Now and Then in Tuscany: Italian journeys

by Angela Petch

  She tried not to make herself sound too eager when she suggested Danny. ‘He’s leaving next week,’ she said, ‘and it would be an amazing experience for him.’

  Francesco winked at her and she smiled back, glad he didn’t tease her.

  ‘When are you going to introduce us to this Donna?’ Anna asked. ‘I thought you said she wanted to do the Piero della Francesca trail.’

  ‘There’s still plenty of time,’ Francesco said. ‘She’s managed to extend her visa for another three months. She’s fallen in love with Italy, big time.

  Anna remembered how the charm and beauty of Italy had captivated her ten years earlier and how easy it had been to leave her old life in England behind. She was curious to meet this Donna to compare notes. Maybe she too had fallen for an Italian. She stacked the dishwasher thinking how time had flown and along the way stolen some magic from those early years.

  Mirko had a daytime job in a jewellery shop down in the town of Sansepolcro but his heart lay in the countryside. He kept a census of wildlife and his preferred attire was camouflage trousers, jacket and walking boots. They met in the square at 11 p.m. and drank a small beer each in the Dori Bar, although Danny grumbled about them being lightweights. One beer wasn’t enough, he said. Earlier he’d complained to Alba about having to go with Mirko. ‘I’d rather be on my own with you,’ he’d said, ‘I’ll be gone the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘Of course we can’t go without him,’ she’d replied. ‘I don’t know where the wolves are.’

  When he’d wanted to stay longer in the bar and drink, she’d told him they needed to stay awake and alert. ‘An espresso would be better, really,’ she said, beginning to wonder whether it had been such a good idea to ask him along.

  Two Pointers lay asleep in the back of Mirko’s jeep and she couldn’t resist leaning behind to stroke the youngest, Storm, curled on top of a box of equipment. His tail thumped against the metal wheel shields and he gave her a little whine and then yawned. She had read somewhere that dogs yawned when they were embarrassed.

  Mirko was telling them how he’d had to rescue Storm in the woods the previous week. He’d been carrying out a census on the caprioli. These roe deer were down in numbers because of the shortage of wild boar, decimated by the previous harsh winter and the wolves had switched their preferred prey from boar to deer.

  ‘I came upon a kill - a dead roe,’ he explained, ‘and the dogs were off the leash. We came round a huge rock and there was a pair of wolves with six cubs right in front of us on the path. Storm wanted to play with them, silly young pup – and of course the female wolf wasn’t best pleased.’

  He turned round, taking one hand off the steering wheel, waving around his free hand as he emphasised the peril his dog had been in, ‘I had to go right in, scoop him up and get out of there fast.’

  Alba translated to Danny who looked at her, mouth wide open, incredulity in his voice. ‘You’re joking me,’ he said.

  Mirko turned the jeep off the tarmac road and got out to unlock a gate guarding the entrance to a dirt track. They travelled higher and higher, through dense forest where distant lights from houses in Badia blinked on and off as they passed gaps in the trees. The jeep navigated holes gouged by large tractor tyres made by woodcutters’ vehicles. Sections of the track had been washed away by mud landslides after rain storms. Tracts of the road seemed impassable but Mirko always found a way through, even if it meant diverting via a space in the trees. Alba enjoyed this part of the adventure almost as much as the hunt itself. To be awake when the rest of the world was safely tucked up in bed or slumped in front of boring television sets; to have an out-of-the-ordinary experience that made her feel she was alive and connected with something important. She loved it. She stole a glance across to Danny who was very quiet, hanging onto the strap above the passenger door.

  You okay?’ she asked.

  ‘Just glad I didn’t have a big supper before climbing into this crazy jeep! The dogs would have an extra snack if I puke up.’

  Mirko swung the jeep off the track into a siding, telling them wolves had been in this area three days earlier. He gave them a torch each to switch on as a signal if they heard anything during the recordings of wolves he was about to play. Once out of the car he put a finger to his lips, motioning them to stay as quiet as possible and to move ten metres further away from where he was positioned at the edge of the ridge.

  When Danny slammed shut his passenger door he couldn’t see Alba’s furious glare in the dark but when they were standing close together, she leant near and whispered, ‘Dickhead! Next time, shut it quietly.’

  ‘Whatever!’ he shrugged and moved further away, making no attempt to tread quietly.

  She considered going over to stand next to him but remained where she was preferring to keep as still as possible, as Mirko had instructed.

  The howling of wolves from Mirko’s recording broke the night’s silence, sending shivers down Alba’s spine. Sad, primeval, haunting, scary, magical - adjectives that didn’t conjure the half of what she felt. After a two-minute wait and no response, Mirko switched on the recordings again and soon afterwards flicked on his torch and moved cautiously over to them, his feet barely making a sound, despite the twigs underfoot.

  ‘Did you hear that?’ he asked, ‘down there in the gulley, behind the lowing of the cows? A couple of cubs replied to the recording.’

  Neither of them had heard even the cows and Alba felt angry she had let her annoyance with Danny interfere with her concentration.

  ‘Bit of a con, if you ask me,’ Danny said to her as they climbed back into the jeep. She was disappointed in his lack of appreciation. He obviously wasn’t that bothered about the whole experience but she decided not to let him spoil it for her.

  Mirko told them he was going to drive to a better spot, where they would be nearer the wolves.

  ‘We have to move fast now,’ he said, ‘they’ll hear our vehicle and start moving out of this area in no time.’

  At a new site, above a huge drop where Alba warned Danny to stay still because in the dark it would be easy to fall down the precipice, they heard the shrill, yelping reply of wolf cubs. Mirko was satisfied he had located his first group of wolves and immediately used his mobile to inform a member of his team doing a census further down the valley.

  ‘Any luck your end?’ By this stage Alba stopped translating everything for Danny. It didn’t seem important to do so anymore.

  ‘Now we’re off to Sasso Simone,’ Mirko said, climbing back up into the driver’s seat.

  ‘He’s not wearing his seat belt,’ Danny remarked.

  ‘Neither are we,’ she replied.

  It was now twenty past two in the morning. The few houses in the lonely hamlets they passed through were locked into the night. Mirko paused his jeep at the edge of a cornfield, shining his powerful torch over the grass.

  ‘Look over there, at the edge of the meadow,’ he said, handing his binoculars to Alba. She located a pack of boar foraging in the crops close to a copse.

  ‘The boars will soon pick up in numbers,’ he told them, ‘they always have several young in their litter which usually all survive, whereas deer have one, maximum two young at a time. There are very few boar this year but nature will sort that out.’ He laughed. ‘It usually does.’

  Slipping the jeep back into gear he drove on higher and higher until they were above 1,000 metres. At the edge of a path blocked by barbed wire, he stopped. The wind was up causing him to mutter, ‘It might be difficult to hear the wolves if the wind gets much stronger.’

  They all put on another layer of clothing before trudging upwards in the darkness through gorse and scrubby grass. Wearing head torches made the going easier, the narrow dried mud path dropping away steeply on either side. Mirko led them off track down through a wooded area and then stopped at the edge of a sheer drop. Looming in the dark were the two outlines of Sasso Simone and Sasso Simoncello. He told Danny that on these two high plateaux, far back in
the 15th century, Cosimo de’ Medici had built a Fortress of the Sun. After a mere ten years it had been abandoned due to inhospitable terrain and the ruins were barely discernible now beneath the scrub of juniper bushes and brambles.

  ‘Fascinating!’ Danny said in a bored voice, followed by, ‘when are we going back?’ Alba could hardly believe his rudeness and when she felt him squeeze her bottom, she dug her elbow hard into his side. ‘Jesus, Alba!’ Danny yelped and Mirko told him to be quiet.

  They waited for a while in silence and suddenly the wind dropped. Alba had never been to this spot before. She thought that she wouldn’t care if she didn’t hear the wolves. She was in a place of magic: the flat rocky outcrops before them stood like two towers marking the entrance to a secret world. It was like waiting to start an adventure within an exotic tent, its roof embroidered with stars and streaks of the Milky Way. Two shooting stars tumbled down as she gazed upwards. She didn’t want to say anything or point out to Danny what she had seen but kept it to herself. It was a special moment to store away like a favourite chocolate to savour later when she needed a sweet moment. She gave up trying to find words to describe her feelings. It was enough to sink into, to live and love the whole experience.

  And when Mirko played his recording, this time the wolves responded almost immediately. Their cries floated over to her echoing from the ridge of the plateaux. She pictured them – maybe nine in number, Mirko had said - some standing, heads raised to the sliver of moon and the roof of stars, howling out their warning cries. It was as if they were proclaiming this as their territory and not to venture nearer. And the high-pitched squeaky howls of the cubs were copying their elders. The amazing episode lasted for about a minute until the final whimpers of the wolves faded and ordinary night sounds took over.

  Mirko switched on his recording once more and she almost wanted there to be silence so the spell wouldn’t be broken. But the wolves repeated their howling, clearer this time, more insistent. A single tear trickled down her face.

  In the jeep afterwards, Danny said he was knackered and couldn’t wait to hit the sack.

  But she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep a wink.

  The next day they met at the river. He stood on the weir facing away from where she was sitting, knees hunched up to her chin. He was skimming stones in the shallows, holding a roll-up in the other hand. She realised he only ever seemed to smoke when his parents weren’t around.

  ‘It was all a big con,’ he said. ‘I bet there was another nature weirdo up there on the opposite hill with his old recordings too, switching his machine on at convenient intervals to time it with Mikel’s.’

  ‘Mirko,’ she corrected. She didn’t know whether to slap him round his stupid, sunburned face or push him into the river.

  Instead, she got up and hurried away from him without saying goodbye. As far as she was concerned he had failed the wolf test miserably.

  THEN

  Chapter 19

  Spring 1922 – Marisa and the festa

  Five years had passed. In those days, time was measured by seasons and not by the clock.

  On May 3rd we celebrated the feast of the Holy Cross. Willow branches two metres long had been cut from the river’s edge, stripped and fashioned into crosses. Then they were dipped in olive oil and taken to church to be blessed by Don Mario. These crosses could now be seen dotted around the meadows and fields surrounding Montebotolino, a witness to our hopes and prayers for hard work on our land. They would remain until harvest time, at the end of summer.

  Yellow ginestra bloomed again with its sweet perfume and as I knelt by the river scrubbing Nonno’s bed sheets clean, shadows on bleached stones cast by a pair of swallows swooping and diving reminded me it was almost time for the men to return from their five month sojourn on the Maremma.

  This year I had decided to join in the celebrations for their homecoming, instead of hiding in the kitchen to help other women chop vegetables and stir sauces for the festa. At twenty-eight I felt life trickling away from me, like a stream tumbling relentlessly down the mountain to disappear into a vast ocean. I wanted a taste of life before it passed me by. Recently I had taken to wearing my Sunday veil over my face whilst working on our vegetable plot and covering my arms from the sun’s glare with one of my old nightdresses. I hoed thistles and tangles of Old Man’s Beard away from my precious plants. There was chamomile to cure stomach pains and insomnia, mint to wrap in poultices to disinfect festering wounds, nettles for hair loss, sage for tooth ache, juniper berries for coughs and rosemary for sciatica. Elena laughed as I passed by her house on the way to fetch in our hens and asked me what the devil I thought I was doing dressed up like an old scarecrow.

  ‘Keeping the jays away from my plants,’ I replied, not wanting to tell her the real reason.

  I didn’t feel like revealing how I wanted to try to look my best for the home comers’ festa. I wanted my skin milk-white instead of my usual scorched leathery look from working outside. It was easier to accept scarecrow taunts than be teased.

  At the beginning of March I bought a length of fine soft cotton in the shade of blue chicory flowers and I’d sewn a dress with puffed sleeves and full skirts to hide my ugly legs. The travelling salesman who sold it to me had accepted three rabbit skins and some honeycomb in exchange as I didn’t have any lire to pay for it. I’d promised him three more skins when he returned later in the summer. The wide skirts wouldn’t disguise my limp but I reasoned I would be sitting down most of the time watching the dancers, so it wouldn’t matter. I’d found a strip of thicker cotton in a darker shade of blue in poor Mamma’s bundle of cloths and I’d embroidered a pattern of white flower petals to make a belt to tie around my waist. When I’d tried it on after my Sunday bath and peered at myself in the cracked mirror leaning against my bedroom wall, I had to admit I didn’t look too bad. My waist looked tiny in proportion to my bosom and the colour of the cloth suited me. Even if I never wore the dress again, I’d enjoyed making my outfit during evenings by the fire. It made a change from weaving and darning heavy cotton sacconi for storing our beans and flour.

  All of the women left behind in our village had kept back some chestnut flour from their winter stores to bake cakes and rolls for the festa. I had filled baskets of prugnoli mushrooms collected from the fields and lanes and dried them on racks hanging from the kitchen ceiling so we could add them to sauces for polenta. If we were lucky the men would bring back fresh ricotta to go with pimpernella, wild carrots, poppy and scabious leaves which Elena would add as fillings for her famous ravioli. Borlotti beans, tripe and tomatoes would provide another main dish, served with slices of pancristiano, dipped in egg and fried in oil. We’d all been working hard for hours to prepare this feast and it would disappear in minutes. This was always the way.

  I couldn’t wait for Loriano to return so we could once again listen to music from his accordion. But most of all I was looking forward to seeing Giuseppe.

  Our house was always used for hosting important feste. Situated just off the square, it was also the largest house in Montebotolino and the grassy area in front was spacious enough for men to spill out and drink their wine, away from the disapproving glares of wives and sweethearts. The village bread oven stood nearby too, making it easy for us to fetch and carry baked dishes and foccaccia.

  This evening, the large oak kitchen table we used for our meals,

  food preparation, birthing and even laying-out of our dead had been pushed back against the far wall and our rushed-seated chairs, as well as those of our neighbours, arranged round the room. This was where I and the older women would sit, chat and watch the dancing after our kitchen work was done. The younger ones would wait to be asked to dance. This would happen only after the men had swallowed glasses of Chianti to loosen limbs and inhibitions.

  Earlier in the day I helped tidy away our precious copper pans and hid them under the bed in the front bedroom. In their place I hung garlands of ivy, poppies and spring flowers round the empty p
late racks. Yellow rattle, dog roses, charcoal burners’ broom and bundles of dog daisies gathered from the meadows on my favourite slopes turned our humble kitchen into a place of beauty. I’d picked perfumed red roses and placed them in a vase in the niche next to the plaster statue of the Madonna and swept the floorboards clean. There was nothing left to do now save wait for the men to return.

  The village children perched on grassy mounds below the village were the first to spot the straggly line of men and beasts appearing over the rise known as the Three Bishops. Four white shepherd dogs ran on ahead barking their arrival; the bells of San Tommaso pealed a welcome and everybody rushed from their houses to wave and shout. Some of the younger girls hurried to greet sweethearts, wives removed pinafores and adjusted headscarves over straggly curls or greying hair. Elderly folk shaded their eyes with age-blotched hands to peer better into the distance. The numbers of sheep and cattle were much reduced from those of the outward journey, which was either a sign of business well transacted or an indication of disease and decimation. We all waited anxiously to learn the outcome and the smiles on the faces of the home comers, together with their general good cheer, told us the story was good.

  I remained leaning against the warm stones of my house, observing. Each year Giuseppe matured from the gangly youth who had left five winters ago, into a handsome young man. His body had filled out from hard physical work down on the coast and the stubble on his face was that of a man’s. Feeling suddenly shy, I hurried inside to stir the polenta simmering in the big black cauldron hanging over the fire, searching for something to occupy my butterfly thoughts.

  Late in the afternoon when the remaining stock had been safely penned and the men had scrubbed their tired bodies and changed into fresh clothes pulled from old chests scented with lavender and lemon balm, the celebrations began.