The wind howled outside the windows. The square sits empty and looks forlorn at only 7pm when it should be brimming with life; people on their evening passagiata, men, young and old, playing chess, children frolicking by the fountain… all signs of life withdrawn and the wind whistles loudly into the quiet and eery evening. Marinella told Ife about the storm which passes through once a year around Christmas, tearing through the town. Neighbours had looked in on each other, made sure the old were catered for, Giuseppe’s mother had delivered bowls of pasta and sauces for her to make sure she is well that night. The village’s generator will be the back-up supply of electricity, and everyone was required to stay home.
Thunder clapped and Ife burrowed deeper into the duvet, the rain pelts down hard and harsh against the shutters and the lights flickered. Lightening lights up the sky and the rain fell even harder. She’d never seen anything like it. An angry storm, wild and brash and loud; it drowned out all forms of human life in its path.
BANG! The thunder ravaged the night.
Her poor, elderly neighbours. Somewhere outside, something clattered and banged against another thing that rolled into the distance.
BANG! Another roar of thunder on the heels of the blinding lightening.
For the first time in her life, Ife feared she may not make it to the morning and if she is going to risk seeing her mother so soon in the afterlife, she might as well say a prayer, and so she prayer the Lord’s prayer in earnest.
…
The birds chirped outside the window, and sun streamed into the bedroom through the gap in the curtain. Ife stirred opening her eyes to the glorious morning. She hadn’t died, she’d made it through. Probably God thinking she is still too angry at her mother to see her… if she is in heaven of course. She shakes off the rambling thoughts streaming through, thankful she’d made it. Outside, not a dicky bird besides the actual birds chattering loudly, possibly about the storm; they must have felt it too. She hurries to the window that looks into the square, and the evidence of the storm is apparent with the debris, but so far it looks like everyone is safe and well. She ventures outside her door and signs of life greet her, neighbours poking their heads out to check on things. Marinella waves at her from her front door, and they hurry to meet each other in the square.
‘You survived the storm now you truly are one of us now.’
Ife laughs, ‘how do we clean all this up?’
‘The council will bring some supplies and everyone pitched in. Because we are a small village, we just get on with it otherwise we will be waiting a while until it is our turn,’
Ife sees the local priest from the church going from door to door checking in on the residents and handing out supplies.
‘How is the shop?’
‘She survived, thank for you helping to secure her.’
Just then a group of men holding brooms and buckets, donned in aprons approach them in the square.
‘Here come the crew.’
All through the morning and afternoon, the villagers that could, help with the clean-up, some cooked, others cleaned, and others helped the shop owners set up. In the corner Ife spotted Papua Dinka with whom she is now very good friends, and she walks over to sit with him. He’d invited her round a few times for tea and a private tour of his studio when they were not having ice-cream at Marinella’s parlour. He took her into his confidence, showed her his back catalogues what he did not show the world, lots of pencilled sketches and paintings in various stages.
‘How did you hold up?’
‘Oh, I don’t mind the storm. She comes around every year.’ He laughs that jovial laugh of his.
‘She? Does she have a name?’
‘Aishatu. My ex-wife.’
Ife giggles holding on to her broom. ‘How do you figure she is your ex-wife.’
‘Because she left me for another man, she never thought I’d make it as an artist. She left me and my boy and went in search of the life she wanted. She passed away ten years ago, and the storm has been coming for ten years, the first was when I arrived the village. The locals thought I’d brought it with me and for a while they gave me a wide berth, now no one knows who has brought it with them.’
‘But you think Aishatu is haunting you?’
‘I think she needs my forgiveness and the storm is her tears in apology.’
Ife corked her head to the side, ‘it could be me.’
‘How so?’
‘I have secrets.’
‘My dear, don’t we all. Do you have an ex-husband who jilted you?’
‘Maybe I left him.’ Oh, how close this hit to home.
‘I bet you had good reason.’
She laughs, ‘I’m grateful for your confidence in my humanity.’
‘Speaking of secrets, Giuseppe is putting the family palazzo up for sale. It has a perfect floor for a museum should you know anyone interested.’
‘Giuseppe has a palazzo?’
‘It has been in his family for a while now it is too big for them to manage, they have no need of it.’ he shrugs, ‘I don’t either, but I thought you might know someone.’ He winked. ‘Here he comes.’
Ife turned to see Giuseppe approaching them.
‘Buongiorno. Did you sleep well?’
‘No? Did you? I thought the world was caving in.’
‘Did Papa tell you it is his ex-wife?’
‘Yes, I heard the story but even more shocking you have a palazzo for sale?’
‘Ah si, si. My family has owned the place for fifty years and we have been trying to sell but no buyers come this far.’
‘Can I see it?’
‘Do you know someone who will want it?’
‘I might.’
‘Ah okay let’s I will show you now.’
She looked back at Dinka who gives her a knowing wink, the old rascal, he knows exactly what he is doing.