The Reluctant Tuscan

by Phil Doran

  The personal items I had taken out of the car, CD case, flashlight, sunglasses, and the half a copper heart, kept slipping out of my hands, and whenever I tried to rearrange how I was holding them, I managed to drop one or more of them. I had no idea where I was going, or even what ward I was passing through, since the only indications that I was moving from one unit to another were the small carved-out altars dedicated to the saint of that particular sickness or malady.

  It felt as if I had been walking for miles when a small, dark-skinned Moroccan man in hospital greens found me. He seemed to know who I was, and without a word he led me through another maze of corridors until we reached a waiting room holding a few scattered people, some bandaged and some waiting to be. He guided me past an examining room where an indifferent nurse was wiping dried blood off the head of a semiconscious man. He asked her where the Americana was and she pointed.

  We continued down the corridor until we got to the only room with a light on. I peeked in and saw Nancy lying on a cranked-up hospital bed. She was wearing a dressing gown and her arm, held out to her side by an elaborate brace, was encased in a formidable plaster cast.

  “Oh, my God,” I said as I entered.

  “It’s broken,” she said, sitting up with great difficulty. “I’m not going to be able to sculpt.”

  “It’s okay.”

  Her lips started trembling. “I don’t know how I’m going to finish that piece.”

  “Let’s not worry about that.” I held her as delicately as I could, grateful that she no longer seemed disoriented. “How’s your head?”

  “I’m still a little dizzy. And I’m so nauseous.”

  “Did they give you anything?”

  “Just something for the pain.”

  “Where’s the damn doctor? What’d he—”

  “I just saw him. He wants to keep me here tonight.”

  “Okay.”

  “You go home.”

  “No. No way.” I spotted an easy chair and dragged it over to her bedside. “I’m staying.”

  “How’s your nose?”

  “It’s not broken, but I’ll probably be sounding like Elmer Fudd for a while,” I said in an exaggerated cartoon voice.

  She smiled and I smiled back, even though the change of expression hurt my face.

  “Go home,” she said. “You’ll be a lot more—”

  “I’m not going anywhere, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Try and get some rest,” I said. “I’ll be fine.”

  She laid her head back down and closed her eyes. I listened to the rhythm of her breathing, and after a few minutes I sensed she was falling asleep. I was about to do the same, when I spotted a figure in hospital greens passing by our door. I quietly rose and rushed after him.

  “Scusi, Dottore, scusi,” I stage-whispered, stopping him in his tracks.

  I caught up with him and asked if he was the one who had examined Nancy. When he told me he was, I asked him about her condition. He blew a blizzard of Italian at me until I was able to implore, “Lentamente, per favore, lentamente,” “Slowly, please, slowly.” Speaking to me as if I were a refugee from special ed, he explained that her X rays showed a fracture in the upper arm. Her body had been twisted by the impact of the collision, and when the air bag burst, it slammed her shoulder into the car’s window post. A more serious problem, he went on, was the indication of a shoulder separation in that arm. He had scheduled an orthopedic surgeon to come in and look at her tomorrow. I asked him about her headache, and he said that that, along with her nausea and dizziness, were the usual symptoms of a grade-one concussion. They were going to monitor her overnight and give her an MRI first thing in the morning.

  I rigged up a little bed on the easy chair, using a folding chair for my feet and Nancy’s balled-up sweater for a pillow. I turned off the light and tried to fall asleep, but as exhausted as I was, I couldn’t doze off.

  I couldn’t find anything to read, so I sat up, crossed my legs, and thought I’d try to meditate, since that stupid bird that went Hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo every minute of the day wasn’t around to distract me. I took in some deep breaths and felt my heart rate slow. The room was quiet and my inhalations fell into lockstep with Nancy’s soft breathing and the steady pull of a respirator from somewhere down the hall.

  But I was still so revved up from the accident, my mind kept chattering away and no amount of ujjâya breathing would settle it down. After a few more futile attempts I decided that maybe the problem was my mantra. I had been using Om, which was what Meditation for Morons had suggested. But Om is just so been there/done that. I mean, it’s so five minutes ago, it’s like a cliché, so no wonder I couldn’t take it seriously.

  I decided that this might be a good time to search for a new mantra. So I began experimenting with some different sounds. I closed my eyes, and in a quiet voice not to disturb Nancy, I chanted such soothing sounds as “Reeeee . . .” “Baaaaa . . .” and “Neeee.” But my voice kept coming out like Elmer Fudd, and it was making me laugh. I was just about to concede that some people, like me, were just too immature for the world of metaphysics, when I suddenly came up with “Laaaaaaa.”

  Even through my pinched nose, chanting “Laaaaaa” seemed fraught with promise. I said it over and over, hoping the power of “Laaaaa” would carry me off to a spiritual nirvana so serene that for once in my life my brain would stop jumping around like a circus monkey on angel dust.

  “Laaaa.”

  “Laaaaaa.”

  “Laaaaaa—aaaahhhh . . .”

  I started playing with it, finding variations. I saw colors as I pictured the letters: EL and AY.

  Then I realized my new mantra was L.A.

  All tranquility was shattered as my mind flooded with images of agents and managers and personal trainers and stretch limos. My eyes popped open and I felt like screaming, when I heard a voice.

  “Yo, Dog, whassup?”

  I looked up and Charylie was standing in the doorway.

  “What are you doing here?” I said. “I’m not writing about you.”

  “Well, you should be,” she said, sashaying into the room. “I seen what you was writing and, man, it sucks.”

  “Oh, thanks.”

  Charylie struck a heroic pose and pointed an imaginary pistol at me. “ ‘He ripped back the trigger of his Glock and emptied the whole clip into the serial killer’s face.’ Yo, that is pure shit!”

  “I’m just trying to sell a script, okay?”

  “Oh, yeah, you’re all that and a bag of chips.”

  “Don’t you have someplace else to be? Aren’t you, like, late for a drive-by shooting or something?

  “Have you ever fired a Glock?” she said, sitting on the edge of Nancy’s bed. “Do you even know what a Glock is?”

  “Hemingway never fought a bull, but it didn’t keep him from writing about it.”

  “Well, you ain’t no Hemingway, sucka, so you better stick to writin’ what you know.”

  “Any other pearls of wisdom?”

  “Yeah, G, word up. This lady here loves you, and if she ever walks out on you, you’re life’s goin’ straight down the crapper.”

  “Okay, on that we agree.” I nodded. “Nancy and I love each other, that’s a given. . . .”

  “That’s a given?” She made a face. “Listen to you, man, you sound like some science teacher. Where’s your feelings? Where’s your passion?”

  “I got passion.”

  “Oh, yeah, I seen how you was slobbering over that little hottie that works for your agent,” she said, giving me that side-to-side chicken neck thing black girls do. “I’ll bet that bitch got tan lines—”

  “All right, that’s it! Get outta my head, will ya!” I turned away. “Go!”

  “Oh, save the drama for your mama, chump, and listen up. I’m tryin’ to tell you what you better do before it’s too late!”

  That got my attention.

  “You got to take a clue from these here Italians. Now, the
se motherfuckers really know how to open up their hearts and let their feelings out.”

  “I know. These people’ll cry over the opening of an envelope. Well, I can’t do that, it’s not me.”

  “That’s ’cause you’re too busy trying to be cool, fool. Or you’re too scared you’re gonna make a mistake. Well, that’s messed up, man. You got to try to be more Italian, ’cause when they feel something, they go for it!”

  “Go for it. Just that simple.”

  “I ain’t sayin’ it’s simple, Dog. We all afraid of some shit or another and it’s that fear that chases away our feelings.”

  Charylie was right. The moment she said those words, I instantly understood why I felt such hostility toward the Italians. I had lived my whole life within a narrow band of emotions. I never cried, I rarely screamed, and I didn’t even laugh that loud. Whenever I came up against the vast range of their feelings and the unfiltered intensity of their emotions, it made me squirm. All the while, I wasn’t even aware of how much I envied their ability to participate in their own lives. It took a near-death experience for me to feel even a tiny fraction of what the average Italian experiences every time he hugs his mamma, gazes at a sunset, or tickles a baby.

  Her words were the single stone that started the avalanche. My chin began to tremble and there was a pinprick of tears behind my eyes. I was connecting with my inner Italian, that deeply buried part of each of us that craves to savor life to its fullest.

  “You got to be showin’ her how you feel, boo,” she said. “And not just with talk and promises. You got to do something big! And if that don’t work, do something bigger, until she knows she’s the most important thing in your life. You do that and you’ll be together forever!”

  “You’re right,” I said. What she was telling me was so simple and obvious, it made me gasp that I hadn’t already known it. “You’re absolutely right.”

  “Who are you talking to?” Nancy said in a voice thick with sleep.

  “Uh, I was . . . hey, how’re you feeling?”

  “Thirsty.”

  “Hang on.” I reached over to the nightstand and filled a glass with water from the carafe. She took it with her good hand and gulped it down, taking big gasps of breath between swallows.

  “I love you!” I emphatically declared. “I really, really love you!”

  “Oh—kay,” she said looking at me, slightly frightened, as she put her glass down.

  “And I don’t want to ever be apart from you anymore.” My words were just tumbling out and I had no idea what I was going to say. “I’ve been stupid and selfish and immature, and I’m so sorry. Please forgive me. I want to sell our house in Brentwood and live here in Italy with you. Forever!”

  “You mean that?”

  “I want us to start over. With a clean slate. Have a whole new beginning with a brand-new life!”

  “I want that too.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Of course! What do you think I’ve been talking about?”

  I went to hug her, as best as I could with her arm in a cast. She grimaced and clutched her stomach.

  “You okay?’

  “I drank that water too fast,” she said. “I’m queasy.”

  “Should I call . . . ?”

  “No, I’m okay.” She straightened up and blew out a breath. “It’s getting a little better.”

  We sat for a moment in silence. My nerve endings were electrified and my skin felt transparent. I was intoxicated by the smell of my own burning bridges. Strange and radical thoughts were bubbling up inside of me, and they all seemed right.

  “Let’s get married.”

  “What?”

  “I’m proposing to you. Let’s get married again.”

  She stared at me. “You’re serious.”

  “Yeah! You know how we’re always joking about what a farce our wedding was.”

  “Okay, the boat was my idea, but you’re the one who found Reverend Elvis.”

  “Let’s do it right this time. Here in Italy. Maybe the house’ll be ready and we can do it there.”

  “I was the one who got hit on the head, wasn’t I?” she said.

  “Look, coming this close to death or whatever made me see how I’m wasting my life obsessing over all the wrong things. The only important thing I’ve got is you.”

  “Oh, God, I can’t believe you’re saying this!”

  “So what’s your answer? Will you marry me? Again?”

  “I’ll think about it,” she said, as her voice broke and she hugged me.

  I started to cry as I blubbered over and over that I loved her. My nose was running, tears were streaming down my face, and my shoulders were heaving with each sob.

  I felt her heaving, too, and I thought we were both crying. I didn’t realize it at the time, but she was heaving from nausea, and when I squeezed her, she threw up all over me.

  Love is a many splendored thing, isn’t it?

  25

  Misericordia

  Italians have so much empathy for suffering that instead of saying “Emergency,” their ambulances and hospitals are usually printed with the word misericordia, which, if not by dictionary definition, then at least by common usage, means “mercy for the miserable.” And that certainly described us as we took a taxi home from the hospital the following day.

  After examining her, the orthopedic surgeon saw evidence of a separation in Nancy’s shoulder, and even though her MRI was clear, the neurologist who was brought in for consultation felt she had suffered a slight concussion. Her doctor wanted her to stay longer, but she wanted to go home. So, he agreed to discharge her if she promised to get plenty of rest. Above all she needed peace and quiet.

  And that was precisely our intention until our taxi pulled up in front of the house we were renting from Dino and we discovered that there was a party going on. The living room was filled with flowers and baskets of food from our neighbors and the many well-wishers in the town we didn’t know we had. The kitchen was gridlocked with women who included Dino’s wife, Flavia, Mrs. Cipollini from next door, Mina (whom we had heartlessly dubbed Mean Girl, from the hardware store), and those ancient aunts: Nina, Nona, and Nana. All of them were jockeying for position around the stove as they clashed over how best to make polenta con gorgonzola and zitti alla pinzimonio.

  We heard hammering and cursing coming from the bathroom where Dino and his cousin, the fabled plumber Turrido, were tearing up our shower to finally determine why we weren’t getting a sufficient supply of hot water. Additional ruckus was being raised by the pack of dogs and the flock of chickens scattered inside and out who, for our sake, had struck an edgy détente where no blood was shed, but they continually growled and clucked as they spent the afternoon circling each other.

  Added to that, our phone was constantly ringing with an endless succession of callers. Signor Tito Tughi called to tell us that our car had been towed to his lot and he was working up an estimate of the damages. As he told me this, I pictured him holding the phone with one hand as he stuck out the thumb and pinky of his other hand, making le corne, that horn-shaped gesture meant to keep our misfortune from spilling over onto him.

  Umberto called to inform us that the lady he had hired to help his wife with the housework while her broken foot was mending would be coming over this afternoon to do our laundry. Father Fabrizio called to praise God that our lives had been spared, thanks to all the holy work our little VW had been involved in.

  Next came a call from the mayor’s office. Over the jangling of African jewelry, his assistant informed us that even though His Honor was tied up all day in a conference (presumably with a particularly irascible jigsaw puzzle), he wanted to express his concern for our well-being and offer anything he could to help. That was followed by a call from the mayor’s wife, who whispered into her cell phone that she was just about to light a candle for us at the side altar of Santa Ursula, the Patron Saint of The Miraculously Not Killed.

  One of the unexpected consequences of o
ur crash was to swing public opinion in our favor. Many Cambionese felt that our accident had been caused by Vesuvia Pingatore’s casting an overzealous malocchio on us. And whatever her grievance, the town felt that this was much too harsh. In fact, it was gratifying to learn from Dino that the official odds, as posted by the patrons of Lucca’s Barbershop, had dramatically shifted to where we were now slightly better than even money to hold on to our rustico.

  Much of this largesse was due to the general kindness of the Italian nature, but a good deal must also be attributed to their deep affection for the people of the United States. I know this seems odd in the wake of so much anti-American feelings throughout Europe—and the world, for that matter—but many Italians really do like us. And not just our movies, our music, or our leggy supermodels.

  Just as there are parts of the American South where the Civil War is very much alive, people living in this corner of Tuscany still have a tremendous sense of gratitude for how we saved them from the ravages of Fascism. And at no time of year were those feelings stronger than at the time of our accident. By sheer coincidence we were coming up on the Festa della Liberazione (the Festival of the Liberation), a holiday celebrated every year by the Cambionese, and marking the day the American army liberated their town. Each year a few of the surviving GIs from that detachment of soldiers came to Cambione to make speeches, drink wine, and reminisce with the grandmothers they once tried to seduce with chocolate bars and nylons.

  I was helping Nancy toward the bedroom, thanking everyone I encountered for their kindness, but gently imploring them to leave because of how badly she needed to rest. They, of course, insisted on staying, promising to make the others, who were thoughtlessly making so much noise, be quiet. Besides, there was no way we were going to get past Flavia without eating first, since she was implacably blocking our path like the Praetorian guard protecting Caesar. So we sat down to an eleven-course lunch containing the twenty-six thousand calories Flavia felt every human body needed to maintain good health.

  Somewhere between a warmly comforting timbalo di riso and a nutty-tasting agnello al rosmarino, the doorbell rang. I went to the front door and opened it to the signora from the news kiosk. She had come on her lunch hour to make sure I got today’s Herald Tribune. I felt guilty that she had walked all the way over here in the heat just so I could check the ball scores and read “Doonesbury,” so I thanked her profusely, and in my clumsy Italian, I pointed out a number of articles on the front page alone that could well change my life.