The Black Madonna by Louisa Ermelino

Carmelo turned in his chair. He took her face in his hands and kissed her forehead. He called her his treasure. She brought him pen and paper and sat down next to him, pulling her chair close to his.
    Zio Carmelo wrote a letter to his nephew expressing his sorrow, his devotion, his love, and his invitation to Castelfondo. He read aloud to Zia Guinetta as he wrote. He had been to school and wrote documents and letters for the whole village. Zia Guinetta had never been to school and depended on her husband for these things. She leaned over him, her hand on his arm as he wrote.
    F
iglio carissimo,”
Zio Carmelo wrote, and here Zia Guinetta took the pen and marked X’s for the kisses she wanted to send to Amadeo. Zio Carmelo told her they went at the end, but she insisted he leave them where she put them. Her eyes narrowed and she bit her lip in approval when he wrote:
“All of Castelfondo shares your sorrow.”
Zio Carmelo blotted the ink with the green blotter he had bought from the postmaster, waved his arm over the paper, and went on:
“Castelfondo grieves for the loss of your wife and infant son and wishes you would come back to the embraces of your family and countrymen.”
    Zia Guinetta made Zio Carmelo give her the envelope to seal and she put a pinch of red powder between the pages before she licked the glue with her tongue and closed the letter inside. Zia Guinetta couldn’t read or write but she knew about important things.
    Zia Guinetta grew herbs in her kitchen garden and made medicines that she stored in earthenware jars. She experimented with love potions and aphrodisiacs, but for these the residents of Castelfondo came to her back door after dark. For the medicines she took no money, but she always accepted gifts for the magic. She had a great reputation, concocting each potion separate from the others, because, she said, the fever of love was different every time.
    Although he considered himself a modern man, Zio Carmelo was glad for the red powder. He called to Tommaso to go and mail the letter. “Amadeo shouldn’t mourn too long,” he told his wife. “It’s bad for a man’s health.” Zia Guinetta agreed.
    A madeo Pavese’s life was sad but his business was good. He had a fruit and vegetable stand that got bigger every year, until he had a store that took up half a block. His connections with the neighborhood powers filled the shelves with imported olive oil and canned tomatoes, and he thought about buying a Cadillac but he was afraid of tempting fate. He had had his share, everyone agreed, but who knew how much misfortune was enough?
    The flower signifying death was barely removed from Amadeo Pavese’s door, the last shovelful of dirt thrown on the coffin where his wife lay inside with her baby son in her arms, when the letter arrived from Castelfondo. Amadeo had only just put the black armband around his sleeve.
    In Castelfondo, even though the money from America continued to arrive on the fifth of every month, even though the amount had increased from before, Zio Carmelo worried. For the first time, Zia Guinetta’s medicines didn’t help. He lost weight, his face got small, and his nose looked big. Next to his wife in bed at night, he rolled from side to side. “The
nutrice,
” he said. “He mentions her in every letter. I hope we’re not too late.”
    A madeo Pavese bought a dark green Chrysler and thought he might make the trip to Italy someday. He worked six days a week. His son Salvatore was with Teresa Sabatini, whom he paid in fruits and vegetables and a weekly envelope filled with cash. On Sunday she brought Salvatore to his father’s house, along with her son Nicola, and they played on the dark red carpet in the living room. If the weather was fine, they ate lunch in the backyard under the grape arbor or else in the big kitchen on the bottom floor of the house. Amadeo cooked. He liked Teresa. She wasn’t