Mamma Mia... That's Life!

by Valerie Barona

  I had just finished some much needed housework when the front door bell made me jump. I recognised the woman standing next to a young girl as the butcher’s wife at Traona. She explained that her niece, Christine had come over from Australia for her cousin’s wedding but she didn’t speak Italian and needed someone to teach her – and they had thought of me. I thanked her for her confidence where my teaching ability was concerned but suggested she looked for a proper Italian teacher and Gaetana came to mind. She often corrected me when I used the wrong form of a verb. I could always offer cups of English tea and chats in Oxford English to Christine and I did. She stayed in Traona for a year enabling her to get to know her father’s family and his roots, not to mention learning the language. She also came with me to the English course I was taking near Sondrio.

  “This evening you’re lucky enough to hear English spoken with an Australian accent,” I told the group, as I introduced Christine. The students took to her immediately, and asked her to join in the lessons on a regular basis. At nineteen, she had a sunny disposition and a ready smile. Her enthusiasm to learn as much as possible during her stay was almost palpable and when it was time for her to return home, we knew we’d all miss her. We made her promise to come and visit us whenever she popped over to Traona – and – she kept that promise.

  Over the years, the locals got to know other foreigners, namely my mum, brother, sister-in-law, my sister and her family and my aunt who were regular visitors as they walked around the village and greeted them as old friends. This time, my relations from Cornwall had come to visit and we were going to celebrate my 43rd birthday in Venice. Alex and Elisa had organised their weekend and were looking forward to some parental freedom.

  As expected, our hotel on the Grand Canal, the food and excursion to Murano couldn’t be faulted and the highlight was one evening in a restaurant which the concierge had suggested.

  “I’m sure that’s Marco Tardelli sitting behind me!” I nudged Michele, before explaining to my relations that he was a famous football player.

  “I think you’re right.” Michele looked surreptitiously over my shoulder and nodded. “Yes, it’s ‘im.”

  When the waiter came to clear the table, I asked him for a piece of paper.

  “Why did you do that?” Michele wanted to know.

  “Because when he’s finished drinking his coffee, I’m going to ask for his autograph.”

  “You can’t do that,” Michele whispered.

  The waiter reappeared with a postcard of the restaurant, saying that was all he could find.

  “Grazie mille, va benissimo,” I thanked him, before turning to the table behind me.

  “Scusi, ma posso chiederle un autografo, per favore?” I smiled, handing him the postcard and a pen.

  “Certamente. A chi devo dedicare l’autografo?”

  “Ad Alex, mio figlio.” I knew Alex would be impressed with his autograph. He hadn’t played for Fiorentina but he was still famous and had helped Italy win the World Cup in 1982. As he left his table with an extremely attractive woman, I asked if I could take his photo with Michele and he nodded, putting his arm around his shoulder and smiling for the camera. They had a quick chat about football and what he was doing at the time then he said: “Arriverderci” and left.

  “What a nice man,” my aunt said.

  “He’s quite good-looking, too,” my cousin’s girlfriend added.

  Michele said nothing, relishing his chance meeting with a famous sportsman.

  Imagine our surprise when we walked through the hotel foyer later that evening and came face to face with Marco Tardelli:

  “Anche voi siete qui! Che coincidenza. Buona serata.” He’d actually recognised us.

  “Grazie. Buona serata anche a lei!” Michele managed to reply.

  “Nothing like mixing with VIPs,” I teased.

  All too soon, we were back in Piussogno and it was time to say goodbye as my relatives left for Carbis Bay. We continued our usual routine: I had lessons to prepare for various courses organised privately by groups or by the council and school meetings to attend, in my role as parent rep for both children. I have to admit that I used to get very annoyed at parent-teacher meetings when I found myself constantly at the back of the non-existent queue. Impatient parents pushed and shoved in front of me in an attempt to speak to the teachers seated at tables around the room as quickly as possible. I had realised as soon as I stepped onto Italian soil that queuing was totally alien to Italians: getting off the plane, going through passport control, in shops, and of course, at school.

  “Why don’t you go instead of me?” I asked Michele after one particularly fraught afternoon spent at senior school.

  “I can’t. I ‘ave to go to work,” he smiled, indulgently.

  Men!

  *

  Summer came and went and I was enjoying a quiet chat with my mum, who happened to be over visiting, when I received an urgent phone call from Michele’s cousin.

  “Ciao! Can you come up to Cercino straight away? Some Americans are here and no-one can understand what they’re saying.”

  “Don’t worry, Remo, I’m on my way…”

  Mum was only too happy to relax on the balcony and enjoy the scenery.

  “I’ll be back in time for a cup of tea – half an hour at the latest,” I promised.

  Unfortunately, it was a promise I couldn’t keep and, if she hadn’t made a pot herself, Mum would have had to wait nearly three hours for her drink.

  It transpired that the Americans were, in fact, related to the cousins at Siro. The woman’s grandfather was one of the uncles who had sailed to California at the beginning of the century. They were holidaying in Europe and had come to Italy especially to see if they could find his birthplace.

  “Can you believe it, when I said I was looking for the Molatore family, this man from a place, I think it was Novate, suggested we tried Cercino – and here we are!” The new found cousin couldn’t get over her luck at stumbling across her grandfather’s home. It was an emotional reunion for both families. Since then, every so often they come over to visit, and I take on the role of interpreter. Considering herself more than lucky with this link from the past, zia couldn’t believe it when another American cousin turned up several years later, thanks to a chance meeting with a relative in Fresno, California. This time, she met the granddaughter of the aunt who’d followed her brothers to America. She arrived with four friends in tow and I had the complex task of interpreting for five American women simultaneously.

  “Life sure is full of surprises!” they said, while zia smiled affectionately at her newfound cousin.

  With the discovery of their extended family, I wondered whether it might be an incentive for them to consider learning English – again. Years ago, Michele’s cousin Remo and his wife, Lella came with a group to learn English. Remo arrived wearing the one-time regulation black school overall with a white collar, small haversack containing a notebook, pencil case and a banana for merenda. Needless to say, the lessons were hilarious and Remo, a born comedian, made my role as a teacher incredibly difficult; I spent most of the time laughing uncontrollably. Although it probably wasn’t one of the most serious courses I’ve taken, it was certainly one of the most enjoyable.

  “Impareremo l’inglese quando andiamo in pensione,” they told the latest relations who had come from Long Island to meet them.

  As they won’t be retiring for a while, I gathered I would still be interpreting for them in the foreseeable future.

  19

  Mamma Rocks!

  ‘I can’t say nothing ever happens in Piussogno’, I thought as I sat down for a rare bit of me-time with a cup of English tea. I suppose it isn’t every day that you come home to find a cow in your front garden. I’d only gone to the next village to do a quick shop and when I got back, as I walked up the drive,
I was aware of an extremely large, brown shape by the roses in the garden.

  ‘It can’t be a cow – but it certainly looks like one.’ I shaded my eyes against the sun and peered closer. ‘Yes, it’s definitely a cow! Shoo, shoo! Go away!’ The cow glanced at me lazily before continuing to munch through a particular juicy part of the lawn. Michele was at work and Alex and Elisa were at school, so I had to deal with it on my own. Flapping my arms and screeching at the animal had little or no effect on it and after ten minutes my patience was dwindling. No way did I want a mound of fresh manure on my grass, either. ‘Why can’t we have a proper garden with a fence round it and a gate like other people?’ I thought crossly to myself. Like a lot of men, Michele always intended doing it, he just never got round to doing it. Well, now is the time, I decided.

  Certain that the cow belonged to the farmer who had a stable near the disco I went to find him but he was nowhere to be found. I glanced at my watch, if the pasta wasn’t on the table as the bells struck twelve at least I had a credible excuse for once. I tried another tactic: ‘Please go home’, I spoke softly, making gentle movements to encourage the heifer to make its way back down the slope. Nothing, the cow wouldn’t budge, seemingly very much at home in my garden and all I could do was wait for its owner. Eventually I saw him drive up the road and ran down to get him. Laughingly, he called out, “Dai, Carolina, a casa!” and off she lumbered.

  “Devi chiamarla per nome, così torna alla stalla,” the farmer explained. Had I known that all I had to do was call her by name, I could have resolved the problem myself. I was tempted to ask him for the names of the other cows – just in case it happened again. As expected, Michele’s lunch was late but he didn’t mind after hearing my dilemma. He promised he would put up a fence and more importantly, a gate that weekend. I mentally crossed them off my list of Things to do.

  As if that wasn’t enough excitement, a few days later, I had a phone call from Elisa’s friend’s sister whose boyfriend was an aspiring musician and DJ. She explained that he needed a female voice for a hardcore dance track he’d written in English and as they knew I sang in the local choir, they thought I could do it. She added that the recording would take place in a studio in Milan. Forgetting that I had already celebrated my 43rd birthday and completely ignoring the reference to hard-core, I felt quite excited at singing on a CD and went to Mirko’s house the following afternoon to meet Ivan. Nora proudly introduced me to her boyfriend who surprised me by speaking fairly good English. He explained that unfortunately we couldn’t record in Milan after all and we would have to do it in Nora’s room instead. While he set up the recording equipment, I took the opportunity to chat to her mum and caught up with the latest gossip in Mantello.

  When they called me to say everything was ready, only then did reality hit me. Listening to the music while reading the lyrics, I felt my mouth go dry and my body temperature soar. Never being one to swear, no way could I repeat what Ivan had written.

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t sing this, or this, or even this,” I said, pointing to the offending words.

  “Oh,” he replied, realising that I wanted him to change almost everything.

  “Well, try singing it like this,” he suggested, making the necessary alterations.

  “Right.” I adjusted the headphones and began again, conscious that I was singing this genre of music with a BBC accent. I also felt guilty at making Ivan revise the text he’d written. Then I had another thought: what would Alex and Elisa think? At nineteen and seventeen, it should be them doing it, not their mother.

  “Look, are you sure you can’t find someone else who can do this for you?” I asked, acutely aware of the fact that maybe I should have been home baking a cake instead of making a hardcore dance track.

  “No, you’re doing fine,” he replied. “We repeat the first bit again before going on.”

  They offered me a cup of tea and biscuits mid-afternoon and then we continued until Ivan was satisfied with the end result. Admittedly, the music and the adapted lyrics were good but I wasn’t so sure about my interpretation of it. No way did I want to be responsible for the demise of Ivan’s career. He promised me he’d give me a copy as soon as it was ready and I came home.

  “Where’ve you been, Mum?” Alex walked into the kitchen as I hurriedly got the dinner ready.

  “Oh, just making a hardcore CD,” I answered, as Elisa joined us.

  “You what?” Two pairs of eyes stared back at me. “You’re joking, aren’t you?” Alex and Elisa didn’t know whether to believe me or not.

  “No, I’m not actually. Oh, don’t worry, I’m not going to make a video to go with it.” I couldn’t help laughing as they looked at each other absolutely astounded.

  “Mum, you do realise what hardcore is, don’t you?” Elisa needed to know.

  “Yes, of course I do. That’s why I asked Ivan to change the words.”

  “Oh, Mum!” Alex’s face was a picture of shock-horror.

  “It’s okay, you know I’d never do anything to deliberately embarrass either of you,” I assured them as I fried four cottolette and washed the salad.

  “I mean, would you be happier if I were a typical mother and stayed at home cleaning, washing and cooking?”

  Again they exchanged looks before laying the table and I had a feeling that maybe it was better if I didn’t know what they were thinking. Naturally, they couldn’t wait for their father to come home.

  “Papà, indovina che cos’ha fatto la mamma questo pomeriggio,”

  “Scommetto che non indovinerai mai,” Elisa added.

  Michele looked at me then at his children.

  “Allora? What ‘ave you done this afternoon?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing much. I just sang for Ivan. Now, eat up before it gets cold,” I said, attacking my turkey slice fried in egg and breadcrumbs.

  “Mum, tell the truth,” Elisa believed in plain speaking.

  “It’s true. I sang a track for Ivan.”

  “Papà, è hardcore. Hai capito?”

  Fortunately, Michele hadn’t a clue what they were talking about. Since the Rendez Vous had been rented out, Michele’s disco days were over and he relied on the radio to keep up to date with the latest hits. I came to his rescue.

  “I think what they’re trying to say is that it’s a type of music which isn’t associated with someone of my age – and especially someone who is married with children. Am I right?”

  “Mum, we know you’re a working mum and usually we don’t mind but singing hardcore like you teach English, well, that’s a bit embarrassing, isn’t it?” Alex looked apologetically at me.

  “And who said I sang it with a BBC accent?” I challenged.

  “You always speak with a BBC accent,” they almost spoke in unison.

  “Just wait and see.” I dared any further comments.

  *

  As soon as it was on the market, Ivan brought me a CD of the compilation with the Hardcore Generation track on it. He had mixed it so well and reworked my vocals that it sounded really good and I couldn’t wait to play it to my family. Their reaction to it made me smile – they both gave me a hug and congratulated me.

  “Well, Mum,” Alex said proudly, “how many kids can say their mother made a hardcore CD?” Praise indeed!

  Ivan’s career took off and his music is played everywhere. Mind you, my vocation as a singer started and stopped right there…

  20

  A Day to Remember

  “I can’t believe that a pair of ordinary glasses costs so much,” I moaned to Michele. Since my decision not to renew my contract at the language school in Bournemouth I had no more lengthy summer holidays with my family. Alex and Elisa now preferred holidays with their friends – and Michele couldn’t take so much time off, either. However, it also meant that I could no longer rely on English opticians and
had to find an alternative one in Morbegno. Although I’d got used to using the lira, the number of noughts on price tags still frightened me sometimes and today happened to be one of those moments. Up to now, I’d worn fashionable but not exceptionally expensive glasses from Specsavers in Poole High Street so being confronted with an abnormally excessive amount for a normal pair of Italian glasses made me livid.

  “Morbegno has definitely lost points,” I fumed. “I have never spent so much on my eyes before. Honestly, seicentocinquantamila lire for a very average pair of specs. I could go to Gatwick twice for that amount, if not more.”

  Michele chose to say nothing. I’d only recently decided that I’d have to look for another dentist as well. My English dentist, Mr Nicholls knew about my phobia for people in his profession and managed to talk me through fillings, impressions, and crowns but shorter visits to England now made dental appointments with him impossible. Several sleepless nights followed this decision and Michele wasn’t sure how he could help me because he didn’t go to the same dentist on a regular basis and he knew I didn’t want to go back to Dr Charming, as I’d nicknamed the Italian dentist I’d gone to during my two pregnancies. I had to find one who had the same qualities as my loyal dentist in Parkstone.

  “Well, at least I shouldn’t have any more surprises on the health front,” I said, but I was wrong.

  A few days later, I had an appointment with the gynaecologist but instead of seeing the usual woman doctor, the nurse told me that Dr Calli would examine me. The name rang familiarly in my ears but it wasn’t until I walked into the room and actually saw the doctor that I realised why. He was one of my students on the course at Morbegno.

  “Ah,” I managed to splutter.

  “Ciao!” Recognising me immediately, the doctor smiled broadly, not at all embarrassed, and told me to get ready behind the screen.

  “Um, I don’t think so,” I stammered, “I’ll see you the day after tomorrow at the English lesson.”