Luigi arrived back with the groceries and I felt no guilt that I had spent two hours doing absolutely nothing. No time of peace and rest is ever wasted for me. I am an expert at doing nothing. This life in the village is so conducive to achieving that goal, at least for me.
We unpacked the groceries and “Leonardo” presented me with two concrete chisels and a mallet and the suggestion that I might like to play around with the plaster walls and see what was underneath. I cannot recall ever in my wildest dreams saying that I would like to chip off years of layers of plaster and paint from the inside walls, to expose the original dry rock construction. Luigi may have a memory like an elephant but I refuse to admit ever suggesting anything of the sort, but secretly I am excited by the thought. Knowing the signing of the documents was coming soon, I did not feel quite so reluctant to begin major renovations.
I began my rock exposure career as quietly as possible, not wanting to disturb the neighbors. Eventually I gave up that silly idea and chiseled and banged away without consideration for Pepino or Lena next door; never wearing her hearing aid, Lena would not have heard anyway. One cannot chisel quietly! I just hoped I could proceed in my own methodical fashion and would not be urged to finish quickly according to “Leonardo’s” method of operation. After lunch he was too busy with the cabinets and then once again under the sink, to notice me and my chisel.
I proceeded in as orderly a fashion as possible starting at a top corner, intending to work across and down. Every bang from the hammer brought a shower of sooty crumbly lumps down from behind the beam. When part of a mouse’s nest appeared in the corner of the sitting/dining room, I decided to stuff up that corner with cement because I did not want to evict the poor little thing. Later, however, with all the vibration the cement fell out anyway, so I just had to hope the little mouse was a brave fellow and could hang on for dear life when necessary. I was slowly progressing and becoming braver and braver, I removed inch thick slabs of concrete and plaster. The excitement mounted as each piece fell and another beautiful rock face was revealed. “Watch out Leonardo, Michelangelo is coming,” I called, as grunts and groans slithered out from beneath the kitchen sink.
This original rock wall had remained upright and intact simply by the weight of one huge rock upon another. Small pieces of thin flat rock were symmetrically placed sometimes upright and sometimes horizontally in the spaces between. A dry clayey earth mixture called living clay, according to the expert at the monastery, was also used to tighten loosened stones.
I became so engrossed in my work that it was Luigi’s turn to call a halt to the proceedings. The chair (no Workers’ Compensation Board here) on which I stood was up to its rungs in a pile of rubble. The old work clothes I had first worn were lost somewhere in the mess as, sweating like a pig, I had stripped them all off. As Pierina entered for a looksee, she was amused at the spectacle before her of a woman clad in a now filthy t-shirt, Haynes-Her-Way undies, old hiking boots, with a mask now glued to a grimy face, balancing on a bright yellow chair. It was certainly worth a laugh.
The following day I continued to diligently chip away with my lovely new tools, now working in the kitchen. The bathroom door was crooked. I was quite determined to chip enough around the bathroom door to push it in on one side; I like everything to be straight. I did such a wonderful job with the chipping and straightening. I then mixed some cement to keep the door in place. Unfortunately that evening Leonardo was re-attaching the lock opening and suddenly, with an earth shattering crash, out came the whole lot from the wall with my pride certainly going before a fall. I know now that I am not good with cement! Fortunately he was not crushed to death.
By now the new sink was in place, the cupboards straightened, and the new elbows placed in the chimney allowing the wood stove to be moved over a bit. I have to acknowledge here that the three-finger, four-finger method worked for the first time in living memory!
We proudly showed off our remodelled kitchen to Pierina and explained the theory behind revealing the lovely rock walls. I must give her the credit for being the only member of the older generation who could see any point at all in what we were attempting to achieve with our efforts to preserve the physical heritage of this lovely old cottage.
Joints and bones and muscles soothed in a hot bath, we were ready to celebrate another day of achievement with Eliza’s pizza. As I sank into my wine I thought, enjoy it while you can, tomorrow is D-day. Meri had arranged a “board meeting” at Maria’s Pizzaria on the Portello at noon. At last, papers to be signed, deals to be finalized. I could almost taste it now. We were so, so close. I woke and slept and woke and slept that night, imagining all the hitches that might occur, all the things that might go wrong. I fantasized about how I would stomp out of the meeting, come home and pack and throw my love for Emilia out the window. Lord, what a night it had been. The deeds to No. 17 awaited.
After that memorable luncheon meeting which amazingly proceeded without a hitch, we returned with wads of papers and surveyors diagrams. The moment of realization that No. 17, Rovinaglia was now ours was almost overpowering as we walked into the house. The experience was like a new beginning. The walls, windows, the chestnut beams, the old wood stove, all took on a new, fresh, lively tone. The kitchen table sparkled in the afternoon sunlight which squeezed through the door behind us, the pot of flowers shone, as though in a spotlight. There was a lot of love left in the old girl and we were ready to reciprocate with our love for her.
I remembered all the “quiet” renovations we had tried to perform, all the new items for the kitchen and sitting room that we had tried to sneak in. I wondered how paranoid I, myself had become—had I been here too long?
What doubts I had were dispelled the next day when the postman came into the kitchen and flung his arms round us both in huge enthusiasm. Thrusting the electric bill into my hand, he said he would miss popping in to see how we were advancing with our work because surely soon we would get a mailbox. He said he knew Nona would approve and he reminisced about her years here and the difficulties she endured during the winters. We enjoyed him a lot and reminded him that he was always welcome to pop in for reno updates.
Each day now that we remained here would take on a different meaning, a different feeling. A feeling of actually belonging and being part of this little village, this little piece of Emilia! We behaved differently with each other. We were not both always right; we found room to accept each other’s ideas on painting, renovation. I felt a real connection with the villagers, they no longer skulked by but called out gaily, sometimes even coming to the door to chat. But I still would not hang out the washing on Sunday.
* * *
Pick a century to which we wished to return and we could drop ourselves into it with a one or two hour drive in any direction. There was no pressure to complete changes now. We could venture out on our rides of discovery with open hearts, with no doubts or misgivings about what our futures would be with No. 17. And so we began our celebratory trip intending to have a lovely dinner out. We chose Bardi, a one and a half-hour white-knuckle drive away. Bardi’s 10th century castle stands dramatically atop a high rocky outcrop making the castle so impressive as it looms over the valley far below. The solid rock forms the foundations of the high dominant walls so cool and deep within, blocks of ice were carted in during the long-ago winters to maintain year-round refrigeration. Gathered within the walls protective embrace is the old town. Outside, spilling down the hillside spreads progress, the more recent construction of apartments and modern homes, paling in significance to this great castle
We strolled around Bardi and found new little hidden gems, tiny houses hidden in alleys, wonderful balconies and hidden gardens.
I always manage to find somewhere peaceful to sit and draw and more often than not, no interest in me, or my work is evident. I chose to sit at an outside café shaded with a huge hanging vine over a trellis. Enchanted with the church
across the piazza I became very involved with my pencils and the feelings of the church and while the atmosphere seeps into my veins and heart to be ever remembered I am most often unaware of human presence. On this day, however, I felt a pair of eyes and for some time I resisted the urge to turn and establish their owner. When I finally succumbed, I must have unconsciously issued an invitation. An elderly man, thin and elegant in stature, a beret perched on his head and bearing down on a walking stick came and stood at my table. Something in me sensed he was an artist and he proved to be just that! He addressed me in German, which is often the case in Europe with people who meet me for the first time believing my height and coloring to be Germanic. Having eliminated that possibility when his comments drew little response from me and giving me no chance to indicate my nationality, hetried French and something I believed to be Dutch. In the politest way possible, I smiled and raised my hand in a gesture for him to stop. I explained in my best Italian that I was visiting from Canada, that we were staying near Borgotaro and asked if he spoke English. In perfect English he said that he had been watching me for some time, that he was an artist also and that if I walked round behind the café across the square and on down to the park, I would have a perfect view of “his” beautiful castle. I told him that I had drawn it several times before. He said that no one would be able to paint Castello di Bardi enough times to do it justice. His enthusiasm was so overpowering I felt seduced by his passion. He described how every hour of every day, every season, gave a different light. Every alleyway or hillside presented another perspective of the castle. As he escorted me in a wonderfully old-world gentlemanly fashion, his hand at my elbow, we walked to one of the perfect views of “his” castle. He did not tell me his name or what medium he worked in, only that he had lived in Bardi for many years. As a younger man he had traveled this way and promised himself, having fallen in love with “his” castle, that he would one-day return. He settled me in the perfect position, suggested that I devote my life to my work as he had done, and bid me a gracious goodbye, touching his beret and bowing slightly. My heart fluttered and I felt sorry that he was leaving. Watching him walk away down the road and across the square, a sense of desperation came over me for I felt I could learn so much from him. Would I ever have the good fortune to meet him again?
Not long afterwards Luigi came wandering along, gelatto in hand, having done his exploring thing. I selfishly thought how glad I was that Luigi had not met the old man. He loves to talk and would have monopolized the conversation and I would never have experienced my little bit of special time with this lovely old gentleman, “un uomo vecchio”. We decided to return to the café by the church for our late lunch and enjoyed our special celebration of ownership of No. 17, Rovinaglia, with beautiful pasta and melanzane, cheese and fruit plus a bottle of Merlot.
I must have a thing with old men because on a trip to San Secondo, I crossed paths with another elderly man. Our visit to San Secondo was not by chance. We had driven to Parma airport to pick up my sister-in-law, Annette, coming from London for a two-week stay. Her flight had been delayed for six hours, and while she sat knitting in Milan we wove ourselves another wonderful experience in and out of the alleys and buildings of San Secondo, and the remains of the 16th century castle. The north wing and the tower, which is used as the town hall, are all that remain of the original castle.
With the Year 2000 looming on the horizon, a huge renovation effort was undertaken several years ago to restore many of Italy’s historical sites. The preservation and restoration of buildings, like San Secondo, will afford many more generations the opportunity to look back into the lives of intellectuals, artisans, and aristocrats. The grounds are filled with ancient trees, outside beneath the walls, what once must have been a moat, stretches a deep grass filled channel.
We spent some time exploring the village, discovering a workshop where two women were working on restoration of canvases and other works of art. The intrepid man in my life, whom I have to admit is responsible for most of our interesting encounters and discoveries, did not hesitate to step inside and start inquiring about their work. In doing so, we were to discover that the younger woman working on the restoration of a particularly beautiful old canvas, had degrees in Archaeology, Sociology, Anthropology, and Fine Arts. She had more knowledge of ancient history and languages than I thought possible for a mind of one so young. The workshop also housed some wonderful pieces by a local artist for whom the other woman framed. The color and style were quite unique. The consistent theme of women with masses of glorious, waved and curly hair and enchanting faces full of emotion, particularly attracted me and I wanted to buy them all.
Using his natural Italian charm Luigi asked if they might be able to transcribe the inscriptions I had copied from the rock we found embedded in the wall of the house. We became quite obsessed with the origins of the engraved rock. Having no camera with which to take a picture, I tried to make a rubbing, which did not work well. I resorted to a drawn copy of the rock face and we would take it wherever we went hoping to encounter someone who might help interpret its meaning. The young lady in the little workshop looked thoughtfully at my rendition and she consulted some leather bound tomes. She suggested that some of the letters looked Greek but then could not reconcile other characters and numbers with those letters. We of course were hoping it was some ancient meaningful relic, like the Roman coin we had found in the pile of junk that is now the piazza. She thought it was probably a headstone but could not confirm that. I left them chatting and escaped to walk back to the castle.
As I strolled through the grounds I could occasionally hear a beautiful tenor voice drifting through the air and believed it to be a compact disc or someone with a radio. It was quite lovely and faded away as I entered a dark little circular stairwell. A cardboard handwritten notice advertising a show of work by local artisans piqued my curiosity. The stairs opened into a huge, long room. It might have been an eating hall centuries ago. I could imagine long trestle tables laden with platters of food. Men and women dressed in 16th century robes, minstrels circling, and hounds lying beneath the tables waiting for scraps. One wall was roped off and I could see salons beyond, through high open doors, with frescoed areas being restored. The hall itself contained a wonderful display of pottery, metal and stone sculptures, clay and earthenware tiles, and plaques, the materials used extracted from the earth, hillsides, and river beds of the area. Other than the young woman on duty, I was the only person present. Wandering through at my leisure I felt as though I was being allowed a private viewing of these beautiful pieces. In awe of this talent, and feeling my own abilities to be quite inadequate I left to find a place to sit and draw, perhaps to set to rest those feelings of inadequacy.
I noticed that two old men on even older bicycles had stopped, where they met, in front of the splendid archway entrance to the remains of the castle. I sat on an old wall nearby. As they chatted, I did a quick sketch, loving the atmosphere they had created just for me. Eventually they moved on and when I saw Luigi sitting at one of the little cafes across from the castle, I went to join him and had my cappuccino. Again I heard that beautiful tenor voice. Closer and closer it came, until along the road cycled one of the old men on his bike singing his heart out. I must have visibly swooned for he dismounted at our table and just as though he knew it was my favorite, he sang an aria from La Boheme, “Che Gelida Manina”. I have often wanted to steal Andrea Bocelli and have him sing for me forever as I sit at my kitchen table looking out across the valley. But this old fellow was a splendid second and I was very sorry when he finished. Bowing in gratitude to our applause, he cycled away across the cobbles. Luigi asked the gang of middle aged men sitting at the other tables, why they had not applauded. They all laughed and one replied that they had been listening to it for twenty years, and anyway the old guy was nuts.
I was so glad that I had been seized with the desire to draw those two “uomini vecchi”, one of whom would remain
very special to me. I had my little sketch, which comes alive for me as I remember the lovely sound of his voice.
Sadly it was time to leave and after picking up our charge at the airport we wound our way through a lively night-time Parma, found the via Emilia and drove into our little lane at midnight. The full moon, the aroma of the fields and syringa produced a surrealistic atmosphere that could not be ignored. Out came the wine and the chairs and we sat on the piazza, the walnut leaves serenading us with their rustling in the warm breeze. At this moment there was no where better to be on earth. We sipped easily into Wednesday. Unfortunately, as this would be a chemo day, we had to end this most pleasurable time and made our wobbly ways up to the house.
We have a resident Mr. Toad as big as a saucer. He often sits in the corner of the bottom step leading up to the patio and kitchen door and I warned Annette to step carefully. She almost passed out when she saw him. The next morning she went on a vain search for Mr. Toad (who had obviously gone to earth for the day) and thus firmly believed her apparition was alcohol induced. She had also consumed several glasses of wine when she saw the soldier ants marching down the wall of her room one evening. As much as I assured her that they were really there, she vowed never to have more Italian wine. When she had just gone to bed one evening, there issued from her room the screaming of a banshee. Seeing bits of feather and fluff moving between a beam and the wall in the corner of the room, cowering on the bed, Annette cried, “But I have had no wine this evening.” I was able to reassure her that it was the mouse in the loft getting settled for the night.
In Love With Emilia Page 16