Seasons in Basilicata

by David Yeadon

  There was a brief lull, and then in rolled the desserts—a huge pumpkin-shaped cake stuffed with ricotta and chocolate (appropriately called a “pumpkin”) and squares of a deceptively simple-looking sponge cake so richly redolent of fresh lemons and lemon zest that you could swear you were actually eating whole, sweetened lemons.

  Fresh fruit followed, as it invariably does in Italy—a help-yourself bowl of unpeeled oranges still with their leaves on, kiwi fruit (a very popular fruit there), bananas, and strange, elongated pears resembling—no kidding—male genitalia! The immortal triad. These both Giuseppina and Rocchina seemed to take great delight in peeling and then slicing deftly into munchable chunks.

  And then of course came the inevitable chocolates, grappa, limonce, brandy, and final glasses of Bruno’s homemade red wine. Like most of the wines we’d tasted in other homes, it possessed that strong, fruity thickness of flavor and texture that seemed to be a hallmark of Basilicatan country wines. We’d actually brought a gift of wine, a rather expensive Aglianico del Vulture, which Giuseppina accepted with a kind of condescending half smile, saying, “Oh, thank you both, but we’ll be drinking our own wine, if that’s all right with you”—a not unusual occurrence in southern Italian homes. A tour around the palazzo was suggested, to walk off this three-hour marathon meal. We readily accepted, wondering where the grand rooms might be hidden. And they were indeed hidden. The whole structure was a maze of narrow, low-ceilinged staircases that emerged suddenly onto broad landings and hotel-like corridors of bedrooms and sitting rooms and a splendid dining room obviously used only for special family gatherings.

  I was trying to recollect Levi’s description of this house in his book, and back at the apartment I found it. First came his revealing portrait of Donna Caterina Magalone Cuscianna herself (Levi didn’t have much time for her “petty tyrant” brother and mayor, Don Luigi, who gets short shrift): “Donna Caterina was an active and imaginative woman, and she, in reality ran the village. She was more intelligent and stronger-willed than her brother and she knew that she could do with him what she wanted as long as she left him an appearance of authority.” Unfortunately, Levi was a little sparse in his description of their palazzo: “She welcomed me very cordially at the door and led me into the drawing room, simply furnished with gee-gaws strewn around; cushions with a clown design and stuffed dolls.” Bruno and Giuseppina’s own furnishings could hardly be described as “simple.” They obviously liked their comforts—stereos, TVs, big stuffed chairs and elegant cabinets of fine dinnerware and crystal glasses. It was obviously a house they enjoyed living in.

  Back in their small and cozy kitchen–dining room, conversation inevitably turned to Levi, whom Giuseppina and Bruno had met there in 1974, a year before he died. “He sat in that same chair that you’re sitting in,” Bruno told me proudly. But apparently he was rather ill at the time so the meal had been a little more modest than ours.

  “What was he really like?” Anne asked. This was a constant question of ours.

  Giuseppina and Bruno were both full of admiration for the man, and their effusive descriptions included: “very big and gracious”; “very intelligent and a good conversationalist”; “a lovely smile”; “a very kind man”; “he obviously cared very much for the people here.”

  But oddly, when we got around to discussing the impact of his books and his role as a senator in the national government, the mood seemed to darken a little. Although Giuseppina and Bruno took great pains to emphasize, “What can one man do, after all, in a country like ours?” it was obvious they had few illusions about the changes, or lack of them, that had resulted from Levi’s writings and actions.

  “Nothing much has changed,” both agreed. “Look at Aliano. Do you think much looks different?” they asked us.

  Anne gave what I hoped was a balanced response. “Well, the old parts certainly don’t show much sign of change, but there’s a lot of new public housing higher up the hill. That certainly wasn’t here in the thirties. And from the homes we’ve been invited into, we see plenty of new bathrooms and kitchens and TVs and new furniture, and definitely no pigs or chickens living inside anymore!”

  Anne obviously hoped that this last remark would generate a smile from Giuseppina and Bruno, but both were determined to minimize the significance of such details. “Well, of course the whole country has improved in ways like that, but…” and then it came, as we suspected it would…“this is still the South, and the North is the North, and whatever things may have got better here, have got much, much better up there. So, we’re still the same as we were in that way. No real changes. No real industry that lasts. Young people have to go north to find work, the whole place is mainly old people now.”

  Okay, I thought. I’ve heard all this before and I can see what they’re getting at, so let’s shift the emphasis a little to Levi’s “dark side” perceptions.

  Not much better there either. They both insisted vehemently (maybe a little too vehemently, I wondered) that it was “all in his imagination.” There are no witches, no werewolves, no shape-shifters or dual-natured people in Aliano—none of those things, they both insisted. And, as far as they could tell, they said, there never had been. These things were all part of the myth of the South. Something for the northerners to giggle about. “We were, are, normal people here. Same as anybody else. Just not so rich,” said Giuseppina sternly, her face losing its rotund jollity for a moment.

  “Except for Giulio,” Bruno said with a sly smile.

  “Aha! He’s not normal. Not right in the head,” Giuseppina snapped.

  “What happened to Giulio?” I asked.

  Bruno pulled a dog-eared copy of Levi’s book from a shelf by the fire. Interesting, I thought. Despite their dismissal of many of Levi’s ideas, they keep his book so close at hand.

  “You remember that thing about the devil,” Bruno said, searching for the passage. “Ah, here it is. This is what Levi wrote: ‘One night, an old man coming back from Gaglianello, felt a strange weariness all over him that forced him to sit down on the steps of a little chapel. He found it impossible to stand up and walk again. Something did not allow him to. The night was dark but from the ravine a beastly voice called him by name. It was the devil, there, among the dead, who barred the way.’”

  “I remember that passage,” I said. “But what’s that got to do with Giulio?”

  Bruno laughed. “Well, he claimed that exactly the same thing happened to him up by the cemetery. Only a few months ago he came running down the hill to the piazza shouting that the devil was after him!”

  “Stupid, drunk old fool!” Giuseppina said.

  “I’m not so sure,” Bruno said mysteriously. “I could tell you…”

  “Bruno! Enough,” Giuseppina said in a voice that did not encourage a response.

  “…lots of tales too about our little monachicchi—our mischievious hobgoblins—who love to mess things about a lot and wear big red hoods and…”

  “Bruno!”

  I wanted to see Giuseppina smile again, so I decided we’d asked enough questions. I was tempted to mention that we’d recently heard that there was indeed a witch in the village. Not a fantasy witch but someone with “extraordinary powers” whom the older villagers at least seemed to regard with great respect…and fear. But I suspected that this might just open another Pandora’s box. Sebastiano’s gentle shake of his head confirmed that we’d probably pushed the subject far enough for now. We respected his puckish insight and wisdom and nodded in agreement.

  We focused again on the liqueur and the grappa and on lighter tales of village life and gossipy goings-on, and the evening ended with us all chuckling over the inane antics of local politicians and the endless schemes and dreams of our local, ever-ambitious, ever-visionary priest, Don Pierino. And finally a toast to increased prosperity and happiness for all of us.

  “COME BACK ANYTIME you want—both of you!” Bruno insisted as we all waddled a little unsteadily to the door. “Even for a bath, if yo
u wish!” (We’d admired his elegant bathroom and mammoth tub and moaned about our own miserable shower.)

  And who knew? We might just do that. Because I suspect they didn’t tell us all they knew about our strange little adopted village.

  “Methinks they did protest too much,” Anne mused before we both fell into a deep, food-fuzzy sleep.

  Three Markets, a Funeral, but No Wedding

  The next day brought far more lighthearted experiences (at first…).

  “YOU CAN ALWAYS tell when the Thursday market is coming,” Vincenzo Uno (my nickname for him) moaned in his little general store on Via Roma. Of course his face was invariably set in a perpetual moan-mode, so it was very hard to tell the difference. (Vincenzo Due, his assistant, maintained his perpetual, all’s-right-with-the-world smile.) “People spend less. For two, three days they buy just the basics. No luxuries. Not even prosciutto crudo or fancy shampoos. They’re waiting to see what all those maliziosi peddlers will bring.”

  Well, if these men are peddlers I thought, they must be a modern market kind. No more donkeys with panniers packed to their wicker brims there, or those little three-wheeled Ape contraptions powered by souped-up lawn-mower engines, where goods were once displayed on the rear flatbeds. Today they arrived in the early morning in large, custom-made vans, which become instant stalls, complete with awnings, storerooms, dozing places (in case the selling got a little slow or the sun a little too scorching), and even, in a couple I noticed, traveling kitchens and mini offices for cash-and record-keeping. They were set up from the top of the hill, where Giorgio Amorosi kept his vast winter woodpile, and all along its steep curve for a quarter mile or so, ending virtually in Piazza Roma. On a particularly busy market day, I counted more than thirty vans nose to tail down the hill, with just enough room left for the occasional big blue corriera to squeeze through.

  By nine o’clock, with the aroma of coffee and warm baking bread wafting past the church, the hill was a jostling swirl and jumble of black widows, eager children, modern mothers with fancy hairdos, and young girls in their most curvacious jeans and peek-a-boo halter tops, which seemed to be the rage all over the world. There were a few men too, but they seemed to prefer the role of spectator or occasional advisor to a wife or relative if they felt that the malizia were not bargaining in good faith. I heard one old man dismiss the whole elaborate market as merdaio (literally “a shit heap”), another as a mercato di bestiame (cattle market). Whispered phrases like “È un ladro!” (“He’s a thief!”) floated about.

  If you had ready cash—contante—bargaining was all part of the fun. This was unheard of in stores, where those little price stickers were gospel and no one would ever think of questioning the equanimity of the storekeeper (especially Vincenzo Uno). But at the market it was a real free-for-all. A skeptical “Quanto costa?” (“How much?”) was all it took to get the ball rolling.

  There were a couple of things I wanted to buy, but I thought I’d watch the wily techniques of the black widows first. And they were good. Very good. Maybe it was something in the Arabic-Saracen bloodlines that ran through these remote villages, but those ladies would start at around forty percent of the asking price and rarely agree on anything above sixty percent. And what an Aladdin’s cave of China-produced goodies were on display there! Everything from hundreds of fake Rolex watches, fake cellular phones (why?), fake diamond rings, and fake leather handbags; to cheap perfumes, flick-knives, clocks, radios, and kid’s toys galore; to pellet guns with remarkably authentic-looking Walther-style designs; to nonstick pans by the hundreds; to mountains of duvets, sheets, and towels; to acres of jeans in every imaginable rip-off hue and style; to hunting vests and jackets; to enormous aluminum pots, which, if I understood one lady correctly, were for “boiling pigs.” (They certainly seemed big enough for most of the local pigs I’d seen, which appeared to me to be a little on the scrawny side. Aliano apparently had yet to discover the advantages of the Vietnamese pot-bellied pig, which had enough meat to feed a large family for a year.)

  But I did notice a couple of interesting things in this open-air bargain-basement bonanza. First, other than a few items of bottled fruits and pickles and produzione propria (home produced) items, no one seemed to be selling the regular, daily grocery goods found in village stores—a wise political move. Nor were there any secondhand clothes, which had been a prime feature of two other, smaller day-markets I’d visited in villages even more remote than Aliano. Obviously our little village was now regarded as possessing a more discerning class of clientele—certainly a notch or two up from the Carlo Levi days. And a clientele, too, who obviously had a serious desire for fresh, new, gleaming-white and sensually black indumenti intimi (intimate garments), with a heavy emphasis on reggiseni (bras) and mutandine (panties). I don’t think I’d ever seen such enormous piled displays anywhere—great snowy peaks of them, with at least four stalls that sold nothing else. And very democratic they were in their range—from the gargantuan, corsetlike contraptions, with elaborate elasticated sides, to the most dainty (but not over-daring, you understand, this is definitely not thong and crotchless, un-Catholic country) little lingerie creations. And what was so fascinating was the delightfully intimate way the rough-looking peddlers would discuss all the particular highlights and nuances of each kind of bra or panty with their whispering female customers—and at great length, too, if they sensed a likely sale. Also, maybe because of their tactfully nuanced approach and their obvious willingness to give each lady their fully focused attention, I saw little sign of the raucous bargaining antics over all those made-in-China products.

  Finally I decided to enter the fray myself—no, not for ladies’ panties—feeling fewer qualms about bargaining once I’d observed the black widows’ techniques. Ask the peddler’s price, name your own price, scowl or shrug (preferably both) at its rejection, start to walk away, then be called back for renegotiation, and finally arrive at a suitable compromise that saved face for both contenders and ended in smiles and winks of mutual admiration for a deal well done.

  The only thing was, when I finally reached the piazza and the door to our home, I realized that I’d amassed far more than I needed to equip the little house. Why had I agreed to buy six tea towels for a knockdown price when I needed only two, which even at full price would have saved me six euro? And that five-euro Walther-look-alike pellet pistol? What exactly did I have in mind for that? And the wok-shaped Teflon pan? Why would I possibly need that when there were four Teflon pans already in the house, and I didn’t have any of the necessary wherewithals to prepare a Chinese dinner anyway! (They weren’t big on oyster sauce, sesame oil, hoisin, and black-bean paste in Aliano, for some odd reason.) And as for that penknife…true, it was only three euro and had a beautifully polished rosewood handle, but it was plastic! Well, it certainly looked like rosewood, and anyway, the peddler had come down from six euro….

  Markets are sneaky things. I think Vincenzo Uno and I were both relieved when the peddlers vanished after lunch and left us two weeks of normal, everyday, buy-just-what-you-need, set-price shopping. Vincenzo Due, of course, was still smiling his beatific smile, seemingly oblivious to all the angst and minutiae of village life.

  BUT GIULIANO had other ideas about markets.

  “Try to come over to Accettura next Tuesday,” he told me on the phone in his typically enthusiastic manner. “It’s our biggest market of the year. All the way down the hill. Much bigger than Aliano. And there’s a second one, too, same day, just outside town. Very interest. Market for animals. All farmers and shepherds. Very much fun for you and Anne, I think.”

  “Okay,” I said a little hesitantly, having had my fill of markets for a while.

  “And I think there’s funeral, too. You said you want to see funeral. Local funeral.”

  “Oh, really? Well in that case…”

  “And wedding, same time.”

  “On a Tuesday? Sounds like an odd day for a wedding.”

  “No, no. Is special day. Goo
d day for weddings. Okay?”

  Giuliano’s special days were not always as “special” as he claimed. But I loved the man and his unstoppable lust for the good life, even in these penurious, peasant-heritage hills.

  “We’ll be there,” I promised. “See you for espresso and corretto.”

  “Okay. Good. Va bene,” he said, and I could almost hear him smiling his big toothless smile.

  I WAS IN ACCETTURA at ten-thirty A.M. the following Tuesday, trying to find a place to park the car. Anne decided that it was her turn for a “dawdle-day” on our terrace. She gently reminded me that our tiny home was for once adequately stocked with “market things” and that I should try to be merely a spectator. I agreed but checked my wallet for euros, just in case.

  I’d never seen the little town so crowded, so I decided to wiggle my convoluted way through the inane, serpentine back streets, hoping to find a space to park on the far side of the town, on the San Mauro Forte Road. I finally found one—almost a quarter-mile walk back to the main piazza, where the market was in full swing despite the threat of rain.

  I never did find Giuliano that day. Rosa thought he’d gone down to his kiln “to make some more of them blinkin’ bricks.” (Ah, how I loved her wonderful Nottingham-England-Italian accent.) “Come for lunch anyroad, seein’ as you’re ’ere.”