There were a number of original paintings to which I was attracted and in showing my interest I inadvertently fell into a delightful discovery. Hauled away by the old man, I was taken to his studio, a small separate building, designed and built by himself, in perfect harmony with the old house. The studio was simple, containing the basic necessary elements that he needed to work in oils. I thought how trusting they were of two complete strangers as they chatted about their lives here in the summer and back in Milan during the winter. They had chosen this isolated spot as a refuge to get away from everyone and everything, although it was quite obvious they were more than happy to have at least a little human contact. They told us that the road improved further up and the views over the steep lava beds were worth experiencing. We left, without lunch, much to my relief, ever embarrassed by my silly husband, and crept onwards and upwards to the view. The little twosome and the huge dog stood at the gate watching until we were out of sight.
We spent another hour marveling at the black tumbling mounds and formations shoved out of the earth millions of years ago, and then set out back down the road. As we neared the house the old lady stood at the gate and waved us down. She presented me with several plants of rooted lavender and I was very taken with her thoughtfulness. The fragrance flooded through the car. Those three little roots have become beautiful bushes in my garden in Rovinaglia. Never a day passes there where I do not draw my hands up through the leaves and flowers and inhale, getting lavender brain. I could absolutely overdose on the fragrance. It is a sensation that takes me back in time to my childhood, to our beautiful garden in England and the lavender lined paths.
For all the beauty of the lavender, reality awaited as we made our way home. A quick paddle in the river and time to eat our cheese buns and then returning home to a still sleeping Sara. By this time we had given up hounding Sara about her schoolwork. A month of digging her out of her bear’s den at two o’clock and trying to get her to mail her work to Canada on time was not worth the stress. Luigi, as usual, prepared a wonderful dinner. It was now nearly six o’clock and Sara had not appeared. I peeped in her room and just at that moment I heard her voice. She had been out all day exploring with Gloria.
The next day we thought a cultural trip to Modena might be interesting for Sara. She had not visited a bigger city and besides, the International Garden and Horticulture Exhibit was taking place in Modena. It had rained the day before in Modena and the mud was quite thick and deep in places.
Sara tramped from exhibit to exhibit along the muddiest route she could find. By the time we left her shoes and jeans legs were covered in mud. She became very bored so we decided to drive into the heart of Modena to wander round and enjoy this beautiful city with its arcaded streets and many historical sites. Beautiful palazzos stood sedately behind huge iron gates and massive, thick wooden studded doors, churches, gardens, and ancient piazzas all awaited us.
It would have been most irresponsible of us to leave a thirteen year old Canadian girl in a car in Italy but Sara did not want to join us on our walk. We were all tired and the heat was oppressive out of the shade, but we really wanted to give her the opportunity to enjoy another side of Italian life, so different from village life. She objected steadfastly with arms folded tight, mouth pouting. She simply refused to leave the car. From somewhere in the depths of my English soul leapt the fish-wife. As Sara continued to object, I took her arm and yanked her from the car in the most unladylike manner, yelling some awful expletives within hearing of all the beautiful people as they floated by in their Gucci shoes and Versace suits. Perhaps I had not behaved as a lady should but strong-arm tactics was the only resort. Mission accomplished, we soothed our three troubled selves with gelati and cappuccini and little pastry things. With blood pressures at a safe level, we left the sidewalk café and its colorful umbrellas, beginning our walk through the city.
We found the most beautiful, calming place of the day. Walking beneath a huge archway between massive iron gates we discovered a wonderful arcaded courtyard. A single purple wisteria, dripping with blossoms, had branched from one huge trunk and perhaps a hundred or two hundred years ago began its adventurous climb round the arcades in both directions. The vines were now within inches of meeting on the wall opposite the trunk. What history the beautiful wisteria must have grown through. Which dukes and contessas had inhaled its fragrant aroma? What battles and wars had it survived? Surely it must have given inspiration to minds, to create, to compose, to paint. We left this gorgeous haven and continued on along cobbled streets, past churches and surrounding centuries old buildings, wide piazzas, umbrella-covered tables outside the cafes hosting their coffee drinkers, plates of proscuitto and parmesan to entice the senses. Buon appetito!
An amusing moment arose as we walked through a park and Luigi, out of the blue as usual, asked a lady seated on a park bench if she knew Modena’s most famous tenor. As Sara and I cringed, the lady in a gleeful manner began to relate the poor man’s life history. Of course she knew him, his wife, his girlfriend, and where he lived and everything else about the man we might want to know. We probably could have read about this poor chap’s love life in the National Enquirer. Given the choice, I would rather be in a beautiful park in Modena as I learned the details.
After completing our walk through Modena we sat once more at shaded tables with cool drinks, and talked about what we had seen and done, and agreed it had been a good day. Sara appeared to have enjoyed the experience but remained tight-lipped towards me. The atmosphere in the car driving home could have been cut with a knife. It was difficult at least to me, not having dealt with teenagers for so long. During our final few days, Sara began to perk up. She was very eager to get home.
On the last morning as we locked the door behind us I wondered what the future held. Would we ever use that key again?
The greetings between Sara and her mom, in Canada, were emotional. It made me realize that all our trials and tribulations with this young lady came to naught in the faces of love, as mom and child hugged and wept and laughed. I will always remember Sara’s remark to her mom, that Rovinaglia is a place that time has forgotten.
CHAPTER IV
1998
The fall was no different this year in Canada, a beautiful time in the Okanagan Valley. The clear air seems to magnify the brilliance of the colors. We are blessed with a variety of deciduous trees, a wonderful array of yellows, oranges and browns set against the blue, blue lakes and sprinkled among the fir trees. Above the lakes, parks and gardens, and the tree-lined avenues, are the vineyards and orchards. Their fertile carpets reach up to the dry hills, home to stretches of waving grassland and sagebrush, quail and grouse, and rattlesnakes hidden in the heat of the rocks. Much of this land forms part of the reserve land belonging to the Okanagan Indian tribe whose horses wander freely through the hills. Higher up are the Ponderosa Pines, those wondrous giants, sending roots far beneath the surface in search of underground waters, evolved to exist in these arid surroundings. Their huge roots are often exposed, as they cling to rocky crags. The surrounding hills continue to rise, home to thicker growths of fir and pine. These hills are home to deer, coyotes, big horn sheep, black bears, and the cougars, which range even higher. All this surrounds me, how can I be so fortunate to live my life in two of the most beautiful places on earth?
The winter usually wanders in slowly, frosty mornings, a little snow here and there, sometimes chilly north winds. Occasionally, with little warning, it arrives abruptly with swirling white storms and freezing temperatures. The lakes turn to pearl and slate, purple and indigo as the skies take on their winter colors. Clouds hang in a thick blanket above the valley. We will not see much blue sky until February, however, just a short drive takes us up and out of the closed in atmosphere to sparkling snow clad trees and hills reaching on to the mountains, bright sun and blue skies.
When I am tucked up inside my warm Canadian house, I often wonder about
Rovinaglia, a bleak and unforgiving place in the winter. Howling ferocious winds, snow storms severe enough to isolate the villages high on the hillsides. As much as I love Rovinaglia, I have no desire to be there in the winter. I contemplate the endurance of the villagers. I know they will be sitting hunched round the wood stoves, scarves wrapped round sore throats and hot poultices on wheezing chests, rheumatic joints, and bodies ravaged by every virus known to man. They will have lots to complain about, a staple of life to support them through another winter.
I will think of Nona too. Of her years spent in the small house. Winters of cold, damp misery, freezing pipes, with only the faithful old Aga to keep her warm. She would hang thick curtains over all the windows, close off the other rooms and exist in the kitchen, sleeping on the old wooden bench. Her dishes, her clothes, and herself were washed in the cracked porcelain kitchen sink, with only one cold water tap and the Aga to heat pots of water. In earlier years, without the benefit of a decent bathroom, she would struggle through the snow and rain and freezing winds to the outhouse. What a tough old bird! I could see where her son’s rock-hard determination came from.
Our winters here in the Okanagan are at least more tolerable, even comfortable, when compared to the old stone house. Time passes quickly, chemo treatments come and go and before we know it the daffodils are blooming and the buds are spurting, the birds are screaming their heads off and the cats are going bananas.
My request for a good break from chemo was granted. The oncologist agreed that six weeks would be safe. Long enough to enjoy a good rest and short enough to act should things go awry. We were disappointed that the discussions over Nona’s land were still dragging on, hoping by now we would have been notified of pending finalization. Nevertheless our desire was still strong to visit Rovinaglia and we hoped I would be healthy and the RRSP’s would perform well. We spent hours talking about how we could improve the area round the house. There were changes we could make inside without undertaking any physical reconstruction or restoration. Besides, my addiction to the historical and cultural aspects of Emilia Romagna could never be satisfied no matter how many times we traveled there. It only felt like a blink of an eye as, with the necessary arrangements in place, we ventured forth once again with renewed energy and the never failing excitement and anticipation of being in our little piece of Italy.
After sailing through customs in Munich and completing paperwork for the rental car, we set out to find our steed. With a bike in a box, a bike-rack in a box, two huge suitcases on wheels and various bags stuffed with far more than we would ever need, with art stuff which was far more important to me than clothes, we approached the smallest car on the lot. We stuffed the little car full, stuck the rack on the back and the bike on the rack and headed south.
Germany was an unknown quantity to us. I had spent the first four years of my life in Northern Germany with my parents and brother and sister. Fleeting memories of our house and some toys, a duck doing poo in my cot, placed there by my silly father, were all that remained. The fact that my first language had been German because I had spent most of the days of those four years with my German nanny, was not helpful to me now. The language could have been Chinese. With the phrase book conveniently packed deep in the bowels of a bag somewhere in the car, we struggled through our requests for a room and breakfast at a lovely little hotel about an hour out of Munich.
Paranoid about theft, we dragged everything up three flights of stairs, bike and rack included. We were rewarded with a gorgeous room, soft, pillowy duvets and piles of fresh white towels in the sparkling bathroom. A huge sloping floor-to-ceiling window revealed a not spectacular view, but pleasant, across roof tops and trees.
After the long journey cramped on the plane and the subsequent hour of driving stuffed in the tiny car, space, fresh air and exercise was what we needed. We went for a walk and saw some signs and arrows indicating biking paths and footpaths. We set out along one of these, which crossed the autobahn. The power and speed of the machinery hurtling beneath us was incredible. The vibration coming through the surface of the bridge felt like a foot massage. Crossing the bridge we saw a sign with the word “zee” preceded by a name. I remembered that we had been in a little sailboat on a lake when I was a toddler and knew that zee must be some kind of lake or pond. We discovered a beautiful, almost circular lake rimmed with a treed grassy area and the footpath. It took us an hour to walk round this peaceful place. Fishermen sat on the shore, their lines dangling in anticipation. Dogs ran and kids played, we could have stayed for the rest of the evening but tomorrow’s lengthy drive loomed so we headed back to the hotel.
The next morning we found a lovely breakfast room with a stupendous array of cheeses and sliced meats, yogurts, cereals both hot and cold, boiled eggs, toast, and different jams, several different real juices. A hot china pot of the best coffee in Germany was on our table. I wished that my stomach was on European time so I could enjoy this huge feast but I was still at ten o’clock at night. I downed a bit of sustenance and drank all the coffee. We left at eight o’clock. Southern Germany was beautiful. Austria and Switzerland likewise, but we did not allow ourselves to stop too often because we had decided to make the return trip over three days and enjoy these beautiful places in a more leisurely fashion. Ten hours later, we arrived in Rovinaglia, driving down the slope infront of the old barn and parking with sighs of relief.
Without realizing, we must have communicated to someone in the family our feelings about arriving in the past to a dark, cold, powerless house. The place was sparkling. On the kitchen table stood a vase containing a huge bouquet of flowers and a card written by Gloria. The towels, the linen, the clothes we had left behind last year, were freshly laundered and pressed. Chairs and cushions were set out, de-moth-balled, plump and inviting. We had no doubt that Gloria and her mom, Anna, her aunty Rosetta and cousin Lorena were responsible. What a welcome to be sure.
The morning brought the breathtaking view, the bells, the sun, and our neighbor, Marietta down in her garden working away, digging and weeding, communing with nature. It also brought Meri. Firing on all eight cylinders, she was primed and ready for battle. A nice smile and hug for me, a withering welcome for her brother.
“We’re having a family meeting at ten, be there”!
“We have to go to town for groceries”, said Luigi calmly.
“Just make sure you’re back in time”, she said and left abruptly. How he manages to remain relatively level in his emotions over all the haggling I do not know.
We rushed off to buy food, noticing how much more expensive it had become since our last visit (try with a good conscience to buy two bananas for four dollars, impossible). Home we rushed, the fridge and cupboards were once again re-stocked. Off we tore to squeeze under the ten o’clock deadline imposed by Madam Chairwoman, but no one was in the garage. Giulio was meandering across the farmyard and then exploding out of the house came Meri. Everything seemed to part like Moses dividing the Red Sea. Dogs went one way, cats another, Pierina who had been walking up the hill, turned and walked back down, Giulio spun like a teetering old man and just managed to make his bench before collapsing. I was enjoying it all but Luigi was less than thrilled. Nothing much was accomplished in the hour that followed except that Luigi made it clear he wanted Banshoele and Genovese. There was a little plus, Meri was willing to give us about half an acre just down the hill. Back to the house we went, waving sweet goodbyes, as smoke came out of Luigi’s ears. He prepared a quick lunch, we were eager to get over to Genovese and see what ten months of neglect had done.
The undergrowth was thick and almost impenetrable. Thorns and brambles grabbed our legs and ripped at our arms. Luigi forged ahead hacking away and we made a path through to the highest part of Genovese. Sitting at the edge of Genovese and looking out over the meadows stretching up and over the surrounding hills, we once again marveled at the view, the feelings for this gorgeous place still so s
trong.
* * *
Regardless of the fact that we still held no legal ownership, I considered Genovese to be my piece of land and the trees upon it mine. They also had grown into a thick forest. By selective thinning, pruning, and cutting we could improve this piece of land thereby adding to the beauty of the surrounding area. Our reasoning will not wash with the Polizia Forestale. A license is necessary (another mile of red tape and thousands of lire into the coffers) to cut trees and then only at selected times of the year. We wanted to construct a grape arbor on the piazza at the house. The chestnut trees grow so profusely it would be possible to sneak some off Genovese.
As Luigi hacked his way through the undergrowth I stood guard, watching the gravel road that runs smack bang through the middle of Genovese. The longer Luigi remains in Rovinaglia the more like the villagers he becomes. He is furious about this road, made by a man who lives about another three kilometers along. This fellow just took it upon himself to bulldoze the road for easier access to his house. I know Luigi wants to put up barriers but he never will. He will calm down eventually. Genovese is not ours, it is very frustrating, we just want to let our hair down and get on with the work. But so far so good, that dreaded green forestry Land Rover camouflaged deliberately, to catch the poor unfortunate peasants was nowhere to be seen. Oh yes, feeling suitably guilty but insistent upon my “rights”, I would slot right into the Sunday griping session outside the church, just like an old hand.
Risking the three hundred dollar fine, we rattled our way back up the road at an agonizingly slow pace. Our trusty little rental car was laden with poles hanging from the hatchback to make our grape arbor. What did the rental agreement say? No off-road driving, yes, but I did not read anything about loading the car down until the tires rubbed against the wheel wells. I sweated and trembled like a fool the whole way back to the house. I have never been very good at being dishonest. Even when I am guilty of nothing I quiver as the eyes of authority bore through my soul. Given the third degree whenever returning to Canada, I tremble and blush. The most I ever “smuggle” is a piece of parmesan and some dried porcini. For what I put myself through it might as well be a bag full of drugs.
In Love With Emilia Page 8