RUSONELLI
When we push ahead and there stands the Emerald City,
It may not be obvious. We have to see it with our hearts first.
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The last carriage of the train rattled past them, and left the young couple standing on the little platform amidst smoke and cinders and a receding noise of exhaled steam and clanking iron rods. There weren't many on the train and those that had got off at the same time were fast disappearing through the waiting room. The man, dressed in slacks and a shirt and tie, was carrying a jacket on his arm. He picked up the two suitcases, old and battered, and smiling at his youthful companion, followed the diminishing throng.
"Where are we exactly, Roger?", she enquired as they emerged into the street outside. Her white hat was lifted up by a slight breeze but she deftly caught it.
"Berry. This is the nearest station to the monastery, or whatever it is." He looked around for a vehicle or bus, but already the only bus, a relic of the 1920s was moving out. "In all our involvement with the last couple of days, I forgot to check on how we should get there."
"Who cares," she said. "Let's find a rustic little cottage and have our honeymoon there. As long as I have you." She put her arm around his waist and rested her head on the top of his shoulder.
"Mr. Waters?" A firm voice came from behind them and turning around, they faced an older person in working clothes. He doffed his hat to the young lady. Roger acknowledged him.
"Would have been earlier, but business held me up and a load of pigs on the road. With petrol rationing still on we can only afford one trip to town a week, so we try to make the best of it." He smiled, displaying nicotine stained teeth, then hoisted the baggage on his shoulder and headed to an ancient utility truck.
The ride took them across the railway line and meandered through open countryside, dotted with patches of trees and red farms. Everywhere the sight and sound of cows. It was a warm day and not a cloud was to be seen in the sky, just a dome of light blue. In the cabin, the closeness harboured an odour of country and tobacco and man.
"How far to the monastery. That is the right name?"
"I suppose it is. We just call it Rusonelli. Oh, you can see the tower now," and the driver pointed somewhere out the front.
"I can see it," said Helena, "it looks wonderful. So, how would you call it, monastic."
Roger, her husband, smiled. She was so much a romantic, so vivacious. He was glad they were together. This was going to be the perfect honeymoon.
The first impression certainly was captivating. Nestled in the green fold of a hill, it stood out, a row of irregular shapes of darkness with a splash of colour. Not foreboding, not even dominating, but it was there. A hint of red and yellow around the base accentuated the look and then it was gone from sight as the car swept into a grove of willow trees on the creek bank. Then they were climbing and the young couple's first glimpse of the river. It looked liked a huge wide band of silver joining the ends of the earth. Then this was in turn gone as they abruptly turned into a pair of large wrought iron gates and wound up a long road towards the monastery.
As they approached the impressive stone building, grape vines passed by. Most seemed to be high in weeds and in neglect, as were the fruit trees. Then they were there. The front door opened and an elderly man in white shirt and floppy brown slacks, topped by a large straw hat, seem to float over the uneven path and down to the vehicle.
"Welcome to Rusonelli. You must be Mr. and Mrs. Waters. I hope Clance was on time. He tries to do too much on his trips to town."
"This is lovely Mr., I mean Father," Helena blushed a little, then waved away some flies.
"Any name, whatever it is, as long as it comes with well meaning, will do. However most people call me Father, and since the church hasn't abandoned me, it's probably suits the occasion. Father Vicaro. Tea. Yes, you must be thirsty after your long trip from Sydney."
As Clance disappeared inside with the suitcases, Father Vicaro headed for the side of the building and a large veranda. Roger and Helena followed, hand in hand. The area was cool and ferns hanging down from baskets added to the pleasant atmosphere. However if the couple were expecting anything, they weren't expecting the view.
"Oh Roger. Look. It's magic." She tightened her grip on his hand. Even Roger was taken back. He had experienced the sights and sounds of beautiful country before. Usually with others like himself with more urgent duties at hand than time to reflect at length. With his wife it took on a new meaning. They sat in wicker chairs and surveyed the view.
From the elevated position of the monastery, the land ran down for about half a mile to the Shoalhaven River, a large broad band of silver lined with green trees. From their vantage point the guests could see two vessels both with their funnels issuing smoke and both heading down stream towards the ocean. Several birds flew overhead and some were landing in the abandoned fruit trees below the terrace. The country gave a hint of colour to break up the greens, often in the form of some building or roadway. White smoke curled up from a mound a long way off but no flames could be discerned. The shrill sound of a steam whistle reached their ears, muted to denote distance.
"Help yourself to the scones," offered Father Vicaro. "Brother Philipe made them especially. He does all our cooking."
"The whistle?", asked Roger.
"Dare say your train has arrived at it's destination. The river gives us a highway in some instances and becomes a barrier in others."
They sat for several minutes drinking tea and taking in the view. Father Vicaro took out a pipe and a pouch.
"Do you mind? I like a smoke in the middle of the day. I'll move to the end of the veranda." He stood up.
"It's OK," replied Roger, "we both have an occasional puff ourselves. a legacy of my service days."
"I thought priests weren't supposed to have vices?" There was a twinkle in Helena's eyes as she spoke.
Vicaro smiled. "We are all imperfect."
Roger coughed. "Anyway darling, smoking isn't a vice, just a...bad habit."
They talked, and the relaxed atmosphere gave each a time to study the other, even the newly married couple gaining insights of their partner. Roger was fascinated by this older man. He seemed so worldly and at ease. The face was well tanned and with his strong hands showed many years in the outdoors, unusual for one with a cleric's occupation. He obviously relished in meeting people and putting them at ease.
The room offered to the couple was plain but the bed was soft and the view from the little balcony just as magnificent. Time seemed to have stood still that afternoon. When the gong rang, they came down nervously for dinner.
Besides Father Vicaro, another monk was seated, and a woman. Roger and Helena were introduced and Brother Philipe came in with the meal. A kick from Helena caught Roger just in time from eating as the others waited for the blessing to be made.
The lady was Bunny Torrens, an actress on a sabbatical from the hectic stage. The monk was a Brother Paul, some sort of novice. The meal was fairly simple yet ample and Helena had never tasted such a delicious sauce that covered the tender meat. Bunny was true to her profession and without being overbearing, held the conversation with tales of the stage and her past liaisons.
Roger was getting on fine with Brother Paul, who was sitting next to him. He wasn't like the young people that he knew or associated with, all one way or all the other. Paul was educated and knew endless information on politics and the great writers. At the same time, he knew more about rugby and cricket than Roger did, and how to rig a beach fishing line.
During all this, Father Vicaro kept the meal going, but also was using the occasion to observe his guests. Bunny had been there for two days and he felt she was very sincere. He liked the Waters. So many young people today often thought only of themselves, but here he found a couple so refreshing and open. Willing to take on the world.
It was during the chatting after the meal that the hand of fate, or more appropriately the hand of God, came into play.
"We think you are so lucky here." It was Helena who made the remark, looking at Father Vicaro.
"Thank you Mrs. Waters. However nothing is permanent. You know the Order is closing down and Rusonelli is to be sold?"
Her face looked as though frozen by the cold. "Oh no. Why?"
"Money my dear," interjected Bunny.
"Not just money," replied Father Vicaro. "True we are not self sufficient and the Diocese can no longer support us. But also as you see there is no longer any religious progression here. Hence only my two friends remain."
Roger put down his glass of wine. "That seems silly. I mean you have the land and that. Just doesn't seem right."
"The way of the Lord." The priest finished his glass. "I've served my time with the Church in an active way. After here I intend to stay on in the district."
"Doing what?" Helena asked, rather abruptly and caught Roger's scowl.
"Naturally helping in the community and some writing. We'll see."
Bunny stood up. "I'm going outside for a cigarette, if you people don't mind. Talking about retiring, gives me some thinking to do. About time I quit the stage." She smiled and headed for the veranda.
"Can't the Order get going again?" persisted Helena.
Father Vicaro smiled. "No I'm afraid. It is officially transferred to Sydney. Absorbed actually." Outside an owl hooted.
They joined Bunny on the veranda and mostly sat, taking in the night and the chirping of crickets. The stars, unhindered by city smoke, were bright and hung like jewels, ready for touching. Below, the shaded outline of the river could just be seen. A boat was making it's way upstream, visible only by the few lights on board.
Next morning, Roger, Helena and Bunny went for a stroll and talked a lot. Father Vicaro was writing in his small study, when the trio asked could they interrupt and have a deep and meaningful chat. An hour later, a bottle of wine Vicaro had been saving for something special, was broached and they, including the monks and Chance, drunk to the future. If there was to be one.
Three months later came that wonderful day. There were flags and people came from Berry and all the surrounding area just to have a look at the latest innovation to their district. There was even a band on the lawn in front playing and no one complained about the wonderful food.
The Chateau Rusonelli was born that day. Three months ago it was a concept. Today a reality. Locals always liked Vincento Vicaro and no doubt would still call him Father, although he had now retired from ecclesiastical duties and was now managing the hotel together with his partner, Roger Waters. They liked the lovely Helena on the main desk and to whom no request was too much trouble. All guessed that the chef came from Europe, but Philipe would make the Hotel Australia back in the city, envious. The hotel even had a resident singer and compare, Bunny Torrens, all the way from the stages of the world.
That night Chauffeur Chance joined the staff for a toast. They drank to the venture, and to Brother Paul in his decision to still seek religious enlightenment. They also toasted the Archbishop who had reluctantly at first, but finally agreed to rent Rusonelli to the partners, rather than sell.
Roger and Helena walked arm in arm in the garden that evening. their new life together was also a new life for others, and for the stately Chateau Rusonelli.
Jimmy Brook