© 1993 J. Asquini
III.
When I look back at Italy through the filter of my education I realize
that life there was still clinging to remnants of feudal times. The
history books tell us that Medieval land barons ruled by insulated,
insensitive decree which led, in part, to their demise. But time has
a way of softening all things, of dulling sharp lines, rubbing out
whole systems of government, and eroding even the land itself.
The action of centuries had gnawed away at the property of the Baci family,
leaving the current La Signora with just a fraction of the land and power her
family once possessed. Still the surrounding communities quite naturally and
comfortably afforded her a leadership position. It was not the kind of office
that we would expect with powers mandated by government. There was nothing
official about it. Instead, she owned a power much more deeply rooted and far
more fitting.
Perhaps it was her personality. Perhaps it was the gentle alignment of interests
common to all that, having been refined over generations, gave Signora Baci
the ability to naturally lead where everyone already wanted to go.
So when I faced Carmela across that cool cement table during our final study
sessions I looked through my mind's eye at the expanse of the summer to come.
It seemed for all the world that we would have endless days to spend together.
But I didn't know the customs of Italy and what would be expected of Carmela
by her family. So the possibility of losing my regular contact with her to
the freedom and responsibilities of the coming season remained a real and unsettling
threat. It was only appropriate that Signora Baci would take the lead.
"Joe Peoples, Carmela Luna," she announced. "I have a proposition
for you two."
We waited.
"I would like both of you to stay on with me this summer to be my assistants.
Carmela, you will be my secretary. And Joe, you will continue on as the master
of Yankee ingenuity."
I don't recall any further discussion. No talk of hours or compensation. They
seemed foreign concerns. What mattered to me was keeping the team together.
And Signora Baci, acting through her unofficial office, had easily managed
that.
So I soon found myself pedaling first to Romans to pick up Carmela then to
Signora Baci's house without the burden of my books and also without any idea
of what I might be asked to tinker with that day. But it didn't matter. I was
on a roll, becoming quietly comfortable in the company of these two fascinating
ladies.
Carmela and I soon learned that our major assignment under the employ
of Signora Baci was to assist with the production of a fund-raising
dance for the Romans di Varmo soccer team. So my first move was to
repair a tarnished scooter, a motorino, that had been tucked away
for some years in the Baci barn. The plan was for me to get the thing
running so I could drive us around on our errands.
I didn't know much about fixing engines, but what I did know -- that a carburetor
and filters should be clean, oil and gas fresh -- proved to be enough to get
this bike to cough and sputter. A tip from Uncle Mario to scrub the spark plug
and adjust its gap was all the more it needed to purr along. A little polish
and some elbow grease made it a ride to admire; Carmela and I were on the road.
I remember reading once in a motorcycle magazine that the best accessory a
guy could have for his bike was a girl on the back. When Carmela swung on,
wrapped her arms around me and pulled tight I couldn't imagine anything better.
We headed northeast to the village of Lonca where we were to order a banner
for the dance and where we hoped to sneak a soda together at the cafe.
There was no sign advertising the painter's business. Nonetheless we found
him, Attilio, off a side street and through two colorfully painted doors that
opened to a private courtyard. There were three-legged ladders of various sizes
purposefully scattered about, either supporting work or providing access to
it. Attilio had the art of twisting a brush to form a perfect character down
pat. I could see this in a glance. It was also apparent that he let his brushes
run astray beyond the boundaries of his commissioned signs and banners. Strokes
of paint danced playfully across walls, shutters, up and down tree trunks,
along window sills, and around flower pots.
When we entered, Attilio was atop a ladder in this carnival of color singing
loudly of the beautiful star that is Friuli.
On seeing us he bounced down and cheered our arrival as if we were long-lost
relatives. He produced some glasses and we all shared a refreshing drink of
mineral water before we were allowed to state our business.
Carmela introduced us but Attilio had already figured out who we were.
"I remember, Professor, when your grandfather moved away," he said
to me. "I was just a small boy but I remember it just the same. And now
it is nice to meet you."
"Nice to meet you," I said. We shook hands.
He turned to Carmela and she placed our order. Attilio seemed pleased by the
prospect of his work presiding over another dance in a town square. He promised
the banner would be complete in two days. We agreed to pick it up then.
Out the door and on the street again, Carmela took my hand and led me around
the corner to some cafe tables shaded by Cinzano umbrellas and stunted mulberry
trees. A waitress appeared, greeting us as Signorina Luna and her American
friend.
"Does everyone know everyone else here?" I asked Carmela.
"They don't really know you. They know of you," she reflected. "They
know your father or your cousin or your grandmother and then they think they
know you, too."
"Well, they're very friendly."
"Aren't people friendly where you live, Joe Peoples?"
"They are but in a different way. Wyandotte is a bigger city. People are
friendly not because they know you but just to be nice."
"Sometimes I think it would be nice to go where no one knows me," she
said.
"That's easy, Carmela. That's anywhere else. But this is a special place.
You should enjoy what you have here."
Our conversation seemed to put her in a reflective mood. She said little as
we finished our sodas and walked back to the motorino. We climbed aboard. Carmela
reached around my waist with one arm and pointed our way back with the other.
As we returned to more familiar territory she directed me off the main road
and down a farm trail. When I recognized it as the one that led to the river
Stelle I quickly began reevaluating the meaning of her quiet mood. Still she
said nothing. But I was full of hope and getting downright excited as we approached
the grassy bank where the ground had warbled. It wasn't until we rounded the
last bend that the spell was broken.
Bruno stabbed the ground with his shovel and looked up from the irrigation
ditch near the river. He was a rotund man in a dashing wide-brimmed hat. His
sleeveless undershirt squeezed his belly into brief shorts. He wore black socks
and gum-rubber sandals.
We coasted to a halt.
"Ah, it's the Professor and the Shining Star of Friuli. Or should I say
the Celestial Body of Friuli, Carmela Luna." He swabbed his forehead with
the back of his hand.
"Hello, Bruno," Carmela replied.
I nodded.
"Carmela Luna," he repeated. "But I thought the moon was made
of green cheese, not caramel?"
"And what would you know of sweet things, Bruno?" Carmela flipped back.
"Why nothing, of course, my dear." He smiled gently. "I only know
that this shovel fits my hand and that I am sent into the hot sun to chop with
it all day long while others sip cool drinks in the shade because their fathers,
not mine, owned the land."
He focussed on me.
"I tell you, Professor, it is an injustice. What we really need here is
not a ditch to be cleaned. What we really need here, Professor, is a good earthquake."
He flashed a toothy grin and gazed past us to the distant mountains. For a
moment I saw in his eyes houses and customs rattling to ruin and the Alps themselves
shaking to dust and lost on the wind -- as lost as my hopes were, that day,
of rocking in the arms of Carmela.
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IV.
"Che bella!" Attilio exhaled with satisfaction as he swept
a hand toward his banner. "You give my work a place of honor."
Indeed his banner did swing nobly above the square of Romans di Varmo, above
the milling band, above the swirl of young children, above the Japanese lanterns,
above my grandfather and his brothers, above Marco and the boys who were trying
hard to look detached, and above Bruno the Lamenter.
Attilio's banner waved a gentle welcome in the breeze that was cooling the
day and sweeping Bruno's complaints out of town and far off across the fields.
The sky glowed in the majesty of a slow, spectacular shift to darkness. The
band honked and squawked through the chaos of tune up then sprang all at once
to full life and the party began.
Immediately the dance floor filled with participants of all varieties: husbands
and wives, grandfathers and granddaughters, boyfriends and girlfriends, young
girls dancing together, and little boys and little girls bobbing, spinning
and nearly teetering over from the weighty glee of their giant smiles.
Carmela and I had worked hard all day for that moment: the culmination of weeks
of preparation. We leaned against each other, sharing the satisfaction of seeing
it all come together.
When the band honked out "Il Ballo del Qua Qua," Carmela pulled me
to the circle on the dance floor. I felt silly dancing like a duck but knew
I was happier flapping my arms and spinning next to her than I would have been
hanging out with Marco and the pouting boys. A polka followed which I stumbled
and skipped through. Then the band played a classic about Friuli and the whole
town sang along. I swayed next to Carmela, our elbows linked.
A cheer went up as the soccer team and Signora Baci arrived. Gilberto, the
big-chested, broad-faced smiling coach known as Bill, sheepishly took the microphone.
He thanked the crowd for their support and promised more opportunities to have
parties throughout the season even though they might not be victory celebrations.
Everyone laughed. The Romans di Varmo squad didn't have a glorious history
of winning but no one seemed to care.
Out of the blue someone started singing a song about Romans. The crowd joined
in. The song's slow, easy rhythm moved us like a gently rolling sea. Bill stepped
away from the microphone and blended in with the crooning faces surrounding
La Signora. I put my arm around Carmela and gathered her in, resting my cheek
on the top of her head as she too sang along with the crowd under the clear
summer sky of Friuli.
The mood touched us all. And the celebration ran well into the night. It carried
over all the way to Signora Baci's house where Carmela and I returned to deposit
the earnings. We put the money into the designated pitcher that was decorated
with a phrase of local wisdom ignored by all: Drink and shut up. The chinking
of glasses and laughter filled her house and spilled into the night.
Carmela and I slipped out the back to the garden. The big cement table that
had remained so cool throughout the hot afternoons now felt warm in the fresh
night air. We lay down on top of it. I kissed her a few times on the forehead
then on the lips. We kissed and kissed, pausing only now and then to look skyward
and find the stars winking back at us.
With the dawn of the next day I could still smell Carmela's perfume
and feel the press of her lips on mine.
At breakfast I realized the Old Country was working on my grandfather, too.
For some weeks now he had been dressing like the locals: a sleeveless undershirt,
shorts and sandals with black socks. And he spoke to me almost exclusively
in Italian now. English and the States were for the moment out of the picture,
but they certainly weren't forgotten.
The inevitable was becoming apparent; just when I was getting to where I wanted
to be with Carmela, time was running out. Summer vacation would soon be over.
I would leave Italy. The prospect tugged at me. And that day at Signora Baci's
Carmela seemed uneasy about what might happen next, too.
Once again, enter La Signora.
"I have another proposition for the two of you," she declared that
day over lunch. "Your stay in Italy is nearly through, Joe Peoples. We have
all done well, working hard and studying, too. So there is only one thing for
us to do."
She tapped her cigarette gently but deliberately on the lip of the ashtray
once, twice, three times.
"We must take a holiday. We will go to my apartment on the beach in Grado.
You will both love it. The breeze off the sea is refreshing there. I will make
all the arrangements."
So she did. And before I knew it I was packing for a week by the sea with Signora
Baci and Carmela Luna.
Imagine that.
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