone.

For a week I’m at war with my son. He wants my blessing: he cajoles me with tears and smiles, but he cannot get it out of me. Then he becomes insulting. I’m a withered old cat; I’m ignorant as a sow. Once he twists my arm behind my back and bellows in my ear. It’s my life. You cannot choose for me. He’s a little boy but he threatens like a man. Nothing will undecide him. 

I’m distraught, I’m helpless – and then I feel the power of women. They form a nest around me. They bring flowers, wine, bread and honey. We weep together for the absence and cruelty of men. They look at Guido and wonder how my angelic boy could have brought such misery.

I come to accept that Guido is more afraid of obscurity than he is of dismemberment, and the following Sunday – Domenica, Domenica – Signor Tarantino comes to take my son away. I agree to this, but on one condition, and one condition only: Guido’s testes must be preserved and returned to my safekeeping. 

Signor Tarantino looks confused, but he’s a man of his word. It may take a little while, Signora Govini. It’s done in such a way that the testes will slowly wither once they’re disconnected from the veins – it’s less severe this way. 

Signor Tarantino does not stay to lunch. Guido does not look back at me.

The women gather round. I tell them that I have asked for the testes of my son to be returned to me. They think it’s funny, and we laugh about it, how absurd things are. The spring days lengthen and the air smells of orange blossom. Four weeks pass, then the women come to me with a plan and they tell it to me, their eyes shining and their hearts full of tender sympathy.

Just when I thought all the power and choice had been taken from me there is one small thing left for me to do.

The fifth Sunday – Domenica, Domenica – following the departure of my son, there’s a knock on the door and my threshold is darkened by two figures. Signor Tarantino, wearing a stiff cream-coloured cloak and – oh mama mia – what is this satin apparition of turquoise and green? 

Guido?

Mother. He holds out his hand. 

Son – welcome home.

They call me Marco Angelo now. 

Marco Angelo. Signor Tarantino. Will you please stay to lunch?

Signor Tarantino bows, sweeping his feathered hat on my kitchen floor. With pleasure, Signora Govini.

And do you have …?

Indeed I do. They have kept perfectly well in this preserving solution. I went to an apothecary. Signor Tarantino holds up his hands as if I’m about to object. Don’t worry, Signora Govini, I took care of the expense. He delves into his cloak and produces a glass jar inside which two small objects like dead fish are slopping around in murky liquid. 

He hands me the jar and I carry it to the kitchen without looking at the contents. Over my shoulder I call to them, won’t you take a walk around the piazza while I cook lunch?

Eagerly they leave, Guido – Marco Angelo – strutting like a peacock after his master.

I anticipated this day and have all the ingredients to hand. I start to cook in a haze of emotions – grief, excitement, anger – 

and the men (should I say men?) return hungry and in good spirits. They sit at the table and I pour wine. 

Aren’t you eating with us? Signor Tarantino asks.

Not today. Let me serve you, it’s a special occasion – one that I’d like to remember. Later the women will return, and we’ll get drunk and laugh our heads off. I put the plates in front of them.

Buon appetito.

Mille grazie.

Thank you, Mother.

With a satisfied smile I watch them eat. My son has always had the appetite of a man and soon their plates are empty. Signor Tarantino tears off some bread to dip in the sauce. Buonissimo, Signora Govini! What is this excellent feast? 

Sweetbreads, braised in red wine, garlic and thyme. It’s a country recipe, Signor Tarantino.

I find it unique and delicious.

Mille grazie, Signor Tarantino.

Out in the yard I pour the solution away. Peace descends. An aria of birdsong fills the warm summer air.