Now and Then in Tuscany: Italian journeys

by Angela Petch

  Their laughter and lewd remarks caused Ulisse to once again stop his singing mid-verse. Having already been the centre of disturbance a few nights ago, and with Matteo and Paolo’s warnings in my head, I hurried away from the camp fire to my hut, Fausto’s taunts ringing in my ears. As I ran I stripped off my clothes until I was down to my breeches, but I could still not stop scratching.

  Paolo caught up with me. ‘Don’t go in that hut, Giuseppe! The mules will be put in there tomorrow!’ He explained that over the summer months, the huts used the previous winter were always infested with fleas and lice left from the last occupants. Tomorrow three or four mules would be locked in for about fifteen minutes so the fleas would jump on them and leave the hut ready for use by shepherds. The mules would then be let out to roll about in a specially designated sandy spot to rid themselves of the parasites.

  I should have known better than to trust in any act of kindness from Fausto. Despite Paolo’s warnings while he was tending to my bites with soothing chamomile to leave him well alone, it wasn’t in my nature to let Fausto believe he had the better of me. I needed to retaliate in some way that wouldn’t arouse suspicion.

  The weeks passed and I settled into a pattern of work, helping Matteo or Paolo according to whoever needed me more. Slowly my narrow world opened up as a result of joining the transumanza. It was hard work but I was enjoying a completely new way of life, new surroundings and, best of all, new friends.

  There were four of us in our little band – Luciano, Settimio, Nello and me. We had drifted together and begun to bond like a family – maybe because we were all young and far away from our own loved ones. But we all had different tasks, talents and personalities.

  Luciano was my closest friend. He had been the first garzone to approach me on the walk down, sharing his aunt’s chestnut cake on that first terrifying day, and ever since he had been there to help me. Small, wiry and very strong, he was working as a stalliere.

  ‘I’m like the cook and waiter for the animals,’ he told me.

  I had been lucky to bump into him for he would normally have travelled a few days earlier than the shepherds, with the butteri, horses and cattle. But his departure had been delayed as his mother was ill and he’d been needed at home to look after his ten brothers and sisters.

  His duties included mucking out stables and replacing fresh hay. In addition he had to comb and groom the horses and he slept with them in the stable. Sometimes when it rained he would let me bed down with him on sweet-smelling straw and we would talk about our families and the lives we had left behind in our mountains. I told him about Fausto but I didn’t tell him of my experience in the seminary library. I was ashamed and kept it locked within me.

  ‘I don’t always want to do this job,’ Luciano told me one night. ‘I’m grateful, don’t get me wrong, but one day I shall be a buttero, riding on my own horse, rounding up the Maremmana cattle. I’ll wear a big hat and a cosciale of goat skin as protection against their long horns. And I’ll have a pipe in my mouth all day long, whether it’s lit or not.’

  The cattle down here were dark grey with black faces, quite different from our white Chianine. Their horns were longer and I was full of admiration for how the butteri, with their long, hooked cerratini sticks, herded these formidable beasts.

  ‘My ambition is to be a famous herdsman like Nicola Regi,’ he continued.

  We never tired of discussing every detail about Regi’s story. I suppose because he was only fifteen years of age in 1875 when he had left from Motolano, a village not far from Badia Tedalda. We saw something of ourselves in him. He too had suddenly decided to leave the tedium and hardship of life in the mountains and ended up further along the coast from where we were, working on a big farm at Rispescia, south of Grosseto with his uncle. This was where he learned the skills of a buttero.

  ‘His saddle became his home and work place,’ said Luciano.

  ‘And he worked his way up until he was head buttero,’ I added. ‘And built up a reputation for keeping bandits like Tiburzi away from stealing the herds…’

  We knew the stories off pat and never tired of them. Regi was often the subject of discussion at veglie and I’d often heard my own Nonno tell of his adventures round our own fire.

  Stumbling over the foreign words Luciano said, ‘And when Buffalo Bill came to Italy in 1906 with his Indians and Wild West Show…’

  …‘whose real name was William Frederick Cody,’ I interrupted, equally unsure of how to pronounce the name.

  ‘…Regi beat him at his own game…’

  ‘and lassoed more horses in a faster time than Buffalo Bill at a secret contest in Rome…’

  ‘…and at the end, Buffalo Bill presented his own lasso to Regi, in recognition of his masterful victory!’ Luciano finished off.

  We lay quiet for a while before falling asleep. The fact that a young boy from our own mountains could have led such an eventful life and become so famous was very motivating for us. I shared Luciano’s enthusiasm for his hero.

  It was good to have dreams. My ambition to become a primary school teacher was gone now. My days of study were over and so I would never gain the qualifications I needed. For the time being it was enough to be away from the seminary, helping Matteo and Paolo. Most likely I would end up continuing in my grandfather’s footsteps as a cobbler and farrier once I returned to Montebotolino.

  One warm evening at the beginning of November, when all our chores were done, Luciano and I were joined by Settimio and Nello on our way to the beach. Paolo had never found the time to take me but I’d crept away from the camp on my own and been transfixed ever since. The sea intrigued me, the way it pulled and sucked at the shore scraping the sand clean and leaving treasures in its wake. I’d collected shells to take back to my sisters and on this occasion I picked up a strange little sea horse, wrapping it carefully in my kerchief. Settimio laughed at me but he was used to the ocean, having grown up a little further along the coast.

  ‘That will stink before too long,’ he said. ‘Best to dry it in the sun tomorrow and then pack it away. What do you want it for, Giuseppe? You can’t eat it!’

  He was from Orbetello. The seventh son of a very poor family, he was whippet thin and ugly, his face pock marked and scabby. But he was full of spirit and had us in stitches with his stories: how he’d stolen his mother’s petticoat to sell at market, swigged wine from his father’s beaker while he wasn’t looking and topped it up with his own pee. He was resourceful, having learnt the hard way that if he wanted to eat he had to learn to snare all manner of things himself. He knew how to trap frogs from the swamps and in fact they were quite tasty on bread. He showed us how to spear them onto sticks and roast them over a fire. They made a change from our staple polenta and pork fat.

  ‘There was never enough food at home,’ he said ‘and if anything appeared on the table you had to grab it or it would be gone before you could open your mouth. That’s why I left.’ He patted his stomach.

  The four of us split up and collected driftwood from the beach and made a fire to cook the frogs. Sometimes Settimio would provide an eel, which also made a delicious snack. Poaching was severely punished in the Maremma but his special skill was to trap skylarks and we skewered half a dozen on a thin branch of driftwood to roast over our fire. He also caught leeches and sold them to the chemist in Alberese who used them in his cure for pneumonia. Settimio loved hearing about our lives up in the Apennines. He was fascinated when we told him about our snowy winters. ‘What does snow taste like?’ he asked, ‘is it like ice cream?’

  When we laughed he didn’t take offence but said he was sure he could make something out of snow. That was Settimio all over – seeing the use in everything.

  But I never met a more contented person than Nello, the fourth member of our group. He was plump, generous and extremely smelly. Apprenticed to be a cheese maker, a caciere, we always knew when he was approaching. A recognisably strong whiff of sheep, sour milk and ripe cheese would waft befo
re him.

  ‘You’re only jealous, you lot,’ he would say, a grin on his round face. ‘What does it matter if I pong? At least I’ll never starve in my job.’

  To our feast on the beach he contributed portions of ricotta, which he had carried along in a reed container. I’d watched him make them by the camp fire from reeds gathered from the swamp, cutting them to size and tying them together into cylindrical shapes with hemp. As he dished the fresh cheese out he told us, ‘All a cheese maker needs is salt, container, ladle and straw. For the rest, he can get his milk from the sheep, a cloak from their wool and heat from the animals’ bodies. What more could a fellow want?’

  ‘I can think of something,’ piped up Settimio, ‘a nice plump girl to cuddle up to would be just fine.’

  We laughed, saying Nello would have to have a good scrub first before any cuddles came his way.

  ‘You should have been born thousands of years ago,’ I added, ‘the ancient Romans used to bathe in milk. I bet they smelled just like you!’ I had read this fact in my history book in my other life at the seminary.

  The following day, Paolo and Matteo told me I could have a day off as neither of them needed me. Instead, I offered to help Nello. He thought his job was the most perfect in the world and I wanted to understand why. It meant getting up to start at four o’clock but I didn’t mind. Splashing my face with cold water I emerged to a magical morning, mist from the sea making the shepherds’ huts look as if they were floating in mid-air.

  The cheesemakers worked next to the large hut where we all ate. Inside, the middle of the floor had been hollowed out and a fire was permanently burning there. A huge black cauldron, known as a fornacetta, hung above the flames, the smoke escaping slowly through the highest point in the roof. A lamb’s stomach dangled from a hook. Nello explained it would be used later to extract rennet.

  I helped him milk the twenty sheep he had been allocated. This was a job I had done often at home. Leaning into the warmth of the sheep’s belly on cold mornings, working to the rhythm of milk squirting into the metal bucket were all sensations belonging to my early childhood.

  We filtered the milk and then poured it into a huge pot, a caldaia, and Nello made the sign of the cross over the mixture, before carefully measuring out rennet, explaining this was the most crucial part - getting the dosage just right.

  After stirring it for a while, the mixture separated and I watched Nello whisk it, breaking up the curds. I helped him lift the heavy pot back onto the fire to heat up again and when the mix had thickened, I helped him again as he lifted the paste out and pressed it into balls, pushing each into their own wooden mould, known as cascine. The liquid was then filtered of all lumps and poured into a bucket. Salt was added to the little cheeses and then they were put into a cheese cupboard, its doors consisting of mesh to let in air and keep out flies. Nello made ricotta out of the remaining paste and we smeared it on hunks of bread for our breakfast. It had been hard work but there was a good atmosphere in the cheesemakers’ hut; a lot of laughter, singing and banter. Nello was rebuked when he stole a lump of the soft cheese into his mouth but it wasn’t harsh.

  ‘You’ll soon go off it, lad,’ one of them said, ‘when you have to do it day in, day out. All you’ll think about eventually is eating a juicy steak.’

  ‘I’ll never grow tired of eating it,’ he whispered to me. ‘It’s so good…’ and he patted his fat tummy. ‘I wish I could eat it all the time!’

  A plan was forming in my head. A way to get back at Fausto. I knew he enjoyed ricotta and as Nello had access to this, I decided some of it should end up in Fausto’s stomach. But not before I had “doctored” it with a hefty dose of laurel. I had helped Mamma collect these leaves to make a mixture for Nonno, who, towards the end of his days, suffered from chronic constipation. Too many leaves and the laxative effect was almost immediate. As in all home cures the amounts had to be carefully measured out for the cure to take proper effect.

  But there was no reason why I should be careful with Fausto. If not packed into reed containers, the cheese was wrapped in fern leaves and often tinged green. So, Fausto would have no cause to question the colour of my fern-wrapped gift of freshly made ricotta. My friends knew all about his bullying ways and I could not wait to sound my idea out on them.

  Chapter 12

  Giuseppe and the abbacchiatura ( slaughter of the lambs)

  A few weeks passed and in the camp there was an atmosphere of festivity, for this was the day when we would fill our stomachs with meat for the first time in weeks. Even the dogs were livelier, their tails wagging, tongues hanging out in anticipation of scraps flung their way. They could smell meat in the air and it was the task of us garzoni to keep them away from the buckets spilling over with blood from the lambs Severo had selected for slaughter. It wasn’t easy and dogs that were usually docile and obedient bared their fangs when we tried to restrain them.

  Most of the carcasses could be skinned, so the shearers were kept busy. But a few were set aside for sale in Rome for the Christmas market, where butchers preferred the pelts to be left on. Apart from some lire from cheeses sold along our trek down from the hills, these lambs provided the first source of income. And tonight, my friends informed me, there would be a festa with plenty of wine to be downed and budelluzzi to savour - a sausage-like dish made from lambs’ blood and offal.

  ‘Wait until you try the liver and onions,’ Luciano told me licking his lips, ‘once tasted, never forgotten.’

  Tonight was also when I’d planned to at last avenge Fausto. Nello had helped me pour ricotta into a small mould carefully lined with fern leaves. The laurel laxative I’d prepared had been added in generous quantities and I couldn’t wait to witness my enemy’s discomfort.

  ‘Stop sniggering, Nello,’ I had to say more than once, ‘you’ll give the game away.’

  We’d planned to wait until Fausto had swallowed a good few tumblers of Chianti. Then Nello would be the one to approach him with the gift; it would be more natural for him, the cheese-maker, to do this and would arouse less suspicion. Fausto was already in his cups before all the offal had been dished out. His laughter and slurred swearing could be heard above the chatter, even though he sat at least six metres from us on the other side of the camp fire. I watched him helping himself from the pitchers of red wine, encouraging his mates to join in. Occasionally he shouted my name, followed by an obscene sexual gesture, bending his arm and striking his elbow joint with his other fist.

  Just you wait, you bastard, I thought. The laughs will be on you soon.

  Luciano was on edge, proud to be taking part in his first Gioco della Rosa later that evening with the butteri. He had been chosen by the yellow rose team of herdsmen. His original task had been to groom their horses so their coats gleamed and to tie his team’s yellow rosettes to their arms before the tournament. But one of their young riders had been injured at practice and Luciano had been selected to replace him.

  ‘It’s my big chance to show I am a good buttero in the making,’ he told us, hopping from one foot to the other in excitement.

  I’d saved him a portion of liver and onions but he was too nervous to swallow, so I enjoyed delicious double rations.

  I’d heard about this famous tournament from shepherds who’d brought their repairs to Nonno’s workshop and I’d imagined how exciting it would be to watch. But seeing the game unfold before my eyes was a different matter altogether. The brilliance of red, green, yellow and blue rosettes flashing on the riders’ arms; the dexterity of the herdsmen in the dusty ring as they leant forwards in their saddles, attempting and usually succeeding in plucking

  them from their opponents’ arms; shouts of encouragement to their team, yells and screams from supporters and whinnying of handsome animals as they tossed their proud heads, their hooves stirring and scouring the ground; the clinking of harnesses; the dust and swirl and skill; all these made it the most exciting spectacle I had ever watched in my life. We cheered on Luciano’s team u
ntil we were hoarse but they came second to the blue team who had secured the most rosettes. Their leader was a strong man with long whiskers and I was not surprised when Luciano told me afterwards he was the nephew of Nicola Regi, the famous buttero who had beaten Buffalo Bill at his game.

  And in all the excitement, we lost sight of Fausto. The special ricotta had been gobbled up by an unfortunate shepherd dog while we had been engrossed in the tournament. I had missed my opportunity to get my own back and revenge would have to wait for another occasion.

  A search party was organised on the following evening when Fausto had failed to turn up. When he hadn’t put in an appearance for work in the morning, nobody was surprised. He’d drunk more than his fair share of alcohol.

  ‘Probably asleep in a ditch,’ Severo said, when his absence was reported. ‘He’ll turn up with a sore head and he’ll have an even sorer head when I’ve finished with the scallywag. And I’ll dock three days’ wages too.’

  Our group was sent to the beach to search. I couldn’t be bothered to exert any energy in looking for him. Fausto had caused me enough trouble and if he wanted to lie low with a sore head, then he could turn up and face Severo when he was ready. ‘When we get to the beach let’s just light a fire and relax,’ I suggested. ‘Fausto can piss off, for all I care.’

  My friends agreed and we set about searching for driftwood. It was a still evening, the sun descending behind the sea’s edge in a splash of orange and pink, the island of Isola del Giglio a black triangle across the water.

  ‘Bella di sera, bel tempo si spera,’ I said, quoting one of Nonno’s sayings. Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight.

  It was good sitting close to our own fire listening to the crackling of twigs and enjoying the warmth. Winter was nipping at the heels of autumn. We lay on our backs, gazing up at the star pierced sky, talking through our dreams for the future. Luciano was still brimming over with excitement about his part in the tournament.