Beneath an archway on my way to the via Nazionale, I encounter one of my favorite people from our village. Paolino, dressed to kill, his red bandana tied saucily round his neck, sparkling white shirt open just enough to reveal a thick gold chain and crucifix nestling on a hairy chest. Hands casually resting in pockets of beautiful brown pants, which flow down to soft, Italian leather shoes. His handsome brown face breaks into a huge mustachioed smile, showing perfect white teeth. Out come his hands to relieve me of my bags. The traditional cheek to cheek greeting is performed. He rattles on in that incomprehensible dialect and I smile and nod accordingly, not understanding one word. He insists on helping me to the cafe where we dump the bags on the chairs under the trees. The other Paolino whom I know, is a toothless, weathered man who wears a dirty old hat and a ragged, frayed t-shirt, shorts with holes in the seat and big farm boots, laced to the calf and topped by home made wooly socks. The faithful red bandana round his neck and the twinkling saucy eyes are the only clues I have to help me in recognition. The smile, of course is ever present, the Sunday-Monday teeth absent. He drives his tractor back and forth between house and field, hauling hay and firewood. His routine never changes and his siesta is spent resting against his barn with a bottle of red wine, enjoying his beloved piece of Emilia Romagna. He is very proud of his children who attend university. He is even more proud of his lovely wife who is seldom seen, but feeds stray cats, milks one lonely cow, and makes cheese and bread. Every evening they regularly enjoy a little decadence and down tiny chocolatey pastries dripping with cream for which Paolino drives downtown each morning. Of course that also allows him time to coffee with his buddies, another entrenched part of his daily routine.
Secure in the knowledge that my bags will remain safely on the chairs I leave them and the nodding sunflowers and go into the bar to buy my “droga”, my daily drug of choice, my cappuccino. Having been warned by my ever travelling expert-on-Italy daughter that I will pay more for coffee if it is served at the table, I remain standing at the bar ready to hand over my 2000 lire. The lady, whom I discover later to be Maria’s daughter, insists I return to my table and she follows me out carrying the cappuccino. She says that I should pay when I leave. It will still only be 2000 lire. Oh, the joys of small town Italy.
Maria’s Café is situated on a piazza at the Portello. The Portello is an arched entranceway into the old town, at the top of the steps leading up from the main road. This road circles most of the town and in part runs along the top of what once was the old city wall. The chairs and tables are set out on the cobbled piazza beneath huge Plane trees. The Piazza is partially surrounded by some of the 15 th century Palazzos which front onto via Nazionale, the main street. The old entrance to the town through the archway of the Portello is set at the rear of the piazza and is best known as a rendezvous point. The whole of Borgotaro seems to meet here at one time or another. School kids to be picked up for their ride home, young men and women meeting before going off to the gym or on to a bar. The Monday crowd waiting for rides home after the market, bank managers, surveyors, teenagers, and farmers. All manner of bottoms have graced the stone steps while waiting.
On one occasion several of us were standing around in Meri’s farmyard discussing how I might walk down to the town via shortcuts through the fields. I could spend the day drawing and then meet with Giuliana to drive me back up to Rovinaglia. In my ignorance of the beautiful Italian language I suggested to Giuliana that she meet me at four o’clock at the Bordello. Roars of laughter erupted as she explained my faux pas to the listeners.
The Portello is an inspirational setting in which to draw or paint and I have often added to my memories with drawingsdone at Maria’s tables. I was asked by her son-in-law, the pizza maker, to do a painting of the building housing the café. Maria’s old man would come out and check my progress and throw his arms up in the air “Piu colore signora”, he would shout, “more color, more color”. It was alien to me, being a rather wishy-washy watercolorist. Attempting to fulfil his wishes, my picture became a work of horror to me. I could hardly add my signature to the painting and was pleased not to see it hanging in the restaurant. I later discovered, however, that when the family gave it to Maria, matted and framed, she refused to hang it anywhere but in pride of place over her sideboard in their house. Today, though, was the pleasant experience of quick sketches, capturing stances, gestures, expressions of the Borgotarese, drinking cappuccino and watching the world go by.
Luigi arrived from a meeting with the surveyor, Mussi. This man was in my opinion, quite remarkable. He handled all the legal stuff and visits back and forth between the land commission office, the town hall, the Forestry department, Rovinaglia, Parma. I only ever saw him once with a tape measure, stumbling around in a steeply sloping field below the house. Perhaps surveyors the world over do much more than my stereotypical image would have them do. I thought they stood at the side of Canadian highways with tripod scope things or measured city lots.
Shaking his head and emitting a huge sigh, Luigi sat at the table and I thought what now? We were aware of other members of Nona’s family still living. However, assuming that her spoken word would be enough to assure Luigi of eventual legal ownership of the house, he was surprised to hear it would be his responsibility to provide the names and addresses of eight people, his cousins, who were spread from one end of the globe to the other. I suppose it simply boiled down to, ifyou want the house you can do the legwork. Luigi had had no contact with most of them since he left Italy at age fifteen, heading for New York on that stinking ship. If his responsibility of searching for the cousins was not enough, after providing this information to the surveyor and the surveyor officially apprising the cousins of the situation, there would be a twelve month period during which time the cousins could contest Nona’s wishes. We did not even want to contemplate what might ensue should one, or any number of them, make claim on the house. I could imagine the house being carved up, a bit for this cousin, a bit for that cousin, and a bit for another, and nothing left but the doormat.
The ownership of Nona’s land had never been in question. Luigi and his other sister understood that Meri and her family had worked every hay field, cutting, raking, turning, baling, stacking. They had ploughed acres of land, planted potatoes and corn, bending, digging, hand sorting, boxing, storing. Years of crushing and grinding corn, of cutting, sawing, chopping and stacking firewood. From the day they married fifty-five years ago, Meri and her husband, and later her boys, and her daughter, had broken their backs on this land. Luigi’s only desire, which seemed pitiful considering the amount of land and how much lay fallow becoming overgrown brambly jungles, was to have three small pieces. What, in fact, was perhaps ten or twelve acres among a thousand or more had fallen prey to his sentimental memories of childhood. Of helping his father tend the terraced vineyards, of driving the livestock up to the summer pastures and staying up there in the thatched cottage, the family in one small room. Of climbing trees, and hunting snakes, and looking for old grenades and ammunition hidden in the hills. Of unexploded shells embedded in the earth, one of which blew his friend’s hand off during one of these escapades, but his memory dimmed the horror and produced one of those great childhood adventures. Even so, it would be difficult for Meri to concede even these small pieces to her brother.
Luigi spent most of the last few days of our holiday, talking with the old people in Rovinaglia and in his father’s village of San Vincenzo. Any information might help his efforts to establish contact with those long lost cousins.
CHAPTER III
1997
Once we were back at home in Canada, we began the awesome task of tracking down the cousins in America, Australia, Scotland, and England. We almost gave up at one point when we were not as successful as we had hoped. But a bright spark appeared from the Scottish countryside, Mario, a son of Guiseppe, one of Nona’s brothers. He was lovely—he spent a lot of time talking with Luigi on the phone
and their relationship grew to the point where they promised to meet if we should return to Europe.
I could never stay away from my Emilia and now I was provided with the perfect ammunition to fuel my desire, egging Luigi on to visit Mario and his family. So tempting was it now, eagerly wanting to renew old ties, to meet new lines of the family! Plans began to gel for a spring visit to Italy.
We flew via London which gave us the opportunity to stay with my brother and his family and also to go to Scotland. After a ten-hour nightmare bus journey, which made the dear old Greyhound seem like the Concorde, we arrived in Glasgow, the grayest, dullest city I had ever set eyes upon. Built mainly of granite, the city reflects little light, the feeling of gloom is continual. We escaped from amid the gray buildings as Mario whisked us away in to the fresh light of the countryside.
Walking round the village of Beith, it was easy to appreciate why so many Italians from northern Italy had migrated to this part of the world. Years ago, sailors would jump ship as the vessels took on their cargo of coal at Newcastle. Moving up the coastal areas and inland looking for work, the men must have felt very much at home in the narrow cobbled streets and grey rock cottages of the villages, the hillsides rolling away into slate colored skies, the winds whipping across the heather. Then the sunny days, bringing out the old ladies with their brooms, the flower pots appearing, the smiles and cheery greetings. Wives and children followed from Italy and single men “cross pollinated” and whole communities began to establish themselves.
Gathering sufficient information from Mario and two other cousins in Scotland, we were able to establish that five were dead and three still existed. Five down and three to go was my thought! I could not shed tears for those I had never known.
After rushing round the British Isles like whirling dervishes all we wanted was to rest and restore. Arrival in Rovinaglia was delightful, once again I was overwhelmed with the beauty, the bewitching soul of Emilia—would I ever be released from her grasp? We passed the list of details regarding the living cousins on to the surveyor. In talking to two of those whom we had met, it appeared possible that one or both might want a share, that they might contest Nona’s wishes regarding the house. The excitement built, as we believed the cousins would be contacted in short order and would make quick decisions. Our sails collapsed, windless, when it became obvious this was not high on Mussi’s list of priorities. We wanted to enjoy our holiday and came to realize we had to put the whole issue away and get on with the more important things in life, enjoying the almost complete piazza, doing secret jobs in the house, quietly so neighbors would not report the banging to Meri. Oh the paranoia—we must cast it aside—we are not depressed Rovinaglians! And so we did.
My friend’s daughter had traveled with us this year and did much to keep our minds in the moment. Sara, a typical teenager, was loaded with the usual teenage equipment, boom box, tapes, bike, clothes, clothes, and more clothes, enough shoes to outfit an army and tons of correspondence courses that she had to complete because of missing school. Try being a beautiful Canadian girl in Italy, a country full of gorgeous guys. Not easy to be a dedicated student! She and Gloria, Stefano and Anna’s daughter, became friends. Often the language barrier sent them into paroxysms of laughter but it did not stop them from doing silly kid stuff together. Spending hours away in the woods, coming back with cheeky red clown mouths from spending too much time in the wild cherry trees. Playing leapfrog on the top of the precipitous wall. Cycling as fast as they could down to the other villages, legs high in the air, screaming like banshees.
The summer approached. It was a lovely time to be in Rovinaglia. Constant sun and warmth, a slow relaxed atmosphere settling in to the valley. There are always farmers in their fields, jobs to do in the farmyard, but those things are taken with a more laid back attitude as opposed to the frenetic pace of the late summer and autumn and preparation for winter.
There is time for Meri and Giulio to mount their faithful 1950’s Land Rover and rattle up the bumpy, uncomfortable road to the cottage on Monte Pero. A traditional family gathering spot where her sons and their families will often meet on the weekends, the place to which Luigi as a kid drove the livestock for summer feeding. The various four-wheeled drive vehicles arrived. Out poured the kids, dogs, eggplants, mushrooms, cheese, veal, milk and Coke, the Dads and Moms, and two racked, broken, battered and bruised Canadians having ridden up with Roberto and his family. I would prefer to make the next trip on my feet, it would be far more comfortable.
Everything necessary to make an Italian family picnic was being prepared. Old iron pots sizzled on top of the wood stove, and Meri, up to her armpits in a huge pot of cornmeal for the polenta, stirred with a big wooden stick. Mushrooms and eggplant sizzled away, little fried potatoes with fresh rosemary, crisp and brown and salty, the best in the world. Daughters-in-law bustled, preparing plates of proscuitto and parmesan, chunks of bread and torta di erbe. The men were outside setting up the trestles and planks of wood for the table and logs with planks on them for benches. From a secret source deep beneath the cottage, the wine appeared, and the bottles formed a row the length of the table, no fancy labels or gold sealed tops, just plain old grungy bottles filled with good red wine. An outdoor barbecue pit glowed with fiery-red embers. Above them on a rack, slabs of meat and for Zia Ginnie, the vegetarian, huge peppers and chunks of eggplant, and of course, porcini. Jam pies and pastries were set aside for later.
All the younger cousins were playing soccer, Giuliana, Andrea and Gloria, Anna and Stefano’s brood, and Lorena and Francesca, Roberto and Rosetta’s two girls, and of course, Sara. Luigi now joined the game and then Roberto and Stefano. It is funny how a family picnic can bring out the best in some people. Roberto, Meri’s eldest son, is usually very serious and worried looking. He is very quiet and has a streak of family stubbornness. This day, however, he was leaping around with the kids and the football, laughing and playing like a schoolboy. Stefano, Meri’s second oldest, was split between playing soccer and the barbecue and his same quiet smiling character remained with him. Georgio, Meri’s youngest son, always has somewhere else to be. He’s a wiry, small, strong-as-a-horse fellow, but has no time for anything but his construction business. To ever see him was a treat, to see him laughing and participating even for such a short time was so nice. Anna and Rosetta, the two wives, of course had priorities in the old kitchen and were unseen until the platters of food began to appear on the makeshift table.
No longer the enamoured center of attraction among her adoring younger female cousins because the men were now throwing themselves in to the fray, Giuliana left the maelstrom of tackling men and one tough Canadian girl, and joined me to sit on the little bench outside at the end of the cottage. At first just in silence, and then with halting stabs at each other’s language we endeavored to get to know each other a little better. Discovering that she was P.M.Essing like crazy, I could now understand her moodiness. Certainly not a condition admitted to, or perhaps even recognized by the older generation here, she would suffer in silence, her moods misunderstood. Stuck up in the hills, isolated for most of the time from her friends downtown, trapped in a dismal cycle of repetitive misery and boredom, her temporary job at the office of the Justice of the Peace was her only lifeline to the outside world. Of course, what was so terribly unbearable today would seem inconsequential next week, when the blues had gone. Until next month, and the inevitable cycle would repeat itself. It was difficult not to continuously compare her life here to that of Sara’s in Canada, who although some years younger, sometimes appeared more mature. Having a much larger slice of the world open to her she has matured more quickly, for good or bad. For the moment I tried to show support and understanding of Giuliana. My lecture about how beautiful she is and how there is a whole wide world waiting to be discovered would come another day when she was bouncing with energetic happiness—if I could just catch that moment. I suggested as often we had in the past, tha
t she come to visit us in Canada perhaps with a friend, and for the first time I saw a spark of interest. I latched onto that and told her more about our beautiful Province. To many Italians living in rural Italy, Canada is Toronto and Montreal, RCMP, and Eskimos in igloos, and dreadful freezing weather. And of course we cannot make wine for a toffee! I cast a few hooks. How beautiful our beaches are between sparkling blue lakes, the vineyards lining the valley and the fruit orchards of cherries, apricots, peaches, apples and pears. And yes, we even have nightclubs where she can kick up her heels with her Canadian cousins. I reeled her in with an offer to pay for her flight. I did not allow myself to consider how we would find the money. There was something more important at stake. I could not bear to contemplate such youthful potential, wasting away to a life of drudgery like her mother. We both became excited discussing possible dates. I could not help thinking that she would change her mind, but continued to hope. As it turned out I would not be disappointed. In November of that year she and her delightful girlfriend did visit. Not the best time of the year in the Okanagan but at least an opportunity for them to experience our way of life, to see the world from a different viewpoint.
“Mangia, mangia”—”time to eat”, shouted a hungry boy, and everyone gathered at the makeshift table. No etiquette or manners, just digging in and enjoying, except that Zia Ginnie was served in a very gentlemanly fashion by Andrea, Meri’s only male grandchild. The beautiful roast peppers and eggplant set perfectly on my plastic plate. Everyone talked at once, arms stretched here and there, taking this and that, wine flowed like the Po. Andrea sat with the men and they discussed man things. The women and girls occupied the other end of the table and I sat in between trying to understand—the odd word or phrase jumping into my ears. When I thought I understood and attempted to make a contribution to the discussion with my ideas on how they should brush the dogs sometimes, howls of laughter erupted. It appeared they were discussing how they might prepare the meat next time. My inability to grasp the difference between “cane” (dog) and “carne” (meat) is understandable, given the close pronunciation of each word. I certainly did not mind the laughter—I have never made the same mistake again.
In Love With Emilia Page 6