Fruit of love

By Francesco Fortunato

A gripping family saga that spans three generations-long '900. In the background is Mount Vesuvius, the Amalfi Coast, the Agro Nocerino-Sarnese and its most representative product, the king of tomatoes, the San Marzano. A thriller to describe the inner journey of a man, a metaphor for the author's act of love to a land that is not only “Gomorra”.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Karma Studio
• Release date: Oct 8, 2010

Book preview

Fruit of love

A story by

FRANCESCO FORTUNATO

Karma Studio, 2010

Smashwords Edition

© Karma Studio, 2010

Via Prol. Marconi, 2

84013 Cava de' Tirreni (SA)

Email: [e-mail]

Web: www.bluzz.it

Web: www.karmastudio.it

All rights reserved

Issue, September 2010

For my mother, an example of life and love unconditionally.

For Annamarta and Flavio, lights and sources of strength for every day of my life.

For Sara, my last love.

Chapter I

Angelo woke up as always reached out blocking the old alarm before it sounded. He turned and looked at his wife: those features that had kidnapped many years ago, although mindful of a terrible and icy beauty, began to relax under the relentless blows of time. He kissed her lightly on the cheek, got up, put the mocha on the fire and began to dress.

He sat down, he felt tired, staring into space, thinking, as often happened in recent months, he went far back in time: the beloved wife's miscarriage, the stern gaze of his mother who pitied 's inability to give him a grandchild. Hope that fires the heart every time that Anna told him she was pregnant, he felt the awful thick, opening the door on his return from work in alerting the silence filled with the absence of happiness. After a few years had surrendered, He would be the last of Della Porta.

He left the house. Dawn was breaking, but you already guessed it was a hot summer day. The heat in the south takes away the soul, I mangle your thoughts, makes you blind and deaf, and sometimes even prevent you from loving.

And, if you live far from the sea, you have to endure all the flaws of being in the south, without enjoying any benefit. He went to the factory as usual. But Angelo was not a worker, Angelo was ' the boss', his father was 'the boss', his grandfather was 'the boss', and this was his last day at work.

As usual, he stopped to Bar Some factory workers ate breakfast. They were silent reverence. 'Good morning, Don Angelo' 'Good morning' he said. The young bartender did not wait to listen the order, strong coffee was already on the bench of white marble, with the usual glass of water strictly non-fridge, always, even when the sun roared in August.

That morning, though reluctantly, had dressed carefully. Moreover, the occasion was the important ones. He had a white linen shirt, muslin, hand embroidered with the initials, ADP, between the third and fourth of pearl buttons sewn lily, rubies and gold cufflinks with the family crest, a gift from his grandfather, double-breasted jacket blue clutch bag with white linen hemmed by hand, medium gray pants, brown suede loafers, white panama hat. The well-groomed beard stood out on a soft, elegant and not too tan. Angelo was a handsome man, tall, athletic, green eyes, dark complexion. The wavy hair worn combed back began to have traces of white quite extensive. That did not bother him at all in fact it was almost proud.

Came to the door of the factory, residual industrial archeology Bourbon, who had defended, the caprices of the famous Japanese architect, creator of the recent restructuring of offices, according to the dictates of feng shui philosophy, wanted by the new members. He looked at his old family coat of arms that anachronistic, stone arch above the entrance. Even St. George on horseback with a spear skewering the dragon looked tired that day.

Except for the night-shift workers, it was always the first to enter and the last to leave, her grandfather had taught him. Make eye contact with Carmine, the old guard. Good morning, Don Angelo. For the first time, maybe the last 20 years, looked at more carefully those 'man, a childhood friend of Don Alfonso. The shot seemed to have aged since the last time they had exchanged a few words on the title lost by Napoli. She smiled and replied, jovial Hello is it everything all right Carmine ?. The keeper did not answer, forced smiled, lowered his eyes as if to hide a tear or emotion. Oh yes, the country was small, now everyone knew.

The Della Porta Spa, was a factory worker in tomatoes, San Marzano, the red gold.

He entered and found himself in the courtyard of the building that housed the ocher offices of the Directorate. Once there was the main hall of the factory. He narrowed his eyes and saw his grandfather's expensive shirt sleeves rolled up, the inevitable Marinella tie thrown behind his back, his jacket down on a lever. He helped Anthony, the chief mechanic, his hands greasy, that contagious smile and wonderful that bright when it opened the roller carrying the tomatoes on the towels off again with the precious cargo of red San Marzano.

The Della Porta were large landowners, who own much of the land in the area. Sharecropping in the south, had long resisted. But Don Alfonso had been sighted and conscious of changes taking place, between the wars had tried several businesses. To his father, Giovanni Della Porta, unrealistic these initiatives, looked like wasted time. In fact, even if unsuccessful at first, they were the building blocks on which Don Alfonso, built the foundation of survival, first, then the economic revival, his dynasty. Other families of Naples, however, continued to bask in the comfort baroque, their rents. They did not realize they were on a luxury liner sinking. From shortly after the Great War would have cleared everything.

One evening in a muggy June 1926, Don Alfonso was invited to the graduation party of Giovanni Spinelli, twenty-three scion of another prominent family in the area. This call that he considered a nuisance, would prove the most important episode of his life. Giovanni Ninuccio or rather, as he was known in the country, was a graduate in Agriculture from the Royal University of Portici with a thesis on the history of food preservation. When Don Alfonso, bored by talk of the notables of the area on the latest utterances of the Duce, he found himself in the hands of the boy wrote, was the lighting.

He read of the Egyptians, who read Aristotle's idea to keep your apples in the clay, the use of honey, salt, and how the man had always looked for ways to survive struggling to keep food supplies. I was fascinated and dazzled at the same time. He was hot, he moved on