Discovering Italy in the Po Valley is like entering an uncharted land. Its landscapes do not remind of any classic image of the peninsula: we are far from the radiant coasts and the sunny valleys of the Mediterranean. In these northern lands lies a greenish plain, covered by a dense fog. The vast gray waters of the Po River bring moisture to the valley, and covers it in an atmosphere of strange sadness.
To visit this region in the winter is to cross long, dark horizons, always about to disappear behind a ghostly veil. In that melancholic region, villages are comforting halos of light, giving out warmth with their old squares and their Lombard towers.
We entered this strange Italy during long night trips, taking trains and buses that barely gave us the time to gaze at the landscape. Milano, like an ambitious imitation of Paris, had left us confused. Parma's streets held promise, but we had seen little of its reddish walls and its weed-covered river.
Now, the mayor of a little town was taking us down the road in his car. Only trees and houses could be glimpsed behind the smog. It was 8 in the morning, and I was tempted to recover a little sleep in the back seat. Hopefully Giuseppe wouldn't notice, amused as he was by Priscila's words: they managed to communicate using a strange mixture of Portuguese and Italian, incomprehensible to my tired mind.
And yet, impatience prevented me from closing my eyes. At each crossroads, the name of Pomponesco became more frequent. So it was true? Were we already that close to the town Priscila talked so much about, the one we had only visited through books and old photographs?
While she explained her story to our Italian friend, I returned to the landscape of Northern Italy, and tried to compare it to the green valleys of Minas Gerais.
120 years separated us from the time when my girlfriend's ancestors left Italy forever. Now, this dark-skinned young girl, whose European blood was mixed with an Arab and an Indigenous heritage, had decided to return to the village from where her family had come.
Priscila dos Santos grew up in São João de Meriti, the urban sea that surrounds the north of Rio de Janeiro. Every carnival, she and her mother headed for the mountains, looking for the peace of the State of Minas Gerais, in the Brazilian interior. 8 hours of bus separated them from Pedra Dourada, the town where grandmother Hilda Belletti waited for them.
In the nights of that 20 household town, the old woman entertained them with the adventures of their Italian ancestors. Her tales of a journey through ocean and mountains enchanted Priscila, as did the folk songs her grandmother attempted to sing.
As each summer passed, Hilda's Italian grew poorer, and the names mingled and faded in her memory. Priscila soon understood that her ancestors' legacy would soon disappear, leaving her questions forever unanswered. Determined to rescue that story, she spent her teenage years unraveling the names of each of her ancestors, going through the archives of cities, hostels and towns to rediscover their paths.
They were five: Constante, Cesarina, Cesare, Enrico and Luigi. Their names, translated into Portuguese, barely hid their Italian roots. Next to them, the name "Pomponesco" always reappeared: a humble italian town, probably just as small if not smaller than Pedra Dourada. How to reach such a place, lost in the heart of Italy?
And yet, here we were, led by the mayor of the village, whom Priscila had contacted months before coming to Europe. Hilda Belletti had died without knowing the land of her mother, but her granddaughter was about to make the return trip.
In her arms, she tightly held all the documents: birth certificates, inscriptions in hostels and steamboats. Slipped between them was a letter she had found almost by accident, and it was her most recent link to the place. Sent from a nursing home in 1976, it was written by a Rosa Belletti, asking for news of her Brazilian nephews. Priscila didn't know if the letter had ever been answered: Rosa was probably long gone, but somebody may still remember her...
Finally, the houses of Pomponesco appeared from behind the haze. It was strange to enter those tree-lined streets and their colorful homes in such a cold morning. The village seemed empty. Giuseppe Baruffaldi parked the car in the middle of the square and guided us to the arcades. Among his quick Italian sentences, we understood that he wanted to talk with Priscila.
She put all her papers and photographs over the mayor's desk. He read them in silence, dazzled by the girl's enthusiasm: before his eyes, he could see the journey of an Italian family to the Americas. He didn't remember any Belletti in town, but he quickly called his friend, Paolo Tortella, an expert on local history.
Tortella was an imposing gentleman with a kindly smile. He didn't know any Belletti, but led us to the Cemetery to look for clues. We followed him to the outskirts of the town, and walked between the tombstones: it took us an hour to check them all, hoping to find some trace of the mysterious writer of our letter.
Rosa Belletti waited for us on a small tombstone, surrounded by her two husbands and one of her children. She had died 30 years ago, but the dates checked out: as she said in the letter, she was 83 years old in 1976. Her portrait adorned the tomb, and Priscila took out a photograph of her grandmother to compare it to Rosa's face. We could see the aunt and the niece together for the first time, feeling that we had found the only Belletti that stayed behind.
Now that we knew that Rosa had passed away in Pomponesco, we needed to know what happened to her family. In the nursing home, the secretary was discouraging: no employee would be able to remember a resident who died 30 years ago, except perhaps for one Maristella, who had worked there during the 80s ... After a short phone call, we were invited to take the coffee at her place.
As soon as we crossed the corridor of her house, Maristella's eyes sparkled behind her glasses. Did we come from Brazil to talk about Rosa? No joke? It was so long since she heard about her...
"Rosa Belletti ... Rosa ... Rosina! I remember her, she was tall and skinny, we talked a lot ... but she never mentioned Brazil, I thought she didn't have any family left. "
As soon as Priscila showed her the names of her great-grandparents, Maristella could not help but laugh and retell her memories of her friend. It was difficult to follow her anecdotes, but Priscila, Tortella and I listened closely, seeing the Italian aunt come back to life.
"Poor Rosina, she used to wander the streets, always so sad. Once, she tried to drown herself in the Po river, but we rescued her. Her two husbands died, she never had any children, and those she adopted abandoned her ... Felicina and I were her only family. Oh, Felicina! You have to talk to her, follow me! "
Maristella rushed out of her house and urged us to do the same. While Priscila put her papers in order and Tortella followed her nervously, a smiling old woman invited us into her home. Felicina listened patiently to Maristella's explanations, and began to recount Rosa's lonely life. Both women smiled when they saw the youthful photograph that adorned her tombstone, and laughed when they saw images of the valley of Pedra Dourada. "So that's where her family went to hide..." Felicina murmured. "I think she'd be happy to know that somebody came back to look for her."
***
Night was falling over Pomponesco.
After meeting Rosa’s old friends, Mister Tortella presented us to the Cantonis, a family that may have a connection to the Belletis. Surprised by the visit of a brazilian cousin on a winter afternoon, they discussed for a long time. Priscila still had to unravel the puzzle that precisely linked them, but she couldn’t hide her happiness: she had finally formed a bond with Pomponesco.
Now, Priscila and I were taking a walk along the Po river. We strolled silently, gazing at the sunset behind the tree branches, hoping to return to the town before darkness overtook us.
What could she feel after a day like this? I preferred not to tire her with my questions and kept walking, musing of what that strange northern Italy had become for us.
A dense veil of fog began to move towards our path, crawling over the grass. Priscila and I knew it was time to go back. Rosa would understand.
We thank Giuseppe Baruffaldi, Paolo Tortella, signor and signora Delfini, Maristella, Felicina and the Cantoni family for the time, the affection they gave us during our trip. We hope to see them again soon.