by David Yeadon
But all this impromptu feasting was definitely not part of our own cultural background, at least, not until we arrived in Italy. And I guess, as this is now turning into a kind of gastronomic-overload confessional, I should mention that an hour or so prior to arriving at Sebastiano’s in-laws’ house, we’d had another afternoon snack at a local farmer’s newly restored property a few miles outside Stigliano.
That also had not been on the agenda. Totally fortuitous, in fact. Sebastiano was driving us around the outskirts of the town, showing us some of the local places of interest, including an enormous seventeenth-century Palladian-style palazzo sitting, or rather collapsing, in sad decay on a hilltop with breathtaking vistas in every direction. He didn’t know much about the building’s history, except that it was known as Masseria Palazzo di Santo Spirito and had been one of many local masserie—massive feudal-like farmhouses-cum-granaries-cum–worker dormitories—that characterized the agricultural system of the region until the early, and even the mid-twentieth century. Most locals seemed to be unaware of the place or certainly reluctant to talk about it (another one of those “dark side” mysteries?). There it sat, in a huge unkempt field. Its roof was badly collapsed, but it had maintained its odd combination of dignified Palladian proportions, with its distinct, fortresslike corner defense towers complete with narrow slits for arrows or guns and enormous bolted and locked gates set in massive arched stone doorways.
We mooched around for a while but, other than opening a small side door into a cryptlike storage room leading nowhere, we found it impossible to get into the main part of the structure. So, in a chilly drizzle, we decided to move on.
Sebastiano explained that the “peasant rebellions” of the 1950s in the area had convinced a reluctant government in the North that maybe it was time to focus on the plight of the poor Mezzogiorno sharecropper terroni or mezzadri. So, they started carving up the vast absent-landowner estates and giving land grants and even new housing to the peasants. For a while things quieted down, but the now-named contadini continued to find small farming a pretty inadequate way to make a living and started to move to the northern cities and also, of course, to America, in search of a better life, often abandoning their brand-new houses.
But then, among the decaying relics of a good-idea-turned-bad (a familiar state of affairs in the South; even the vast, new factories around Potenza are largely echoing, empty shells today), we spotted a remarkably fresh, whitewashed restoration of one of those abandoned houses, set amid rolling wheat fields overlooking a broad, green valley and the Pollino range to the west.
“That’s most unusual,” Sebastiano said. “Let’s see what’s going on” (a man after our own serendipitous explorer’s hearts).
And what we found there was a very encouraging example of what might happen to those other small farms if they had more men, like Francesco Lombardi, with the vision and ambition to revive them.
Francesco had a deeply tanned, cheerful, bright-eyed face and a most gracious manner. He welcomed us without hesitation, despite the fact that in the rain and skiddy mud of his forecourt, we had almost hit one of his new stone walls with the car and narrowly missed a cluster of newborn kittens frolicking in the wet grass.
Soon we were all sitting at a table inside a series of just-restored rooms—what were previously one-room workers’ quarters and now transformed into a small, state-of-the-art cheesery ready for pecorino production on a substantial scale. As Francesco plied us with some of his superb three-month-old cheese, crusty bread, and his homemade wine, he told us how he wanted to keep the traditional small-farm way of life alive, and had applied to the EU for a matching “small farmer” grant.
“It was all so easy I couldn’t believe it,” he said, with a look of amazement still on his face. “I didn’t have to get tangled up in that bureaucratic stuff or ask any favors from anyone or play any gens games. Just a few forms and a couple of visits by EU people and I had a fifteen million lire grant [around $75,000]. I matched this with some of my own money and now I keep a hundred Merino sheep—very good milk—and built my own cheesery and I plant a hundred hectares of wheat. Hard wheat, the type we use for pasta.”
We toasted his good fortune with, I think, at least three glasses of his excellent wine as he told us that his son was now at agricultural college and would be joining him at the farm. They intended to ensure that the place would become a model for other, more skeptical farmers that this kind of life was still feasible in an era of mega-farms and huge cooperatives.
“I have three basic values that I try to live by,” he told us, filling our glasses once again and hacking off more fat chunks of his tangy, yet creamily-sweet pecorino cheese. “First, my family. I want us to be able to work together. Like in the old days. Second, I want to build something to last. Like my father tried but could not make it work. And third, I want to show my love and respect for this region, my home, and how proud I am to live here and to be a good farmer here.”
We had no choice but to toast him once again, sincerely and full of admiration. Of course that meant a fifth glass of his strong, deep red wine.
SO I HAVE no idea, after those previous afternoon and early evening indulgences, how we possibly managed to eat and drink our way through Margherita’s magnificent and innovative “mushroom medley” dinner, happily blasting away all our normal gustatory limitations. But somehow we did, and despite the language barrier, we also managed to conduct long, heated, but always good-natured debates over the course of our six hour get-together at her farm. And none of her friends were left out of the raucous and often overlapping diatribes. The professor, the tax collector, the barber, two farmers, a teacher, the headmaster (Sebastiano), the restaurateur, the businessman (he was very vague about exactly what kind of business), and all the wives: each one was part of the typical Italian roundtable discussions, full of gesticulations, great oratorical outpourings, punchy little philosophical aphorisms, and regular toasts to nothing of any real importance. I seem to remember that at one rather rowdy point in the evening we even toasted the Neolithic caves on the estate “with shelves too!” Margherita said. “Seven-thousand-year-old shelves!”
The subjects ranged from the general (the latest politics, a terrible bombing of Australian tourists in Bali and what that would mean to President Bush’s antiterrorist campaign, and the rising and falling standards of education) to the poor Italian grape vendemmia due to the rainy summer, and the antics of a certain local priest whose “remuneration” for his high position on a number of local boards was apparently making him a very wealthy servant of God.
A particularly raucous segment dealt with the impact of Carlo Levi on local economic conditions (of course, a favorite subject of Basilicatans) and the future role of the Mezzogiorno. The barber suddenly spoke with fiery eloquence about “our great Italian writer, Luigi Barzini, who told us over and over that ‘Italian history has been a vain and sickening search for Il Buongoverno (good government) down all the centuries.’ And it is clear we have not yet found it. We still have rudderless governments with an average lifespan of less than a year led by weak, corrupt politicians and an incompetent perk-laden statale bureaucracy!”
Anne and I had heard all this many times before, particularly the “why can’t we have what they have” cry, referring to the southerners’ plight when compared with the ultra-affluent, ultra-stylish, ultra-hedonistic, self-focused, greedy North.
And I don’t know why I did it. Maybe just one glass too many of that deep-flavored, black currant–hued, homemade brew, or maybe I was tired of hearing that old “why not us” complaint, or maybe because, when I was a city planner, I had a particular interest in macroregional planning. The big picture. Seeing local problems as challenges in a broader context.
“Maybe we’re thinking too small,” I suggested quietly and, I thought, modestly. “Why should the South try to have what the North, or anywhere else, has? Why doesn’t the South try to capitalize more on its own unique attributes and see itself
in the context not just of Italy but of the whole of Europe. After all, that’s what the EU is trying to create, a one-nation context within which every part plays a unique role.”
“And what, Mister Englishman,” asked the professor (of philosophy at Turin University, no less), “do you think the South’s unique role might be?”
There was a noticeable hush. Maybe I’d pushed this too far. After all, I was a first-time guest in this coterie of old friends and lovers. Anne was giving me hard nudges and “you’ve gone and done it now” glances, but the vin santo gave me courage, and I decided to continue.
“Well,” I said, thinking as fast as my befuddled brain would let me. “We know the South has a valuable role in large-scale wheat cultivation, so that’s a given. And oil. In 2000 that UK company Enterprise Oil discovered the largest oil field in continental Europe, here in Basilicata, although so far it doesn’t seem to have had much impact economically. But…well, let’s take Florida, for example, in the United States. At the turn of the century it was a horribly hot, humid, mosquito-ridden swamp and semitropical desert producing some fruit and not much else. Then entrepreneurs began to realize that it had fine beaches, cheap land, a constantly warm, body-nurturing climate, and it started to become a vacation area. A bit like the vacation resorts and holiday villages along your Calabrian coast. And then gradually, bit by bit, as older people lived longer and got richer and air-conditioning became more universal, Florida found itself a favorite place in America for retirees. Inexpensive, safe, warm, easy to reach, clean beaches and ocean, plenty of room for golf courses…the lot. Pretty much like, say, Basilicata’s Metaponto-to-Taranto coastline could be. It’s largely empty now, except for a few lidos and holiday villages and a rich agricultural plain. But imagine if it were promoted as a retirement haven, well connected by highways to the rest of Italy, as it already is, and offering inexpensive land, and, well, all those other Florida attributes or like those ever-expanding ‘costas’ of Spain that transformed the whole economy of that country.”
I looked around. I couldn’t tell if any of this was having an impact. Anne was certainly still looking distinctly uncomfortable. So, I decided on a wrap-up, over-the-top fanfare.
“Imagine a huge promotional campaign. Ah, let’s say, something like: ‘Basilicata is Beachland—Europe’s Finest Retirement Haven! Send us your thousands of cold, miserable old-age pensioners from the North and let them find a new life of luxury (relatively speaking), fresh air, fine beaches and ocean, some of the best food and fruit in Europe right on their doorsteps, and a climate that will let them bask in sunshine and happiness for the rest of their days at a price they can all afford…’”
There was silence except for tabletop tappings and slow slurpings of wine.
“Well,” said the banker, “what about culture? And family ties?”
“Florida had no culture,” I said, maybe a little cruelly, “and that didn’t seem to be a problem. And families can come down to visit their retired relatives on the Basilicatan coast via those two fast national highways.”
More silence.
“Or, maybe not,” I concluded a little weakly, as my learning curve seemed to be getting a little limp. “I was just suggesting that if you tried to look at the South’s problems in a larger context…”
The banker looked very unconvinced. He opened a shoulder bag he’d used to bring fresh chestnuts to the party, pulled out a neatly folded brochure, and handed it to me. “Perhaps,” he said a little pompously, “you should read this part of a report, just printed, which describes our future. It’s in English.” I took the report. Below a fine glossy photograph of Basilicatan scenery, I read yet another masterpiece of utterly obfuscated Italianish:
NEW OPPORTUNITA FOR THE DEVELOPMENT: The Basilicata is changing. New sceneries are being opened up to the horizon. Thank you to a new politics of the concertazione on the front of the management of the natural resources like oil and water. And thank you to a way of inderstand new he/she/it/you publishes administration of the all new as regards the past, agreement like a firm that must aim on criterions of efficiency, effectiveness, transparency, and progressive contextualism. The social fabric is entire because you/he/she/it present a low level of conflict and he/she/it/you has succeeded well to defend from the different attempts of criminal infiltrations. One of the paradigms that they drive our regional Program of Development is the ability to conjugate the logics of the economy with those of the socialita and of the sostenibilta. We have learned that if also the capital more good value is that represented from the human resources, such capital comes rultertormento gotten rich incrementato, from the values of the human promotion and of the solidarity. We will continue to build always noting of these big finishes.
I read it slowly, aloud, to the group. There was considerable nodding of heads and mumbles of affirmation. Had they understood any of this? Were there secret code words in this nonsense apparent only to the enlightened. Beyond a brief reference to the recent discovery of oil, I could decipher nothing whatsoever from all the gobbledygook. And I sensed that it was not just a bad translation but yet another example of that Italian knack for smothering logic, thought, and action in layers of gushy, romantic, and often incomprehensible rhetoric.
I was reminded of yet another outspoken Norman Douglas tirade about Italian mores, and against Italian bureaucrats, written almost a century ago but apparently still remarkably accurate:
Every attempt at innovation in agriculture, as in industry, is forthwith discouraged by new and subtle impositions, which lie in wait for the enterprising Italian and punish him for his ideas…. It is revolting to see decent Italian country folk at the mercy of these uncouth, savages [petty bureaucrats] veritable cave-men, whose only intelligible expression is one of malice striving to break through a crust of congenital cretinism.
The bank manager obviously thought differently about the contents of the brochure and was beaming. “So,” he said a little too complacently, “as you can see we already have our plans for Basilicata. You have just read them to us.”
Sebastiano, God bless him, smiled at my open-mouthed confusion, saw my need for moral support, and gave it fully. “I think what David is saying is a very good way to look at things. More optimism. Bigger ideas. In the South, we often see things in too narrow a perspective. In my school, for example, I’m trying to…” and off he went, explaining another project for “international understanding” between young students. The wine bottle was passed around again. We were back in more familiar territory now. Everyone respected Sebastiano’s enlightened educational ideas, so I was off the hook. Anne was noticeably relieved, and on we went into the night, or actually early morning, with lively conversation flowing as fast as the wines, reflecting Anne Morrow Lindbergh’s admiration of the irrepressible Italian spirit for “enjoying each moment to the full, the spontaneity of the now, the vividness of here.” A popular Italian proverb puts it more succinctly: “stoga o schiatta” (“relieve yourself or bust,” or, in more delicate terms, “live in the ‘now’ without excessive self-restraint”). And Margherita’s friends certainly needed no reminder or encouragement to do precisely that.
Eventually, at around two in the morning, Sebastiano decided that it was time we should leave as we had a long drive back to Aliano. So, Anne and I said our farewells to a room full of new friends who looked as though they had no intention of leaving the wines and the chestnuts until dawn rose over Margherita’s and Tori’s six thousand olive trees and turned all their leaves a shimmering silver pink.
A really fine evening, I thought to myself, as we climbed into bed at around three-thirty A.M. and set the alarm clock for a late morning’s rise. No point in getting worn out, I thought. No point at all. This is Italy and we need all our strength for the next bout of gastronomic exploration, rhetorical verbosity, and overindulgence.
Va bene.
The Strangeness at Missanello
Anne decided that at least one whole day of doing nothing was needed to
recover from the feast at Margherita’s and Tori’s estate. I knew from past experience that the only way to clear the persistent fuzziness from my head and the torpor from my body was to get out into the fresh air and focus on something other than my debilitating condition.
I decided to take a drive and explore a nearby hill village, a perfect fantasy perched on a butte that, at night, sparkled with lights like an enormous Christmas tree at the narrow end of the Agri valley.
Once again I should have prepared myself by remembering a quotation from Levi’s book: “There were women in the village who displayed a tendency to be free and easy, and who were concerned with all that pertained to love, above all the means of obtaining and retaining it. They were like beasts, the spirits of the earth. In a word, they were the witches.”
By this time, I felt familiar, even comfortable, with the presence of local witches although, thanks to the reticence of our bank manager, we had still yet to meet Aliano’s Maria. But, on this particular day, things became a little clearer. And weirder…
FOR AN ITALIAN, even a Basilicatan, funeral, it seemed a strangely colorless affair.
Unlike others I’d seen, either as an invited participant (one) or as an impromptu spectator (three), this funeral had none of the small-town pomp and priggery that can characterize such affairs. None at all. There was no band with serpentine euphonia that seemed to be squeezing the life out of their neatly uniformed players, or reedy clarinets fingered with adolescent intensity by girls who, you sensed, would much rather be dancing to techno or house in next-to-naked little black dresses at the local disco, the only problem being that, in that part of the country, discos were something of a rarity. (The kids stoically shrugged off this gap in their cultural coming-of-age as something passé anyhow, although you feel, you know, that deep down they’re thinking, “Just wait till I break loose and move to Bologna.”) So, no band. And not much in the way of flowers either. Just a couple of well-past-their-sale-date wreaths and a few small cellophane-wrapped bouquets, which, judging by the flowers that had been squeezed out of their packaging, seemed definitely on the weary side.