Fantasma

Fantasma (Ghost)

In the morning Luisa and I walk to the graves of my ancestors. She does this every day after going to church. My family has been in Baiano on the same land since they built the first house in the 1600s so there are quite a few Belloisi in the cemetery. Without going into the entire genesis, a couple of the more enchanting historic aspects of the family involve political exile on the island of Lipari in the 1500s and a murder to avenge the killing of my great grandfather in the 1890s... outed skeletons.

At the far end of the courtyard and garden, the family donated land to build a church whose doors are dated 1779, and not coincidentally about the same time the house was given palazzo status (small palace), which probably meant more tithing. Baiano is silhouetted by the tall foothill mountains of the Apennines – there must be some sort of collective inherited memory residing within that makes me want to live in vertical landscapes. Stefania tells me that when she works in the garden here, if she is very quiet and her mind is still she can hear the voices of the ancestors. She didn't say what they were telling her.

At the cemeteries everywhere throughout Italy, new flowers are being brought in, candles are being replaced along with the electric lights that illuminate the little crucifixes on every grave and the marble crypts are cleaned in preparation for the upcoming holidays. November 1st and 2nd are reserved feasts for the dead. Lights, prayers and of course afterwards, food. I'm not sure how this is different from every Sunday when the entire family troupes out to see their deceased except maybe they sit longer at the graves chatting with the spirits and each other.

At the church of Santa Filomena in the province, the actual skeleton of the medieval martyr's body is in repose, elegantly dressed and on display in a glass casket. Fragments of bones from a hundred other saints are displayed in an ornate wall of glass reliquaries that reach to the ceiling. The knuckle of Santa Cecelia, the kneecap of Santo Stefano, the finger of Santo Carlo and an exceptionally small skull that was either a baby or a shrunken head... maybe it was one of the sheep from the manger scene.

Santa Filomena's claim to fame was that she couldn't be killed. Try as he did after she spurned his marriage proposal, the king found this woman to be almost invincible – even after he had her shot through with arrows, then beaten and then attempted to drown her – she was unsinkable... until he decapitated her, which always seems to do the trick. What I really wanted to know is why she refused to marry the king. How easy life could have been. But here she was, on display and worshiped for hundreds of years for losing her head (which I'm not sure was part of the display as she was adorned with a special painted mask and she wasn't holding her head in her lap which would have really been impressive.)

Out in the streets fireworks are exploding day and night but it has nothing to do with the dead unless the pyros are trying to wake them. There are no fire ordinances or air quality control – the smoke haze from agricultural and home fires is thick enough to obscure the vista and burn the throat and eyes without respite. Most likely the locals don't notice this since everyone already has a cigarette hanging from their lips. Apparently there is a high cancer rate and most of the women I've met are widows, which means the cemeteries will be filled with wailing wives and serious-faced heirs for the next couple of days. When I die, I want a party, a parade, loud music and a formal black tutu for all eternity. This way, when the Day of the Dead comes, I'll already be dressed appropriately and in party mode.

Dogs are howling at the hourly ringing church bells. Women make the sign of the cross every time a bell chimes within earshot, either to remember the dead, the risen or that they themselves are mortal. The ritual and tradition, especially in southern Italy, is as thick as the smoke. The veil to the underworld is thinning. Stanca morta, I fall into a dead sleep by the open window in the afternoon sun.