The Boy, the Bird and the Coffin Maker Read online

  “You never were much of a talker, were you, Carlo? Never mind. I don’t think two minds together could solve this mystery. Yet there is a more important mystery to solve and that is this: who is looking after the boy now?”

  By the look of him, Alberto didn’t think anyone was. There was no mistaking the thinness of his bones and the sallowness of his skin: a sallowness only a shrinking stomach could bring. Twice he had seen death by starvation and if this boy did not get more food he would become the third.

  So many questions filled Alberto’s mind, but amongst them shone one certainty. The boy was here, he was real, and he needed help.

  “So,” Alberto said to the stony and silent Mr Adessi, “that is what I will do. I will help Miss Bonito’s son as best I can.”

  The next day Alberto made breakfast for two instead of one. He ate a bowl of porridge himself and placed another outside in the garden. While he worked on Mr Adessi’s coffin, he snuck glances outside. But the boy and his bird did not return.

  Alberto ate the porridge for dinner and the following day left out a fresh one. Yet it too went uneaten.

  For four days the food remained untouched and Alberto feared he had frightened the boy away for ever. But then, on the fifth day, the lure became too much, and the boy and his bird returned. Alberto didn’t see them come, but he found the empty bowl in the evening.

  He wanted to speak to the boy – check that he was OK – but he did not want to frighten him away. After the first sighting, it had taken five days for him to come back. What if he never returned after the second? So, for now, he would leave the food out in the morning, collect the empty bowl in the evening and leave his garden alone in the hours between.

  One morning Alberto was getting a plate of food ready to take outside when he heard a knock on the front door. He wondered who needed burying this time. Miss Donati had been looking off colour, and Mr Grimaldi’s cough had gained a worrying tone. But when he opened the door, he found neither.

  “Ah, Master Alberto,” said the mayor with a jolly rumble. The day was cold, so he wore a thick coat of grey wolf skin. “Glad I caught you. Not too busy, I hope?”

  “No, no. I was just making breakfast.”

  “Breakfast?” The mayor’s face grew even brighter. “Why, I might join you.” He squeezed his humungous body inside. “What are we having?”

  “Sour milk and mouldy bread,” Alberto lied. In truth he was going to have smoked cod on three slices of Enzo’s freshest bread. But he didn’t want to share that with the mayor.

  “Er, right, well. As it would happen, I’ve already had my breakfast today. Maybe we could go straight to your workshop?”

  “Of course.”

  When the door to Alberto’s workshop was closed and they were inside, safe from prying eyes, the mayor pulled a thick envelope from his pocket and handed it to Alberto.

  “What’s this?” Alberto asked. He took the envelope and opened it.

  “Money. For the coffin.”

  “But it is too much. Even for golden oak it is too much.”

  “I put in a little extra, for some additions.”

  “Additions?” Alberto asked.

  “Yes. Just a few things.” The mayor pulled a scroll from his pocket. It was so long that when unravelled it reached all the way to the floor. “Jewels and cherubs and the like. You know, all that sort of thing.”

  “Cherubs?” Alberto repeated, making sure he had heard right.

  “Yes. Those little things with wings. My mother used to call me her little cherub. I’m going to be buried beside her. Got the plot all sorted. The priest gave me two. It’s true. I said, ‘No, no. Just the one will do.’ But he insisted. Said it would befit one of my position.”

  The mayor cleared his throat and looked down at his list. “Now,” he said importantly, like he was introducing a new law. “Addition one…”

  The talk with the mayor took longer than expected: three hours longer, in fact. A few additions ended up being one hundred and ten. The coffin would still be square and made of golden oak, but the measurements had increased by three inches all around and new fittings had been ordered for the inside and out.

  By the time Alberto saw the mayor out, he was exhausted. Listening to him speak was more tiring than building a coffin. Remembering the food he had left in the kitchen, he hurried down the hall. When he arrived, he discovered someone else was already there.

  The little thief Alberto had been feeding for two weeks was now feeding himself a honey sandwich. He must have grown hungry and snuck inside to help himself.

  “You eat faster than me, Fia,” the boy said in a break between mouthfuls. He took a slurp of milk and tore off another piece of crust. “Here you go.” He handed the bread to the bird perched on the bench below. “Don’t eat it all at once. It’ll get stuck in your throat, and you’ll look like a snake that’s swallowed an egg.”

  Though the bird had taken the bread gently, it swallowed it in one gulp and tweeted for more. The boy had just pulled off another bit when he noticed they had company. His eyes darted around the room, searching for a path of escape. The coffin maker blocked the door, but there was a window near the sink.

  “Please,” Alberto said as the boy raced towards the grimy glass and tried to pull it open. Behind him the little bird flew in panicked circles around the room.

  “Please,” he pleaded again. “I won’t hurt you. Just stay and finish your food. Then you can go out the back way, so no one sees.”

  The boy gave a final tug before giving up. With his eyes locked on Alberto, he edged back to the sandwich. Forgetting his own warning, he shovelled the food into his mouth even faster and started to choke.

  “Be careful!” Alberto raced over to help. “Here.” He picked up the glass of milk. “This will wash it down.”

  The boy took the cup and began to drink. When all the milk was gone, he handed it back to Alberto. With his throat clear, he picked up his sandwich. This time when he took a bite he chewed it carefully.

  “She’s a lovely bird,” Alberto said of the feathered creature hopping about on the counter, gobbling crumbs as fast as she could. “I’ve never seen one like her.”

  The bird was as bright as a peacock but five times smaller. Her right wing was crooked, but her eyes were bright and her beak sharp.

  “That’s because Fia’s special,” the boy said.

  “I don’t doubt it,” Alberto agreed with a kind smile. “Fia? Is that her name?”

  The boy nodded. He swallowed a piece of sandwich and said, “She fell out of the sky when she was a baby. She broke her wing. That’s why she flies in circles. Her brothers and sisters flew away, even her mother left, but she stayed here with me. I didn’t even make her; she wanted to. I think,” he said with a shy smile, “she loves me.” To stop himself saying more, he took a big bite of his sandwich.

  “Well, it’s a lovely name for a lovely bird. Do you…” Alberto paused for a moment, unsure if he should go on. “Do you have a name too?”

  When the boy did not reply, Alberto said, “What a silly question. Of course you do. Are you going to tell me or will I have to guess?”

  The boy remained silent, so Alberto made his first guess.

  “You look like a Jacob to me. Yes.” He nodded. “Very much like a Jacob.”

  In reply, the boy took another bite of his sandwich.

  “Or how about Pablo?”

  Again, silence.

  “Bruno?” Alberto asked. He was getting nervous. As soon as the sandwich was finished, he was sure the boy would leave. “Or are you called Antonio?”

  At the sudden brightness in Alberto’s voice, the boy looked up.

  “Antonio?” he said.

  “Yes.” Hope made Alberto breathless. Had a new Antonio, just like his only son, come back to him?

  But the boy looked at him with confusion. That was not his name.

  “No,” Alberto said sadly. “I did not think so. The silly dreams of an old man. You are a new boy, a
ll himself.”

  The kitchen fell silent, and Alberto debated his next guess. He decided to take a new approach. “I know! I’ve got it. I’m sure. Absolutely certain.”

  Intrigued, the boy stopped eating.

  “Emilia,” Alberto said. “You are called Emilia.”

  The beginnings of a smile touched the boy’s face.

  “Ah, a smile,” Alberto said. “Though, I fear, not a name.” He frowned for a long moment. The boy watched his face. “I know. How about Teresa?”

  The boy’s smile grew.

  “That must be it,” Alberto said triumphantly. “You are called Teresa. I should have known. Would you like some more milk, Teresa?” He reached for the bottle on the bench.

  The boy’s smile widened and then broke into a laugh. Startled, like she hadn’t expected to hear such a sound coming from the boy, Fia flew off his shoulder and flapped twice around the room.

  “I’m not Teresa,” the boy said as Fia returned to his shoulder and began to preen her feathers. “That’s a girl’s name.”

  “So? Some girls are called Peta and some boys are called Jess.”

  “But Teresas are always girls.”

  “Then what should I call you?”

  Alberto feared another silence but instead the boy opened his mouth and said, “Tito. Tito Bonito.”

  “Tito?” Alberto repeated. “Why, what a fine name.” He liked it so much, his chest swelled as if it were his own.

  “Do you really mean it?” Tito asked shyly.

  “Absolutely. The finest name I’ve ever heard. Tito Bonito. Tito Bonito,” Alberto said again and again. “It rolls right off the tongue. Even an old, tired tongue like mine.”

  At this compliment, Tito held his head a little higher and a glint of pride shone in his eyes.

  “Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Tito Bonito. And if you’re ever hungry, you may come back here again.”

  THE COFFIN MAKER’S APPRENTICE

  Tito Bonito came back every day. At first he took his food into the garden and ate with Fia. But as the days grew colder they began to eat inside with Alberto. The moment they were finished they would leave – like they feared something bad would happen if they remained in one place for too long – until one day it started to rain and they decided to stay.

  Alberto had work to do, so he left Tito and Fia in the kitchen toasting crusts of bread over the fire. A few minutes later, he heard footsteps near his workshop. He looked up to the sight of Tito standing in the doorway and Fia fluttering in the hall.

  “Don’t be frightened,” Alberto said. “The dead cannot hurt us; only the living can do that.”

  Finding truth in Alberto’s words, Tito stepped down into the workshop.

  “Who’s that?” Tito asked, nodding towards the body that lay on a table beside Alberto.

  “Miss Alletori. She was a lovely lady. Always took great care in her appearance. She wore the most delicate clothes and bred the ugliest dogs. Awful things, with big, squashed-up faces.”

  Tito looked down at Miss Alletori. He looked at the brown leather shoes that covered her feet, the light cotton dress that covered her body and the thin necklace that adorned her neck. Then he looked up at the coffin maker and said, “Did … did my mum come in here too?”

  Alberto wanted to lie. He did not want Tito to think of his mother lying in here. But something in the boy’s face made Alberto certain he already knew the truth.

  “Yes,” he said.

  The fear that had made Tito’s body tense for weeks disappeared. His shoulders drooped and a deep sadness formed in his eyes. Fia fluttered on to his shoulder and rubbed her head against his cheek. He was so lost in sadness, Tito didn’t even notice.

  “I know it’s hard to lose someone you love,” Alberto said, “but try not to think of her in here. Instead, think of her before she came. Think of her when she smiled and laughed and helped you fall asleep at night. It won’t take all the sadness away, but it will help you think of happier things.”

  Tito slowly nodded his head, but the sadness remained in his eyes. Alberto wanted so much to make him happy, but he knew of no words that could do that. It would take time for the boy to heal, just as it had taken time for him.

  To help take Tito’s mind off his sadness, Alberto picked up a plank of wood and said, “Look here, Tito. Come and have a look at this. This is called spider wood. Can you guess why?”

  Tito studied the piece of wood in Alberto’s hand. At first he didn’t seem to notice anything, but then he focused carefully and spotted something strange. “It looks like its covered in spiderwebs.”

  “That’s right!” Alberto said. “Now…” He put the piece of spider wood down and picked up another. “Can you guess what this is called?”

  On that first day in Alberto’s workshop, Tito learned the names of five different woods. Then he sat by the window and watched the coffin maker work. Alberto took Miss Alletori’s measurements, gathered the wood, cut it to size and began to piece it together. A few times the coffin maker went to speak to her, but then Tito would ask a question, so he’d answer the living boy instead.

  With each passing day, Tito’s chair crept further across the room until it was right beside Alberto’s workbench. Before Alberto knew it, their conversations turned from the dead to how they would be buried.

  “Most are buried in poplar wood,” Alberto explained. “It’s nothing fancy, but it’s easy to work with and doesn’t rot.”

  “Is that what this is?” Tito picked up a scrap of wood lying beneath his feet.

  “That’s right,” Alberto said. “People die without warning, so I have to work quickly. If I work from dawn to dusk, I can make two in one day. The frame is the simplest part – six bits of wood measured, cut and hammered together – but then comes everything else: smoothing the wood, carving it and adding wooden handles.”

  “Who’s this one for?” Tito nodded to the coffin lying before them. Miss Alletori had been buried a week ago, and there was no body in the workshop today.

  “For me,” Alberto said.

  “You?” Tito’s face filled with worry. “Are you dying too?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Then why are you making a coffin?”

  “I – I’m not sure. It’s just what I do.”

  “Can I help?”

  From that day on, Tito helped Alberto in his workshop every day. Sometimes he was in such a hurry he forgot all about the food waiting for him in the kitchen and went straight there.

  Under Alberto’s gentle guidance, Tito learned many things: how to smooth the wood, how to cut it, how to join it and how to shape it. He did not work on any of the real coffins. Instead, Alberto gave him scrap wood and a workbench of his own. While they worked they talked, and for the first time in thirty years the room echoed with two voices instead of one.

  “You know, Tito,” Alberto said as the end of another day neared. “I never thought I’d find an apprentice.”

  “Apprentice?” Tito asked. “What’s that?”

  “Why, it’s someone who is training to do what I can do.”

  “You mean, I can be a coffin maker too?”

  “Tito, you can be all sorts of things. Anything you want.”

  When he heard this, Tito’s eyes grew as bright as the candle burning beside him. Alberto imagined he was dreaming of being a doctor, a sailor or a great explorer. But when Tito opened his mouth he said: “I want to be a coffin maker, just like you.”

  A PARADE OF GOLDEN OAK

  The wood for the mayor’s coffin arrived early one Monday morning. It was brought by train from the north. It took five days and four nights to chug through the wild mountains that split the country in two. There was so much oak that two extra carriages were added to fit it all in. Alberto was at the station when it arrived, along with ten donkeys who were normally used to pull carts laden with fruit to market.

  The donkeys were loaded with wood and led up Allora Hill. The sound of their hooves clobb
ering against the stony lane and workmen yelling, “Keep it steady! Keep it steady!” ensured hundreds awoke to the parade. And if anyone slept too deeply, they soon heard about it from the Finestra sisters.

  At the first sound of hooves, the sisters threw open the shutters of their house and cast their whole upper selves outside. Though they had been spying over his back fence for forty years, Alberto had never seen their necks so long. They looked like those grand, speckled creatures in books – giraffes – that lived far across the sea.

  The wood came on and on. But for a forest, no one had ever seen so much in one place, not even Alberto who worked with it every day.

  “Just take it through to the workshop,” he said at least forty times.

  When all the wood had been delivered and the train had left the station, Alberto could barely fit inside his workshop. The room was crammed so tightly with wood he had to send Tito in to fetch a tool, darting between the tiny spaces.

  For all the crowds that had gathered, one person was not there. The mayor had stayed away while his order was carried into town. Even so, the Finestra sisters pieced it all together. After all, so much wood could only be needed for someone of a certain size. So by midday the whole township of Allora spoke of the mayor and his secret coffin.

  The mayor came to check on the wood late in the afternoon. He tapped quietly on the front door and waited for Alberto to answer.

  “Well, where is it?” he asked when Alberto led him into his workshop.

  “Pardon?” Alberto tried to close the door, but there was so much wood spilling out that it wouldn’t shut.

  “I said, where is it?”

  “Where’s what?” Alberto was certain he had heard incorrectly. Surely he was not asking about the wood.

  “Where’s my wood?”

  “It’s right here.” Alberto pointed to the wood covering the floor. “And there.” He pointed to the five piles weighing down his workbench. “And out there.” He pointed to the wood stacked in the hallway.

  “But…” The mayor’s face drooped as much as his sagging stomach. “It’s not gold.”

  “Well, of course it isn’t. No tree is made of gold.”