Italian Summer: Mina's Adventure, #3

By Maria Grazia Swan

When they say, "you can't go home again," they're talking about Mina Calvi, twenty-something Italian transplant to California.

 

Still, nursing a broken heart, desperate to discover her place in the world, Mina arrives in the town of her birth in Veneto, Italy. In the decade she's been gone, the village nestled at the foot of the Dolomites has changed much, yet remained oddly the same.

 

Friends have moved on, family members passed away.

 

Mina feels even more alone in her motherland than in America, and there seem to be too many bizarre deaths for such a tiny, serene village. Then a fresh chance at true love and a welcome bonding with a dear new friend give her hope.

 

But the deadly secrets moldering in the centuries-old cemetery could rip it all from her and leave Mina emptier than before. Will she find herself or lose her heart again? Can Mina survive her Italian Summer?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Echo Canyon Press
• Release date: Sep 12, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386869313

Book preview

This book is dedicated to my Italian Tribe with a big shout for Lauretta, her place is my home away from home.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Special thanks to Roberto Fanton for his supply of historical information and to Davis Dalla Valle for keeping an eye on my Italian commentary.

Chapter 1

Veneto-Italy. Summer 1992

The stench of death permeated the air.

Morning rain didn’t wash it away. Afternoon sun didn’t singe it away. It hovered, unaffected by the chirping of birds, the scurrying of spooked lizards or the skittering of pebbles under Mina’s sandals. She stopped by the open grave and watched the burly man inside, digging.

Sweat put a shine on his bald head. When he looked up and saw Mina, he rested the shovel against the dirt wall, waved away the flies buzzing around his furrowed brow and squinted. "Giorno." He wiped his face with the back of his gloved hand, exposing the wet spot under his arm.

Buongiorno.

Ten years had brought little change to the way they buried their dead in her small hometown.

How come it smells so bad? she asked.

We have to exhume bodies before their time. It used to be twenty-five years. Now it’s eighteen or even fifteen, depending on the needs. This one here just wasn’t ready to come out, but I have to make room for the next burial. We’re out of space. He shrugged, shielding his eyes from the sun while talking to her. Visiting someone? His gaze settled on the potted plant of white cyclamens in her hands.

My family’s crypt. Haven’t been around in years. She glanced toward the row of vaulted porticos running the length of the cemetery. Calvi. The sorrow she’d fought since morning caught in her throat.

"Oh, l’americana." The gravedigger straightened and moved closer to the dirt wall marking the tomb’s edge. He was taller than she first thought. His body odor mingled with the nauseating sweetness of the decayed earth and nearly overwhelmed Mina. She lifted the cyclamens to her nostrils to neutralize the smell then stepped back, away from the empty hole. L’americana? Did he have her confused with Paola? Mina doubted she ever met this man before today, and besides, she was barely sixteen when she left for the United States. He looked to be in his forties. Could he have been one of Paola’s schoolmates?

A polite wave then she turned and headed up the path leading to the arched vaults and her family underground burial chamber. The Calvis weren’t her parents. However, no one in Italy knew about that, and she intended to keep it that way. No need to rewrite her birth story now that everyone involved had died. Neatly marked graves lined row after row all the way to the steps leading to the portico housing the crypts.

This graveyard was different from most American cemeteries where grass covered the grounds, and the markers were simple and unassuming, creating the illusion of a green, peaceful meadow. Italians had an opposite type of relation with their dead. Individual grave borders were brick, granite, or wood. Unique and massive headstones told the story of the dear departed with statuaries, lamps and flowers. Lots of flowers. It was all meant to announce to the world that this was one beloved soul. During the spring and summer months, most flowers were fresh, elaborate creations with gold-lettered endearments on gaudy ribbons woven between ferns, blossoms and even balloons. Mina glanced at her modest plant. Cyclamens were her grandmother’s favorite, a token of the Dolomites, the mountains surrounding the valley. Mina wanted to focus on her destination, but she couldn’t get her mind off the persistent smell of decay or shake the disturbing feeling the gravedigger watched her every move.

A few people walked around the place, all women, changing water in the vases, pulling weeds from the tombs. Only buzzing bees disturbed the silence until Mina’s feet landed on the thick slabs of granite forming the floors of the arched corridors. The coffins were below ground inside neatly organized drawers. In essence, the floor she walked on was the crypt ceiling. Each family-owned crypt was architecturally defined by the two arches on either side. A massive iron ring centered on a square block of granite where a manually operated crane would hook and lift the cellar-like opening to lower a new coffin.

Her open toed sandals clicked against the stone, and the echo resonated in the domed arcade. As a child, Mina dreaded walking on those slabs because they weren’t sealed together, only cut to link into each other like giant pieces of a puzzle. The first time she witnessed the lowering of a coffin, she had nightmares for weeks. After that, she refused to visit the cemetery for a long time, afraid the stones would slide off, and she would fall below among the rotting bodies. Even all grown up with the place bathed in midday sun, Mina carried the memory of distant fear inside her.

None of that mattered when she reached the Calvi crypt and her grandmother’s forever-sealed smile welcomed her. She hardly remembered the rest of the people whose photos looked out from the oval ceramic frames, and that included her step-grandfather. A fancy wrought iron lamp cast a faint reflection on a dried up fern placed in the center of the back marble wall where names and pictures were posted. Mina went to remove the dried-up plant, stopped and ran her fingers over her nonna’s framed smile. It felt cool to the touch, unlike Mina’s tears landing on the back of her wrist.

The ache she subdued in the middle of her chest for so long rose within her, and her tears turned to sobs. It was okay to cry. It was okay to mourn. Paola’s picture should be next to Nonna, even if her mother was buried far away in America.

Mina eventually grew comfortable alone in the hallowed place, no longer sorry for herself. She replaced the dead fern with her cyclamens. Her fingers touched her forehead to make the sign of the cross, a built-in Catholic ritual she never shed. Ave Maria, gratia plena. She concentrated, trying to remember the prayer her grandmother taught her.

A hand touched her shoulder.

She jumped.

"Mina? Sei proprio tu? Is it really you?"

The tall blonde didn’t look familiar.

Do I...do we know each other?

"You don’t remember me? Loredana. Loredana Lanza. We were in a class together. Signora Rita’s class?" The blonde stepped back and stared boldly at Mina as if daring her to forget someone so dazzling.

"Signora Rita I do remember, but—maybe it’s your hair—were you a brunette?" That was a stupid question. Everyone in Signora Rita’s class was dark-haired, both boys and girls. Besides, this woman’s hair was an obvious bleach job.

Loredana threw back her head and laughed, displaying the curve of her neck and a hint of cleavage. She shook her curly, shoulder-length hair the way people did coming out of a swimming pool. Mina looked around to see if there was someone to impress. They were alone and there was no reason for such a show. So what was all that about?

Lanza, your last name is Lanza. I remember. Wait—are you Vittorio’s twin sister?

Was. Loredana’s expression changed to a sad grin. My poor, poor brother is dead. I stopped by our crypt to bring fresh flowers.

Dead? I am so sorry. He is—was so young. What happened?

Vittorio was young, she said, and caring. Always ready to help out. Such a wonderful human being. Seems like God always takes our best ones. Loredana crossed herself. He died Christmas of 1989. Slipped and fell from a ladder while helping the nuns put up holiday lights. He volunteered every year, sort of a tradition really. Dad used to do it. When he passed, Vittorio felt it was his duty to carry on the family custom.

1989, the year of Paola’s death. The hair on Mina’s neck stood straight out. She should offer words of comfort, but couldn’t get her mind to let go of the coincidence.

By the way, Loredana’s mood was back on full joie de vivre mode, how is your lovely sister, Paola?

Mina swallowed hard and chose her words carefully. Unfortunately, Paola is no longer with us. She also passed a few years ago, around the same time your brother did. Sad coincidence. She prepared herself for Loredana’s next question regarding how Paola died. It never came. Instead, the blonde slipped her hand under Mina’s arm and prodded her on like an old friend would. That insignificant gesture triggered a recollection in Mina’s brain. She remembered Loredana as an angry, tough girl, stockier than her brother. Vittorio and the twin sister were two years older than Mina, but Loredana had to repeat some classes and ended up in one of Signora Rita’s.

Dead, eh? Too bad. Come with me and let me show you the beautiful roses I just brought for Vittorio. They smell wonderful.

She pulled the reluctant Mina toward another crypt that Mina assumed belonged to the Lanza family. Memories came hurtling back. The Lanzas were one of the oldest and wealthiest families in town. They owned a toothpick factory. When Mina was a child, the town’s old women gossiped about all the money spent on that fancy, marble-covered crypt. Word on the street was photos of the Lanzas’ dear departed were framed in solid gold, but Mina’s grandmother assured her the frames were brass they paid to keep polished.

Loredana wore strong perfume and heavy makeup. Her intricate jewelry looked too good to be costume. The clip clap of her stiletto heels muted the sound of Mina’s modest sandals against the stones.

The Lanza family crypt could have doubled for a flower shop. The fresh roses were artfully placed up front with at least four types of lilies in the background. All the lovely arrangements appeared to have been purchased from a talented floral designer. It must have cost a pretty penny to keep up that kind of show on a daily basis.

See? Loredana caught an invisible tear from under her mascara-laden lashes. I miss him so much. I visit as often as I can.

Mina nodded, silently comparing her cyclamens to this floral extravaganza. Something about the whole scenario made her uncomfortable. She and Loredana hadn’t exactly been friends back in school. Mina used to hang around Vittorio, partly because she never had a brother, mostly because he was kind to her even when other children weren’t. He spoke softly and smiled often, unlike his sister’s aggressive bullying behavior toward other kids. In the end, the joke was obviously on the boys who poked fun at Loredana. Just look at her now, a flamboyant Marilyn Monroe wanna be.

So, who else is here with you? How long are you staying? Do you have a car? I want you to tell me all about America. Loredana’s questions came at the speed of flying bullets.

Whoooa, Loredana, slow down—

Shhhs, call me Lola. No one calls me Loredana anymore. I’m Lola, Lola Lanza. Doesn’t that sound much better?

Lola, Loredana or Miss Lanza, the woman was full of surprises. Okay—Lola, I’m here alone. I’m renting a condo from a professor who is spending his summer break in California. A friend in the travel industry worked out the deal. I’m here for a month, arrived yesterday. Don’t have a car. Right now jet lag is catching up with me, and I’m going to go back to lie down.

Professor? You mean Professor Cervi? He teaches English at the trade school.

That’s the name. He’s taking classes at the University of Southern California.

I can give you a ride home. I know exactly where he lives.

Thanks, I prefer to walk. After twenty hours in a cramped plane, it feels good to move around. It will help me get over the time difference. Mina walked away from the heap of flowers. All the heady floral bouquet on top of Lola’s perfume gave her a headache. Crazy, it was either foul or fragrant. She couldn’t wait to get out of there and breathe some normal air.

She would come back tomorrow and visit her grandmother in peace and solitude. She might even walk around the cemetery to read names and look at pictures, an excellent way to reconnect with the past.

Lola walked with her to the rusty gate, prattling on about Hollywood and Beverly Hills. When they reached the entrance, she said, Goodbye, my dear friend, see you soon. In English! If she meant to impress Mina, she succeeded.

"Ma che brava, parli l’Inglese benissimo. You speak very good English," Mina said.

Lola beamed and curtsied as she switched back to Italian. I only know a few sentences, but I’m working on it.

Good for you. Goodbye, Lola. Mina hurried out into the street. She paused in the shadow of the row of cypresses. Every Italian cemetery had cypresses alongside the way, beacons to the afterlife. On the other side of the street, the once tree-dotted hill was now a gated enclave of small villas. When did they start gating residential quarters?

She understood what the gravedigger told her about the need to exhume bodies at a quicker pace. There was no way to expand the cemetery. Buildings crowded either side of it. The front faced a street, and the rear wall sided a sharp ravine where a small creek ran.

Mina looked back one last time to wave to Lola. The flashy blonde seemed to be engaged in a heated conversation with the gravedigger. What? Mina couldn’t see them clearly from where she stood, but she could have sworn the man had his fist wrapped tightly around