by David Yeadon
“It’s okay, Sebastiano,” I said, my confident take-charge persona in full romp. “I’ve found your wine. Sei vini, per favore,” I repeated.
More silence. All the men were staring at me in the oddest manner—in alarm, I think, as if some space alien had just popped in for a quickie before devouring the lot of them.
“Er, David, please. This is not a shop…”
I paused. “No, it’s some kind of bar, right? So let’s have a drink.”
“No, David. This is private house. This is someone’s cantina. It belongs to that man there, I think, the one with the bottle.”
At that point, with Anne giving frantic “what are you doing now?” signals through the open doorway, Sebastiano took over, apologizing profusely for my intrusion and doubtless implying that he’d be quite happy to retreat without creating further embarrassment and drag this crazed Englishman with him before he started to get offensive.
But it didn’t quite happen that way at all. Because at that magic little moment, serendipity began again, and I just sort of watched, as I have done so many times before, as the wonder of human warmth and humor and kindness worked its spell and things rolled along without plans or schedules or anything else other than the willingness to “let things flow as they will.”
The men suddenly roared with laughter at my stupid mistake, dragged out chairs from a corner, insisted we all join them at the table to enjoy the salami and mortadella and to sample their splendid wines “di casa.” Which, of course, is exactly what we all did, with the three ladies giggling in embarrassed delight, and Topol grinning like a gargoyle, and Sebastiano muttering, “Whatever…” and stripping off his overcoat and joining the increasingly rowdy throng.
I think it was about six o’clock in the evening when we started our “cantina crawl” home. First in that warm, barrel-lined hideaway. Then, as we were leaving, Sebastiano remembered another friend, farther up the street, who also had his own cantina and was renowned for producing his own fine wines from Melfi, using Aglianico del Vulture grapes. So, for a half-hour we stopped at what was a roughly converted garage. Most cantinas are precisely that, simple garages often transformed into little masterpieces of male conviviality, complete with fireplaces, TVs, refrigerators, stoves, sinks, tables, and armchairs. They’re basic, but ideal places for card bouts of scopa; bawdy repartee at the soft-porn panderings of evening television soaps; hearty celebrations of the glories of fine, home-blended, crafted brews; and even commiseration and commonsense counseling for any member of the group suffering from temporary melancholia or even momentous troubles in matters of the heart.
And so it went. One cantina led to another and another until, finally, by sheer chance, we were invited by a young man to visit his “very new” cantina, which, judging from the applause by our cantina-of-the-moment occupants, was an honor bestowed upon only the favored few.
And what a cantina this one turned out to be! It was more like an elegant taverna. From the outside it looked the same as all the others—utterly unimposing with large, dark-painted double doors. But as the young man led us inside and switched on the lights—halogen spots, no less—we were regaled with a mini-disco of sorts: four enormous black speakers, two large-screen TV video sets, comfortable armchairs, a baronial-size fireplace with a roaring fire, an upper level reached by an elegant wrought-iron spiral staircase and crammed with barrels and wine-making equipment, and a very professional-looking bar. And, at the front, a most impressive latest-technology keyboard setup with more switches and dials than your average recording studio, and a full-blown karaoke system—my first in Italy—complete with overhead TV screen for displaying the lyrics.
In less time than it took to drink a couple of glasses of the young man’s fine wine and congratulate him on the excellence of his elegant hideaway, he was at the keyboard—pounding out bossa novas, tangos, heavy metal, and Beatles rock—and gesturing for someone to pick up the cordless mike and sing something. Something in English, he thought would be a good idea. An idea much supported by my laughing companions, except for Anne, who looked ready to slide herself deftly under the table as soon as the music began.
So, there I was, mike in hand, and with those beautiful introductory chords to John Lennon’s “Imagine” playing and the lyrics starting to scroll down the overhead TV screen. Without a moment’s hesitation (it’s amazing what a few glasses of wine will do to release the exhibitionist self), I launched into that splendid anthem of gentle anarchy and love. And what I heard coming back on those megawatt speakers was this deep, chocolatey, tears-in-your-beer, echo-chambered rendition, which sounded like no sound I’d ever made before. In fact it had been years since I’d picked up a mike, a relic of my decades-past guitar and folksinging era, but I must admit, in all immodesty, that I think even the late Mr. Lennon might have given at least a cursory nod of acknowledgment at what poured out into the elegant cantina that night.
Then came the applause—real, spirited, and, I think, genuine—from our small group of wandering wine-imbibers, (Anne included, much to my relief) as the last lingering chord faded. And I thought, my God, I’ve done it! My first karaoke experience. Despite four years of living with Anne in Japan, I’d always managed to avoid the karaoke spotlight. And you know what? I loved every second of it. And especially singing a song of such power and intensity.
So all that of course led to another round of vino and a reminder of something I’d read in an Italian cookbook that “conviviality is the greatest Italian condiment.” Then it all began to get a little blurry. I know that our sociologist friends had to leave for home, and Rocchina decided to return to the apartment, but Sebastiano, Anne, and I somehow floated on, at one point joining another group—a bunch of teachers in yet another cantina—who were discussing the final designs for their school’s February Carnevale float. (I was told later by a kindly Sebastiano that I had made “some very useful suggestions in that area,” but neither Anne nor I had any idea what they could have been.)
Finally, by chance, but of course not at all by chance, we caught up with some of the same bunch of Sebastiano’s friends we’d met at Margherita’s dinner party—Tori, her husband, the barber, the professor, the frustrated politician, the genius who had prepared all those wonderful mushroom creations, and a couple of others I vaguely remembered from that long and lovely bacchanal.
And wouldn’t you know it, they were assembling at yet another cantina, which doubled as the barber’s shop (a single and very ancient black-leather swivel chair by a huge mirror seemed to be the barber’s only accoutrements). They were all about to prepare dinner, so of course we stayed, after a brief foray to fetch some bread, which they’d forgotten, from Rocchina’s parents who lived nearby, along with two more tipples to see us on our way.
Back at the cantina the wine flowed and the conversation rolled. Sebastiano interpreted for us whenever he could, between his own bouts of rhetorical excess. Once again we covered the gamut, from Bush and Iraq and North Korea, to Basilicata’s hopeless regional planning, to the second trial of ex–Prime Minister Andreottti (a Mafia corruption case too convoluted even for most Italians to understand), to the problem in trying to run small farms these days, to the difficulty Italy seemed to have in being taken seriously by other members of the EU. “Fifty-nine prime ministers in sixty years since the end of World War Two! No wonder they think we’re crazy,” said the barber vehemently. “And our latest one, Silvio Berlusconi, is also being prosecuted now for bribery and all kinds of financial finanglings.”
Then came this arrogant Englishman spouting impromptu theories on Italian political impotence by pointing at the cantina’s roaring fire, on which a delicious-smelling dinner of lamb pieces skewered on fresh rosemary twigs was being barbecued alla bracia (over the embers at the side of the fire), and saying things like: “That fire is like Italy. All those frantic flames and all that red-hot fury, but all the heat is going right out the chimney, leaving us all crouched around desperately seeking a little warmth!” Then, if that same E
nglishman didn’t use his night-long crawl through the cantinas as a metaphor for Italy’s lack of direction and concerted action. He suggested that the nation’s “cantina culture” was actually a way in which everyone released their pent-up frustrations and anger with such eloquence and rhetorical panache that, in the clear, cold light of day, there was no energy left for the really hard, focused work of turning dreams and wine-laced wishes into functioning reality. “And what’s more…by the way, this lamb is fantastic.”
“David,” I seem to remember Sebastiano gently interrupting at one point during my lengthy diatribe, which I’m not sure anyone really understood (myself least of all). “Why don’t you forget driving back to Aliano and spend the night at our apartment?” (Anne was furiously nodding.)
So, there was my good friend and faithful companion in all this unabashed “couple of little boys together” serendipity planning the perfect end to yet another perfectly zany-crazy day.
Postscript
After this day (and others) of unexpected delights, Anne and I decided it was time we took the initiative and treated Sebastiano and Rocchina to a truly romantic, traditional dinner somewhere as a gesture of thanks for all their many kindnesses—preferably a local place somewhere between our home in Aliano and theirs in Stigliano. The problem was that, as far as romantic restaurants were concerned, we lived in a rather sparsely blessed corner of Basilicata. There were restaurants, of a sort, but few were conducive to candlelight chats serenaded by mellow music in an ambiance created by fine dishes in a warm, rustic setting reminiscent of old stone masseria (farmhouse) dining rooms.
But, as often happens when you let things float around for a while, the perfect place presented itself by word of mouth. It was a relatively new creation, near the beautifully restored hill town of Guardia, and with a splendidly impressive name: Azienda Agrituristica Difesa d’Ischia. And it was everything we’d hoped for: a government-supported agriturismo restoration of an old farm and country house into a small nine-room hotel with a pool (even a tennis court, would you believe?), set high on a hillside overlooking the Sauro River Valley. It even included an intimate stone wall-and-wood beamed–ceiling trattoria proudly claiming to serve all its own produce and authentic regional dishes.
This is the perfect place, we gushed when we saw it. And so it turned out to be. The only reason I’m mentioning it at all in this brief postscript is to offer a tantalizing glimpse of what can await one even in the wilds of Basilicata. Oh, and also to warn of the dangers of ordering a “full antipasto” before launching into the rest of a traditional five-or six-course dinner.
Once we’d all got through the “ooos” and “ahhs” and “woos” that were our reactions to such an unexpected find, our charming young waitress confirmed in an off-hand kind of way that, of course, we’d be having the antipasto before the other courses. We said, “Of course. Va bene.” Then, out of the tiny kitchen run by a couple of elderly mammas—whom we spotted occasionally between flurries of steam and wielding of mammoth pots—came platter after platter of one of the most generous and surprising series of antipasto delights. These I will merely list without going into rhapsodic descriptions: plates of prosciutto, salami, coppa, and soppressata; a bowl of four different kinds of olives; platters of anchovies, pickled peppers, hot peppers, and roasted peppers; sliced tomatoes with basil leaves and plump rounds of authentic mozzarella di bufala; bruschetta with fresh tomatoes and sprinklings of thirty-year-old and very expensive balsamic vinegar (a true gourmand’s experience); fire-grilled slices of aubergine doused in homemade olive oil; roasted aubergine layers wrapped around a tuna-and-caper filling; cheeses—cream, provolone, pecorino (new and aged), and gorgonzola; bowls of fava beans, chick peas, and French beans in olive oil; a melt-in-the-mouth cheese-and-mushroom frittata; slices of focaccia with tomatoes and melted cheese; a dish of warm bagna cauda (that creamy garlic-anchovy–olive oil dip) served with fat chunks of home-baked bread; slices of spicy homemade sausage doused in hot sauce; and, finally, a medley of marinated mushrooms with just a touch of fresh mint eaten stuzzichino style (with the fingers).
And that’s about all I can remember. I’m sure there was more (Anne claims she counted more than twenty-five separate delights), but the waitress had to wait for us to devour some of the dishes in order to make room for more platters and bowls. I saw her smiling a little, perhaps wondering if we’d ever get through this mammoth and magnificent spread. So, maybe unwisely, I encouraged Sebastiano and Rocchina to show her that we were certainly a match for the trattoria’s sumptuous, and very reasonably priced, spread. And we did. We just about finished everything with complimentary mumblings of mangiabile! between all the succulent mouthfuls, but then realized that we didn’t have the stamina or the stomach for the rest of the dinner. Our waitress smiled knowingly and suggested, “Just a few tidbits of grilled abbacchio,” (delicious suckling lamb) and then straight to the desserts. All in all a truly buon pranzo experience.
And I thought, isn’t it amazing what we have to put ourselves through and suffer just to say thank you to a couple of good friends.
Meeting Antonio—There Are No Coincidences
Then, out of the blue (actually it was a very cold, damp night) came another series of enduring friendships…
I’M ALWAYS rather nervous of such glib, New Age, hocuspocus, psychobabble one-liners as “There are no coincidences.” But I must admit that sometimes curiously intertwining and beneficial events—little synchronicities, if you will, invariably impossible to predict—seem so inevitable, timely, and right that it does make me wonder….
As it did this one evening. Anne was away for a couple of days in Matera (yes, the Carrefour hypermarket and the aesthetic delights of that unique “cave city” had lured her off once again), and I was scribbling notes to myself and transcribing tapes from recent interviews. In my normally odd, but to me perfectly sensible, manner, I had dragged the mattress from the unused single bed in our bedroom into the living room by the fire. And there I lay, legs akimbo, cushions balled up under my chest, with notebooks, books, files, and folders fanned out around me in an impressive display of research and writing. Such displays, while doubtless chaotic looking to an outsider—give me a sense of achievement, direction, and purpose, a sense, however, that on that particular evening was a little sparse and confused. Questions flowed around in my head like errant moths lacking a lighted candle: Am I focusing too much on Carlo Levi and his book? Am I focusing too little on Carlo Levi and his book? Is what I am producing a memoir, a travelogue, a socioeconomic treatise, or merely a random collection of tales and anecdotes about people and odd happenings in a remote corner of the world that most people have never even heard, or cared, about? And so on. The usual confusions and crises of an author at mid-manuscript point.
I was looking again at parts of my original outline for the book, particularly the part that read:
At the heart of this book are the experiences of the author and his wife during an extended residence over the seasons in a hill village high in the mountains of Basilicata, one of southern Italy’s wildest, most dramatic, and least explored regions. In addition to a rich, humorous, and very human potpourri of stories about the people; local characters; food; markets; historical traditions; quirks; the seasonal rhythms of olives, vines, and farming; and local myths, superstitions, and pagan rites that reflect the ancient, slow-changing spirit of the region—the book will also reveal some of the underlying strangenesses and “dark side” elements of the village and the region, and will ultimately attempt to discover Carlo Levi’s “Lucania within each one of us.”
Well, despite the length of that particular sentence, am I still on track? I wondered. Admittedly, the more I talked with the locals and the longer we stayed there and became intimately involved in the daily happenings and rhythms of existence in Aliano and other nearby villages, the more I sensed myself identifying with their lives, their histories, their challenges, and their frustrations with the muddled ways of the Mezz
ogiorno. Sometimes I even found myself feeling the same sense of outrage and indignation that Levi himself pithily expressed, particularly his memorable conclusion that: “The peasants here are not considered human beings.” I would sense myself agreeing with his overall realization that, in recording the patterns of lives here, the injustices, the impotence of government, and the ubiquitous sludge and slime of corruption that corroded and eroded so many well-intentioned “infrastructure-enhancement” schemes, he was becoming a spokesperson, not only for the Mezzogiorno itself, but for “the deepest parts of the soul of our world” (as suggested by one enthusiastic reviewer). The Mezzogiorno as metaphor for similar inequitable and unjust Mezzogiorno predicaments everywhere in the world.
And then I would have to remind myself, sternly, that hey, you’re not here as a political advocate or a regional planner—as I might have been twenty-odd years before, in that previous life of mine—or an anthropological analyst. You’re here to enjoy yourself with Anne, to participate in and celebrate the oddities and amusing and moving ironies of life here, and to create a portrait of our serendipitous lives together in this splendidly wild and relatively undiscovered corner of southern Italy. And that’s all, I would emphasize. Forget your “planner/analyst” persona. Don’t get sidetracked into defining problems and certainly not suggesting solutions. Let others far better equipped and far more perceptive than you worry about all that and…
The intercom door buzzer buzzed.
That’s strange, I thought. It was rare for people to come calling so late in the day. It must be a mistake. Someone must have pressed our buzzer when really intending to contact Giuseppina. So I readjusted my sprawled frame, puffed up the cushions a little more, and resumed my reveries.
Then came a knock on our door, not Giuseppina’s ambiguous rattle but a distinct rat-tat-tat that smacked of purpose and intent.
“Yes? Hello.”