by C. D'Angelo
When we step outside, I can’t help but reach down and take a small handful of dirt in my hand as Brian and Cella walk in front of me. This ground bred my hero and I am not going to leave without adding it to my mental photograph. Cella doesn’t see this, and I am glad. I let the dirt slide through my fingers, back to its origin.
The garden is rich with budding plump fruit, and hidden vegetables in the ground. There are fig trees that line both sides of the garden, extending from the house a good distance. In between the trees lays a well-organized maze of various wooden dividers and small signs, probably stating what the food is, but they are in Italian so I can’t read them of course. I bet they are herbs, but Brian would know better than me.
I hear Cella’s son call for her.
“I will be right back. You are all right to be alone out here?” She seems like she is only asking for politeness’ sake because she knows we are of course more than all right on this beautiful land. Plus, it is wonderful to be alone for a second.
“Yes!” I smile and she runs inside. I am sure this is pretty typical for that rambunctious little one.
“Brian, I wish I could have been here with Grandpa to help him tend to his little ones. You know, his bambinos; vegetables, fruits, herbs… He was so talented and could grow anything, anything! And he treated all of them like his babies.”
“I wish I could have known him. For all that you’ve told me about him, I probably would relate to him the most on his love of ingredients.”
“Well, Grandma usually was the one cooking, but he provided her with everything needed that could possibly be grown.”
“To have fresh ingredients would be wonderful. If we had the land, you know how much I would be growing? My meals would be outstanding.” He smiles and looks up as if imagining the possibilities.
“Well, they already are outstanding, but yes, they would be even better. Imagine the Sundays we used to have as a family, which included a persistent smell all day long of sauce with garlic and onions simmering on the stove. By mid-afternoon, we were all ready for some of Grandma’s delicious meatballs and of course macaroni.”
He interjects, “Oh yes, the macaroni. Only you Granzas use that term so generously, I think.”
“No! It’s normal.” I say with a muffled laugh. I know we aren’t normal, which is maybe why I am not. See, it’s in the blood.
“Mm-hmm.” He smiles and turns to walk in the garden.
Following him and having an urge to share more memories, I continue. “Grandpa and Grandma were such a great team, also. He did all the growing and she would make the freshest meals, which is a large source of pride for any good Italian. She also would preserve and can the food. Did you know that? A vivid memory of my childhood includes going down to their basement and seeing the canned goodness. The jars glistened in the dim lighting and held the promise of one day being delicious food in my stomach. Sometimes these jars would be in my parents’ basement as well, since my grandparents always gave away their crops to loved ones. My mouth waters just thinking about all the food they made.”
Brian crouches over, inspecting the plants. “Rach, look at these tomatoes. They’re huge!” He strokes them and I chuckle. He doesn’t hear me at all. But, in his defense, I am rambling.
“Grandpa’s tomatoes looked like that, but even more glowing red, plump, and shiny. That’s why Grandma’s sauce was so yummy. No other sauce I ever tasted was like hers because it had his tomatoes in it.”
“Don’t tell your mom that!” He laughs.
“My mom’s sauce is delicious as well, but back then, when she had his tomatoes, it was the best.” I stop speaking because his eyes grow twice their size. I gently push his shoulder in jest. “Yeah, we can’t ever tell her. Maybe it was just that I could taste the love and care that went into those tomatoes Grandpa grew. Wait, that isn’t making it any better. I’ll stop now.”
“Telling her would probably make her cry at the next family dinner.”
“And not from the hot peppers,” I joke.
“Ha, yeah. You love ’em.”
“Guilty. I can’t stay away from them now. I just wish I was able to taste Grandpa’s home-grown ones. I didn’t have the guts when I was a kid. But now I blow my nose and fit in with the rest of the family.”
“Your parents find the spiciest ones I’ve ever had, and you know how I’ve tasted anything and everything. It’s impressive.” He walks over to the herbs and I follow, but I’m still in pepper world, mentally.
“I never understood the thrill as a child, but now I get it. I mean, they are so good that it is worth the suffering. And it is almost a rush of power or control to be able to eat them; to overtake them and win the imaginary fight. That’s my professional psychological opinion anyway.” He misses my smirk because now he’s in his own thoughts, I see. Food is the only topic that can make him act like, well, me.
“Rachel, these smell so good. Come closer.” He subtly grabs the back of my head and motions with his other hand to bend down. He gently takes one herb into his hand, rubs it, and brings it forward, toward my nose to help me to smell it.
My eyes light up with the memory of Grandpa’s fresh and pungent herbs. “This one is basil?” I am not good at guessing smells, but I can try.
“Yes, good job. You get a reward.” He hugs me tightly and lifts me off the ground for a moment. I feel like I’m flying, for multiple reasons.
“Grandpa grew basil and parsley, so I’m more familiar with their smell, I think. They went on and in everything, adding a special taste.”
“Well, they do go on everything if you are an Italian-born person with a desire for Italian food.” He smiles.
“Grandpa especially made sure his basil was up to par. It had to be his favorite spice. He loved it so much that sometimes he had to move bins of them inside to keep them thriving. Icy winters are not friends with basil. I know that much.”
“No, they aren’t. I may start trying to grow some in our apartment. I would have to see if they could be placed on a windowsill for light though. Is that okay with you?”
How thoughtful that he is asking my permission, but he doesn’t have to; it’s his home also. “Of course! I would love to be able to smell the herbs again. And I would especially love it if you put them in more of your meals for us. Wink, wink, hint, hint.” He smiles in response.
“We just have to train Harrison to leave them alone.”
“Oh yes. He’ll be fine. He’s smart,” Brian reassures both of us.
I take his hand and lead him to one of the rows of fig trees. I feel like we are two kids loose in an amusement park without our parents. I hope Cella is still occupied a little while longer.
We walk closer to one tree that looks like it’s been here forever, based on its height. I examine it for its beauty. The green leaves, the purple figs, and the deep brown bark complement each other perfectly. Touching a fig, I tell Brian, “Now this is something we haven’t had at the Granza house in so long. I wonder why.”
“Yeah, you will have to bring them for your parents one day. Also, we can get some and have them at our home if you’d like.”
Of course, I have more to say about Grandpa’s garden. I mean, come on, it’s figs. They were his true pride and joy in his garden. And this place has figs for days.
“Yes. Grandpa told me once that Pennsylvania wasn’t ideal for growing figs, so he needed to think creatively. Although they grew best in the ground, he told me he needed to grow some in moveable bins as well, like the herbs, for the cold winters. He covered the trees every winter, but it was too risky to only have fig trees in the ground and possibly not to have any figs. He loved them that much. So, he grew them in both the traditional way and in moveable bins. Wow, they were good.”
“You know, I’m not certain that I’ve tried figs. How strange. I need to.” He trails off, walking further down the tree path to th
e back of the yard.
I walk with him. “We need to fix that problem. We can make Italian fig cookies or fig jam maybe. I can still taste the sweetness and texture when I think of Grandpa and Grandma’s concoctions, especially the cookies.” People’s minds are so powerful that visualizing something can feel like it is real. I’ve demonstrated this countless times with clients, playing the imagination game, as the kids call it, that I can do it on command and in an instant. This is a useful skill for me because I can return to any culinary time I want, and as an Italian American child I have plenty of times to choose from with the cooking that surrounded me.
“Those cookies sound great to me.” He keeps admiring the property.
“The only fruit or vegetable that isn’t here is grapes. Grandpa loved his grapes because then he could make his sweet wine. I’d always grab a taste. Luckily, the grapes from the northeast of the US are sweet, so it fits a kid’s palette.”
“Did you just use the word palette? You are so fancy in Italy.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, well now that I have your attention again, I want to tell you about—” but I stop when I see Cella is walking toward us.
“I am sorry to both of you. My son needed help with something.”
“No need to apologize.” I smile ear to ear.
“Yes, we enjoyed being able to see your garden, so thank you,” Brian adds.
I could have stood on that land all day. As we walk back into the house, I look around and take another mental snapshot of the garden. Check.
“Well, we don’t want to take up too much of your time, Cella. Thank you for allowing us to see your home. It means the world to me.” I lean in to kiss her on each cheek, as I’ve quickly learned is polite here.
She walks us toward the front door. “I was glad to do it. Have a good stay.” She places her hand on her chest as a sign of care.
Walking away from the house, Grandpa’s house, Great-Aunt Angeline’s house, I realize overcoming my fear led to great treasure. I need to carry that souvenir home with me for life.
I stop at the road and Brian does as well. We both stare at Grandpa’s house one last time. It feels like my home in a strange way. There’s a feeling of safety I haven’t felt since he left this world. I need to carry that gift in my heart because it doesn’t have to leave me ever again.
“I can’t believe that just happened,” I say to Brian.
“It was pretty unbelievable that she was so nice and allowed us in her house as complete strangers. These Italians are the nicest people I’ve been around in a long time. Take a picture, Rach.”
“I know. Yes, let me do that. I knew I couldn’t ask to take pictures inside, but I definitely need one of the outside.”
I snap a shot and look down at my feet. A teeny smooth gray rock lay by them, just begging to be taken by me as a reminder of Grandpa’s childhood land. I pick it up and slide it into my purse. Brian smiles when he sees my move.
“We can come back if you want. This doesn’t have to be the one and only time we see his home, at least from the outside,” he reassures me.
“I guess,” I say knowing he is right. “Well, let’s go across the street to that neighbor’s house Cella suggested. It’s the only one nearby so we can give it a try. Maybe they will know where to find Great-Aunt Angeline.”
But when we knock on the door, there’s no answer. Disappointment number one thousand, I think while feeling a drop in my gut. My mind automatically goes to negative thoughts, even after all of these magnificent experiences. But, now I am able to recognize it and pop back to gratitude because I just had the chance to see my grandpa’s house; the one I dreamed of seeing for a long time.
Keeping some positivity, I say, “Let’s get some lunch, down the hill. I have another idea.”
Chapter 39
This afternoon, we make our way to the city registry office, or the Comune di Genoa Anagrafe as the Italians call it, to find the new address of Great-Aunt Angeline. Oh, I hope we find it. I hope, I hope. We have to stay on this track because I am sure Great-Aunt Antonia has passed by now, but Great-Aunt Angeline is younger than Grandpa so there is still a chance for her to be alive.
Taking a cab to the heart of Genoa, from the more rural side where Grandpa lived, I notice a transition of the terrain and activity alike. A few basil farms are visible by car, spread out over the hilly land, with people in the fields tending to the crops, the “green gold” that turns into pesto. Donkeys are present on the sides of the narrow roads that line the fields, with who appear to be tourists on their backs while they climb up the hills to the farms. The smell of the basil in the air is sharp and enticing. I hope we have time to visit one during this trip. But, that is only if there is time. It can’t be added to the priority list just yet. To the city records, Jeeves.
As we descend from the higher elevation to the lower more metropolitan area, mopeds speed by, traffic floods the streets, and plenty of yelling echoes through the air. Calling out from house to house across streets and alleyways seems pretty standard here. Most energetic shouters are older women, with much joy in their tones. Yes, a joyful yelling if that makes any sense. People also lean out of windows while they scream, making it almost humorous. It is just normal conversations occurring, I think, because I have no idea what they are actually saying. But with exaggerated arm actions as side notes, I enjoy every second of the show when we are at stop lights. Brian must have gotten used to the hollering in my home since he never remarks about it here.
Getting out at our stop, close but not able to be dropped off in front of the anagrafe due to road closure, I realize what this city is made of—a perfect mixture of old-world charm with modern touches of glamour. The government building’s location in the heart of the city is a world away from where Grandpa lived. The tan and darker brown buildings that surround us look much more contemporary and similar to some sections of New York. There are no fire escapes on these beauties though, just clean lines with simple decorations. The pretty as a picture Mediterranean style buildings have tiled roofs and all, just how I imagined Italian architecture.
“All right, Rachel. Ready for this?”
“Ready.”
Upon walking into the registration building, I see a front desk attendant and ask my now standard line of “Parla inglese?”
“Yes. How can I help you?” she replies.
“Thank you. We are here to use the research room for public use. Where is it located?”
“Down this hall and to the right. You cannot miss it.” She points and smiles.
“Thank you.” I grab Brian’s hand and we start making our walk back.
This building isn’t as grand or elaborate as the archives building in New York, but still has a charm all its own. Its European flair, with pale green walls and touches of gold on the light fixtures is effortless and elegant. Only one small, narrow hall protrudes from the foyer, so the attendant is right; we can’t miss the room.
“Let’s sit here, Brian,” I say finding two computers next to each other in the empty room. Good, we don’t have to whisper.
“Okay, let’s get to it,” he says.
Examining the homepage, I see the ability to read all pages in translated English. Perfect! “Brian, click the translate button in the top corner.” I point to it on his screen.
“Thanks. I think that will help just a bit.” He laughs.
“At least now we have an accurate name to enter in the database, unlike in the States when I had been searching. I’m going to start by typing in the surname Santoro.”
My search comes up with several listings, with the first being a listing for a newspaper article about the death of a Santoro family member. “Oh no, I think Great-Aunt Angeline’s husband may be deceased. Here’s the obituary and she’s mentioned. His death occurred last year, the poor lady. Maybe that’s why she moved from her house.” Was it too painful to be in th
e home she had all those years when married to her husband? I would think so. My empathy is in overload.
“I have some info here that I think you already have. Birth date, marriage date, that kind of thing,” Brian tells me.
“Yeah, what I’m desperate for now is the story of my grandpa, which means talking to her in person. I want more than just what shows on the papers.” Is that too greedy? She better still be alive. I need her. Come on address. I feel like I’m a character in a movie set in a Las Vegas casino, rolling the dice. Mama wants a new pair of shoes, err, address.
“I know.” His tone lowers.
But seconds later, he says, “Here we go, Rach. I got it. Here’s her new address.”
“What? Yes! Thank you!” I bombard him with a hug. “Team work.”
We high five each other and I write down the address.
“Let’s see if we can get directions from the hotel front desk attendant when we return there today. It’s getting a little late now to visit her, don’t you think?” He looks at his watch and frowns.
“Yeah, I think going to her home tomorrow morning would be better for all involved. I’m tired and I’m sure an older lady is tired later in the day. I want to ask a lot of questions, so I need her at her best. I know she was younger than Grandpa, but she is in her nineties, I think.”
Saying her age out loud drives fear into my chest. What if she has memory problems? She is in her nine-ties. I didn’t come this far, geographically and metaphorically, to be stopped now. Tomorrow, I sincerely hope to meet Great-Aunt Angeline, and to learn more of the Allegranza mystery. Please, oh please.
Chapter 40
Leaving the anagrafe building, Brian and I stroll around the area before going back to the hotel. There’s a piazza, or square, we saw down the road when we were dropped off at the building, so it wouldn’t be out of our way to do something touristy. Just for a minute. Also, taking a tiny bit of time out of the many places we need to go for the mission is a nice break. But only because our priority of the day is done. I nod to myself for keeping in check.