Francesca

By Ronald Ritter and Sussan Evermore

Take a magical journey of self discovery with Francesca Maria Bartolini, born in the beautiful Tuscany village of Pari Italy, rolling green countryside and memories of her Mamma, Poppa, sister Unella and her best friend Patrizia constantly filling her world.

One day a young man Amelio a friend of Uncle Nino comes into Pari and changes her life and world forever.

Her only daughter Patricia moves to Brazil with her new husband Antonio and children.

Patricia is dying of cancer and to come quickly before it's too late.

She makes a desperate trip to Manaus in Brazil, hoping against hope that she will be in time. But the plane never makes it and she is trapped in the Amazon rainforest trying to find a way back to her daughter before she dies. When all hope seems lost something magical and beautiful happens.

Come to know yourself and understand that we do not just exist by chance, for we are truly magical beings capable of creating in our world all the things we desire.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Apr 6, 2015
• ISBN: 9781329046634

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Introduction

I sit in the Airport lounge reflecting on my inner most thoughts about love, marriage, family and an unfulfilled life. Contemplating what could have been but confronted with what is. I see a handsome man in the waiting lounge but he doesn't notice me. I fantasise what it would be like to be with a man who takes my breath away. But he would never notice for I am an Italian widow dressed in black and he is tall, tanned and athletic. Although younger than me, I can't help staring. Why couldn't I have married a man like him instead of Amelio?

On the flight, my seating is only three rows from my handsome man. Why didn't I get the seat next to him? We could have talked during the flight. But perhaps he would not want to hear my only daughter is dying and this is the reason I am on Flight 501 to Manaus. I could talk about my dear friend Patrizia and how she lost her virginity in the gypsy camp or how Danny took mine with all the promises a young sixteen year old girl wanted to hear. I had fairytale expectations of marriage but was bitterly disappointed but no one wants to hear about my memories.

Yet, all the details of my life become insignificant when I enter the Amazon rainforest. The memories of a disappointing life fade and possibilities beyond my expectation emerge with the handsome man.

I wanted something special in my life but life didn't work by my time-clock. I felt time was running out before I entered the rainforest and met Grandfather who gave me a chance to understand and really live life. I learned many things are possible.

My story is a special journey beyond time and space and things I thought I understood.

My beautiful Pari

It was very dark and I was so afraid because I didn't really understand what was going on, everything around me at the time was unfamiliar and out of my control. I remember thinking, I don't want to be here but this is my home.

Though those nights were long ago sometimes my memory takes me back and I imagine I am there. All I want to do is really forget those nights in 1944, when my frightened family huddled together in the tiny dark and damp cellar under our house in my precious little town of Pari. But who I am today, Francesca Maria Bartolini aged sixty four is still at times a fourteen year old girl in Pari.

I loved growing up in my village, it was perched high in the mountains of Tuscany, with a freedom I have never known since then.

But Pari is not to be mistaken for Paris, for it could not be further away from that icon of all things French. My small hilltop world of little Tuscan houses had sprung up from somewhere in the distant past and formed a mosaic of colors which became a part of my very soul. For wherever I am in the world, Pari draws me back like a magical spell that entertains my clouded thoughts. It allows my imagination to wander its streets and alley ways as I live again in its houses and with its families. It was such a big part of my life and it is just as much a part of me as I am of it.

Poppa and his father had lived in this small hilltop village their whole lives, its soft creme stone walls and neat little red terracotta roof tiles were born out of the earth, it kept us safe and secure. I more than lived in Pari, I was somehow entwined in its mystique. The quaint little houses that were grouped together by chance on this small flattened hilltop, it was my world, my universe, it was everything I knew and everything I loved.

As a little girl, the planes flew overhead bombing the fascists somewhere in the distance while poppa, mamma, my older sister Unella and I huddled together in the cellar of our little family home. Poppa would scare us with stories of the mysterious plane 'Pippo' to make sure we would stay in our cellar for the night. 'Pippo' was the mysterious war plane that would sweep down from seemingly nowhere to bomb and shoot the fascists or partisans. I'm not sure who was being attacked by 'Pippo' and I don't think anyone else knew either. We were safe at night in the cellar from 'Pippo' and for my sister and I, it was our version of the bogeyman. Poppa would tell us to listen for the sound of 'Pippo' as Unella and I would cling tightly to each other.

Pip pip pip Poppa would call out and we were scared out of our wits.

We never climbed out of the cellar to see 'Pippo' so this scary plane always remained a mystery to us. Occasionally we could hear the sound of bombs being dropped in the distance but we never heard the sound poppa told us about. Occasionally a bomb would explode in the fields near the village, maybe this was a mistake or maybe not. We never knew but the noise was deafening and our small cellar shook. Dust and bits of wood would float down from the ceiling above, a small candle in the corner lit the room with shadows and I could see tears running down Mamma's face as she would start sobbing uncontrollably. Poppa grabbed my sister Unella and I pulling us together and squeezing us so tightly that his fingers dug into my arms. I wanted to wince and cry but I was so scared I didn't want to upset mamma, but when the candle blew out in the corner I started to tremble.

It will be okay my darlings, the Madonna will protect us. Mamma would say this with a knowing, as she held her rosary beads and cross tightly in both hands with her face to the heavens. What seemed like an eternity was probably only a minute, but the noise overhead had gone as we sat on our wooden beds that Poppa had so lovingly made for each of us in our cellar. He had gone out each day and found pieces of wood and strapped them together into old fashion camp beds for us to sleep on. Today, they are still in the cellar pushed up against the wall as if they are waiting for us to return. We will never return.

My ten year old sister Unella would hug and squeeze me so tightly at times, I thought I was going to pee myself. I would eventually pull myself free and we would all fall asleep on our beds.

I am not scared by loud noises or dark places anymore. You see, dark places only take me back to the small cellar in Tuscany where I felt protected and surrounded with love. I always gladly gave myself to Mamma's embrace which would surround and protect me for all eternity.

The intensity of those nights in the little cellar in Pari still lives in me each moment of the day and each day of the week. My memory is still sharp and clear of those times when we would all wake to the earthy damp smell of the cellar, with rays of sunlight shining from the kitchen through small cracks in the cellar roof.

Poppa had taken to his favorite bottle of Vino Rosa the night before, one of the many bottles grandpa had left behind before he died. In the corner lay poppa, all crumpled up like my rag doll, snoring and snorting in the stale musty air, oblivious to the world. Mamma was mumbling something under her breathe about poppa being a disgrace in all this confusion and that the Madonna would only protect the sober members of the family. I am sure God would never have judged poppa so harshly as he lay in the corner. My mother was always having little digs at poppa about him still being a mamma's boy and that she really was the head of the family. Poppa just looked at her with his big sad eyes unable to compete with her argument, as he knew more than likely, what she said was the truth. It didn't matter what she said because Unella and I loved and adored our poppa so much.

We would look forward to Saturday morning when we visited Uncle Nino. Poppa borrowed the old Fiat Balilla from his friend Vincenti and would drive into Sienna to buy little bits and pieces for the house and fill the food list for mamma. But before the short drive home poppa would stop and buy us each a gelato.

For my special girls. My father would say this before passing us the cones.

We ate it so slowly, making it last until we got home. On those Saturday's we were the luckiest children in the world. The memories leave me with such warmth, happiness and total surrender of myself that in my unhappy days, I am able to bring back the feeling and emotion to caress and comfort me. So I thank poppa and I thank mamma for my memories.

I am jolted back to present with the sound of boarding calls for passengers.

'Oh hell where am I? Here at Guarulhas Airport in Sao Paolo or back in Pari aged fourteen.' I mocked myself.

Final boarding call for Brazilian Airlines Flight 501 to Manaus.

I can just make out the Portuguese accented words. This crazy twelve hour flight via Rome and Buenos Aires airport is exhausting enough without another five hours before I reach Manaus on the other side of the Amazon Rainforest. I am now a travelling wreck and keep asking myself, 'Am I crazy to come to this place?' But how could any mother not see her daughter, knowing the heartbreak that her only child is dying? My eyes wander throughout the passenger lounge as I think of Patricia.

The American couple, in their matching blue and white Adidas tracksuits, stand over by the customer service counter complaining about something I can't understand. I am gathering the plane is probably late and if that is the case, there is nothing they can say to change it. The Adidas woman in her late forties has one of those mouths that bombards the poor customer service girl with such fury reserved only for a lioness over her prey.

I don't think you understand Missy, we have to get to Manaus on time for a very important meeting. Where is the plane, why aren't we boarding?

She continues to harass the poor girl as her husband just stands faceless and without emotion with a stance and look only reserved for concrete walls. He nonchalantly looks