My heart is huge, full of emotion and love as once more I crawl out of bed and head for the window. I hesitate, savoring that first moment of joy as Emilia reveals herself. I know this love I feel is rich and enduring and I quaver inside wishing that it would never end. The sky is gray as the marino fog drapes its soft clouds over the Tuscan ridge and fingers of gray fall gently down onto Emilia. A small cotton wool band of clouds lifts to reveal the horizon, the familiar lemon light of the early sun steals through, some of the tree-tops are touched by its rays. This first wonderful view of Emilia from the bedroom window always banishes the misery of the previous day’s long journey and midnight arrival. Just at this moment the seven o’clock bells ring out across the valley in welcome. The chickens are already out clucking and gossiping in the grass below like the old ladies on the balcony. Oh it feels so good to be back.
After a very difficult five months having had a brain tumor removed and long recovery period of tottering around with a cane, this is what I need to renew the peace and tranquility of our lives. My brother refers to our house in Canada as “Tranquility Base #1”, and now after his first visit to the peace and beauty of the Italian countryside, our little Italian house has become “Tranquility Base #2”. He and his family live at the intersection of five roads in what is now London but once was Kentish Country, so anything might seem tranquil compared with the buses and cars and emergency vehicles roaring hither and thither in front of their house.
Wrenching myself from the view, it was time to inspect the house. We knew that the winter had been three months of non-stop rain here in Rovinaglia, and the whole of Northern Italy had suffered devastating floods. We were prepared for the worst as Rosetta had said the walls and ceiling were covered in black mossy mold; the mice had chewed on most of the linen and pooped everywhere. In fact she and her daughter, Lorena, had done a wonderful job of cleaning. The kitchen had a half black, moldy ceiling, the beams were just as bad and the interior walls with outsides fully exposed to the elements were a white with black moldy polka dots all over the inner surfaces. The wood stove had rusted into a lump of steel grunge, where the runnels of water had leaked down the outer surface of the flu and settled on the surface of the stove. It could be worse, at least the house had not been swept down the hillside as had happened in so many hill towns that winter. That afternoon we set to scrubbing off as much mold as possible. Several cans of paint were necessary to complete the clean-up. After a week working a little at a time, the house looks absolutely gorgeous again.
My dear little Italian house—how I missed you. I did notice while repainting that the kitchen cupboard has loosened its hold on the wall, clinging to life on two loose brackets, but I could not face that job so I think I will wait for Luigi to notice it himself. Hopefully it will wait until next year to fall down. I decided not to drape the windowsills and railing with geraniums as every year previously they have been mangled and destroyed by the wind. Looking at the bare windowsill and railings, the flat rocks around the flower garden where I usually place the pots, I felt sad that the house would not be a riot of red this year. Waving gently in the breeze I could see the little group of “Jennifer’s” poppies squeezing up between the flat rocks of the piazza, little faces smiling up at me, so my senses were somewhat soothed. I knew it would not be long before Luigi and his yellow machine would be out desecrating the landscape, so I made a point or two or three, of reminding him to circuit the poppies, and he did, and they were still holding onto life when we left in September.
Having no strength is very frustrating; I hate asking Luigi to move this rock or that slab. I think he plays a game with me knowing I cannot do it. He ends up landscaping his way, which of course is fine; it always ends up looking lovely although contrary to my original vision. He really is an inveterate rock man. All the pieces, whatever the shapes, fit together as if in a puzzle. To me it could all remain a jungle and I would just snuggle down in the middle and love it all forever.
I thought it would be nice to remodel the roof of the porch, making it more in keeping with the style of the house. The old barn down at Banshoele, Luigi’s favorite piece of land, has some wonderful old tiles that have fallen in, perfect to remodel and roof the veranda, but how to get them through the tangled jungle and up the hill through Primrose Lane presents a problem. At present there is an ugly piece of white, ridged corrugated perspex over the kitchen door, which serves as rain run-off, but not much else. It seems simple to me to take that off, bolt a sheet of sturdy plywood to the iron frame, extend it one or two feet each side and front to provide a more efficient shield against sun, wind, rain and whatever else gets thrown at the kitchen door, and then tile that to match the roof. But Roberto keeps advising against this because of safety aspects. Luigi will not ask for help to bring up the tiles and I can see five years from now, after five hundred wheelbarrow loads, I might get my tiles.
I thought we might employ the “Tractor Boy”, Sylvano, a quiet, handsome young man who is always out and about on his tractor, a saucy little dog leading the way, to haul up the tiles. Since we have been coming here, his mom, who came from England as a teenager, appears to be a very sad lady. She invited me for tea one day, obviously lonely, she talked a lot and I felt a strong underlying current of misery as she related the aspects of her life in Italy. I tried to be sympathetic, but selfishly did not want to counsel and be a friend, and so I did not go again. She has recently had a baby; perhaps this has made her happier. Sylvano is much happier too. I see her sometimes and we wave and have the odd word together. She certainly appears to be happier and for that, I am very glad.
I know Roberto has nixed the idea of a tiled roof because he says the wind will blow the tiles off in the winter; well we do now, thanks to the “Land Baron”, have insurance, so when the tiles fly straight through his window we will be covered!
He was here this year, the “Land Baron”! He and his wife come to Rovinaglia each summer from London. Perhaps some of my animosity is rooted in stories I have heard from Luigi about the “Land Baron’s” father, about his siblings. The father spoiled them all, they never had to work on the land or help their mother. The family was very wealthy and I think I can understand how Luigi and his sisters must have felt at that time. I hear his familiar whistle and, looking up from my coffee to see him at the top of the path, he greets me with his usual “Good morning madam, how are you today?” So very English with his white undershirt! Always hanging out the laundry or performing domestic jobs to help his wife, more English now than Italian; I find this admirable and he is a nice enough person, but he gets under my skin. He always knows best, he is always right! “Get insurance, pave the driveway, put up a safety fence, secure those tiles….” I try to keepthe chat brief because I know he will soon launch into all the wrongs he has been done by his scheming cousins with land deals and fences placed two inches onto his property and, on and on. Oh dear, I just want to sit on my porch and be left alone. I like positive people, and yet here in Rovinaglia they are mostly hard-done-by. Well it is early in our holiday—I will soon be trying to perk them all up and telling them how lucky they are. Of course at this point none of us knew what was going to happen on September 11th. I think the villagers all had a good shake in their shoes and perhaps learned to appreciate what they have, to stop complaining about the petty things in life and learn to enjoy each day as a gift.
* * *
We spent much time painting and cleaning and tidying up the garden we felt like a change of scene, so the following week we headed off to the seaside in great spirits, contemplating the wonders of the Mediterranean coast. We had discovered the beach at Marina di Carrara last year. I have to have sand and sun and salt water if I am within smelling distance. Every time those marine mists crawl across the hilltops from Liguria, I can almost smell the salt crystals.
Unfortunately the bad winter had caused several landslides across the Tarodine valley, a huge amount of earth and trees had s
lid from atop their rock base, passing so close to two old homes it was a miracle they were not swept into the river amid the mud, rocks and trees. I suppose it might take a few years to regenerate the land with deciduous trees and brush but the beautiful fir trees are gone for a very long time. Another huge slide on the Bratello pass to Pontremoli caused weeks of long detours via the autostrada. Now there is a man-made detour around the slide and travelers are once again able to go over the pass to the coast. Hating the autostrada as I do, we took the longer route, the wheels spinning, throwing rocks and gravel, as we braved the precipitous detour, then on over the Bratello pass, down through Pontremoli and on along miles and miles of winding wonderful country roads. Changes in vegetation took us among hedges of oleander, white, pink, red and mauve; the tall waving reeds with corn like leaves that thrive nearer the coast, and of course, bougainvillea. Every balcony was draped in rich healthy geraniums. Churches and villages, and outside-cafes, markets and little old people sitting by their doors with toes in danger of being crushed by our wheels, slipped by. Then on through the fields of sunflowers and there, oh, there she is, the shimmering sea waiting just for me.
It was hot, very hot, as we drove along the road parallel to the beach. The foresight of the local government restricting the construction of large hotels, apartment blocks and residential homes on the sea-side of the road, made this area a very pleasant and less busy sea-side community than the teeming throngs that choked other resorts.
We parked amid the oleander bushes across from the public beach, a huge, clean, well-maintained area with a cappuccino bar, clean washrooms and showers. We crossed the busy road, clutching our beach paraphernalia, the brolly, chairs, tote bags with towels and water and buns and cheese, books and drawing stuff of course, ready for our lazy day. The array of umbrellas along the sand was spectacular. The colors, designs, the swaying fringes and ribs holding towels, and sun dresses in a further splash of color, set against the magnificent blue water and sky. By the time I had sucked in all the splendor of the color, Luigi found a nice spot. I spread out the old Italian blankets as far as I dare to secure the largest area possible so I would not have to be near other people and have to talk! Of course Luigi makes up for it because he talks to everybody anyway. As the Director of Beach Trips continued to organize, I could wait no longer to enter the enticing Mediterranean. I tottered on one good leg and one wobbly leg to the curling, frothy waves. I tried to step in carefully but the waves tossed me in unceremoniously. Gagging and choking on the salty brine, I managed to right myself and swam joyously out and then parallel with the beach. As usual I was overcome with awe at the sight of the marble mountains forming a huge white backdrop to this coastline. I thought about how Michelangelo had chiseled his way though the marble with his trainees and helpers, creating David, the tombs of the Medici Princes, the Pieta, and so many more wonderful sculptures. We take all these things for granted, but their tools must have been so limited by today’s standards, their efforts, I am sure, staggering.
Trying to get out of the water was fun. Swept off my feet here, thrown in a dip there, dragged back by waves, then swept in again, I made a dash for freedom on my hands and knees, collapsing on the sand. I looked up to see the beach people staring at this apparition before them. A baldheaded beanpole, now standing, though wobbly. Great entertainment, I laughed; the spell broken, they joined in this moment of humor. Collapsing finally beneath our umbrella, Luigi thinking he might have to soon check my vital signs, rushed off to find cappuccino. Watching him approach, I noticed the proper china cup and saucer, not the usual styrofoam cup.
“Si, va bene, poi portare una tazza di cappuccino per tua moglia nella spiagga.” “Yes, yes,” the proprietor had said, “take the nice cup of cappuccino to your wife on the beach.” Revived now with this caffeine dose, I walked back up to the café, returned the cup with great thanks and continued on across the road to look at the little booth-style shops selling all manner of beach accessories. I picked through the sundresses, tiny, cotton, skimpy things, and made my decision then to transform my garb from the shorts and t-shirt of a Canadian tourist to an Italian beach-goer. The bikinis were tempting but I was not inclined to compete with the beautiful bronzed bountiful bosoms on the beach. Oh that cursed flat English chest. On reflection perhaps, I should have been brave, for after our return home, I was diagnosed with another type of breast cancer. I ended up with half a chest as I lost a breast to the new tumor. Definitely no bikini next year! Images of a prosthetic breast floating away across the Mediterranean are quite amusing though.
The usual, mostly African, hawkers prowled the beach with their wares; balloons, blankets, kites, toys, towels, hats, sundresses, shorts, cameras, jewelry, watches, tons of stuff, none of which interested most people. A polite “non grazie” was usually enough to send them on their way. If a man was insistent, he was treated to Luigi’s inquiring mind and was bound to answer all his questions. Many of these people had walked from distant points in Africa to Morocco where they spent months living on the streets and beaches of Tangier hoping to board boats sailing up into the Mediterranean. I cannot imagine how awful life must have been for them to undertake such an epic journey. These people migrate inland after the summer. We encountered them as they wandered with big sports bags on their shoulders, laden with wares. We were in Tornolo one day, Luigi off on his bike and I looking for interesting things to draw, among the medieval homes and along the cobbled alleyways. I decided on a 12 th century house that appeared uninhabited, except for the geraniums pouring down the steps. Engrossed in my very meditative exercise, I was approached by a Moroccan man with his huge blue bag of wares, stinking of every type of cologne you could possibly mix together, which wafted its insulting way down those quiet unassuming lanes. The salesman was at work, and I tried to ignore him but he kept on about my drawing, and pestered and pestered. I finally had to be quite forceful and say “No, I do not want to buy anything, please leave me alone.” Well If I had spoken perfect Italian that is what I would have said, but after several no thank you’s, I had to resort to the rude, abrupt “via, via;” “get out of here.” I watched as he approached his next potential customer, an old man, perhaps seventy-five or eighty, dressed in the usual village garb, baggy old pants held up by braces, a rolled-sleeved, frayed-collared, striped shirt. His grizzled chin clasped in his hand, he leaned against a wall. He listened intently with feigned interest. “Of course you need a real Gucci watch, look how handsome that would look on your brown hairy wrist, and here, smell this, how it will charm your wife or your girlfriend. Perhaps you would like this lovely silk bandana to tuck into your shirt collar, look, just like this. Or maybe you should get a nice new table cloth and napkins for your wife.” I could see the game being played out and although feeling a little sorry for the poor, sweating Moroccan, the coup-de-grace was imminent. It was silent and swift. The old man turned and walked away down a tiny alley into his house and that was that. The Moroccan tried a few vain taps on doors and windows along the cobbled road, and proceeded on down the lane out to the main road.
Luigi rode in about half an hour later, and as we were loading the bike onto the car in the square, I noticed the poor, sweaty Moroccan man being picked up by a car driven by another Moroccan with two others already in the back. What a life, I thought. A chain of heists from boats and trucks out on the coast, then the boss, dishing out the goods to team captains and they in turn to these little bag men who probably make a subsistence, under-the-table living. Talking to the hawkers on the beach, we knew how it worked. Worst of all, they live perhaps twenty or so to a tiny rented apartment, throwing their sleeping bags out each night. Perhaps what they have come from is worse, who knows. As one man from Algeria told us, his whole family had been murdered by the insurgents and the trek across North Africa to Tangier to wait on the beach for three months for a boat to Italy was nothing in comparison to his life there.
* * *
I had not really had a
ny time the first week to wander round the villages to check on all my favorite people, so I was saddened to hear that Julia, the “Cat Lady’s” old auntie, died early in the year. I am quite sure she is now happily helping Nona and all the other long-gone old ladies tend their higher gardens. Nona’s roses were a mass of soft pink blooms this year and the red roses were climbing on the arbor. In fact the vines were now half way across and looking very verdant and healthy. The trees had grown enough to block most of the top road and I found myself feeling a bit sorry that I could no longer wave to Paolino on his tractor or the old ladies walking to church. As I thought about how my personality had changed, how I am now more sociable and would not mind at all if the villagers could see into our piazza, a smell of smoke caught my attention.
One of the fir trees on the lower side of the house was nicely singed on one side, thanks to Luigi’s bonfire. As required, he had notified the town hall people that we would be burning garden wastes early in the morning. They then would ignore the smoke from the area. No one noticed until the next day when I mentioned that we had a lovely half-dead fir. Actually it was Eliza, the “Pizza Lady’s” tree on the land that Nona had given her years before. “Wow,” with huge innocent eyes, Luigi said. “Did I do that?” I mentioned that I had not seen anyone else running around with matches and gasoline and hosepipes. Later, he decided to burn the garden waste that we chuck over the wall down about fifteen feet onto Pierina’s property, with her permission of course. She now has half a walnut tree and a streak of scorched field. Luigi’s bonfire would not catch, so, not content with patience and a bit more paper and matches, my genius man produced a plastic bottle with a bit of gas in it, poured it on the pathetic, struggling fire, which immediately renewed. He then threw the empty bottle on. The biggest bang I have ever heard echoed across the valley as the “empty” bottle rocketed away down the hill leaving a trail of burned field in its wake. It reminded me of my father’s fire making days, (my friends used to call him Uncle Bang, as he would light diesel bonfires just to annoy the neighbors, producing huge wooshing bangs). This time, all ended happily, the hosepipe in constant attention, the burn complete.
In Love With Emilia Page 19