Seasons in Basilicata (61 page)

And I smile and think, yes, yes, indeed it is. And suddenly the world feels fresh, vigorous, and full of new possibilities. As do I.
Especially when Anne emerges on the terrace with fresh cups of coffee and gives me a hug and murmurs softly, “There really is something lovely in the air today, don't you think?”

 

U
NFORTUNATELY
this shift in the seasons was also the time for our departure. The date was fixed. We had to fly back to the U.K. to visit family, and then on to Japan, where Anne would resume her teaching. So, despite the rapidly improving weather, our mood became progressively more melancholic as our days in Aliano grew fewer.

On the morning of our departure, following a flurried week of feasts and tearful farewells (lots of
buon fine, buon principio,
“happy ending, happy beginning” wishes), Anne and I sat together quietly on our terrace for one last time, watching the village come to life in its normal ritualistic fashion. We were reminiscing about all our experiences and the kaleidoscopic range of things we'd learned over the months there. We realized that Aliano had given us abundant gifts of understanding, pleasure, and occasional “dark side” terrors. And even before we'd left, we were beginning to miss our house, our friends, and the way of life there that had opened up so many previously dormant aspects of our lives. And we were tantalized, too, by all the unlinked, incomplete threads of our experiences—the fact that we had yet to meet the elusive Maria, our village witch; enjoy Accettura's strange and very pagan
Festa del Maggio,
which features the ancient fertility rite of “marrying” an oak and holly tree; spend time trimming the vines and olive trees on Bruno's farm over in Sant' Arcangelo; and complete our “Farm Diary” of all the tasks your average
contadino
family had to do to maintain its proud self-sufficiency.

There were also many other things still to be learned: where to gather the best wild mushrooms in the fall; how to hunt boar in the winter; what the local mayors would finally do to try and reinvigorate their small village economies (and, in Aliano, rebuild that bridge!); how to cook a real
testarella di agnello
—sheep's head stew—(sounds ghastly, but if you close your eyes it's utterly delicious) and
stracotto di asinello
(slow-baked baby donkey!); how to play that raucous card
game
scopa;
how to make perfect pecorino cheese from fresh, still-warm sheep's milk; and how to deal effectively and without blowing a gasket with the utter
mistificazione
of the Italian bureaucracy's endless and inane rules and regulations.

All these things and so many, many more we had yet to understand.

And as for the fortunes and futures of our friends, so many questions and uncertainties. Would Giuliano's kiln and his pantile-making prevail over the apparent disinterest of the locals? Would Sebastiano's visions for “a new era of education” burst through the bottlenecks of bureaucratic controls? Would Margherita's and Tori's olive orchard survive more poor harvests? Would the schemes and dreams of Don Pierino and Aliano's young and ambitious mayor, Antonio Colaiacovo, ever become reality? Would Antonio, the photographer, find a reputable publisher for his book? Would Nicolà's farm become the “desert” he dreaded? Would Massimo ever get married? Would we taste Rosa's Sunday lunch again? Would anyone ever finally capture a local werewolf? And on and on.

And to add to our list of “things incomplete,” who should call that last morning with his farewells but Antonio, as usual gasping with delight and enthusiasm at some new discovery. “Anne, David, you won't believe…I have just beaten Graziella's father three times at
scopa,
so now he respects me I think, and he may approve of my relationship with his daughter. At last! Oh, and you won't believe…I've just found the dragon's horns! Yesterday! Big, big horns. And part of its skull. You must come see! You remember that story we both read about the Prince of Colonna who lived in Stigliano in the Middle Ages who came down into the valley and killed a huge dragon there who had been eating virgins and all that kind of thing?”

“Yes, yes, I remember. I looked for the horns too but gave up and decided it was just another one of those local fairy tales.”

“Well, it's not y'see. The horns are here, and the skull—hidden in this warehouse, because they've been renovating the church where they used to be displayed.”

“Antonio. This is fantastic. For you. Unfortunately we're leaving in less than an hour.”

Antonio didn't seem to hear me. “And the current prince—a direct descendant—Sebastiano and I have found him, too. He lives in Ireland, but he's agreed to come back to Aliano so I can photograph him for my book, and he very much wants to meet you both….”

 

F
OR A MOMENT
, just a moment, we almost canceled our departure. We were not at all sure we were ready yet for the “real world”—a world without dragons, werewolves, and witches. But then we realized that, even if we stayed longer, we'd never stop unearthing new stories and experiences there.

So we gave thanks for all we'd gained, promised ourselves we'd return one day (soon), and wondered, after all those months, whether we really had discovered Levi's “magic key.” The only way, he suggested, that one could enter and understand this strange and remote world.

Well, we decided, we'd certainly discovered the lock and explored that in considerable detail. A very complex lock, too. And I think we were offered the key, or at least a choice of different keys, on a number of memorable occasions. But none seemed to fit entirely comfortably.

 

N
O
, I'
M SURE
we have yet to discover the “magic key.” In fact, I'm not even sure there is a single magic key. Mezzogiorno
catoni
,
mezzadri
,
braccianti
,
terroni,
and
contadini
—all once referred to somewhat dismissively as “peasants”—are not a collective mass. Certainly there still exists a tight social cohesiveness reflecting the words of Petrarch: “The burdens and the chains of serfdom / are sweeter than wandering alone.” But despite the intimacy of village life and a generational intermingling that vanishes into unrecorded time, they are all still individuals, each with his or her own story and views on things and on life in general (the octos in their daily and often furious debates by the war memorial are proof enough of that).
And each individual has his or her own key. Each individual must find his own lock. Many to enter, but many also to escape. Escaping has become a way of life here, particularly for the young of Aliano, and across Basilicata as a whole. For the older men and women it's not really a choice, but they don't seem to mind. Here is where their lives have evolved, individually and collectively. And for them to leave at this point—while they might exist more comfortably elsewhere with their families or even in institutionalized settings—appears not to be an option worth considering. This is where most choose to remain.

So, maybe that's the real key—their deep, passionate, almost genetically imprinted love for this wild and, in many ways, untamed place. Love possibly once again is the key. Maybe a love that is not always easy to understand, but love nonetheless. Maybe different from what we normally know as love, but after our many months here, we feel we can at least begin to discern the outlines and intensity of that underpinning emotion.

Dag Hammarskjöld wrote, “Love is the key, the out flowing of a power released by self-surrender.” Thomas Merton suggested that “love means an interior and spiritual identification with one's brothers.” And it is indeed this combination of self-surrender to the flow of our experiences and our identification with the lives, events, feastings, and oh-so-human foibles and fears of our friends here, that made our time in Aliano so rich and memorable.

Once again, Anne Cornelisen captures the mood and truth in her powerful book
Torregreca
: “Lucania is real, and so are the Lucanians, who struggle today as they have for over 3,000 years, to wrest an existence from the rock and clay that makes up their world.”

And, of course, once again, there's Pico Iyer, that renowned travel writer–philosopher, who believes that “all the great travel books are love stories, and all good journeys are, like love, about being carried out of yourself and deposited in the midst of terror and wonder.” Here in Basilicata we enjoyed generous dollops of both, in addition to all the unceasing kindness, generosity, and love of so many newfound friends.

Thus, just like Rumi (“the only reason we are here is to love”) and certainly like our spiritual mentor, Carlo Levi, we have learned to love the people here, and in doing so, have discovered aspects of what he described as the “Lucania spirit in all of us”—the spirit that links the deep and ancient
terrroni
elements in every human being, in every part of the world. And maybe that is enough.

At least for the moment.

Va bene.

A
LIANO
—E
NDURING
, O
NGOING
…