Meeting a cousin for the first time is like finding a new friend and a new sibling all together. For me, that was the event that shook up my quiet, boring and repetitive life, turning every day into a tale to tell.
They arrived before dawn, while I and my little sister Gisi were still fast asleep. The guards on the city walls open the gates early, for merchants and pilgrims who have far to walk. Well, my cousins, Pietro and his father Matteo, were already there, in front of the gate when it opened, and who knows how hard they were trembling, in the dark cold before daybreak. It was March, but a cold March, I remember. Pietro later told me the story of how it went:
“Who are you, who come you here so early?” Asked the chief of the guards at the gate. “Do you walk by night?”
“Yes, my good man,” said Pietro’s father, Matteo, “we have walked all the night long, and all of yesterday, and all of the night before.”
“What? Do you never sleep? Or have you no money for an inn? Farmers let travelers sleep in the stables with the animals. At least you would be in the warm.”
“We were… in a hurry.”
“Hmmm.” Said the guardian, suspicious. “You speak with the accent of Tortona. You’re fugitives, aren’t you?”
There was a long pause.
“We are.”
“And do you side with the Emperor, or with Milan?”
“We are masons.” Said Matteo. He opened his cloak to show the hammers and chisels hooked to his belt.
“Come now, make no fun of us, either you are Ghibellines, or you are Guelfs.”
“We are masons, and we care not a whit for Ghibellines and Guelfs. We care nothing for your wars.”
“Then we care not a whit for you. You cannot come in. Walk on to Milan. They will welcome you with open arms if you tell them Pavia closed its gates to you. Be thankful we haven’t locked you away in a cell.”
“Wait!” Cried Matteo. “My father was from here. I still have a cousin in the city, Faramundo, a mason like me. I can work with him. I know they’re rebuilding the Basilica of the Kings; they need all the help they can get.”
The guard’s expression changed.
“Faramundo, eh? Hmmm. How do I know you are truly his kin?”
“My cousin is tall, blond, with brown eyes. He’s afraid of heights and avoids climbing up on the scaffolding if ever he can.”
They heard chuckles among the guards. My dad was famous in Pavia for this reason: Faramundo, the mason who was afraid of heights. It’s a little embarrassing for a mason, who must often climb high up on the scaffolding when a block of stone is set in place. If he cannot get out of it in any way, dad climbs up with his eyes closed, holding onto the wooden poles for dear life, the sweat streaming down his face. The workers help him: “Two steps to the left… now straight on… no three steps to the right… watch out, there’s a hole there…” And so on. Little by little, he manages. Every now and again, some passer by who doesn’t know him will make fun of him. But he’s not ashamed. Quite the contrary, he’s the first to make fun of himself.
“It’s not the heights that scare me.” He says. “Nor is it falling. It’s splatting on the ground at the end of the fall, that’s what scares me!”
It must be said, though, that people who know him well never make fun of the matter. He’s well thought of, and one of the best in his craft.
Now, let’s get back to the city gate on the bridge, because Pietro and his father Matteo were still trying to get in. The chief of the guards had gone off a few paces with the other guards, to talk.
“What do you think, boys? Is he lying? Shall I send for Faramundo?”
“I don’t know,” one of the guards said, “what if he’s a spy?”
“Out and about by night, with his young son?”
“Well, it makes him more believable, doesn’t it?”
“Hmmm.”
Pietro’s father couldn’t take it anymore.
“Listen to me, and listen well!” He said. “Have you heard what’s happening in Tortona? Your precious Emperor is destroying everything. The city walls, the houses, the palaces, everything but the churches. The city is burning. In a few weeks, he will be here in Pavia, to take the Holy Iron Crown, in the Basilica of the Kings. And if the basilica isn’t ready? If pieces of façade are missing? Can you imagine if Barbarossa becomes furious with the Pavians who weren’t able to finish it on time? Pavia is bigger than Tortona, there’s more gold to loot, more houses to burn. Don’t you think it’s better to have one more mason at the basilica, to finish on time?”
My friends, you should know that I am a born sleepyhead, no two ways about it. I swear, that morning the guardians arrived at my house, knocked on the door, explained what was happening to my dad and mum – who were obviously already awake – and dad went off with them to the gate, and I noticed nothing at all, so warm and cozy was I in the blankets with Gisi. At the gate on the bridge, dad persuaded the guards that the fugitives really were his cousins, and that there really was need of another mason at the basilica worksite.
Gisi and I awoke at our leisure. Mum poured us a little curds-and-whey, and softened a little hard bread for us with water. Everything was perfect, and Gisi and I began to eat, without even looking around to see if dad was there. I mean, after a good sleep, you’re hungry, aren’t you? And waking up is tough. Well, anyway, at a certain point mum, who was pregnant with a new brother, or maybe a new sister, and had a gigantic belly, was off in the corner relieving herself, and was taking her time. Just when the curds-and-whey ran out.
“Dad, can I have some more?”
“Dad’s gone out.” Said mum, from the corner.
“At this time?” Gisi protested.
“He had to go to the bridge gate. Wait there a moment, I need to speak with you.”
Mum came back slowly and carefully to where we were, on the ground by the fire, and sat herself down on the wooden chest beside us.
“Now, children,” she was very serious, “if God so wills, our family will soon grow by one, as you know.” She laid a hand across her swollen belly. “But today, it is going to grow by another two, all of a sudden.”
We stared at her belly, shocked, as though a wonder was about to happen, and two new siblings were to burst out of it from one moment to the next. She laughed.
“No, it’s nothing to do with me. Dad’s cousin, Matteo, has arrived from Tortona. He’s going to live with us for a while, to help Dad. You know how they must hurry to finish the basilica. And there’s good news. He has a son called Pietro, who is about your age, Faro.”
“That’s wonderful!” Said I. “Finally, someone to play with. Yes! He’s going to be my best friend. We’ll take on Astolfo and Gherardo in games of sink-the-boat, we’ll slip into gardens to steal fruit, we’ll…”
“I want a cousin, too!” Yelled Gisi. She was always interrupting me.
“Pietro has two sisters,” said mum, soothingly, “one a little bit older than you and the other a little bit younger. But they stayed with their mother in a convent near Tortona. You know, the roads are dangerous. Only the men came to Pavia.”
“Hey, Gisi,” I teased, “I have a new friend and you don’t!”
Obviously, we began fighting, and then hitting, or rather, I hit Gisi while she bit me and pulled my hair. Mum was just about to give us a good scolding when we heard the door open. Dad was back – and with the new cousin!
Next to dad, a little shorter than him and with darker hair but light blue eyes, was Matteo. He had a curly beard and a pointy nose that made him look like almost like a rat. But his face was kind and gentle. Pietro was identical to his father, like those little wax models they sometimes use to get ready before doing a bigger carving. The father was the finished sculpture, and the son was the model – exactly the same, just smaller.
I ran forward and hugged Pietro, saying: “Cousin, cousin, it’s wonderful, you’re here, we can play together, you know how to play sink-the-boat, don’t you, and then I have to show you…”
Poor Pietro! He’s a very quiet boy, and he just stood stock still, just like a wax model.
“Faro, Faro, wait,” said dad, smiling. “Poor Pietro has walked all night long and is very tired. Leave him be for while, or you’ll send him into a muddle.”
So, I stopped chattering, and took two steps back. Then Pietro began to cry, and I felt horribly guilty! His father hugged him, and mum came forward.
“Little Pietro, come and have breakfast. We have hot curds and whey and hard bread. You must be very hunger, and very sleepy. I’ll just make up a new bed for you and your father, and today you can rest as long as you like.” Pietro cheered up a little at the word ‘breakfast’ and went with mum to the hearth.
“It’s true, Matteo,” dad said to his cousin, “today you need only rest, until you’ve had your fill of sleeping.”
“Pietro con,” replied Matteo, looking on while his son wolfed down his breakfast, “but I’m longing to see the Basilica of the Kings. They talk of it in all of Lombardy, did you know? At Christmas there was a merchant from Padua in Tortona, who said they were talking of it as far off as Cividale. But is it true there is not a single surface without a sculpture of some sort?”
Dad smiled, chuffed.
“Oh, yes, it’s quite a job. If we hadn’t been so ambitious, now we wouldn’t be frightened of not finishing in time. Very well, have breakfast with your boy, then, and we can be off.”
That morning at the basilica, Matteo found everything to be as marvelous as he had imagined. While I sat with the other boys and with Master Paolo, I heard his voice come from inside the church, outside it, from high up in the galleries and from deep down below in the crypt. “Magnificent!” He was saying, and: “Glorious! Breathtaking!” He gazed at every carving, guessing which story they told.
“Faramundo, this is the Angel of the Plague, is it not?” And then: “But the warrior fighting the lion… is that Sampson or is it Peredeo?” And again: “Ah, but she must be Theodolinda, I can tell straight away.” And on he went, as he explored every nook and cranny of the basilica.
Back then I was still too small to notice certain things, and I didn’t see how some people looked awry at Matteo, with suspicion, and how dad reassured them with his gaze and with gentle words. There was tension in the air, and not only because of the race to finish the basilica on time, but also because of Emperor Barbarossa and his wars.
First and foremost, Matteo was a father as well as a mason. When he came to where us boys were sitting in the sand, he exclaimed:
“A school for the children! Your sons have a teacher here? This truly is a marvel.”
All of the other boys were very curious to see the newcomer from Tortona, but no one dared raise their head to look, because our school master had not only a long beard and two eyes so sharp as to make an eagle envy him, but he also had a big stick. And do you know what he did not have? Qualms about using it. On us. So, we kept our heads down, our writing sticks in hand, and wrote our letters in the sand. If a boy so much as got a single stroke wrong… BAM!
Dad was telling Matteo:
“The basilica has lent us a deacon, good Master Paolo, who keeps the boys half the morning here to learn their letters and numbers. After that, the come and give us a hand, and learn the craft. Lately, Faro has been giving me much help to polish up the carvings and finish them off, ready for painting.”
“Good for Faroaldo. Pietro has been doing the same for me. Well, they can work together.”
Hearing this made me very happy. None of the other children of the masons was my age, and none of them wanted to play with me. Now, finally, I had a cousin, a friend, and a playmate all of my own.
Soon Matteo went back to our house to sleep, as he was very weary, and the rest of the day passed, slow and dull. There’s no point telling you about a dull day, so why not tell you about me and my family, how does that sound? I will have to tell you many things you don’t know. Quis says so.
Who is Quis? Don’t worry, you’ll meet him soon enough!
I don’t want to spoil the story for you, but Quis has taken me into your world. Everything there is clean, and tidy, and the walls of your houses are white, plastered and painted, and there are whole rooms for washing and relieving yourself, and you have magic lights instead of fires and candles, and there is the most wonderful warmth… You have horseless-carts, magic pictures that talk and show you far off places, incredible magic mirrors you hold in you hands and show you colorful moving pictures. I have seen my own face pass through one of these, and travel to other people’s mirrors, even if they were far away! You all know how to read, and count, but you use strange numbers and letters. And you speak strangely, too! For example, instead of saying ‘very well’ you always say ‘oh-kay’. And you all have many, many clothes, which you change every day. Actually, you have many, many things of every kind, an incredible amount, and you have fountains inside your houses for washing. But of all the wonders that seem so normal to you, one has stayed with me ever since: the fruit you call bananana. Yes, that’s right. You might think it dull, but for me the bananana is something… indescribable!
Quis has told me that you are from another time, not another world, and that some of you may even have been to Pavia and walked on the same cobbles as I. But I will tell you the truth: to me it seems like another world. In any case, I will do as Quis bids, because he is wise: I will try to explain for you all the things you cannot know.
I grew up in the heart of Pavia, the City of the Kings, the City of the Hundred Towers, tall and tapering, the colour of red bricks. If you see Pavia from afar it seems to be a winter wood, full of huge trees, as straight as poplars bit with no leaves, all gathered within the walls of a great garden, with water flowing around. The garden walls are the city walls, which protect us, and the water is our river, the Ticino. Here, inside these walls, among cobbled streets, squares and palaces, buildings and towers, is where I grew up.
It’s funny, because my name makes me sound like a tower. My name is Faroaldo, but they call me ‘Faro’, which means lighthouse. You know, those towers above the seashore with a strong light to warn ships by night that the coast is near? That’s my name. Nice to meet you all!
Well, in reality, the Faro in this story is me, but some time ago. The Faro who had yet to have many adventures. Just think, it was a Faro who had never yet seen the sea! It makes no sense, does it? But Pavia is far from the sea, unluckily.
Our house is right in the middle of the city, in a big sprawling building belonging to the Biscossi family. It’s so different to your houses: there’s only one room with one window, the walls are bare brick, with river cobbles stuck in the mortar, and on the floor there are dried-out rushes. That’s a kind of grass, that grows tall on the banks of rivers. After the rushes have been on the floor a few days, mum gathers them up and throws them away, and all the dirt and stink with them. Then she puts fresh, sweet smelling rushes down. In one corner there’s the fireplace, and a big chest of wood with all the things we own inside it. Mum and dad sit on it, too. Gisi and I sit on the floor on the rushes, but that’s fine, because they’re softer. In another corner there’s the big bed of blankets on the floor, where we all sleep. When Matteo and Pietro came, mum made up another bed for them, in the last corner left.
Mum was really struggling at the time, because of her huge, swollen belly, as I already told you. But she never let herself rest: aside from cooking and housekeeping, she’s a very good seamstress. She had made us a set of clothes for each season, and we though it was March we were still wearing the warm patchwork cloaks she had made with off cuts from her work. We even had warm leather shoes she had made for us. Poor Pietro had nothing but the clothes on his back when he arrived. So mum set to work straight away to make him some more.
Dad, on the other hand, is a mason, as you already know. But perhaps you don’t quite know what that means. He takes blocks of rough stone, of every shape, and turns them into pieces of buildings. Sometimes he has to make the block smooth and square, like it was a huge brick. These blocks are often put down at the bottom of a new building, like the towers. In fact, dad made the foundations of the some of the towers of Pavia, digging down into the ground and putting the blocks of stone down in just he right way so the bricklayers could set to work building on top of them, and the finished tower won’t fall down. But often, and this is the really special thing, the blocks become carvings, too. Now, let me tell you this, and it isn’t because he’s my father, everyone knows what I’m saying is true: he’s the best in all of Pavia at making carved blocks. The first thing I remember is him going tap tap tap with his hammer, and chips of stone going flying, going flying, going flying, and underneath, little by little, out comes a griffin, a dragon, a whale, a knight, a mermaid… it’s amazing!
I’m learning the craft, too, just like Pietro is with his father. At the time of this story, I was smoothing up dad’s carvings. I would wet the stone, put some sand on it, and carefully rub it with dry grass.
Dad says the secret to becoming a good mason is to be patient, have care and attention, and be humble.
So, can I, his son, become as good as he is one day?
Let’s see. I have very little patience, I’d say. To be honest, I don’t know if I’ll make it to the end of this story, I might get bored with it first. If that does happen, let me just say sorry right now. But you can’t say didn’t warn you!
As for care and attention… well, I can muster it up sometimes, if I really try. Especially when I’m getting myself into trouble. That time I made knots in Master Paolo’s beard while he was sleeping springs to mind. It took lots of care and attention, but I did it! Although I must say, for some strange reason he didn’t appreciate my going to all that trouble.
Being humble… Oops! I’m not even sure what it means! Shame.
Well, now that I’ve told you a bit about my world, we can move on to the next day, when the first adventure began.
Just a moment. Quis says I also need to tell you the year, otherwise you won’t understand. I’m not so good with numbers, and the year is a very big number, and big numbers make my head spin. But I’ll try. It was the year one thousand, and one hundred, and fifty, and five. Like this: MCV. Is that right? No, just a moment, like this: MCLV. Right. Wonderful, now we’re ready.
Yarnspinning and Storyweaving 