AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“I am not very religious,” Furio admitted, “but I have always found immense comfort in the church.”
When the last of the people had left, Furio rose and led me to the front of the church. Only the priest and his acolytes remained, tending to the candles and other small tasks from the service.
Furio spoke to the priest in Italian, and then switched to English for my benefit. “Monsignor, this is the woman I spoke to you about. Amber Moltisanti.”
What on earth would he have spoken to this man about?I wondered.
“Amber Moltisanti,” the priest said warmly, emphasizing my last name. The small bit of hair he possessed was ghost-white, but his face was cheerful and his cheeks red with happiness. “I have been looking forward to this meeting.”
“I wish I could say the same,” I said with a nervous laugh, “but I’m not sure why I am here.”
“A surprise,” Furio explained to him.
“And such a wonderful one!” the priest said. “Please, join me in the north transept.”
We followed him away from the pulpit and into one of the side alcoves. A massive stained-glass window filled the wall above us. Underneath the window, and to the sides, were countless blocks of stone comprising the foundation of the wall. It looked much like the rest of the church, except that these blocks were engraved with writing.
“This church was erected in the fifteenth century,” the priest explained. To me, not to Furio. “In the six hundred years since it was built, the majority of burials have taken place outside in the cemetery. We have a crypt as well, but that is reserved for religious leaders and important members of the community. The crypt is not open to the public, but to commemorate those entombed within, we have engraved their names onto the stone blocks of this transept. This way, anyone can appreciate who is beneath.”
He stepped deeper into the transept, stopping next to a stone block. He paused and waited for some sort of reaction from me. I leaned closer. The stone block looked like any other, except for the name engraved on it. There were several titles in Italian that I didn’t understand, but the last two words jumped out at me as if they were glowing neon green.
Lorenzo Moltisanti
I gasped.
“Lorenzo Moltisanti was the priest of this church for nearly fifty years,” the robed man explained. “I was blessed enough to study under him when I was a boy. A very long time ago. Father Moltisanti was such a wonderful man, kind and loving. Completely dedicated to the faith. He was the youngest of nine children.”
The priest sighed. “Before my time, when the fascists took power, Father Moltisanti’s family fled Italy. His mother, father, and eight brothers and sisters left for America, but Father Moltisanti remained here, to tend to his own flock. To guide them through the difficult times. And guide the people he did, for over twenty years, until Mussolini’s blackshirts were finally cast out.
“Father Moltisanti lived a very long and peaceful life after that, until he passed away in 1979. By then his father and mother were long since buried, and he had outlived all but one of his siblings. When I gave Father Moltisanti’s eulogy here in this church, that final sibling came, and he brought his beautiful family. His name was Leonardo Moltisanti, and he was joined by his wife, and a young son…”
“Marco,” I whispered. “My father.”
Furio put a steadying hand on my back. Supporting and comforting without intruding on the moment. The priest nodded with me, and raised up a photo album that I did not realize he was holding, with a piece of red silk ribbon marking a spot. He opened the album to that page, held it up for me to see, and lightly tapped a photograph.
“Marco was indeed his name,” he said. “I only met him that one time, but I remember him fondly.”
Tears were in my eyes as I looked at the photo. It had been taken in front of the church, in portrait instead of landscape, in order to capture the height of the church’s bell tower. An adult couple stood in front of the broad wooden doors, and between them was a young boy. He could not have been more than ten or eleven, but his features were unmistakably familiar to me. The round face and dark hair. The posture. The goofy grin, a grin he used to give me and Michelle whenever he told a corny dad-joke.
Marco Moltisanti. My father.
Tears were in my eyes as I stepped forward and placed my hand on the stone, feeling the engraving of my great-uncle’s name. My father was gone, but here was evidence of his lineage. A piece of his family literally written in stone. It may not last forever, but it would last long enough.
I had spent the past three years trying to pretend my father had not died suddenly and unexpectedly. Keeping a stiff upper lip for my sister, and moving on like everything was okay. Seeing this here, a photo of my father and his family halfway across the world, filled me with tremendous joy and sadness all at once.
I rested my head against the stone and shook with silent sobs as years of grief washed over me, held back for so long but now unable to be withstood. The priest put an arm around me, and then I was crying on his shoulder, my sobs echoing in the hollow transept.
When my eyes were dry, the priest gave me the photograph and told me I was always welcome here, in a place where my great-uncle had once preached. We exchanged a few more pleasantries, another hug, and then Furio and I were leaving the church.
It wasn’t until we were outside that my brain started working again. “You did this,” I said as we stepped out onto the street, which was more crowded than before now that the service was over. “You found this for me.”
Furio shrugged. “It was a fun little project to occupy my time. Your family history was difficult to track down! They did not immigrate at Ellis Island; they landed in Canada, and then entered the United States by way of Montreal before traveling west. But I am glad I dug deeper until I found your history. As I said previously, it is a beautiful thing to know where you come from. Now you know, Amber Moltisanti, and you willalwaysknow.”
Furio smiled at me underneath a street lamp, for once lacking his normal commanding charm. His face was awkward and hesitant, like he did not know how I would react to the fact that he had tracked down my family history. His dark eyes twinkled as he waited for my reaction.
I threw myself into his arms and kissed him.
46
