As the images zigzagged in his head, Giovanni eyed the dark patch on his pants above the left thigh. It was warm and wet to the touch. He pushed against it until a jolt of pain shot up his leg and into his groin. It made him smile. He’d never been religious like Letizia with her pictures of the Virgin and the Crucifixion all over the house. Yet there was no way of missing the similarities: Jesus on the cross with his open wounds, atoning for the sins of the world.
The seeds had been planted on that cold winter night in the forest, or perhaps generations before. He was aware of them as he built his life with Letizia; as they raised their new son, whom they called Paolo after Giovanni’s father; as they expanded the farm and flourished. The Tavianos had one of the biggest, best-producing farms in the area: corn, wheat, livestock. People respected them. But Giovanni couldn’t care less about the opinion of others; what mattered was providing for his family and leaving Paolo with something to be proud of.
Nourished by the hearty Favola soil, the bad seeds took root and sprouted alongside the good ones. Fleeting images—of the warm bundle and the man in the tattered overcoat, the note slipping from his hands and swallowed by the snow, the pop, pop, pop of gunfire—gnawed at him, forcing him to gnaw back. It started as a sore on his upper thigh that he couldn’t resist scratching. He realized if he kept breaking off the scab and removing the newly formed skin, it wouldn’t heal. And so it grew, gradually spreading outward. He would pick at the edges until they bled. He would probe the center until he touched a nerve and saw stars. It was his stigma.
Now in the kitchen, under the gaze of the Virgin Mother, he watched the dark-red stain on his pants spread. Blood seeped into the fabric and dripped down onto the white-tiled floor.
After Paolo died, the wound became an obsession. Now there could be no doubt: he was cursed. His son had always been a good, careful driver. No possibility the accident was his fault, despite what the driver of the truck had told the police, that Paolo must have been drunk the way he swerved on the road. Oh no, it was the workings of a vengeful power. Giovanni was paying for his sins.
The wound became a sort of friend, someone he could talk to and confide in. At times, he tended it with the same care and concern that he tended the wheat in his field. Other times, he would argue and grow angry at it. He’d yank away the scabs, jab at the wound, until one day, he hit an artery that wouldn’t stop bleeding. Letizia rushed him to old Ruggiero, where the doctor, after many starts and stops, was finally able to tie off the injured vessel. Letizia knew her husband was a worrier, a man who blamed himself when the rains flooded his fields or when winter lasted longer than expected or when Paolo and his family set out for Milan after a big meal with lots of wine—but she never imagined he would harm himself intentionally. She believed him when he told her the wound was an accident, that he had struck himself in the field with his scythe. She knew nothing about his new friend. It was a secret he was determined to keep from her.
Dr. Ruggiero wasn’t so easily fooled. “The boy’s got a fine head of red hair,” Ruggiero whispered to him on the side when they brought Paolo to him as a baby fifty years ago. “From a convent in Genoa, huh? I can’t imagine there were many like him over there.”
Giovanni shrugged, as he would with similar questions and innuendos over the years.
The day Ruggiero repaired the blood vessel, he asked his patient, “When was the last time you went for confession, Giovanni? Go before you kill yourself one of these days.”
Over time, Giovanni learned to avoid the bigger vessels as he nourished his stigma. Slowly, painfully, the darkness lifted. Though they had to bury Paolo in the San Stefano cemetery, there was a grandson to care for in his place. Luca was the spitting image of his father, red haired and freckled. He was just as smart too, speaking and reading before most of the boys his age, making up stories with complicated twists and turns.
Giovanni was thrilled when Luca began taking an interest in the farm, telling him he wanted to be a buttero, a cowboy. He dared to think that maybe the worst was over, that the curse had been lifted and he was being given another chance. “You’ll be my right-hand man,” Giovanni told Luca. Of course, he would get him a horse for his tenth birthday.
He laughed at his own stupidity. He knew now there would be no second chance. The curse would never be lifted until he and his entire family were crushed. Giovanni grabbed the knife he always kept in his pocket and started cutting around the red, warm patch on his pants to expose the wound, then attacked it, clawing and digging until the blood came more heavily and a searing pain tore through his body. Today he would show no mercy, just as the doctor at the hospital had showed no mercy when he drove the needle into Luca’s spine.
6
Santa Cristina was worse than Luca had imagined. The ward was the size of the gym at school, packed with beds and sick children of all ages. It stunk of ammonia and other nasty chemicals. The nurses and orderlies were stricter than his teachers, and the food was disgusting, especially the minestrone soup that tasted like mud. All he could think about was how to escape. If only he could get word to his friends, they would help him figure a way out. And if all else failed, he could always count on Orlando. He would know something was wrong when Luca didn’t show up at the Castle. Thank God Nonna stayed with him at night, keeping guard on the chair next to his bed, though he wished she wouldn’t go to the cafeteria for coffee so often.
What he feared most was the return of the horrible witch. His arms were still black and blue from her squeezing. Dr. Ruggiero was disgusting, with his flaking skin and banana teeth, but the witch was evil, with her purple face that sizzled when she got angry. Maybe she was a devil witch that needed to be exorcised. Mario would know what to do; he was an altar boy at San Stefano. Luca would call him later in the afternoon, after school. In the meantime, he’d find a cross and keep it under his mattress.
Just as he was about to ask the older boy in the bed next to him, Luca caught sight of the witch entering the ward. Panicking, he looked for a place to hide, but there was nowhere to go. He lay down and threw the blanket over his head, praying she wouldn’t see him.
“You still sleeping?” The voice came from above him. It wasn’t as harsh as he remembered.
“I brought you something,” she said, “something I think you’ll like. I don’t blame you if you’re mad. I’d be mad too. All I can say is that I’m sorry. I was having a really bad day. Do you think you can forgive me? You may not believe it, but the only thing I want right now is for you to get better so you can return home as soon as possible. You do want to go back home, don’t you?”
Luca tried to keep still, holding his breath so the blanket wouldn’t move and she’d assume he was asleep.
“Of course, you could stay here as long as you want.” Nina smiled as the blanket shifted ever so slightly. “The fact is we can use a strong boy like you at Santa Cristina, to help out with the other children—”
“Are you crazy?” he blurted out.
“You could say that.” She laughed. “I’m glad you’re not sleeping. I have something for you. A book with pictures of horses from all over the world. Unless, of course, you’re not interested in horses.”
He pulled the blanket back a crack so he could see what she was talking about. The witch had moved the chair closer to his bed; she was holding a large book in her hands.