The Train to Orvieto

by Novelli, Rebecca J. ;

  “Nonsense,” papà said, “it’s just a question of attitude: you think about yourself and your problems too much.” That’s how papà was: if he couldn’t fix something or get his way, he simply dismissed it. Mamma turned and went back to her room.

  “What do you want from me?” papà shouted. “I’ve given and forgiven. It’s never enough for you.” Mamma slammed her door.

  “Forgiven what?” I said. Papà didn’t answer. He never did. Whenever I had asked mamma what papà was talking about, she always said, “Some silly idea he has. It’s not important.” Papà and mamma usually treated one another with cautious formality, as though they wanted to preclude any intimacy before it could occur, so their frequent and heated outbursts seemed inexplicable. Underneath, they were engaged in a war that singed their lives and cooked their souls in a venomous stew that I had learned early not to stir. It would be a few months before I would learned the source of their rage.

  Papà and I stood together as Maria emerged from the doorway of her family’s home on the Piazza della Repubblica. Her white dress and the gold crown that held her veil shimmered in the bright sun. The wedding guests gasped and murmured to one another:

  “Che bella!”

  “Edgardo has fortuna today.”

  “Together they will make beautiful bambini.” As we moved along the Corso, more wedding guests joined the procession, everyone clapping and cheering. Bruno and I walked together, holding hands. He kissed me. “You look beautiful,” he said.

  When a tourist stepped into the road and aimed his camera at us, papà reached out and covered the lens with his hand. The man backed away. “Never let stranieri take pictures of you!” papà said to us. “They’re worse than the Zingari.” Gypsies. “A zingaro only steals your belongings. A tourist turns you into an organ grinder’s monkey to entertain his friends.” According to papà there was nothing worse than a zingaro. Not even a femminista or a tourist.

  Our procession wound past the Cinema Etrusco, Orvieto’s only movie theater, which was housed in a cave that in earlier times had been a wine cellar. Today, it’s used as warehouse. I loved its shadowy interior and the smells of mold, vinegar, and popcorn. On Saturday afternoons, Maria and I sat on the wooden folding chairs in the middle row, each of us with her own bag of popcorn. According to the proprietor, this was what Americans ate when they went to the movies. There were few new films, but we liked seeing the same ones again and again. The year we were thirteen, our favorite film, East of Eden starring James Dean, played for six months. Maria gave me an article from a movie magazine that described James Dean’s childhood. I had nearly memorized it: despite his fame, Dean wished for “someone special” to care about him. Whenever I saw that film, I wanted to console Cal, the character Dean played. Of course, I knew it was just a story. By then James Dean was already dead, but I imagined that there was someone, perhaps far from Orvieto, who needed me.

  “I want to take care of people and make them feel better,” I once told Bruno.

  “You think you can change what can’t be changed.”

  “No, I think people need to be consoled for what can’t be changed,” I said.

  “Movies have given you a lot of silly ideas. I don’t have time for such things.”

  “I want to go to university and teach history,” I said. “That’s not a silly idea.”

  “I could never marry una femminista. They just argue and make their husbands wear the horns.”

  “How does going to university make me una femminista?”

  “See? You’re arguing with me.” Most people felt as Bruno did, including papà. Nonna Marcheschi had always said that women have to keep their thoughts to themselves.

  When we reached the Piazza del Duomo, I looked up above the doors of the Duomo to the carved statues of Mary Magdalene, Rachel, Sarah, and the Virgin Mary. I often felt their presence at the ceremonies inside and also when I prayed for their help. I thought that everyone experienced this sense of spirits being present, but Bruno said, “Spirits are superstitions from when people were less scientific in their thinking.” Bruno had attended a viniculture course in Perugia and had become convinced that he and papà could apply scientific principles to developing a new vintage. I didn’t see any connection between the spirits I felt and winemaking, but I didn’t say so because Bruno would have wanted me to “prove it scientifically,” and I couldn’t. I thought that when I went to university, I would learn how to explain my feelings about spirits in a way that Bruno could understand, but mamma said, “Men and women live in different worlds. Eventually, you get used to it.”

  Besides, there were many ways that Bruno showed me that he cared about me. He took my arm as we climbed the steps and walked into the Duomo together ahead of Maria and Edgardo. At the altar, Monsignor Enrico waited in the gold robes that he wore only when the bride’s family had made a substantial contribution to a special fund to support “parish development.” He spoke of the abundance of a happy marriage and read from the sixty-fifth Psalm: May the meadows cover themselves with flocks and the valleys cloak themselves with grain; let them shout for joy and sing. I wanted Monsignor Enrico to read this psalm and wear his gold robes at my nozze, too. Papà had made many contributions to the parish.

  After the wedding mass, Bruno stood with me again outside the Duomo. “I have something to tell you,” I said. “I received a letter from Cattolicà…”

  “Our walk is going to be long and hot today,” he said. He wiped his face with his handkerchief.

  “…about when I’m to go to Milano to enroll.”

  The owner of another vineyard approached us. “Bruno, I’d like you to come next week and give us some advice on our press.”

  “Yes. Don’t save all your wisdom for Gabriele while the rest of us go broke,” another laughed.

  People believed in Bruno and relied on his judgement, even though he was still young. So did I. Why is it that some people seem to know what to do and others are often confused or lost? I wondered. Was it because Bruno’s mother had died when he was young, and he had learned to look after himself? In East of Eden Cal lost his mother, too, but he wasn’t like Bruno.

  “My teachers said I would be a good teacher,” I told Bruno again as soon as we were alone.

  “Are you planning to become a nun, too?”

  “No. A history teacher. Why?”

  “Only nuns become teachers. Otherwise, women with too much education make trouble. Their brains aren’t built for knowledge,” Bruno said. “It’s a scientific fact.”

  “That’s not true.”

  Bruno laughed. “See? Already, I have to watch you or you’ll just argue with me for no reason. You’ll be worse if you go to university.”

  As we neared the funicular, I stumbled. Fortunately, Bruno broke my fall. He helped me up and stood near me while I brushed the grit off my dress. Afterwards, we waited together on the platform for the funicular along with some of the workmen. When papà caught up with us, his face was red and he was breathing hard and sweating. He sank down onto a nearby bench that overlooked the entire valley below us and fanned himself with his hat. “This land belongs to our family now,” he said moving his arm in an arc. He gestured toward the scaffolding around the perimeter of the outcropping. “I’m responsible for this project,” he added loudly. Everyone turned to listen to him, though most people had already read about it in the newspaper.

  “A wise decision,” Bruno said, as if the information were new to him despite the fact that his own father, who was mayor at the time, had helped make the decision to reinforce the outcropping. Bruno didn’t seem to mind that papà often took credit for what other people did, but I wished papà could be more generous.

  “When our people have a clear explanation, they do what’s right,” papà continued. “We aren’t ignorant like tourists.” He wheezed and coughed, but when the funicular arrived, he got on by himself and declined the seat Dr. Lucarelli offered him. Everyone was in good spirits as we descended to the station.
When we got off, the workmen called out to us. “Save some spumante for us!” “Don’t forget the torta!” “And a dance for me!” I smiled and waved to them.

  “Don’t do that,” Bruno said.

  I dropped my hand as if I had touched something hot. “It’s a celebration. Everyone wants to be part of it,” I said. As we walked away, the sun beat down on us. My dress felt too small, my shoes too tight. I wished that I had brought my straw hat, the one with the wide brim, so that I could hide under it, cool and invisible, like the grapes in our vineyards hanging beneath their canopies of leaves.

  “They’re workers,” Bruno said. “They would never be invited to an important wedding like this one.” He was right, of course. In Orvieto it was important to remember where you belonged. Elsewhere, too, I suppose. There were the good families, then the workers, and then the stranieri. After them, the tourists and the Zingari. Poor mamma was still considered una straniera even after she had lived in Orvieto most of her life and was a successful businesswoman. As we neared the train station, papà pointed out the ornate wooden sign on which Gianni, the woodcarver, had worked the name Orvieto; the sign had been next to the station since before I was born. Just then, the morning train disgorged its cargo of tourists.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know about the places they come from?” I said to Bruno.

  He held his finger to his lips. “Shhh. Gabriele is talking.”

  “Willa has always loved Orvieto as much I do,” papà was saying. I thought he must have been talking about the time when he and mamma were courting because mamma always spoke of leaving Orvieto as if she had an urgent appointment someplace else. Sometimes, it seemed that mamma’s only interest was leaving Orvieto despite the success of Vino Marcheschi. No one, especially not papà, gave her credit for making Vino Marcheschi profitable. I imagined that if I became a history teacher, one day I could manage a school the way mamma managed our business.

  “We should have a modern sign now,” papà continued. “A billboard to announce our new vintage. If we put it here, the tourists will see it.” I noticed Bruno looking at the vineyard next to the road, the one we called the south vineyard. It had originally belonged to his father. Mamma had insisted on buying it from the Orsinis when Bruno’s family had needed money. The purchase made our family the largest landowners in the region. Afterwards, mamma had persuaded Bruno to come work for us.

  “One day my children will inherit this land,” papà said with obvious pride, “and their children after them, just as I inherited my father’s land.” I wished he hadn’t made such a point of this in Bruno’s presence.

  “Yes. It surely is the right time for a new sign,” Bruno said. “We have the perfect combination of soil and climate this year to recreate the original Orvieto.” I thought maybe Bruno could help papà adopt a more modern way of thinking, one like mamma’s.

  3

  The sounds of the guests merged with the steady hum and buzz of the insects in the surrounding vineyards and fields. Under a wisteria-covered pergola the women had set out the wedding feast on a ring of long tables. The white tablecloths embroidered with their initials reminded the women of cherished memories of their own weddings. I had always loved this evidence of shared experiences. When Bruno and I were married, I, too, would become a member of their circle and would bring the tablecloths in my wedding chest to celebrations like this one. I sat down and slipped off my shoes. Nearby, Maria and Edgardo talked with their guests. Little girls chattered among themselves; they held out their skirts and pirouetted just as Maria and I had once done, while the musicians tuned their instruments and adjusted their music stands.

  In the center of the ring of tables, a place had been cleared for dancing. Papà stood there so that everyone could see him. He faced the bride and groom and raised his glass. “I am honored to be the first to wish Maria and Edgardo a life of joy and happiness together. Today, I drink to them with a Lucarelli wine, but as you and God are my witnesses, we will drink to the births of your children and grandchildren with our new Marcheschi Orvieto.” The guests applauded. “Bravo! Bravo!” I thought that papà sounded like the ringmaster at the circus in Naples. He kept on. “Soon, I will recreate the original Orvieto beloved by the ancients and by the popes. Vino Marcheschi will return our Orvieto wine to its historic eminence.” The guests applauded and whistled again.

  “He shouldn’t talk about this now,” I whispered to Bruno. “It’s Maria and Edgardo’s day.”

  “Why not? Everyone is here,” Bruno said. I took a square of fried semolina from a platter and bit off one corner. It tasted of rum and vanilla.

  “He should give you credit, too.” I brushed the crumbs off of my dress

  “Why are you always so critical?”

  Papà sat down next to Bruno. I hoped they wouldn’t talk about business, but another winemaker sat down with them and asked Bruno about a problem he was having with his vineyard. I put my shoes back on and was about to move away from them when Dottor Lucarelli stood up and raised his glass.

  “I wish to make a toast to my daughter and son-in-law on their wedding day.” He turned to papà. “And to your daughter ahead of hers. May our children never drink with stranieri.” Laughter and more clapping ensued. I looked at Bruno. He lifted his glass to me and motioned for me to remain next to him. Platters heavy with food arrived for us. I served some of the barbecued meats and sausages. The three men took immense portions. Someone passed the fried sage leaves; I put one in my mouth and crushed it with my tongue.

  The musicians started to play, and Maria and Edgardo began the first dance. Soon, other couples joined them. I ate slowly, watching. Bruno poured a chilled Orvieto into our glasses and touched his glass to mine. “Salute. What are you thinking about now, cara?”

  I took a big sip, allowing the liquid to remain in my mouth, and then swallowed. “I’m thinking about going to university.”

  “Why can’t you just enjoy yourself?”

  “Maybe because you insist that I should.” Sometimes Bruno annoyed me.

  “You’re arguing with me.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  Bruno just laughed and led me into the circle with the other couples. I felt stiff, without rhythm. Though I wanted to pay attention to the music and to Bruno, my thoughts remained elsewhere. When the music ended, I went back to the table and sat down. I took long sips of wine, anticipating the moment when my body would become light and free.

  Leonardo came over to me. “Will you dance with me?”

  Antonio joined us. “After you dance with me?”

  Bruno walked over to us, alert and tense. “She’s dancing with me.”

  I laughed. “There’s no music, so I can’t dance with any of you.” Still, I wondered what it would be like to dance with Leonardo and Antonio. Both came from good families, though perhaps not as respected as Bruno’s. One of the women placed several slices of veal carpaccio on my plate. I cut a piece and ate it, savoring the bland coolness of the veal against its dressing of olive oil and herbs.

  “You’re breaking my heart,” Leonardo said, refilling my glass.

  “Mine, too,” Antonio added.

  “She doesn’t want to dance with you,” Bruno said.

  “Why not, Fina?” Antonio said.

  I laughed again and drank some more wine. “I’m eating. I’m too busy to dance.” Antonio and Leonardo moved away from us.

  Bruno relaxed. “Don’t encourage them,” he said. “They only want to cause trouble.”

  “Trouble?” I liked being wanted, liked having others see that I was desirable.

  “People will talk if you dance with anyone else.” Bruno was just jealous. He withdrew into silence. Being with Bruno meant giving up something, too. I took another sip of wine before serving both of us some roasted organ meats. Then, a Lucarelli family specialty—ravioli drenched in roasted meat sauce—arrived at the table.

  Despite the excitement of the day, I felt as if I were waiting for something to happen. “You expect
too much,” mamma often said. “A woman’s life is mainly waiting. You’ll see…especially if you stay here.” Soft, slow music began, and Bruno gestured for me to precede him to the dance floor. He held me in his arms as if nothing were wrong. Probably nothing was. Perhaps he just had other, more important things on his mind. I closed my eyes and felt Bruno’s body along the length of mine, the warmth of his shoulder, the strength of his callused hand holding mine. My desire to be close to him and yet keep a proper distance, especially in public, created a pleasant tension.

  Maria passed by in Edgardo’s arms. “You make a beautiful couple,” Maria said to us. It seemed like a blessing. The little girls were watching us, too, and their attention made me aware of the significance of my relationship with Bruno to the community. I felt visible, an actor in my own life, and I imagined something important would happen to me soon. I wanted it to be something that would change me and change my life. A transformation.

  When the music stopped, Simonetta called for the unmarried women to dance. We began slowly at first, and then faster and faster, competing with the musicians until the frenzied music invaded our bodies, our muscles, and our bones. The sound drove my movements so that I no longer controlled them, so that the movement was formed from the sound that coursed within me. The effortless oneness of sound and motion erased my awareness of the blister on my foot and the heat of the afternoon and I gave myself over entirely to this power, losing my sense even of time and allowing the wild sound and sweet wine to carry me away, as weightless as wind. Even after the music stopped, the rhythmic clapping of the guests continued. In the center of the circle, I danced alone, unwilling to return to the world of the will, aware for the first time of how many possibilities I contained. I imagined gathering my belongings, carrying them to the Piazzale Cahen, descending on the funicular, and boarding an early train to Firenze, Milano, Roma—perhaps beyond.

  I felt Bruno’s presence next to me before he spoke. “Everyone is looking at you.” I opened my eyes and allowed him to lead me away from the circle. The movement drained from my body. “What’s wrong with you today?”