Rococo

by Adriana Trigiani

  I mapped out the trip with Capri. She wants to go to the beach during the day and out for dinner and dancing at night. I’m not looking for a tan or rumba lesson. I want to be hit over the head with inspiration.

  Capri and I have always known we share Italian lineage from Santa Margherita. But she recently discovered that both of our families, the Castones and the di Crespis, were thrown out of La Spezia, a city south of our Santa Margherita, in some political brouhaha involving a harbor tax. The Castones were in the boat business, and the di Crespis were fishermen, so they banded together to fight city hall. Alas, they lost the fight and migrated north to this quaint, small cove and started over.

  “I’m in heaven,” Capri says as she greets me in her room. Her terrace faces the ocean while mine looks down the cliffs of Santa Margherita. “I don’t feel forty at all. Happy birthday to me.”

  I notice that she isn’t wearing her glasses. Her eyes are a beguiling chestnut brown with green flecks. “What happened to your glasses?”

  Capri blushes. “You noticed. They came out with a new thing—soft contact lenses. They don’t scratch the cornea like the hard ones. My ophthalmologist said to wait until we landed here to put them in, because they could dry up on the airplane.”

  “Wow.” Capri is really attractive without her glasses, or maybe she’s more relaxed because she can see clearly. Whatever it is, the results are a sizable improvement.

  “I know. Big difference, right?” Capri beams.

  We ordered up a light supper on the balcony outside her room. Capri ordered ravioli stuffed with fresh peas and mint drizzled in olive oil, grilled shrimp rubbed with garlic, and a cassis gelato. We have a cold, crisp white wine from the local vineyard. She toasts me, I toast her. We don’t do much talking, just a lot of eating. There is a knock at the door. The minute I open it, three waiters in tuxedoes blow past me with a whipped-cream cake topped with red roses and sparklers. “Buon compleanno!” they shout. Capri is delighted as I snap pictures of her grinning from behind the dazzling sparklers. One of the waiters gives Capri a card: “Happy birthday. I love you, Mom.”

  “Nobody loves you like your mother,” I say.

  “And nobody can suffocate you like your mother.” Capri yanks the sparklers from the cake. “I know she means well. But oy vey. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to complain. Thank you for taking this trip with me, and helping me celebrate my birthday.”

  “It’s my pleasure.”

  “We’ve always been close.”

  “Yes, we have. Your family had the money and mine had the taste.”

  “I should warn you. Even though we told her there wasn’t a chance in hell, Ma still hopes we’ll get married. As I was leaving for the airport, she said, ‘I wouldn’t mind it a bit if you and B eloped over there.’ ”

  “Did you tell her to mind her own business?”

  “What would be the point? Besides, she’s starting to accept some changes. I showed her the apartment, and she liked it. As much as she’d like anyplace I move into that wasn’t the Villa di Crespi.”

  The air is filled with the sweet scent of night-blooming jasmine that shimmies down the outside wall on tangling vines so dense you can’t see the stone wall underneath. If I learn one new thing on this trip, it will be draping. In Santa Margherita, the flowers seem to grow to accommodate the shapes underneath, nothing blooms in neat rows; no gardens look manicured. It’s wild, messy, and Italian, and I love it.

  “I don’t miss New Jersey one bit,” Capri says as she leans over the balcony and looks out onto the gulf. She wraps her pink silk shawl with the pale blue fringe around her shoulders. The doorbell rings.

  “They must be here for the dishes,” I say, walking over to answer the door a second time. When I open the door, a slim, fortyish Italian around five feet six with black curls and thick eyebrows extends his hand. “Ciao. You are Bartolomeo di Crespi.”

  I’ve never heard my name pronounced so perfectly. “Yes, I am. And you are?”

  “Eduardo Pinetti.”

  “Eddie Pinetti?”

  “Oh, don’t make jokes.” Capri breezes past me and pulls Eduardo into the room. “He’s making a joke,” she explains to him.

  “Oh, I see.” Eduardo smiles.

  “Do you two know each other?” I ask.

  “Kind of. Florence, who does the books at the Parsippany branch of the bank, met Eduardo when she was here on vacation. So we wrote to each other and decided to meet when I visited.”

  “Oh, you have a . . . date?”

  “Yep.” Capri smiles. “You don’t mind, do you, B? You told me you wanted to turn in early.”

  “I don’t mind.” But I sound annoyed.

  “Eduardo’s going to take me dancing.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “You are welcome to come too.” Eduardo looks at me. I can tell he doesn’t mean it.

  “No, no, you two go. Have fun. I have lots to do tomorrow.”

  “Oh, good, because tomorrow Eduardo’s going to take me out on his boat. He’s going to show me the homes along the gulf.”

  Capri grabs her purse and takes Eddie’s hand. “Sleep tight, B. Have some cake!”

  They practically prance out the door. I pull my chair up to the table and stick my fork into the word buon. I taste it. The icing is light and sweet. I pour myself a glass of cold wine and toast the moon overhead, which happens to be the perfect shade of powder blue. This is obviously the land of lucky love, so of course the spinster with dry eyes is going dancing while the bachelor with stomach muscles tighter than the springs on a trampoline sits in a hotel room and eats cake.

  I finally call Capri at noon, having waited an hour for her to show up at the restaurant for brunch. I feel bad when I call, but I don’t want to fritter the day away waiting for Ginger Rogers to come to. When she answers the phone, I hear Eduardo in the background. Moral standards fly out the window in Italy. It’s as if the perfume in the air, the hot sun, and the wine conspire to turn a rational person into a wanton sex kitten. Capri, obviously, is no exception.

  I leave the hotel and head for the small winding street that leads to town. The houses are painted pale blue and tangerine with white trim, looking like marzipan fruit set in whipped cream. In the distance, at the end of the main street, I can see the church of Santa Margherita. Eydie told me that I would find inspiration there, and I’m hoping she’s right.

  I pass the cemetery, which looks more like a real estate development than a place of final rest. The ornate mausoleums are built closely together, like fancy townhouses. The people of this town have enormous egos, especially when they are dead. The marble and gold-leaf accents give the burial site the look of a small kingdom loaded with miniature palaces. While some are large enough to include gardens, others have their own breezeways with altars. Most boast shrines, busts of family members carved in relief in doors and on gates. Some are stucco and painted Mediterranean hues of butter yellow, periwinkle blue, and moss green. Some of the doors are carved wood, some include panes of stained glass. Some of the mausoleums have simple wrought-iron gates that lead to a statuary where the dearly departed reside in style on either side of a flowing fountain. I wish I could read all the messages carved outside the crypts. There are blessings and warnings and paintings of the departed. The pharaohs of Egypt have nothing on the Ligurian Italians when it comes to opulent burial.

  I climb the steps to the entrance of the cathedral, which makes our church in OLOF look like a Christian Science reading room. The Greco-Roman exterior is stucco painted a ripe peach that shimmers in the Mediterranean sun; the ornate trim is painted a shimmery pearl. Stately Tuscan columns anchor the main entrance under a wedding-cake pediment, while tall pilasters surround the smaller doors. Overhead, a second story looms with a glorious statue of Saint Peter with two obelisks. When I look up, I see vivid shades of coral and white against the blue sky, reminding me of an open seashell.

  Inside, I feel as though I’ve been rolled in luscious Florentine paper, a mo
saic of ruby red and dark green with flecks of metallic gold. The frescoes, filled with scenes of noble saints being followed by a flock of Italians (must be the Crusades), are painted in authentic detail in a palette tinged with soft orange, heather blue, and faded purple. Every inch of the walls and vaulted ceiling is filled with images of heaven and earth and angels and sinners. It’s as if the artists ran out of space to say what they were feeling, so they painted their message from the baseboards to the vaulted ceiling.

  At the far end of the cathedral I can see the Blessed Lady in an indoor grotto. She wears a flowing blue robe, and a gold halo—a ribbon of stars—is suspended over her head. The rough stones beneath her feet dance in the light of votive candles. I am so drawn to her that I blow right past the altar to the shrine. The artist took natural gray and black fieldstones in varying sizes and mounted them on the wall haphazardly to look like the wall of a cave. Shards of stone jut out from the wall, their edges coated in shimmering sand.

  The statue itself is propped on a stone ledge about twenty feet high. Behind her the wall is painted in gold leaf, which gives the illusion that she is suspended in midair like an angel.

  Below her, kneeling in prayer, is a carved stone statue of Santa Margherita around the age of eleven. I reach up and touch the hem of her garment. I must not be the first to do this, as there’s a worn-away spot in the marble where I imagine many others have reached to touch the young saint. It gives me great comfort to know that others have had the same need, to somehow get close to this scene, to be part of it. Did they come seeking intercession? Healing? Inspiration? The majesty of a grand church like this one can be off-putting, when it’s good old connection that a sinner really needs. The groove in the stone feels like the palm of a hand extended in comfort.

  As I push my hands away from the wall, I feel something cool. I look down at my hands and then closely at the wall. Water trickles from the high rocks like a glassy ribbon, then disappears into a crevice behind the statue of Santa Margherita.

  I kneel at her feet and begin to pray. I don’t even know what this small girl with the tiny nose is famous for. A tall metal candelabra loaded with long white taper candles that burn at different heights looks like a picket fence in disrepair. I get up and light a candle that has gone out and make the sign of the cross. “Show me the way,” I ask. But it’s funny, in this moment I think I may have found it. Eydie was right. All the answers are in Italy. I have found mine in the Cathedral of Santa Margherita, while Capri has found hers in a speedboat tooling around the Gulf of Genoa.

  I don’t bother to unpack when I return home. I am filled with inspiration and can’t wait to get to work. I call Two and Christina and tell them that I need them in my office as soon as possible. I am a man possessed by Gothic architecture, baroque statues, and the smiling faces of the rococo putti. I have the picture of the Cathedral of Santa Margherita in my mind, and I don’t want to lose it before I can apply what I saw to our church. I don’t want a single impulse to slip away. Christina takes notes while I sketch. The final days of August give way to the first crisp breezes of fall as we toil with our research.

  Two types up notes and makes us lunch and, sometimes, when we work late, dinner. Amalia comes over after school as I thrash around the office thinking, creating, and sketching what I hope will become the greatest church in New Jersey. The Villa di Crespi has become a creative factory of ideas and possibilities. I’m operating at full tilt, and I love it.

  Christina and I take a day trip to the stonemason’s for samples of indigenous New Jersey rock. I want to use local materials in the renovation, so we spend a lot of time collecting wood samples, marble, and fieldstone.

  “Look at these!” Two comes through the door with a large, open cardboard box.

  “What have we got?”

  “Fieldstone from Wainscott. Look at the color.”

  I hold up a sample. “Hmm. Dentyne.” The stone is the exact shade of chewing gum.

  “Too pink.” Christina looks up from her notepad.

  “Not as an accent in the grotto. Especially if we’re going gold behind the Blessed Mother. I might be able to use this in the foyer, though, as a backdrop for the holy-water fonts.”

  “Nice,” Christina approves.

  “Unc, I dropped off the wingback chair at the Shumans’.”

  “Did you put it in place for her?”

  “Oh, yeah. She loved it. Raved about it. I was wondering . . .”

  “What?” I look up at my nephew.

  “Could I do some sketches for you on Lina Aldo’s house? You’re so busy with the church, I thought maybe I could try out some ideas on you.”

  I think about it for a moment. I want to lecture him on how long it took me to become a decorator, education included, but I think better of it. “That’s a great idea. Why don’t you do a design board and room plan, and I’ll look it over.”

  “Thanks, Unc.” Two grabs the mail and goes to the post office.

  “Are you sure you want the competition?” Christina smiles.

  “It’s all in the family. Wouldn’t it be something if Two actually took an interest in the House of B? It’s an Italian uncle’s dream come true. I want to pass along more than my cuff-link collection. To see the House of B continue with the next generation would please me.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  A Mural in Manasquan

  Mother Nature sent a dusting of white glitter just in time for my annual Christmas party on December 3. The night sky is a lush navy blue and loaded with silver stars, giving the Villa di Crespi a Currier & Ives glow. I hear the creak of my kitchen door as I put the last bit of parsley garnish on a tray of mushroom puffs.

  “This is the first time I’ve dared to wear strapless since 1951,” Toot announces, “and what better place to reveal my décolletage than your living room.” She steps inside, drops a mink shrug to the floor, and reveals a tasteful black strapless chemise.

  “You look gorgeous, sis.”

  “I know. Have I got a story for you. Wait until you hear the latest about my sex life. Are you listening?”

  “No,” I say flatly, giving her a platter of mozzarella balls to take to the buffet.

  “Well, I’ll tell you anyway. I feel like I’m one of those pups-in-skirts acts in the circus. You know how the clown opens a box and one by one these toy poodles jump out in pink tutus and jump through gold rings? That’s what it’s like with Sal. We get through one hoop, and then there’s another.”

  “He’s a challenge?”

  “Like you wouldn’t believe. It’s tough when they’re sixty-plus. Stamina is definitely an issue.” Toot picks up an iced snowman cookie, thinks better of it, and puts it back near the reindeer with the cinnamon-drop nose. “We were going along just fine, and then we had a little problem. The plumbing took a hiatus, you know what I mean?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “So now Sal gets very nervous when we get close to the deed. He gets himself so rattled we have to stop. He’s afraid of another infraction—”

  “Malfunction.”

  She ignores me and continues. “And I don’t know how to soothe him. I’ve tried rum and Coke, rum and coffee, rum cake, massage, Cuban cigars, and oysters. We get near the goal posts and he peters out. Maybe I’m too much for him. Maybe that’s it.”

  “Toot, as devoted to you as I am, I’m begging you: Please don’t tell me another thing about your sex life.” I pick up a platter of potato wedges with sour cream and caviar. “Come on.” Toot follows me to the dining room. “This is a very important night. It’s not just my annual holiday party. It’s the first visit from the artisans who are hopefully going to work with me on the church. Rufus and Pedro are finally coming to Jersey. I’m half sick to my stomach, because I’ve finished the design and now I have to show them. What if they hate what I’ve done?”

  “Since when have you ever been nervous about a job?”

  “The minute Father gave me the go-ahead.”

  “But you wanted it.�
�

  “That doesn’t mean I’m not terrified.”

  Toot puts the platter of cheese on the table and turns to me. “Now, listen to me. Buck up. You’re the best. You’re a di Crespi, for godsakes. You’re a damn good decorator. Look at your Christmas tree. Who has the guts to decorate a tree in red only? It’s like the flames of holiday hell over here! Who thinks red lights, red ribbons, and red popcorn? I’ll tell you who—a man with balls. It takes courage to march to the beat of your own drummer. So march!”

  Toot’s pep talk only makes me feel worse. The doorbell rings. Toot and I look at each other. “Aunt Edith,” we say in unison. Toot follows me to the door.

  I throw it open. “Merry Christmas, Aunt Edith!” I lean down and kiss her on both cheeks. She tastes like lilac and mothballs.

  “I almost broke a hip on the ice. Where are the crabbies?” I point to the dining room and a large tray of Auntie’s favorite English muffins baked with crab salad and cheddar cheese. I give cousin Marlene, Edith’s daughter, a quick kiss as she helps Aunt Edith to the buffet. Marlene is a long, lean woman with wide hips. From the rear she resembles a bass fiddle. The cummerbund on her palazzo pants only emphasizes the shape. Aunt Edith throws the crabbies back like a handful of pain pills. Pia, who gave me the crabbie recipe, is cousin Carmine’s sister. She has a way with all dishes made with mayo.

  PIA’S CRABBIES

  Yield: 48 Crabbies

  1⁄2 cup butter, softened

  1 cup shredded mozzarella

  1 cup soft pimento cheese spread

  2 tablespoons mayonnaise

  1 clove garlic, minced

  8 oz. crabmeat

  8 English muffins, split

  Paprika

  Salt

  1 cup shredded cheddar cheese

  In a large bowl, blend the butter, the mozzarella, and the cheese spread. Add the mayonnaise, garlic, and crabmeat. Mix well. Spread on the muffin halves, and sprinkle with paprika. Salt to taste. Sprinkle the cheddar cheese on top. Place the muffins on a cookie sheet and broil until tops are golden. Cut each muffin half into 6 wedges, and serve.