Luigi, of course, found someone to talk to, the priest, so I went outside and walked around, hunting for any interesting inscriptions and dates. I rounded the corner of the campanile just as the bell started tolling its announcement of midday. Right above me, it was very loud, but not loud enough to drown out the call of a howling dog. She was behind a wire fence and stood like a wolf, nose to the sky, emitting a monotonous howl for the duration of the noise from the bell. Luigi then appeared at a doorway at the base of the bell tower and beckoned. I went in and there was the priest pulling the bell rope. Much to my surprise he offered me the rope. I was thrilled and fell right into the rhythmic pull. I could see the bell and wheel above me, and other bells hanging dormant. Childhood was far behind me but I had been a bell ringer for a number of years when I was twelve or thirteen. We had the youngest group of bell ringers, and George the Bell Master was very well known for producing well trained bell ringers. Trouble was that I loved to frighten my best friend outside in the dark churchyard and so she refused to go anymore. The dog was still there, although quiet now. The priest told us that she howls whenever the single bell tolls but never when they peal. He was so pleased we had stopped and very interested that I had been a bell ringer. He asked the name of the church and when I said St. Peter’s he clasped his hands together in glee and said something about fate. This was also San Pietro, (St. Peter). I also thought it was amazing. The first time I had rung a church bell since I was a child and probably the last and we chose this place and precise moment in time.
“The occasion was certainly deserving of a good meal”, suggested the priest, and recommended we go across the road and down to a pretty place with tables outside shaded with vines and umbrellas. He told us to be sure to tell them Don Reno had sent us. He waved goodbye and we had no choice but to go to that restaurant as he stood and watched until we sat down at a table. Oh well, the picnic would taste just as good for supper. Negotiating the usual deal, “just one plate of pasta each with mushrooms please, we do not want to pay more than ten thousand lire each”, we sat at a table. The traditional manner of dining at noon is a three-course affair lasting at least two hours. The price can be hefty, even in the country. The workers stop their work for the afternoon, the farmers go back to their farmhouses, the shops close. This is the main meal of the day, usually eaten as three or four courses. There is no hurry, it is a time to relax and savor the food, enjoy good conversation. The “primo piato” will usually be a pasta, very often fresh and homemade, accompanied by mushrooms or perhaps a tomato and basil sauce. Parmesan cheese is plentiful and always sits on the table. The “secondo piato” will be a veal cutlet, some melanzzane or zucchini.
The “terzo piato” will be a fresh green salad of butter lettuce, perhaps some sliced tomatoes with fresh basil leaves. A supply of bread is unending and is eaten with everything. We cannot eat that much food at noon. Having lived in Canada for so long, feeding time is usually around six o’clock when the troughs open and we shovel down one plate filled with everything in fifteen minutes flat, forget the conversation, toss everything in the dishwasher and throw ourselves down in front of the television. The waiter says that there is no problem with us just having pasta. Of course it is homemade and delightful as usual.
When Luigi went in to pay, he chatted with the fellow behind the bar who amazingly enough had been a cook on a cruise line doing the Alaska run and was very familiar with the British Columbia coastal area. He had done a little travelling into the interior of the Province and knew about the Okanagan Valley where we lived. This was to be a day of coincidences indeed.
We continued on our way, but with stops to see this ruined church and that ruined castle, getting lost many times over, we gave up on Castell’ Arquato this time and using the trusty sun as our marker headed back in the general direction of home. It was not unusual for our planned goals to disintegrate into a day of other discoveries. We would be able to do Castell’ Arquato on another occasion.
* * *
Always after a day’s outing I am whacked so we usually use the next day to recover. I take lots of paperbacks to Italy and crossword books for my lazy times, and of course my drawing books. The library in Borgotaro is very nice but its selection of English language books is limited. Once in a while I will find a book of interest and as I had a fair number to donate I chose to go to town with Luigi instead of being lazy. Anyway it was Monday and I could not possibly miss Market day. What would all the old ladies say if I did not go. I really cannot explain the attraction, it is just something you have to do on Monday.
Wandering up one side of the market and down the other reveals nothing beyond the norm, but it is fun. Luigi had gone off for yet another meeting with the surveyor and now I wanted to sit and relax, and offload the usual market buys, bathroom mat, toilet brush, t-towels, and the usual kilo of parmesan which now weighs a ton, and of course more sunflowers.
I headed for another of my favorite bars on the corner of the piazza near the old prison and one of the larger churches in Borgotaro. It has the usual outside tables, flowerpots and umbrellas. I am attracted particularly to this one this year because the chairs are all now bright yellow, which I just love. I went in to get my coffee and stood waiting at the bar, considering that this time I might have to pay more if I am served at a table. The gorgeous young man behind the bar, however, insists, “Siedi, siedi, ti portero un café”, so I went outside to sit and wait. I still only paid two thousand lire. He insisted on adjusting the umbrella for maximum shade and returned to his bar. I sipped my drug, and emitted a sigh of appreciation, no one can make cappuccino like an Italian. I pulled out my tattered sketchbook, no camera for me. I began to draw the old prison across the piazza, inhabited now only by the pigeons. I become lost in the architectural wonder of this 16th century building. Into the cracks and crevices I went with my pencil, feeling the dark depths beyond the iron-grilled windows. At home, in Canada, I will look back through my book and remember the sounds, the smells, the warmth, the breeze. I will remember every sensation of that moment in time, for years to come, while a flat piece of lifeless celluloid will lie, packed away in a box somewhere, long forgotten.
I was approached by a young woman and she asked if I am an artist. I told her I try to be. I sensed a commission coming, my worst nightmare. She asked if I do portraits, my explanation of how I work spontaneously for myself obviously lost to her. She rushed inside, dragging out the gorgeous young man from behind the bar. “Look,” she said, “isn’t he handsome?” Oh yes, he certainly was I thought, knowing now whom she expected my subject to be. “A surprise for his wife, my sister,” she said. She was so exited, I found myself falling into the same old trap. I cannot say “no” and explained that I would do it another time. The now blushing young man was hauled away and his sister-in-law rushed off up the street inusglee. How could she possibly understand that I need a face with character, one showing the ravages of time, a grizzled old woman or a face of great emotion, a woman wringing her hands in despair. My mood was completely broken, as I put away my drawing book.
Luigi arrived from his meeting with the surveyor who usually conducts his business, on market days at least, at a bar and restaurant near the town hall. He told me the bar is owned by yet another member of this ever-burgeoning family. The lady who owns this bar is also a Ferrari, a second cousin to Luigi. Her reputation far exceeds others in Borgotaro. When the Porcini Festival occurs, people come from far and wide to sample her wonderful secret recipe of pasta with mushrooms. Things must have gone well as Luigi happily related the details of the meeting explaining to me this document and that plan, a never-ending saga it seemed.
We began the lengthy, hot trek back to the car parked over the river in San Rocca. Parking in town is always impossible on Mondays. Whenever we cross the bridge, I wonder why it is necessary to have such a big bridge with six great arches striding across a few gravel bars, some dry mud and one or two stagnant puddles in wh
ich lazy fish circle. Only near the end of the bridge does anything like a river flow beneath us through the last arch. Familiar with Luigi’s exaggerated childhood tales, I listened but hardly believed his description of torrents of water crashing down the river, when he was a boy. In Canada during the following winter a relative phoned to tell Luigi that the bridge was closed, water up to the railings, fields and farms upriver inundated and animals stranded. The water was sweeping through the old channels beneath the town and bubbling up through the drains to flood the poor old cobbled streets. After the devastating floods in November of 2000, I now have no doubt about the stories I was told.
When we arrived back at No.17, we found a plastic bag of fresh vegetables hanging on the doorknob. Marietta has been down the hill again working in her garden, always a bountiful plethora of veggies. We love her. She is an absolute gem, brown and wizened, thin white hair always escaping from a natty bandana. Now there is a face to draw. She is bent double with a poor old back and walks with an elbow crutch. A constant smile adorns her beautiful face, and she never fails to offer a positive happy remark. I am never scared to ask her how she is, for she is always well, regardless of how she really may feel. There are others, however, of whom you never inquire as to their health, otherwise you will be trapped in a lengthy description of every ailment possible, from poor knees to aching backs to sore throats to varicose veins.
Marietta often hails us from amidst her spinach and onions and we wave back and shout our greetings, and when on one day as she hailed and we waved, and she hailed and we shouted, we thought nothing of it. Perhaps the wind was obscuring our voices. We continued in this manner until the wind bore her shouts of, “Aiuto,” “help!” We quickly realized she was not simply greeting us after all. Rushing down the hill we found her stuck between the old water barrel and the fence. Having fallen she had no way of righting her crooked old body. There she sat, laughing her head off at her plight. Her crutch was stuck in the fence like a lethal weapon and the old green hose-pipe whipped and writhed around like a snake spitting venom. We could not help but laugh. Between the two of us we managed to get her on her feet. Luigi captured the green snake and she continued merrily to work in her garden. Insisting that we avail ourselves of more vegetables, I pulled one onion. “No, no, solo femmina”, she laughed.
“What is she saying?” I asked Luigi, wondering if I had really heard her properly.
“You can only take female onions, not male”, he said. I was not aware there was a difference!
Once in a while I will join her and the other old ladies as they while away the afternoons on her veranda, seated on old wooden chairs, the stories and gossip in full throttle. The oft told tales of families, Sunday’s mass, what happened at the market, who has done what, where and when. I will be drawn into the conversation and with my halting Italian, will stumble on. With the required hand waving and gesturing I manage to make myself understood.
One of the old ladies, a woman of whom you never inquire as to her health, is almost stone deaf. Often she will not wear her hearing aid. Her voice is raucous and ear splitting as she roars about in the conversation. Her husband is the sweetest, most gentle of men. He has the patience of Job, which he bloody well needs after sixty years of marriage to this woman. He smiles his way through her noise conceding to every interruption, knowing that she has not heard a word he has said. Bidding my farewells, amid much hand grasping and compliments about what a bella donna I am and how bravissima I am, I leave them to their repetitive, age old stories and return to the delicious smells of Luigi’s cooking wafting out of the kitchen up the lane. I had a private giggle as I left this little gathering because for all of the deaf lady’s bravado and control, I have seen her true colors. I was sitting on our piazza and without any intention of spying, now by which time I had grasped the fundamentals from the top road wanderers, I saw her stripped to her bloomers and bra sitting in the sun. I loved it. I love to see the real human side emerge from the stiff personalities.
Toiling away at the old wood stove, its top covered with pots and pans and the old kettle bubbling and splattering, the master chef was at work. Melanzzane, dipped in flour, egg and bread crumbs, sautéed to perfection and sprinkled with freshly grated Parmesan. Marietta’s fresh green beans simmered lightly, whole and touched with just a little fresh, salt-free butter. Mushrooms chopped and sizzled quickly in very hot olive oil, with garlic and basilico and nice fresh unadorned mashed potatoes. With the required hunks of bread, bought fresh from the forno that morning, chunks of parmesan and wine in the middle of the table, we enjoyed our vegetarian fare. Being married to the best cook in the world far outweighs the disadvantages of being married to the only Italian in the world who can neither sing nor dance. Of course being from this part of the world he should be a good cook. Emilia Romagna is well known for its excellent cuisine, its famous arrays of prosicutto, mortadella, and bologna, the mushrooms and cheeses, pollenta, tomatoes and vegetables that are magically transformed into magnificent meals.
The usual dinnertime conversation occurred about tomorrow’s plans. The original doorway in the kitchen had opened onto the little cobbled lane behind the house but was now blocked up. Above it, somewhere beneath the “lovely” new coat of grey stucco cement was the stone engraved with Luigi Dora’s name and the year he built the house. We knew approximately where it was, having seen it the very first time we came with the children. Off we went to bed, having discussed this rock almost the whole evening.
The following morning I heard banging on the outside before I was even out of bed. I dragged myself into the kitchen, the church bell announcing the ungodly hour of seven o’clock. Long nails appeared at various sites through the kitchen wall. Finally, success! I heard a whoop and knew the great discovery was taking place. It took some careful work but eventually “Luigi Dora, 1883” was revealed. We were so excited but as usual the odd passerby up the lane could not understand our glee or why we had bothered. Uncovering this piece of history would be our last job this year, time to return to Canada was fast approaching.
We yearn each summer to spend more time in Emilia Romagna so we can do and see as much as possible while still having lots of time to be lazy. One of our children will always baby sit the house and cats and attempt at least to keep the flowers living in our parched, hot part of Canada. We eat here, we eat at home. We use gasoline here, we use it at home. Well, why don’t we spend more time here? It is always my fault, as my son’s t-shirt so aptly announced from his chest “Blame me why don’t you—everyone else does.” Not quite so, of course! The evil spirits always lurk, often choosing to reawake within and so back on chemo I go. Either I cannot travel because I can hardly function or I cannot be off the stuff for any appreciable amount of time. This year we had been fortunate enough to safely have a six-week hiatus. But how quickly it had passed. In no time at all it seemed, we were once again winterizing the house and closing it up which is a full day’s work. We get started early.
In the past the mice and moths have had a hey-day, nesting and munching their way through cushions, linen, upholstery, and carpets. Every fabric and wooly yummy item has to be mothballed and packed in plastic. Silk flowers, baskets, all are fair game. Even the tires of Luigi’s bike have to be hung beyond the reach of those hungry little devils. Mattresses must be protected against the rain. Our most insidious efforts to patch holes, and replace tiles will never be enough and it will always find its way in. Always, always, where-ever we store the mattresses, drips will zero in on them.
Luigi takes care of the outside tasks, the cantina, the wood shed, draining all the plumbing, plugging water drainage outlets to prevent birds from nesting in them, and we tape sink and bath holes so that creepy things do not slither in. The picnic table is locked in the wood shed and the umbrella comes in to be mothballed. Finally the water and power are shut off. Last minute leftovers are given to Marietta and potted plants to Meri and of course fond farewells are ex
changed, the villagers present in the farmyard to watch as we leave! As we close the door behind us once again, I cannot help feeling a little sad. This dear little house left unloved and lonely for another year.
After an arduous journey, we returned home to a sparkling house and verdant garden, fat lazy cats eyeball us from their sunny spots. “Oh, you’re back”, they say, “we managed quite well without you, thank you”. I missed them like hell and this was their greeting. No rushing forward with tails held high, no hello Mommy.
Luigi spent months lighting up the fiber optic cables with trans-Atlantic calls, I wished we had shares in Telus. Will the legal rigmarole ever sort itself out? Towards the end of the year, I received the good news that, administered weekly for as long as it does the job, my new drug is transportable. My son “surfed the net” on his computer, a vile piece of technology that dominated the last ten years of my working life, however, I have to agree it was pivotal in helping me find the closest oncologist and hospital willing to take me on in Italy. Fortunately the hospital was in Parma, only an hour’s drive from Rovinaglia. A placid, beautiful place, not too big, easy to navigate. We have enjoyed Parma’s charm before, so rich in history, proceeding on her unobtrusive way through life. I dreaded having perhaps to go to Milan or another huge, mad, rushing, busy city, just the sort of place where I do not want to be.
Good things come to those who wait. We finally receive word after five long years, that the deeds to the house are ready and Luigi’s signature is all that is required. No, the documents cannot be couriered to us. No, he cannot sign in the presence of a notary public, a lawyer, the Attorney General, the Governor General!
“Yes, Signor Ferrari, you must be here as soon as possible. The other members of the family are waiting just for you”.
That stubborn brick-wall appeared from nowhere, “I have waited for five years, you can wait for me”.
In Love With Emilia Page 12