© 1993 J. Asquini
V.
For the second fine morning of my summer holiday we were loading
a car to travel east. But this time I was going without Gramps. He
met us in Uncle Dario's gravel drive, slapped me on the back and bid
us Buon viaggio. We left him waving the way his brothers would, with
his palm turned back at himself, as we headed for the sea.
Since Signora Baci drove exactly the way she did everything else we found adventure
on each road. Every time we had a close encounter she would abandon the wheel,
utter an expletive and tug at her hair which seemed to plunge us headlong toward
the next near-mishap. It took the coordinated effort of Carmela and me to guide
us safely to our first stop: a picnic among Roman ruins.
At a place called Aquielia, which was once the major northern port of the Roman
Empire before marauding Vandals forced the natives out to the islands of Venice,
Carmela spread a blanket on the ground. La Signora opened a basket of salami,
prosciutto, mineral water, cheeses, and bread rolls. She handed me a bottle
of wine and a cork screw. I uncorked the bottle and plopped down on the blanket
beside Carmela. As our two glasses of wine and La Signora's mineral water chinged
a salute together I wondered how our trio looked from high in the sky: a mosaic
of liquids and sliced cheeses, a twist of hands, three pale spots on a plaid
blanket in an old church yard reaching across 2,000 years and a quarter of
the globe.
From Aquiela it was a short drive to Grado. Signora Baci's modern
apartment was in a high-rise building right on the beach. To the south
was the sea. To the west the harbor channel. To the north and east
the winding streets of the old town. After we unpacked our bags La
Signora led us through those twisting streets to the baker's, the
butcher's, the fruit stand. All the vendors greeted her with cheer.
She was careful to introduce us to them all. They each extended warm
hands to Carmela and to me.
After a quick cup of coffee in her favorite cafe we returned to the apartment,
put our groceries away, slipped into our bathing suits and hit the beach.
The beach at Grado was a stony thing, not the kind of place where you could
take off your shoes and run. Still, it was punctuated by tanned Italians and
sun-burnt Germans.
The rough nature of the place seemed to make it easier for more people to stretch
out comfortably near one another since there was no sand to kick up and tossing
a ball or a frisbee to one another on shore was not very practical. So all
gaming in Grado was done in the water.
Carmela swam well and headed straight for the deep. I had never been in salt
water so was a bit tentative about what I might encounter. I had heard plenty
of stories about jelly fish and sea urchins though I had never seen either.
Carmela circled back and prodded me along. I wasn't much of a swimmer. Even
though I can perform the mechanics of the strokes just fine I've never floated
well. So swimming has always been a big effort for me. To the disbelief of
everyone we encountered there in Grado I couldn't even float in the salt water
of the Adriatic without paddling. Over the next week I performed countless
demonstrations of my condition by filling my lungs with air, lying out limply
on my back then sinking like a stone to the bottom. I soon gained a reputation
as the dense one and was advised by all to stay near the buoyant Carmela whenever
I was in the water: a prescription I gladly followed.
We swam in the morning when all was cool. We swam in midday when the heat on
the rocks chased us into the water. And in the evening when the air was fresh
and the water warm and inky black.
On our third day in Grado, Carmela and I were returning from our morning swim
when we heard Signora Baci talking in a frantic voice on the phone. Her sister
in Trieste was suddenly ill and would need her assistance. She would have to
leave us alone.
"Would this be okay?" she asked.
Sensing the urgency Carmela and I volunteered to come along and do what we
could to help.
"No, no," La Signora insisted. "It would be best if I could leave
you two here."
"That would be fine," we answered.
"Then help me get some things together," she said.
I got her suitcase from the closet.
"You will be just fine here alone," La Signora spoke from her room
where she was packing. "You know the shop owners. They know you. Put everything
on my account."
Carmela packed her a lunch.
"There is plenty of wine," Signora Baci continued.
I found the map on the counter and traced a route to Trieste. Then, so she
could follow the road signs, I wrote out on a piece of paper the names of the
towns La Signora must pass through: Monfalcone, Silvia, Villa Opicina, Trieste.
"Please have the apartment clean on Sunday for our departure," she
seemed business-like as she carried the loaded suitcase into the main room.
I took it from her and the three of us walked down to her car.
"I will telephone before I return," she said.
I handed her the map and list of towns. Carmela put her lunch on the seat next
to her.
"Until then no one will bother you," Signora Baci added as she backed
out of her parking space and drove confidently off, leaving Carmela and me alone
together on the hot pavement, holding hands and waving feebly at the place where
our benefactor had just been.
We wandered back into the house and ate lunch pretty much in silence.
It took a while before we realized the fine situation we were in. Carmela must
have discovered it first because she rather suddenly sat upright at the table
and declared that we must prepare for dinner.
"Dinner?" I said. "We just ate lunch."
"I know," she answered, "but we should plan ahead. We'll go shopping
this afternoon then I will prepare dinner for you tonight -- whatever you like,
Joe Peoples. I'll make it for you."
Her excitement caught hold of me.
"Rotini!" I shouted. "With that green sauce. And prosciutto with
melon. And polenta." I named off my favorites without concern for what kind
of meal it would all create.
Carmela checked in some cupboards and in the refrigerator, scratched some notes
on a piece of paper, and we were off.
The butcher and the baker both happily filled our orders and asked after Signora
Baci. When we explained the situation they expressed their concern to us both
then gave me a wink on the sly.
I followed Carmela back to the apartment where we were soon chopping, peeling
and stirring in preparation for our wonderful meal. Even though the heat outside
was punishing I stood above the stove turning the contents of a bowl of corn
meal over and over on itself for the better part of an hour until it thickened
into the delicious consistency of polenta.
Carmela was working on more delicate matters, chopping basil and garlic for
the sauce, when she spoke.
"After dinner we can move the furniture," she said.
"Move the furniture? What? Where?" I said.
"Your couch, to the terrace," she said politely. "I think you
will sleep just fine out there tonight, Joe Peoples." She picked up a red
pepper and began to slice it.
"Where?" I asked in disbelief. Signora Baci's apartment had only one
bedroom where she had slept. Carmela and I had been sleeping on day-bed couches
against opposite walls of the main room of the apartment that was kitchen, dining
and living area all in one. Through the doorwalls at the southern end of this
great room was the large, tiled terrace that held a hammock, some reclining chairs,
a dining table, and giant potted palms.
"On the terrace," she repeated. "It will be a beautiful night."
"Why would I sleep there?"
"You can't sleep in the apartment with me alone -- without La Signora here
can you?"
"I . . . I . . . ," I stuttered.
"We'll put your bed out there after we swim tonight," she commanded.
I didn't feel good about it but found myself going along with Carmela's directive.
What choice did I have?
Even with the threatening cloud of my banishment to the terrace
looming over me our dinner was finer than I could have ever imagined.
There is a great pleasure in creating something for someone you care
for. And getting to eat the delicious results is the real bonus of
the culinary art. We sat at the table on the terrace while the sun
settled down and the evening air took on the refreshing coolness and
scent of the sea.
On our swim that night there was an amazing dome of fire in the sky. Carmela
headed directly for the deep. She was giggling when I caught up to her.
"Here, look what I found," she said, handing me something.
I took hold of what I thought to be a clump of sea weed. But it wasn't. It
felt like fabric.
My mouth must have dropped because Carmela laughed and splashed for deeper
water when I recognized it was the top of her bathing suit.
I circled way out in front of her and chased her back toward shore. When I
caught her in my arms I could just touch the bottom on my tiptoes. I put her
swimsuit top on my head and kissed her laughing lips. We kissed between small,
salty waves that rose over my shoulders and broke against our cheeks. I raised
a hand to her firm breast and through it felt her heart beating wildly.
Our dark shapes in the water must have been all but invisible as
twilight dwindled. When we strolled out of the black water and onto
shore the sun was completely down. Only the streetlights painted their
pale, greenish cast along the strand. We wrapped the beach towel around
us then, clutching each other, climbed the stairs to Signora Baci's
apartment. We wandered onto the terrace and slid into the cozy wrap
of the hammock where, by the fading hush of the open sea and under
the dim light of the swirling heavens, we didn't move until morning.
When the soft glow of dawn woke us Carmela sat up bare breasted
and slowly searched the hammock for her top as if her nakedness were
no big deal. She found it behind my back, put it on and we hugged
some more. I kissed her forehead.
Without saying much we made our way into the kitchen. She toasted some bread
under the broiler and got the marmalade from the refrigerator. I made coffee.
Then I moved my couch. I slid it toward the door to the terrace but changed
my course halfway, pushing it across that great, white room next to Carmela's
instead. When I had it arranged just right I turned to her and watched a tiny
smile sneak over her face.
During the next three days in Grado I know there must have been periods of
darkness as we strolled in the evening among the white hulls of the boats in
port or when we swam naked under a giant moon that shimmered over an opaque
sea. But my mind has cast them all in brightness, forever awash in the pale
light of that first dawn, suspended by Carmela's soft lips and wrapped in her
thrilling embrace.
As promised Signora Baci telephoned on Sunday morning to announce
her return. When she arrived at the door we had the place looking
as if we had never been there.
"How is your sister, Signora?" Carmela asked.
"Oh, she's just fine," Signora Baci replied. "We were in such
a panic. We thought it was appendicitis and were on our way to the hospital.
But she had eaten some German food. It was just gas. So we went to a beach in
Yugoslavia instead. . . . Are you two ready to go?"
|
VI
A whole lot of what I saw in Italy that summer didn't make much
sense to me. But somehow it didn't seem to matter. And the place
where it mattered least was at the local bars.
The local bars in Italy are like extensions of one's home: a living room common
to all. So to drop in on a friend one need only to drop in at the appropriate
bar.
On our last night in Italy the appropriate bar was in Romans. Everyone was
there: my grandfather, Uncle Mario, Uncle Dario, Carmela's grandmother, the
soccer coach Bill, Marco and the boys, the painter Attilio, even Bruno the
Lamenter -- everyone, that was, except Signora Baci and Carmela.
Not to worry, I thought. They'll be here soon. La Signora is always late and
Carmela must have some chores to do or something. There's a reason.
In the meantime I tried to make the best of things by watching Gramps play
cards with his pals. I couldn't quite grasp the rules of the game which progressed
soberly enough until someone threw down a card that had special significance.
A flurry of discarding would follow accompanied by all levels of cursing and
emphatic slapping of the table. One of them would emerge smiling. The others
looked forlorn.
Outside through the window I saw Bruno swinging a large branch over a parked
car at Marco and the guys. I scooted out the door toward them.
"They're dangerous," Bruno said as I approached. "But I know how
to deal with them." He flashed his grin my way. "These trees grow like
bombs in slow motion and lull you into carelessness before they come crashing
down on your head or car like this." He swung the branch wildly down across
the car once more, imitating its fall. "You need to get to them before they
get to you. Isn't that true, Professor?"
"Right on, Bruno." I patted him on the back. Marco shrugged, then he
and the boys stepped calmly around the dented Fiat and we all pressed into the
bar.
"So you think you will play professional basketball back home?" Marco
asked.
"No way, Marco."
"Why not? You're good. Really good."
"Not really, Marco, just a regular player."
"No way. You're the Americano. You're the best."
"Thanks, Marco," I said. It was my easiest out. I saw the painter Attilio
coming toward me.
"Hello, Professor," he said. "I was driving by and saw the place
was full. They tell me you are leaving tomorrow."
"Yes, I am."
"Well I hope you have enjoyed your stay here in Friuli."
"I sure have."
"But where is your friend tonight, Signorina Luna?" he asked. "I
always think of you two together."
So do I, I thought, but answered, "I'm not sure. I thought she would be
here by now."
"Ah," Attilio responded, "it's the last night of your stay, she
will be here, Professor. Don't worry. It's not always easy but she will come." He
held out his hand. "Best wishes, Professor. Come back and see us again."
I shook his hand and told him I would.
By then Bruno had cornered Bill, the soccer coach, and was expounding on the
cleansing virtues of a second ice age. "Three kilometers of ice straight
up would scrape the Christian Democrats out of office," I heard him say
when the clamor of another hand of cards made me turn to face the action. I
watched Gramps glow with a winner's smile. Then a shape behind him caught my
eye. Carmela had arrived and was moving cautiously along the wall away from
another commotion outside. I was heading toward her when Signora Baci stepped
through the door between the two of us.
"Here we are," she said, gathering Carmela under one wing and me under
the other. "One for all and all for one, once again."
Before we could respond, Bill spotted La Signora and began singing the Romans
di Varmo song. Everyone joined in except for Carmela and me. Signora Baci rocked
us gently. When the song ended she steered us toward the door.
"Look, you two." Her voice was perky. "It is a beautiful night,
too nice to be inside. I will tell your grandparents that you've gone for a walk
and will find your own ways home. They will not worry. Now go."
She gave us a gentle shove and out we went, hand in hand, to wander the cool,
empty streets of Romans di Varmo alone together.
We were nearly out of town before either of us spoke.
"Why were you so late tonight, Carmela?"
"Oh, Joe Peoples," she said, "you're leaving." She looked
hurt.
"I could come back, Carmela."
"When?"
"I don't know," I tried hard to think when that might be. But the equation
was too complex. I had no idea of the cost of the air fare or how long it would
take to find a job and save for it. Nor did I know how I should ask Uncle Dario
to take me in for another summer. And I didn't even know if my parents would
let me come back. But there was comfort in the words. "I don't know, Carmela,
but I will," I said. "Someday I'll come back. I promise."
And so we walked on. The bar was dark by the time we returned to town. Outside
Carmela's door we kissed one last time. Then, striking out on my solitary way
through the cornfields and vineyards of Friuli that overcast and moonless night,
I took my first steps back to America.
VII.
On the flight home I replayed over and over my summer in Italy:
Carmela and Signora Baci studying at the cement table, the motorino,
our trembling kiss, Grado. Not once did I find a way to improve
upon any of it except, of course, for our parting. But in the certainty
of youth I was sure that one day soon I would return to Italy as
I had promised Carmela to pick up right where we had left off.
That day never came.
Though I didn't realize it on the flight home, I'm sure my grandfather was
suffering the same dread, perhaps more, since his musings about returning from
Italy must have been cast in the sepia light of a life that had nearly run
its full course.
On board we didn't say much to each other, just flew home.
We landed in Canada on a shadowless afternoon. My father was there. Instead
of hugging me he took my hand in such an overly polite and stiff way he seemed
older than his own father but, somehow in the same instant, younger than me.
We piled our suitcases into the trunk of his car and headed home, speeding
through the bland afternoon toward the brownish buildings of Windsor and the
towering blue-gray skyline of Detroit just across the river. We chugged up
the webbed arc of the Ambassador Bridge then made our stop-and-go descent to
Michigan in the crowded customs lanes. I scanned the horizon in this hold-up.
For as far as I could see Detroit's factory face seemed unimpressed by our
return.
The radio kept playing "Go Get 'Em Tigers," a song about the Detroit
baseball team. I tried translating it into Italian, pretending to explain it
all to Carmela.
As we pulled into Wyandotte the downriver air, sharp with the odors of industry,
seemed more pungent than I had remembered. When I hauled my suitcase into the
house and up to my room the place looked small.
Days passed. I looked for work that would carry me back to Italy but it was
the end of summer and no one was hiring. I wrote many letters to Carmela and
read over and over the ones she sent to me.
Although she wrote that she missed me it was clear the start of school would
finally conclude our summer in Friuli together. I closed my eyes to see the
sun rising through mist in the fields around Romans and Carmela standing in
her blouse and skirt outside her door: her books held by crossed arms close
to her chest, a navy-blue sweater draped over her shoulders. I could hear the
bickering of geese from a nearby yard, some dogs barking and the shifting drone
of an approaching school bus.
Another school year had already begun for me. Against my heart I was pulled
back into the mainstream of life in Wyandotte by the demands of the classroom
and by the excitement of that particular September.
It had been a perfect summer in Detroit, too. Denny McClain won 31 and the
Tigers would go on to steal the World Series from the Cardinals in the seventh
game. Their win united the whole city, which only a year earlier had burned
in racial riots. On the day they won, one of our neighbors painted her Volkswagon
orange with tiger stripes and a bunch of us rode with her down Michigan Avenue
through the cheering crowd.
I tried explaining it all to Carmela in my letters but baseball is a mess to
translate as, I've learned, are many other things so woven into our daily lives.
Somewhere in the failed effort of that translation 25 years slipped by.
25 years. It seems incredible but that many more might fly by before you sit
down and read this, Carl. And there's no telling whether I'll be around when
you do.
Today, when I was thinking about how we will be celebrating your birthday at
dinner tonight, I realized that we've spent just three summers together. As
it turned out I only had three more summers with Gramps.
His decline was slow but steady. I visited him every day in the hospital. We'd
laugh about the Old Country and our summer there. We'd play cards and, if I
could smuggle some in, we'd drink a little red wine together. When I shaved
his face, which I did more frequently than my own in those days, he would hold
his chin up high to stretch his sagging neck and look to me through eyes bright
with joy.
Uncle Dario died in his sleep about 12 years later. Uncle Mario must be pushing
95. I've not written to him in quite a while since I've all but lost my grip
on Italian.
The others have fared well. We get Christmas and Easter cards from Signora
Baci every year. Now and then they carry a little news from Friuli about friends
and family. But it's been quite a while since I've heard from Carmela. I know
she got married years before your mother and I did. She married a guy who works
for the railroad. They live just down the road from her family in Romans along
the Stelle and have a string of daughters who, I'm sure, are far better reflections
of their mother than my dim memories could ever conceive.
Still, it was one vivid memory that woke in me this morning. And as I've been
writing it down for you I've realized that much of what we know and love about
life comes to us through our memories -- some of which might even seem strong
enough to have lives of their own.
But they don't. Even our most powerful memories die right along with us.
Other things live on. How we look, how we act, our aptitudes and traits don't
pass away. Instead they hover here in life, connecting generations from front
to back and back to front so that my grandfather would have resembled you as
much as you will resemble him. And you and I, son, are inseparably part of
each other in our dark hair, the largeness of our noses and the way we can
run.
Just because you are my son I'll always have you. And just because I am your
father you'll always have me. And now we'll both always have my summer with
Carmela Luna.
Happy birthday, son. Ti voglio bene, Dad. |
