Bella Tuscany (27 page)

Here, almost all media are subtracted from daily life. I notice the enormous difference immediately. The habit I have, of turning on the radio news as I drive to work, comes to mind as a destroyer of the natural rhythm of the day. Subtle, because flicking on the radio
seems
almost an automatic gesture, a neutral gesture. But in the half hour from my flat to the parking lot at school, drug lords are shot, children are abused by those who are supposed to protect them, car bombs go off, houses are carried off by floods, and my waking psyche has absorbed a load of the world's hurt. The bombardment of frightening, disturbing images assaults any well-being that might have accrued from a lovely night's sleep. TV probably would be worse; I rarely watch TV news except for reports of earthquakes and dire events. At school, I get out of the car already tense and not knowing why. The constant overload of recurrent horror on the news and in the papers we assume is normal until we live without it. Has any study focused on the correlation of anxiety and level of exposure to news? I read the paper here two or three times a week, enough to more than keep up with crucial events. “I'll start the day without that negative drone,” I tell Ed. “On my own terms.”

“I do like the traffic report, though. All the words rush together; it sounds like a Dylan Thomas poem. Instead of the news, try the Bach cello suites.” He is normally not as pushed as I am because the teaching load at my university is double that at his. “Taking buckets of time back is the main thing.”

“In the new house let's get up early and walk, the way I do here. Another way of starting out on our own terms. We could walk to the ocean.”

“If only we could take back the siesta—free hours in the middle of the day.”

“Wouldn't you like to call one friend and say ‘How are you?' and not hear the answer, ‘I'm so busy'?”

“Well, ‘I'm busy' means several things—partly it means ‘I'm important.' But maybe living life is so important that we shouldn't be busy. At least not busy, busy, with that buzz-buzz sound.” Ed tells his students to figure out how many weekends they have left, given the good fortune of normal life expectancy. Even to the young it's a shock to see that there are only 2800 more. That's it. Done for.
Carpe diem, sì, sì,
grab the days.

 

We decide on hedonism. After two days of stocking the house with essentials, planting the last annuals we can grab before the nurseries are emptied, and just breathing in the life we know so well here, we start taking long walks. The wildflowers must be at the peak of the century. All that spring rain coaxed every latent seed, and from the fire roads around the hills we see meadows knee-deep in bloom and hillsides golden with
ginestre,
the broom sending its scent down the breezes in rivulets. We gather strawberries the size of two-carat rubies and sit in long grass eating them. We drive around in Umbria, looking at antiques, hoping to find a desk. One shop owner tells us, “I can find anything you want; just tell me what you want.” I flash on the grandiose promises of my father when I was a child. “You can have anything in this world. Just tell me what you want.” I could never think of anything except a swimming pool, to which he'd say, “You don't want that; you just think you want that.” We travel to San Casciano dei Bagni, where the Romans bathed, and eat pigeon ravioli at the restaurant on the main street, then on to Sarteano and Cetona, with meandering drives around the blissful countryside.

When the exhaustion we brought over finally disappears, we go up to Florence and spend the night. I must find a dress to wear to Ashley's wedding in August. Already the browns, plums, and grays of fall are on view. Ed slips easily into a fall mood and finds two soft-style sport coats. When we have shopped in Florence before, I never bought anything except shoes and handbags. Especially when Jess (Ashley's former boyfriend and now our friend) visits, Ed loves a day in the men's stores. He and Jess incite each other and I'm the spectator. Now Ed visits shop after shop with me. I'm getting used to the Italian mode of shopping. You say what you are looking for and they show you. It's a mistake just to browse through what's out, since many shops only have one size on display. The salespeople are there to be of service. The self-service we are used to is still unusual here. As soon as I say I want a dress for my daughter's wedding, everything in the shop comes forth. They understand totally that the occasion is
molto importante
. Most brides' mothers, I think, do not want a mother-of-the-bride dress. All the lavender lace and beige crêpe dresses designed with that in mind must go unsold. The suit I finally choose at a small shop, which makes everything especially for the customer, is orange. I never have had an orange dress in my life. It's a frosty silk orange, which requires two fittings. My sister will loan me her coral and pearl necklace. I find beautiful dull gold shoes with high heels that could kill. The wedding will be wonderful. The hitch being that I will see my former husband for the first time in years.

 

Vittorio calls to invite us to a dinner on a boat. The Lago Trasimeno wine consortium has arranged for a ferry to take a group on what we used to call a “progressive dinner,” a different course in four places around the lake. We meet at Castiglione del Lago on Sunday at noon. When we arrive, glasses of
prosecco
and plates of
bruschette
with tomatoes and basil are being passed. We're given a wine glass and a pouch to wear around our necks where we can store the glass when we're not drinking. The crowd is larger than we expected. We find Vittorio and Celia, their children, and several friends of theirs. Maybe two hundred people are piling onto the ferry, with a bar set up at the entrance. People are drinking more
prosecco
as we pull away from the dock. I love boats and islands and the sky shifting as we ride the rises and falls of the water. We disembark on Isola Maggiore, and the hotel staff serves us pasta with the roe of carp and baskets of excellent bread. The workers of the wine consortium of the lake area generously pour all their whites. After the pasta, there's time for a hot walk along the beach. Back on the ferry, we move farther into the lake toward Isola Polvese.

The red wines are open. Various
crostini
are passed. The lake silvers under the flaring white sun. The children start to tire but a band begins to play and some people are dancing. I'm ready to go home but there is no exit. We've been gone four hours. An empty island for birds and small wildlife, Polvese has grassy beaches full of people over for the Sunday afternoon in the sun. One man spread out on a towel has turned so red he looks like an
écorché,
a body without skin.
We troop across the island to long outdoor tables. We're served carp cooked in the style of
porchetta,
grilled and stuffed with herbs and salt, and also wrapped in
pancetta
. It's rich, meaty.

On the boat again, I realize that the Italians have had long training for this kind of day. All the first communions, baptisms, weddings, and other
feste
totally prepare them for the long celebrations. We've had steady wine poured into our glasses all afternoon. Faces are glazed with sweat. The bar is popping cork after cork. The band cranks up its speakers and the singer in a slinky dress starts in on “Hey, Jude,” then speeds up to Italian rock. Suddenly everyone is dancing. The boat is swaying. Could we tip? A retarded man is dancing with his mother, grannies are swinging their hips, a man twirls his three-year-old daughter. The drummer announces a soccer score into the microphone and everyone jumps up and shouts so loud I think the boat will sink. We disembark again at Passignano for dessert. Children turn cranky. But back on board the wine keeps pouring, spinach and cheese crêpes are passed around, and we enter our eighth straight hour of eating and drinking.

Finally, the ferry heads back toward Castiglione del Lago. We see the other two Americans on board; he looks stony and she looks as if she could cry. The sun falls low and the sherbert colors of the sky reflect on the water. We lean over the rail, watching the wake while all the Italians join with the band singing
like a bridge over troubled waterrrr, I will lay me down
in English, and then Italian songs everyone knows. As we gather our sunscreen and camera, we hear several groups talking about where they will go for dinner. They have a secret gene that we don't have.

 

Beppe's
fagiolini,
the green beans we call Blue Lake at home, are ready. Tender and small, they don't even need topping and tailing but I do it anyway. Steamed just to the right point, their full flavor emerges. Underdone, they squeak when you bite them and taste slightly bitter. We eat them alone, with just a little oil and salt and pepper. They're not hurt by toasted chopped hazelnuts, or a little sautéed onion, or by my old favorite, sliced fennel and black olives. My mother liked green beans with tarragon, oil and vinegar, and crumbled bacon. I remember what a fine thing we thought that was, since beans usually were cooked to pieces with a hunk of fatback. In memory of that ultra-sophisticated recipe, I clip branches from my tarragon, which has turned into a towering bush. I'm searching my books for ways to use it, other than plunging the wands into vinegar. Medieval pilgrims to the Holy Land put sprigs inside their shoes to give energy and spring to their feet. I'd like to try that.

Green beans are the one vegetable Anselmo did not plant last year when he established our garden. Beppe's garden thrives, though he has narrowed Anselmo's scope. We have onions, potatoes, green beans, lettuces, garlic, zucchini, and tomatoes. Anselmo's artichokes and asparagus gave us several treats just after we arrived. Beppe plans to plant fennel, and to reseed the lettuces every few weeks. We miss Anselmo—his ironic humor and bossy control of the garden, as well as his adventuring spirit which landed us in new situations constantly. When we call to check on him, we're told that he has been taken to the hospital.

We pick a bunch of lavender and tie it to a jar of honey. How strange to be going back to the hospital. He's a vigorous man, full of opinions and laughter. He'll have his swollen leg propped up, saying
“Senta, senta,”
listen, listen, into his
telefonino
. Ed parks and goes to the machine to get a parking receipt. I walk on toward the hospital, pausing to wait for him.

I glance up at the black-bordered
manifesti funebri
, funeral notices, posted on the wall. Anselmo's name. I scan it, unbelieving. I force myself to focus. Read.
Yesterday, with all the religious comforts . . . funeral tomorrow . . . no flowers but good works . . . Anselmo Pietro Martini Pisciacani
. . . . Unlike the other plain notices, his pictures a sappy pastel Christ in a crown of thorns, upturned eyes, surrounded by roses. Because he would have mocked it, I think there must be a mistake. He was not a churchgoer. He could not be dead. But then no one else could have that name. As Ed approaches, I shake my head and point. “No. How can this be?”

We walk on up to the hospital. At the front desk Ed says, “We have a friend who was a patient and we're afraid he has died. Is he still here? Anselmo Martini.”

He finds no record—maybe there's a mistake but then I remember “Pisciacani,” the name he hated and dropped after his mother died, was on the death notice. Pisciacani means dog piss in dialect. “Pisciacani,” I say.

“Yes, I am sorry, he is in the chapel. If you die in hospital, you must remain for twenty-four hours.” He leads us downstairs. Ed waits at the door and I walk in. There lies Anselmo on a stone slab, dressed in his brown suit, his feet splayed and a little dust on his shoes. Four women in black pray around him. I put down the honey and lavender at the door and flee.

At home the land feels charged with Anselmo's presence. He rebuilt that stone wall, he cleared two terraces for the
orto
, he planted the grass in the Lime Tree Bower. The potted lemons and the three roses the color of dried blood and the wine press—he gave us these with few words but I could tell with immense pleasure. On the third terrace he planted two apricots, and near the road, two pears. For all the years we will have here, we still will be enjoying the literal fruits of his labors. In the
limonaia,
his red beret hangs on a nail.

We feel we've lost a good uncle. Ed is still reeling from his mother's death. Anselmo's brings a double rush of grief. The hurt of loss is too hard, then there's the incomprehensible fact that the loved person simply is erased from the planet. The basic facts of birth and death I've never remotely been able to fathom.
The prenatal abyss, out of it you came, into the tumult of life, light, and on to the other void
. . . . I hope to be dazzled by the news of an afterlife, when the last plug is pulled on me.
I can't take non-life
. Anselmo stood at the Thursday market with fifty or sixty men every week for decades, talking weather, business, jingling change in his pocket. In his office on Sacco e Vanzetti, he always dropped everything when we walked in. I quizzed him about the farms for sale in photos on the wall, and if one looked wonderful, he'd say “Let's go look,” and grab his hat. He had all the time in the world. Now, none.
“There's no one hundred years guaranteed or life cheerfully refunded, young lady,” my grandfather warned.

People are crammed into the church. We stand in the doorway. Out on the porch, thirty or so men smoke and talk during the funeral mass, just as though they were at the market. I recognize many of them. Their sunbaked faces attest to work in the fields. The older ones are short, dressed in suits too thick for the brutal July sun, the younger ones are taller, beneficiaries of post-war nutrition, and wear pressed short-sleeved shirts. Inside, heat and incense swirl. Who will faint? Family members support each other as they walk by the casket for communion. It's hard to grasp that Anselmo lies inside that box. The wailing Catholic hymns drag on forever. The casket is loaded into the hearse. We have seen these processions before. Now we join the crowd walking behind the hearse up to the cemetery. I hope he is not going into one of those thirty-year slots that look like dresser drawers in a wall. No, there's the raw hole. He is going into the earth, this man of the earth. No ceremony, he's just lowered by ropes into the ground. Not even a thud. When my father was buried, the ground was so saturated that the coffin floated for a moment before whooshing down into water.
“That's not true at all,” my sister says. “They didn't even lower the coffin when we were there.” She's wrong. I see the red rose blanket slide off into the arms of the undertakers and the bronze box start to sink. “You were dreaming,” she insists
. His family steps forward and everyone throws on a handful of dirt. No denying that he will be in the ground. We talk to the family. Everyone leaves quickly. There's no dinner or visiting. Monday, back to work.