In Love With Emilia

by Virginia Gabriella Ferrari

  “When will that be, Signor Ferrari?”

  “I am not sure, this month, next month, next year!”

  We had waited for five years at the pleasure of lawyers, City Hall, provincial archives, Italian Consuls. There were phone calls, faxes of document after document, miles and miles of red tape. We had even awaited the healing of the Judge’s broken leg, which had caused everything to come to a crashing halt. Delay after delay occurred as court dates were made and postponed. As often as Luigi asked, he was given the usual Italian run-around, lots of talk but no real explanation. The only person whom we honestly felt had bent over backwards and gone out of his way to aid us and try to get things on track was the surveyor. It was hard to be positive after the build up, the let downs, but we forged ahead with travel plans and hoped this trip would bring finalization to the legalities and we would be the true owners of the cottage, No. 17, Rovinaglia.

  CHAPTER VI

  2000

  Spring brings a renewal of spirit and with it came Luigi’s brightened feelings toward his Italian family. He felt he had kept them all waiting long enough. Our daughter, her dogs, her three-legged cat were happy to spend the summer here. One might easily believe the travel arrangements to be a breeze, considering this would be the fifth year in a row that we had made this journey.

  After three months of searching for airline deals, convenient destinations, rental car, and just when everything was in order and departure dates were imminent, dear sweet Dr. Machiara, the oncologist in Parma, advised me to obtain my Italian passport, otherwise I may not receive free treatment in Italy. It was hard to get a straight answer, or the same answer from the Italian Consul. At first I was told I could not get a passport because I was not a citizen, then I was told I could because I had married Luigi while he still held Italian citizenship, and this I knew to be factual. Unable to establish from three different sources what paperwork I would need, I gathered together every piece of paper and document pertaining to my existence on this earth and headed off to Vancouver to apply for my passport regardless of whether I “may” or “may not” need it.

  The first part was easy. My nephew who lives in Vancouver dropped me at the building housing the consul. Clutching my life to my chest, I rose slowly to the fourth floor. I found the office easily enough but getting in was another matter. The security was very tight. I almost expected to be patted down.

  Eventually I had my turn at the bullet-proof glass with a tiny grilled hole through which I spoke. Between three different people and lots of misunderstanding, we finally agreed that I could apply for the passport, which I did. By this time it was noon and the office was due to close from noon to three o’clock. It is not hot here, why do they need a siesta? I completed the papers, I went away, I spent three hours roaming downtown Vancouver and sketching at English Bay. I withdrew the required amount of cash from the bank and tramped back, my poor feet throbbing. What luck, I was first in line and was received graciously. I think they saw the smoke coming out of my ears. I handed over a fifty-dollar bill and discovered they have no provision for making change at the Consul.

  “But don’t worry, we will reimburse you”. “I don’t care,” I said, “I just want my passport.” They assured me it would arrive promptly in the mail. “No, we will not use a courier,” was the answer to my obvious question. I prayed that Canada Post would live up to its stated goals, and headed home. A week later, promptly as promised, my passport arrived. Taped, unbelievably, to the front was my six dollars and fourteen cents change. Oh the innocence of these lovely people, coming from a nation rife in corruption from the town hall to the highest levels of government, and no one will nick money from an envelope?

  Five days later, we were on our way, anticipation and excitement completely blocking from our minds the ten hours stuck in a tin can, hurtling through the heavens at thirty five thousand feet. I compare it to having a baby. Five, ten, eighteen hours of agony, the brain is saying “Never again, never again”, then the tiny wrinkled purple bundle arrives, ugly as sin, but to Mom, baby is the most beautiful thing in the world, and before long you want to do it all over again.

  And so we land in Nice, after the usual cramped and tiring journey it seemed the most beautiful piece of tarmac in the world. Any piece of tarmac would have looked beautiful to us after that journey. Why Nice? Our weeks of research into the best car rental deals resulted in the fact that a Gold Visa or a Mastercard will allow insurance fees to be waived on the vehicle by the rental companies in France and Germany. Not in Italy, of course! Landing in Bologna, a stone’s throw up the autostrada from Borgotaro, would be too easy. Adding the cost of insurance to the rental fee doubles the rental charges in Italy making them prohibitive.

  Zooming off along the auto-route, I felt such a sense of coming home, knowing now that all that stood between me and that dear little house were four signatures and one hundred and four nightmarish highway tunnels most a kilometer or more in length. We crossed the now open border into Italy, with no more handsome guards wielding their Uzi’s to confront us. The European common market has taken care of that.

  Luigi’s theory is “go with the flow”. With the flow doing 140 km per hour and certainly not the required number of car lengths between us all, we flew along the coast and through the tunnels. Glimpses of the sparkling Mediterranean, hilltop towns and spewing industrial chimneys flashed between tunnels along the Autostrade Del Fiore, the Highway of Flowers, but these punctuations did nothing to allay my gut wrenching, white-knuckle fear of driving, or should I say being driven on these highways of madness. I wondered if saving the cost of insurance fees was worth our lives. I consider these highways of death to be a form of population control. Forget about wheelchairs and walking sticks. Just bring on the pine boxes and stuff the leftovers in. The death rate on the autostrada in particular, is astonishing. Perhaps it is hard not to emulate the scarlet Formula One Gods, Schumacher, and Barichello. After all the country almost declares a national holiday when a Ferrari wins a Grand Prix. After five hours existing a hair’s breadth from death, it is a journey I do not care to repeat. We arrived in Rovinaglia, exhausted, organs and brains still hurtling along in stationary bodies.

  Our exhaustion, however, did not extinguish our feelings of happiness and satisfaction knowing that the house would soon be ours. We surveyed our domain of overgrown jungle. Grass and weeds had devoured the piazza and knee high ground elder choked the rose garden. The pathway to the wood shed and round the house was lost beneath a blanket of last year’s dense, matted brown grass. The wild flowers I collected and planted last year were indistinguishable amid a veritable field of dead straw colored hay. Even Meri’s good old chickens had deserted this impenetrable mass. The anticipation of what we knew it could look like, spurred us on.

  We have had our own key for a couple of years and no longer have to claw our way into Meri’s pitch black barn, fighting through the spiders’ webs for the nail on the back of the door where the key used to hang. I opened the door, stepping over the delightful carpet of leaves and debris blown under the door and spread across the kitchen floor during the winter. It did not matter, they were our leaves on our floor. Looking at Luigi, I saw so much emotion. I knew he was thinking about his Mom and all the years of hardship she endured here. But she was happy then and I knew she would be pleased to see her little house loved once again.

  Opening up the house after our long absence is always exciting. As tiresome as it may seem I get great satisfaction from hanging all the smelly mothballed blankets and quilts out of the windows. Going outside and looking up at the bedclothes, their hibernation over, swaying in the breeze, their colorful lives erupting from the windows, I felt I had the knack. My windows now looked like every other country window when everything is flung out to air each morning. My diligence at mothballing paid off. I had managed to keep the mice and moths at bay this time. However, spiders’ condominiums festooned every corner, the beams,
even the naked light bulbs hanging on old wrinkled wires had lovingly placed webby shades. The resident lizards were not bothered by my presence and danced their ways up the walls to the windows where they paused on the bed linen, part of the family. They would be back tomorrow sunning on the window ledges. A single shiny black scorpion had managed to find its way through Luigi’s duct taped plug hole in the bathtub, a cute little thing about an inch long, tail raised, ready to do battle. I scooped it out and sent it on its way. Would it ever appreciate its good fortune in not being discovered by Meri. It dashed away down through the floorboards, off and down into the cantina to see what Luigi was doing!

  After a monumental effort the adrenaline was waning. Sitting at the still dusty table I had a quick sip of my favorite wine, Lambrusco, a nice light mid-sweet wine with a sparkly tang. Giulio would not approve, “That is not wine,” he would say. The wine he drinks is like caustic vinegar, home made and dry, so dry. But I do not care, I have never been a connoisseur, I just drink it because it is cheap and it tastes good. I remember bringing a bottle of Canadian wine for Giulio on an earlier visit. Luigi explained the significance of the Okanagan Valley, how our wines had won worldwide acclaim and medals. He chortled in his cheery way and said it was not wine, it was water, and of course the best wine in the world was “grown” in northern Italy.

  Luigi had not informed the family of our intended arrival time, intent on causing no disruption in their lives. He does, however, have the ability to smile sweetly as he nettles his way under my skin. I suspected he was doing the same to Meri but I kept my silence. I wonder if it is his personal defense against the Iron Lady. We had arrived as quietly as possible planning to get everything up and running and get our second breaths. I knew he anticipated even more haggling despite the fact the battles of the last five years should be coming to an end.

  How naïve, did we really believe we could sneak in, sight unseen? Tap, tap at the door, “Avante”, I shouted, unable to heave my exhausted self from the chair. In came Meri, carrying a basket laden with fresh vegetables, eggs and a bottle of Giulio’s delightful wine. Doing the hugging and kissing thing we conversed with the usual animation. Meri is always so concerned about me and my health. When Luigi came in, she immediately launched into a streaming tirade. Why did he not tell her when he was coming? So many things have to be arranged, lawyers, surveyors, they have all been kept waiting, the taxman, the electricity man, and the bank? I can never understand the obsequious nature of these village people, having spent so many years in Canada where we are all considered equal regardless of our health, our employment or unemployment, where one neighbor is a doctor, another a logger, and all the kids play street hockey together. Luigi is not sucked into the whirling vortex and finally, out of breath she leaves, perhaps believing she is still the reigning matriarch, even over her little brother. I leaned out of the window to breath deeply and calm down and I was greeted by Nona’s special climbing rose that I pampered and cosseted last year, willing it to take on new life. It had shot up the wall, under, over, through the iron railing of the porch and was nodding little pink faces at me from just beneath the window ledge.

  About to withdraw into the house I heard a young voice calling up to me, “Zia Ginnie, Zia Ginnie”, looking down I saw Gloria. Having blossomed over the past year, Gloria, now fourteen is almost my height. We have had a special bond with her and her family. The little family that lived in Lorenzo’s house in San Vincenzo, who have worked so hard to make it into a beautiful house, have always shown such caring and interest in their Canadian relatives. For five years I have corresponded with Gloria, struggling valiantly with her English, she has endeavored to overcome the communications barrier. She has been responsible in part for my advancement in her language, sending lists of useful words, conjugating verbs, drawing pictures and labeling them in English. Of course she is simply an extension of her own family, her inner and outer beauty coming from her lovely mother, and her dad, Stefano, Meri’s second son, so different from his siblings, his mother. Calm and easy-going, with a sense of humor like his Dad, he never complains about any hardships that descend upon him. They live away from the petty whining life of Rovinaglia in the village of San Vincenzo down the hill via Primrose Lane or a short drive down the tortuous gravel road. I am convinced all the happy people live in San Vincenzo, and all the miserable people shouldering the worries of the world live in Rovinaglia.

  When I think back to the time we visited all those years ago, I remember Luigi trying to keep secret our visit to San Vincenzo, to the cemetery where his father is buried. Nona was a strong willed, powerful woman. She never forgave her husband for returning alone to Italy from New York to live out his life in his little cottage. He deserted her and their son. Knowing Nona as I did, having spent the first couple of years of my marriage to Luigi living with her in England, it was easy to believe that she might have been a very difficult woman with whom to live. There would not have been much peace and harmony in their home. I learned early on that she was a strong, dominating woman. There was never a mention of Luigi’s father, even at get-togethers with his other sister and her family living at that time in England. San Vincenzo did not exist, except perhaps in hell, the feud perpetuated by a few of the old diehards continues.

  Gloria was thrilled at our arrival and soon rushed away to tell her Mom we were here. It was not long before the rest of her family arrived and our little kitchen was bubbling with chattering people. They never overstay their welcome and left after securing promises from us that we would go down to their house for supper on Sunday.

  The more often we visit Rovinaglia, the easier it becomes to settle back into the routine of village life, a way of life and culture so different from our own and yet we slip in like hands into familiar old leather gloves. At first, what seemed inconvenient hardships, have now become experiences of relative enjoyment. Our survival here comes from lessons learned in acceptance, tolerance, and a huge great bucket of patience.

  Several frustrating trips downtown in the afternoons to pick up an essential item, without which we cannot possibly live, only to find the town closed for siesta, ensure I no longer forget. I have learned the fine art of simply doing without. Having the capacity to think ahead can be very useful. I have never been the kind of neighbor who drops by to borrow a cup of sugar or a litre of milk, however, I will nip down to Meri’s and get some eggs or half a loaf of bread. And Marietta and the “Deaf Lady” are always begging me to raid their vegetable gardens.

  I have also learned to get the box of sticks and firewood in the night before. Fighting my way through the wind and rain to the woodshed at seven o’clock in the morning can be gruesome when the previous evening’s gorgeous sunset had assured me of “shepherds’ delight”.

  If it is Thursday and the shops are closed all afternoon and evening, which is a common European practice and there is absolutely nothing in the fridge, either we grub for roots and berries or go for a pizza. And if we are starving at five o’clock, well too bad, because nowhere opens for supper until seven o’clock, and then it is at least a forty-five minute wait.

  If we are lucky we might notice the two lines on the back page of the newspaper which tell us there will be a gasoline strike the next day. Empty tank? Stay home, even if it is a chemo day. Rail strikes are common and sometimes unannounced so if we had planned to go to Cinque Terre tomorrow we should phone Roberto, who works for the state railroad, to confirm the trains are running, otherwise we may have dragged ourselves down to the station at five o’clock in the morning for nothing!

  Even the polizia work on a hit and miss basis. You will see them leaning up against their cars, in their immaculate uniforms and jack boots, so good looking, smoking their cigarettes, eyeing the beautiful women. One day fly by at ninety, they will ignore you, another, mosey along minding your own business, they will pull you over. We were pulled over one day, the polizia demanded every piece of paperwork on the car and Luig
i’s license, which he would not accept as valid. The officer said it looked like a fishing license. We have been told so often that Canadians do not need international licenses but this policeman was adamant. We had twenty-four hours to present the license and the original copy of the car lease, which is always left at the rental office. We never did show up and the next time we were pulled over the same policeman appeared to have a lapse in memory and was quite satisfied to chat and walk round the car. Oh, what a country! I love it!

  During the past few years, our evenings in Rovinaglia had settled into a comfy routine. No television, no radio, no telephone to pollute our senses. Just peace and tranquility! Luigi would often head off to gossip in the garage with Giulio, or walk round the village, chatting with anyone, everyone. Italians love to talk. I, with my coffee, feet up, reading, drawing, doing crosswords, doodling little plans and room configurations of how we could move stuff around to make more space for convenience, for aesthetics. The end of another day, what will we be doing tomorrow I thought as I confidently scribbled out room changes and floor plans. We needed some groceries, thank goodness it is not Thursday, and I have to get some white paint to do the bedroom window. Off I went to bed, dead asleep by the time Luigi came home from his rounds.

  Leaving my ideas on the table was a mistake, now that Luigi felt free to make changes inside the house. “Leonardo” was up at the crack of dawn, revising, inventing, and implementing. I always consider each day to be an adventure filled with discovery, invention, frustration, satisfaction and even humor and this was to be no exception. Having concussed ourselves so often on the top support beam of the midget door way between the kitchen and dining room, I had designed a plan for filling it in with bricks and opening up the main wall, allowing free flowing access between the kitchen and dining room. A more open plan would also allow more light and enable heat from the kitchen and the wood-stove to circulate on cold days. The kitchen often became an oven itself as the heat from the wood-stove had no escape. An impatient man, when he has a plan afoot, Luigi was heaving the sledge hammer at the wall, before I had time to move things out of the way or protect the rest of the house from dust. I made pathetically valiant attempts, hanging sheets of plastic, putting away as much as I could into cupboards. This dividing wall having been constructed in more recent times of brittle, hollow red bricks, came down in a flash. Shards of brick flew everywhere, lethal weapons embedding themselves in the other walls, in my lovely old table that we had only bought last year. I had not thought about moving one of my watercolors of a sunflower and the poor thing was stabbed through the heart. Fortunately I had never had a piece of glass cut for the painting.