7
THE ONLY ILLUMINATION in the rectory basement came from four single bulbs that dangled from the ceiling on cables. Three of them flickered on when Sister Veronica hit the switch, though the one nearest the bottom of the stairs stayed dark.
“I must have that fixed,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at Father Gaetano, and then beyond him at Marcello and Giacamo. “Perhaps you boys would attend to it later?”
“Yes, Sister,” Giacomo said.
Marcello said nothing. His gaze shifted past her and he cocked his head to peer down the steps, as if he expected someone else to be waiting for them down there. The boy seemed strangely reticent, nothing like his usual swaggering self. Almost skittish.
“It’s warm,” Father Gaetano said.
Sister Veronica felt it as well, the warm, humid exhalation of the basement. In the summer, it felt cooler downstairs, but as soon as fall arrived, the temperature dynamic shifted and the furnace came on, and it always felt stuffy and claustrophobic and humid down there.
“The walls seep a bit,” she admitted. “Groundwater, I’ve always thought. And the salt air is no friend to the mortar of the foundation.”
She started down the stairs, feeling their familiar shift underfoot, hearing the usual creaks of old wood and loose nails. The musty, dusty odors of the basement embraced them as they filed down, the four of them descending and then turning right, at Sister Veronica’s guidance. As many times as she had been down here, most of the things stored in the basement were unknown to her. There were old crates and shelves full of household items. She spotted a broken chandelier, apparently stored for future repair that would never arrive.
“It’s just there,” she said, pointing to the far corner, where a gray sheet that had once been white was draped over a large wooden frame. “Father Colisanti never approved. He said Luciano’s puppet shows were a distraction, that they disturbed the inner search for God’s peace that is so important for the orphans. Sister Teresa felt they needed laughter almost as much as prayer, and so he allowed it. But when Luciano left…”
Sister Veronica gestured at the draped sheet. “Well, here it rests.”
Father Gaetano nodded, already thinking ahead to where he might put the puppet theatre in the room where he taught catechism lessons. He stepped past Sister Veronica, grabbed a fistful of the sheet, and tugged it loose. The fabric hissed across the wooden frame as the theatre’s shroud slid free and pooled on the ground. Dust rose into the air, eddying on invisible currents, swirling in the dim glow of the nearest bare bulb.
The puppet theatre stood four and a half feet high. The molding around the opening—the puppets’ stage—was ornate and lovely, a miniature version of some grand Italian theatre, and the small curtains that hung across the stage appeared to be genuine velvet.
“It’s beautiful work,” he said.
“Luciano made it himself,” Sister Veronica said. “Carved all of the intricacies and painted it, just as he made all of the puppets.”
Father Gaetano frowned and glanced about. “Where are the puppets?”
But even as he asked the question, he noticed the crate set atop an old, cracked sewing table a few feet away. In the drifting, settling dust, the gold filigree around the edges of the lid seemed strangely bright.
“There you are,” Sister Veronica said, confirming what he already knew.
Father Gaetano heard the scuff of shoe leather and glanced back to see that Marcello had retreated a step back toward the staircase. Giacomo stood with his hands in his pockets, but his chin was raised with curiosity as he looked on. Marcello, on the other hand, shifted his gaze around the basement, looking at everything but Father Gaetano or Sister Veronica.
Whatever troubled the boy, Father Gaetano would have to inquire about it later. He had the impression Marcello would not want to discuss it in front of others.
He went to the crate, pausing as a sneeze overtook him. Sister Veronica and Giacomo quietly wished God’s blessing upon him as he reached for the lid. At some point, perhaps while it was being shifted from one location to another, the lid had been jostled so that it did not fit snugly. Father Gaetano dragged the crate down off of the sewing table, grunting at the surprising weight of the large, ornate wooden box, and set it down nearer the pool of light, for closer inspection.
Setting aside the lid, he glanced inside, and his smile broadened. Though the contents were partially in shadow, he could make out many members of the cast of Luciano’s puppet show. Pagliaccio the clown might have been young Sebastiano’s favorite, but he was among the simplest of the caretaker’s creations. The puppets were a lovely, brightly colored menagerie of heroes and monsters, their strings wound carefully around the wooden handles from which they would dangle during a show. He saw Hercules, Roland, Peter and the Wolf, Punch and Judy, what appeared to be musketeers, and at least two witches.
L’Opera dei Pupi was a great tradition in Sicily. Father Gaetano was not one of the cantastorî. He had never spent time as a troubadour, and he had no intention of singing during his catechism lessons, nor turning Biblical tales into opera. Yet he knew these marionettes would capture the children’s attention.
He breathed in inspiration along with the dust, and when he sneezed again, it ended in a small laugh. In his mind’s eyes, he could already see the ways in which he could alter the puppets for his purposes, could already feel the stories he wanted them to tell on the tip of his tongue.
Sebastiano would be his assistant. It would fill the boy with such joy, and together they would teach the orphans their catechism. Along the way, Father Gaetano felt sure, they would begin to understand the gift of free will and God’s love for man, as well as God’s hope for mankind.
“Perfect,” he said, sliding the lid back into place and standing up, brushing at the dusty knees of his trousers. “They’re perfect.”
“The children will certainly enjoy having them back,” Sister Veronica said with a smile, obviously pleased.
“All right,” Father Gaetano said, turning to the boys they had brought into the basement. “Giacomo, help me with the theatre. Marcello, you carry the puppets up—”
“No.”
Father Gaetano blinked and looked up at Marcello, who was shaking his head. He seemed about to explain himself, but then he moved quickly over to the theatre, putting his hands on it, a defiant, determined expression on his face.
“We’ll carry the theatre up, Father,” he said, a kind of plea in his voice.
“What are you—” the priest began.
“He doesn’t like them,” Giacomo said, nodding toward the crate.
A ripple of unease passed through Father Gaetano and he glanced at Sister Veronica, who looked very cross.
“Marcello,” she said curtly.
The boy wouldn’t look at her. Whatever had happened to the quick-witted, arrogant boy Father Gaetano was used to?
“It’s all right, Sister,” the priest said. “Giacomo, help Marcello.”
The other boy nodded, took the unmanned end of the puppet theatre, and moments later the ornate frame was being carted up the stairs, turned at odd angles in order to fit in the narrow stairwell.
“I’ll see to the lights,” Sister Veronica said.
Father Gaetano thanked her, bent, and lifted the crate. Again it struck him that it was strangely heavy, even taking the dense wood and carved lid into consideration. The puppets were also partly wood, and apparently their delicate appearance was misleading.
As odd as he found Marcello’s behavior, as lugged his burden up the stairs, he began to think again of the ways in which he might use the puppets to teach his lessons, and his smile returned. His eyes itched from the dust, and he sneezed again.
“Bless you, Father,” Sister Veronica said.
Behind him, she turned out the lights.