by Phil Doran
More and more people kept coming. Pumping my hand and kissing me on both cheeks with repeated expressions of tanti auguri . . . a lot of good wishes. The signora from the news kiosk brought us a boxful of glossy fashion magazines; Gilberto from la farmacia gifted us with an elegant bottle of lemon-scented body lotion; and remember the tall, skinny carabiniere who was so helpful to me at the accident? The one who lost track of his machine gun? Twice? Well, wouldn’t you know it . . . he left his present in his car and had to run back down the hill to get it.
I spotted cousins Spartaco and Faustino hanging out on the periphery of the party. Faustino was busying himself examining our olive trees for any reappearance of the fungus he had so efficiently exterminated, while Spartaco’s attentions were focused on Pia Tughi and her shapely legs. Sadly, his gaze went unrequited because Ms. Tughi was fully engaged in a conversation with Vagabondo.
Nancy’s mom and her aunt Rose continued their masquerade of identities, greatly aided by the fact that they couldn’t understand anyone, nor could anyone understand them. This language barrier, however, did not prevent them from enjoying a pantomime-augmented dialogue with Signora Cipollini over the tastiest things to do with the pope’s nose, which ironically, is what both cultures call the chicken’s ass.
At my request Dottore Spotto was using my camcorder to videotape the proceedings. In addition to the visuals il dottore provided us with a running narrative where he attached his own psychological analysis to those he photographed. Thus he informed us that Va Bene was a passive-dependent personality with poor coping skills and Problema’s chronic melancholia stemmed from his plethora of self-esteem issues. And that they should both be in treatment and on medication.
Some weeks later, when Nancy and I sat down to look at the tape, we discovered that, although he had covered the main event, he had mostly left us with footage of his children, Leonardo, Rafael, and la bimba Artemisia. It did make us laugh, though, when he turned the camera over to his wife, Monica, so he could get in the shot, that while he was posing, Uncle Carmuzzi sneaked up from behind and put the horns on him.
I looked around for Nancy and was told that she was changing. I wanted to get cleaned up but there wasn’t time. Father Fabrizio had finally arrived, with apologies for being late and a tale of woe over how poorly his new car was running, with the implication that he much regretted having given up the one we now own.
I told him that we needed to start because people were getting hungry, even if it was for the lasagna from the Alimentari Brutti. So while the priest took up his position at our makeshift pulpit, I rounded up my best man, Rudolfo, and made sure he had the rings. I then flashed a signal to Dottore Spotto’s eldest son, Leonardo, to cue up the music. He clicked the remote and the sound of a pipe organ filled the air.
Taking their cue, our guests seated themselves on the rows of folding chairs with as much hushed anticipation as a crowd full of Italians can ever get. I got the high sign from Mina (from the hardware store, whom we no longer called Mean Girl) that the wedding party was ready. So I nodded to Leonardo, who flicked the CD to the next track, and the dulcet strains of the “Wedding March” filled the air. Flash cameras popped as Marco Mucchi’s younger daughter came down the aisle in a pink taffeta dress, spreading flower petals and drawing appreciative ooohs from the crowd
Next came the bridesmaids in their matching dresses. Pia Tughi, Avvocatessa Bonetti, and my sister, Debbie, looked beautiful, but Vesuvia Pingatore was absolutely radiant. As she glided down the aisle, her face was so luminous in its serenity that her brother, Mario, couldn’t help but smile. My side of the wedding party then entered, consisting of my best man, Rudolfo, followed by Umberto, Marco Mucchi, and my brother-in-law, Henry.
With everyone in place Leonardo clicked the remote and the music jumped to “Here Comes the Bride.” All heads turned as Nancy started down the aisle. She was wearing a simple white linen dress that she had bought in the open-air mercato in Siena. Her blond hair was sprinkled with tiny flowers, and she had made herself a veil out of a length of the white netting we had used to catch the falling olives. She looked like an angel, and I had never loved her more than I did at that moment.
She came to my side, and we turned to Father Fabrizio. He raised his hands and welcomed one and all to our ceremony. He spoke about the difficulties of keeping a marriage intact in this modern age of ours. How temptations and resentments were the potholes that threatened to break the axle of love between two people, and how much maintenance and servicing it took to keep a relationship running. It was a fine sermon, but at some point I felt as if he was referring more to his car than to our marriage.
He then told the audience that Nancy and I had prepared our own vows. And as I had prearranged with Rudolfo, I said mine in English, while he translated them for the audience.
“ ‘Hail to thee, blithe Spirit,’ ” I said, taking both of Nancy’s hands. “That’s the opening line of a poem by Percy Shelley, who knew quite a bit about what it was like to be a straniero living here. And like him, I came to Italy to make a new life, even though this was not my idea. If you remember, honey, I was perfectly happy in L.A. working on a show I hated, overpaid and underappreciated, coming home every night burned out, angry, and exhausted.”
Rudolfo finished his translation and the audience chuckled at how only an Americano or a Milanese could live like that.
“But you kept working on me. Even though I was like the guy who sweeps up behind the elephant at the circus . . . I couldn’t possibly imagine a life without the glamour of show business. We argued all the time, and I kept telling you that running off to Italy was crazy. Pazza! Well, it took months, and almost getting my brains splattered all over the Via Aurelia, but I finally came to see that hopelessly clinging to a way of life that was consuming me was the crazy part. It has been my lot in life to be dragged kicking and screaming into most of the really good things that have happened to me. And for that, my dear Nancy, I give you the sole credit. And to tell you how much I love you for your bravery, your resourcefulness, and your determination. I love you for knowing me better than I knew myself . . . for loving me when I didn’t even know what love was . . . and for showing me what joy there was in sometimes doing the craziest thing. Shelley was writing about a skylark, but he must have been thinking of you, when he ended that poem with:Teach me half the gladness
That thy brain must know;
Such harmonious madness
From my lips would flow,
The world should listen then, as I am listening now!
“Nancy, I vow to love you madly, treasure you deeply, and humbly offer you my undying devotion forever.”
Nancy stood facing me, her eyes glistening. She squeezed my hands and spoke.
“I want to express what you mean to me, but words fail me. You’re the writer in the family, so if you will allow me, I’d like to show you what’s in my heart.”
With that she nodded to Leonardo and he cued up another CD. The music started and Nancy lip-synced to an Italian version of “You Light Up My Life.”
As everyone was laughing and applauding, Aunt Rose, who’s a little hard of hearing, turned to Nancy’s mom and said that she never knew that Nancy could sing.
“She can’t,” Betty said. “But that’s never stopped her.”
36
La Luna di Miele
The party lasted all evening and well into the night. Our neighbors could scarcely complain about the noise, since they were the ones making it. Italians may never sweep all the gold medals at the Olympics or establish a permanent colony on the moon, but when it comes to having a good time, no people on earth can touch them.
Nancy and I wandered through the maze of people, clinking glasses and welcoming their congratulations and best wishes. There was so much good cheer in the air that, at least for the night, bitter grudges crumbled and new affections blossomed.
Although not approving of his lifestyle, Dino talked to Rudolfo about letting him use the house Na
ncy and I had once rented so the boys would have a decent place to live. After all, they were going to need to be close by, since Flavia and Stefano were seriously discussing opening a branch of his family’s fabric store here in Cambione.
Pia Tughi and Vagabondo were sighted nuzzling each other before slipping out to a disco. Avvocato Bonetti’s elderly mother latched on to Pepe and, after claiming that our goat was her missing Siamese cat, tried to take him home with her. Uncle Carmuzzi and Dottore Spotto took turns reciting verses of Dante from memory as they drank each other’s wine and concluded that the great poet belonged to all the people of Italy.
Avvocatessa Bonetti enjoyed more than one dance in the arms of the carabiniere with the elusive machine gun, Cousin Spartaco tearfully confessed to Father Fabrizio about his obsession with girlie magazines, and nobody died of food poisoning from the lasagna from the Alimentari Brutti.
A tipsy Vesuvia Pingatore came up to us with a glass of wine that kept threatening to slosh on my shoes. She told us that this was the best time she had had in years, and she thanked us for inviting her. We thanked her for coming and for being in the wedding party, and she replied that she was honored to have done it. I commented that now that we were all friends, there was no need for that high wall that she had put up. She blushed and confessed that she’d had the wall made taller because she liked to sunbathe in the nude.
I immediately took a swig of wine so as to not have that image permanently burned into my brain.
“I say, old duck.” Mario slapped me on the back. “First-class wingding. Top drawer and all that rot.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Glad you could come.”
“Yes, quite. But now I have to get the old girl home,” he said, helping his sister on with her wrap. “And you two need to get rid of everybody so you can start la luna di miele.” He gave us a lascivious wink.
“Ah, yes, the honeymoon,” I said.
“Well, we’ve still got family visiting,” Nancy said. “So after they leave, maybe we’ll take a few days.”
“Splendid,” he said. Then he reached into his coat pocket. “By the way, you’re going to need this. Blasted Comune and all their bloody paperwork.”
He handed us a thick envelope. I opened it and took out two documents. Nancy read them over my shoulder, and then we both looked at Mario in astonishment.
“My sister is giving you the land at the top of the hill,” he explained. “And I’m giving you the land at the bottom.”
“Oh, my God,” Nancy cried. “This is so generous.”
“It almost doubles our size,” I said.
“Well, if you’re going to grow olives, you need enough trees to make it worth the bloody trouble.”
“Thank you so much,” Nancy said hugging him.
“Yes, thank you both,” I said, hugging Vesuvia.
For the next few days we played tour guide, showing Nancy’s mom, Aunt Rose, and my sister and brother-in-law the glories of our little corner of Tuscany. We ushered them into secluded monasteries to see hidden masterpieces of medieval art, took them to a trattoria so autentica no tourist had ever set foot inside, and did all the haggling when they shopped at the outdoor mercato that’s held every Friday morning in Cambione’s Piazza Maggiore. At the end of the week my sister and her husband took off for France, and we dropped Nancy’s mom and Aunt Rose off at Civitavecchia, where they caught a cruise ship for the Greek islands.
Alone at last, we drove up the coast, parked the car, and used the train to explore the Cinque Terra. These are five small, picture-perfect villages nestled into a series of ascending rocky coves that overlook the Gulf of Genoa. These villages are inaccessible by car, which does not prevent them from being totally overrun by tourists in the summer. But this late in the fall it was so quiet, we could almost hear the pine nuts falling out of the trees as they ripened.
We didn’t do much for the first few days, preferring to lounge around in our room, gaze out at the sea, and, well, do what people do on their honeymoons. Even their second ones. When we did venture out, it was to take long hikes on one of the fourteen walking trails that connect the five towns. Some of these paths are quite difficult, so we would stay on the easier ones, strolling leisurely through densely wooded forests richly permeated with the sweet decay of season melding into season for as far back as anyone can remember.
Sometimes we would stop for lunch at a cliff-side café that seemed to hang precariously over the sea. The cuisine was invariably seafood done in the Ligurian manner, plump branzino or shiny orata caught that morning and salt-roasted on a wood-burning stove. Or perhaps something more exotic, like cozze ripiene, stuffed mussels cooked in white wine and served in butter sauce.
It would be difficult to imagine a land where one could eat so well from just the bounty of the nearby forests, fields, and sea. In addition to an amazing variety of edible mushrooms, there is oregano, sage, and rosemary. Garlic and leeks, chestnuts and beets. Pine nuts for pesto sauce and an armada of fishing boats disgorging their daily yields of anchovy, mussels, squid, and octopus. And it all gets washed down with a local wine called Sciacchetra, made from the Vermentino grapes that grow in the vineyards on the adjacent plains.
I have come to believe that the Italians should rule the world. Not that they’d want to. After all, they did it once, and despite their best efforts to civilize us, it still ended up in the hands of the barbarians. And then, what about the Renaissance? Just how many times do they have to show us?
I was thinking about things like this as I wandered around the village of Monterosso. Nancy was sleeping in that morning while I decided to go for a walk and explore the largest of the five towns. Monterosso is the hub of all tourist activities, but for that day at least, I seemed to be the only person around who hadn’t been born there.
A gray drizzle was falling, leaving the cobblestone streets as shiny as polished glass. A group of schoolgirls in uniform rushed past me, giggling under a cluster of bright yellow umbrellas. I found myself wondering why my compulsion to be back in L.A., working in show business, had mysteriously vanished.
Where had it gone? And what had I replaced it with?
I heard somebody practicing opera in a soprano voice, scales ascending out the window of her bedroom, and I felt so gloriously alive, I could sense the very blood rushing through my body. I was walking as if in a dream. I passed a macelleria, and through an opened door, I exchanged waves with a butcher in a bloody apron, a cigarette dangling out of his mouth as he hacked on a side of meat. I came upon a café whose frontage was bordered by fat terra-cotta planters bursting with riotous colors. I was particularly drawn to a patch of scandalously scarlet morning glories, and I bent over to admire how raindrops clung to the petals like silvery pearls.
These flowers were so beautiful, I thought, I should put them in our garden so it wouldn’t look so desolate over the winter. I was in the midst of calculating how many flats we’d need when the supreme folly of all this struck me. I hated gardening, and here I was making plans to grovel around in the mud, planting something I couldn’t even eat!
Living in Cambione had certainly changed me. The irony of it was, when you broke down the name of the town you got cambiare, “to change,” and -one (OH-nay), the suffix Italians use to say “big.” That’s right: Big Change.
I guess that I had had enough epiphanies for one morning, because I noticed that the café I was standing in front of was also an Internet spot. So I went inside, ordered an espresso, and bellied up to the computer. When my e-mails came up, I discovered that in addition to all the spam for low-interest bank loans and mail-order Viagra, there was something from my agent.
As I waited for his letter to open, I imagined that he was writing to tell me that another one of his big clients wanted to rent a villa, or needed opera tickets for La Scala, or perhaps they’d like me to meet them at the airport, holding up a little sign with their name on it like a limo driver.
His message began with congratulations on our wedding
, and then, in the way of a gift, he told me that he had been showing my e-mails to some of the other agents in his office. And everybody really enjoyed them. One lady in particular got very excited and thought I had the makings of a terrific screenplay. Or even a book. She made a few calls and had gotten something lined up, and she needed to know how soon I could get back to L.A. to take some meetings.
I blew out a long, slow breath as I got up from the computer and went over to the window. I looked out at a pair of rowboats tied together at the fishing pier. One was fire-engine red and the other was painted as bright yellow as a banana. I stared at these two little boats bobbing in the gray-green water for a long moment as I wondered how I was going to tell Nancy about this.