In Love With Emilia Read online

  During the next couple of days, we rearranged the rooms to suit our lifestyle a little better. The area at the end of the house is now a large empty room, the earth wall is now covered by a rock wall. I wished it had been bare rock but it was covered in stucco. We took the impossibly huge bed to pieces and dragged it and an old wardrobe into this end room and created a bedroom for ourselves. The ancient Victorian iron bedstead remained in the small room, it and most of the floor covered with junk, old farm chairs, a bed spring, boxes, suitcases full of old curtains and clothes, wood-wormy side tables, several pictures of different Madonnas, and boxes of old linen. We transformed what had been the original bedroom off the kitchen into a dining and sitting room by dragging the old bench in and the tiny kitchen table. With the early sunlight streaming in and fresh flowers on the table and windowsill, the room was lovely.

  I think we were actually keeping as busy as possible as a way of warding off the inevitability of family discussions over Nona’s properties. I almost felt as though we were at “The Last Supper” the night before the family meeting, trying to stuff down the meal, my stomach churning continuously. Thinking why on earth should I feel so nervous? Luigi is perfectly capable of standing his ground in a firm and gentlemanly manner.

  Meri had gained a reputation over the years of being stubborn, hard, and insistent. I do not know where or when the reputation of this woman’s fearless personality had been born. I suppose, over the years, I had heard family gossip via Luigi about her stubbornness, her desire to control the family. My own memories of her, from our visit twenty-five years ago, were of a skinny little woman, very kind, mostly happy, with a mouthful of black, rotten stumpy teeth, and hairy legs. She worked continuously, cooking, or in the farmyard, up every morning at five o’clock to milk the cows, then to herd them down to the field, then bringing them back to the barn again for the four o’clock milking. Perhaps the death of her mother had required that she, by tradition, should step into those matriarchal shoes. All I know is that I was expecting the “Iron Maiden” herself, but was not sure why.

  The following morning we took the bit between our teeth and began the walk to Meri’s house. My tough Canadian boldness began to desert me and trembling with fear at the thought of the ensuing face-off, I walked close at Luigi’s heels like a sniveling puppy. In the face of battle, my true colors were revealed. I tried to conjure up the bravery of Sgt. James Leary, my great-great grandfather riding with the six hundred into the “Valley of Death” with the Light Brigade. He survived—so would I!

  My apprehension of what was to come made the three-minute walk seem endless. We walked up the short narrow cobbled lane between Nona’s house and the monstrous ugly grey house owned by a man who visits each summer. Later I nicknamed him the “Land Baron” because, from his conversations, he appears to own everything and everywhere. Continuing on, we passed Pepino and Lina’s house, which is attached to Nona’s cottage. Pepino is Luigi’s godfather, a delightful, tall, almost regal looking elderly man who really enjoys our conversations, appreciating what we have to relate as opposed to jumping in with his next thought like a lot of old folks do. Between his house and the next, Marietta’s, is a steep footpath down to the gardens and fields beyond or on along the eastside of Meri’s house, which ends the chain of houses. This day, however, we took the back lane coming out into the gravel and paved farmyard round to the front of

  Meri’s big house. Painted a lovely buttery-melony yellow with green shutters, the house shone like a ray of sun from among the ugly, gray cemented walls of its companions.

  We walked on across the farm yard and noticed that Giulio was in his garage snoring away with Bianca the one-and-a-half-eared cat on his chest. Various types of farm equipment are parked in the big barn with his old jeep and a tiny Fiat squeezed in beside them. The story of Bianca and her one-and-a-half ears is quite amusing and unbelievable to me. Apparently she was taken to the vet to be spayed (which I find totally incredible because all the cats are constantly producing litters), and came back with one of her ears minus one-half inch cut from the top. Meri says that was done to signify Bianca’s sterility. Must be the only sterile cat in Italy!

  The view once round the corner was wonderful. Framed between Meri’s house and the two old rock cottages attached to the big barn was the village of Brattesani, its red roofs falling away down the hillside, a beautiful backdrop for the “Iron Maiden” who now stood before us. Meri, certainly much older, but with lovely white teeth, a frothy gray curly hairdo, and whiskers to match, a bit of extra fat on her once lean body. She had transformed from the ogre I expected into a small, smiling person with floured hands, and with arms outstretched in welcome. She wore old leather ankle boots and woolly socks with the usual pinafore over a knee-length straight black skirt.

  We did the cheek-to-cheek thing and went inside. On the right was Pierina’s “Dungeon”. Pierina is Giulio’s sister. Her life is spent in her one room downstairs, with her bedroom upstairs, and she tramps out to her outhouse as she refuses to use Meri’s bathroom. A long flight of wide marble stairs lead up to the second floor bedrooms. We entered the very warm kitchen that also serves as a dining and living room where the family spends most of their time when home. A very fancy dining room down the hall awaits its Epiphany and Easter guests. As we sat on the wooden bench, Meri and

  Luigi chatting away while she rolled her pasta, Giulio, and Roberto, her oldest son, arrived and sat at the table. The ever-present television was talking to itself, up on the corner of the sideboard.

  The family discussion now taking place seemed civilized and pleasant. Was I wrong in my opinion of Meri after all? My guard down, I was shaken when Meri’s voice rose, and then Roberto and Giulio and finally Luigi. This is common in Italian families, all speaking at once trying to be heard. The noise eventually reaches a crescendo. A moment of quiet bathes the room in peace, and then off they go again. The conversations and shouting matches always sound like arguments but usually they are the result of over zealousness and excitement; however, this family discussion had turned into a free for all. Not understanding a word, I quietly exited to the farmyard and to the peace and tranquility of Nona’s house.

  The family discussions, the ensuing meetings, were at times amusing, frustrating, arduous and just plain ridiculous. This formidable woman obviously headed up the family and was certainly a force to be dealt with. A quiet, unassuming, delightful husband, Giulio, and four children, Roberto, Stefano, Georgio, and Giuliana, on whose behalf she fought tooth and nail for their shares of every piece of woodland, fields and meadows, barns and footpaths. One might say of course, that Meri and her family had every right, having worked their fingers to the bone on the land. This woman ruled the roost and cracked the whip. Her husband, sons, even cousins, uncles, aunts and neighbors jumped accordingly, except for Giuliana, her daughter who refused to be corralled. Were the genes of stubbornness coming through already? Oh this woman Meri, was huge and fearful running round the farmyard whacking at the skinny cats with a broomstick, stomping on scorpions and decapitating the snakes. Someone to be wary of for sure. Five feet two and one hundred and ten pounds in no way diminished the clout she carried. Her aggressive stance made about as much impression on Luigi, however, as water on a duck’s back. We just do not operate this way at home. Confrontation is not a part of our lives and we float along calmly instead of rushing through what seem like death defying rapids.

  Further discussions took place in Giulio’s garage, an old place across the yard from the house, a place of disarray and dust, packed with years of junk. A calendar, frozen in time ten years before at the month of July, 1985, hanging on the wall seeming to point out that time here was almost at a standstill. There is an old wooden bench like a church pew, with flat, worn cushions on which Giulio would stretch out, snuggled on his chest the cat, safe for the minute from the old harridan with the broom. This sacred site, this sanctuary of one old man, was invaded for the
family meetings. He was regularly turfed off his old bench and told to sit up and make room for the “members of the board”, and once again we met for negotiations. The cat was long since gone having heard Meri’s voice advancing. The “Board” consisted of “Madam Chairwoman” Meri, Roberto her eldest son, Giulio, and Luigi. Curiosity prompted others to arrive; cousin Bruno who lived in a separate house across from Meri’s, Pierina, Giulio’s sister, and one of Giulio’s brothers, none of these people having anything to do with the affair. Everybody talked at once, some intermittently giving me the evil eye as though I should not be there, but neither should you, I thought. Every surface occupied by a bottom! I almost expected the priest to pop in, he would have the hot seat, the stove being the only free surface remaining.

  Negotiations were becoming acrimonious. There was no arbitrator, what was the point? The mother hen ruled the roost and would continue to do so. Luigi did his best to translate, but he was soon speaking Italian to me and English to his family. Such confusion! Papers were produced, diagrams of land outlined in different colors. We were yellow, Meri’s was red—too much red I thought, not enough yellow, my favorite color. Someone, I wondered who, had already made decisions about who would have what. I could see Luigi looking annoyed. He raised his voice above the others and those with no personal claim were dismissed unceremoniously, which left a manageable group of four. I stuck out like a sore thumb and attempted to hide away in the corner among the potatoes. The diagram indicated that Luigi’s plots were too far away, steep slopes and gullies. Still nothing was indicated regarding Nona’s house. But now we were getting down to brass tacks—the real dealing was starting. Luigi named his choices, Genovese, Banshoele, and fields near the house.

  “No,” said Meri “you can’t have those. I promised them to Roberto. You can have the forest up past Monte Pero.”

  “What good will that do me?” he countered. “It’s miles away. I want land near the village, close to the house.”

  “Well,” said Meri, her cheeks flushed from the heat of the stove, “perhaps you can have the hillside where the family used to grow grapes. That’s close by.”

  “I want that and two other pieces”, he said.

  She nixed that also. All this was going nowhere. Then Roberto, the peacemaker, stood. Suggesting the meeting shut up shop for the day, he left. Without one of the major players there was no point in continuing. I started babbling on about the gorgeous weather and the dogs outside but I may as well not have been there. Meri stomped off to her kitchen, Giulio lay back on his bench and closed his eyes. The television continued to blab on, and we left. There was somewhere nicer to be. We headed for Nona’s house.

  These meetings punctuated our stay. Would there ever be resolution? I just placated my heart by hoping and praying that we would eventually get the pieces of land we wanted. I hoped that all the bargaining and fighting would one day come to an end, that we would all live amicably and that Luigi and I would own Banshoele and Genovese, our favorite parcels and of course Nona’s house. Some pieces of land have nicknames the reasons for which are often lost in history. Luigi loved Banshoele. Taking the scythe and clippers and other tools, he could disappear into its jungle a kilometer or so from the house, away from the prying eyes of the villagers who have a penchant for wanting to know everything about everything. I love Genovese. Genovese literally means “People from Genoa”. It sits on the western side of the hill as opposed to the eastern slope to which Rovinaglia clings. It is protected from the wind, sloping gently at first towards the tinkling creek that winds its way down to the Taro then more steeply, overgrown with brambles, wild roses and canopied with hundreds of chestnut trees. At points the River Taro is visible as it snakes through the valley, city rooftops and bridges also peek through. My dream would be to build a little rock house with a red tiled roof, snuggled at the top of Genovese, a stand of chestnut trees behind, and beyond those stretching back up the hill the beautiful wild flower meadows, an ancient oak perfectly positioned to shade the front porch. It could be my little place where the wind cannot reach me, where silence is broken only by the birds or by a distant tractor, but mostly, where I would not be affected by the petty, narrow minds and the ever-watchful eye of mother hen and the other inquisitive villagers.

  Sometimes we would walk over to Genovese in the evening to watch the sunsets streaking the sky in fiery blazes across the distant mountains, the slashes of indigo clouds, the butter background turning to lemon. It was not hard to stay silent in the presence of these awesome natural wonders.

  Dotting the opposite hillsides are many little houses and villages. The most beautiful of these is Compiano, my favorite, topped by the castle, construction of which began in the year 852. This village is home to many artists and artisans. A wealth of beauty and history is hidden away in the cool cobbled streets and alleyways. No cars are allowed within the walls except for those of the residents, and so this beauty remains fresh and clean. Behind thick studded, centuries-old doors, the potters and painters, the sculptors and craftsmen create from their hearts. The castle has been host to many different aristocratic families: Costello, Malaspina, Landi, Visconte, Piccanino, Farnese, Borbonni, the list is formidable. More recently it was a school for young ladies. The last owner was a countess who remodeled the inside, draping the walls with heavy velvets and silks completely at odds with the castle’s design. She left her Irish wolfhound and the castle to the community. We saw the dog a few times enclosed in a pen with a rock kennel. The poor thing had no one to socialize with, only the keeper of the castle who was responsible for the dogs daily care and feeding. The castle is now a museum exhibiting artifacts from different eras. These artifacts do not display well within the heavy Victorian décor. The castle is, however, imposing and stands guard over the village with its rock wall splendor sprouting turrets and gargoyles and glorious marble statues.

  On the eastern side of the hill overlooking Rovinaglia there is a particular meadow, my favorite, where I like to walk and sit, contemplate and draw. The aroma of the wild flowers, scabious, borage, buttercups, fennel, mallow, cornflowers, clover, is wonderful. So many colors, too beautiful, set in a carpet of green, stretching away down the hillsides leading my eyes to the red roofs surrounding the church in Rovinaglia and then across the valley to Valdena with its own ever-watchful church. Each village is a nucleus of beings, tiny pieces of a huge and wonderful puzzle. Drawing in the feelings and beauty of this meadow, of the views up and down the valley, is a wonderful way to forget the family in-fighting, the spats and squabbles. I wish Luigi would spend more time up here in the peace and solitude, to renew his spirit when it is low. I see a subtle change in him, very slight but evident in the occasional paranoid remark he makes. Will he become one of the negative, complaining, old men of the village?

  It is Sunday. The computerized church bell is tolling, calling the faithful to church. Rovinaglia’s bells are the third to ring, taking their turn according to the priests schedule, the priest who sold the kid’s soccer field and one of the church bells, the same priest who sits outside his church holding court in the other village below, San Vincenzo, near the valley bottom. His belly too big, his smile ingratiating, seeming to say, “Bring me your money and your sins will be forgiven, but you will have to continue being inconvenienced with different mass times, while I struggle to fit three churches into my hectic schedule”. This schedule is necessary because the

  Diocese will not sink any more money into the older churches. It is not uncommon for a priest to circulate between four or five villages.

  When assigning the funds, I wonder if the Diocese conveniently forgot the women, young, smooth and supple, old, gnarled and arthritic, who crawled on their hands and knees in penance up the cold steps? Did the Diocese forget how these women, while their men were working or away at war, physically carried rocks up the hill to rebuild the campanile, the east wall, and the now empty priest’s house? Perhaps the Diocese did not
remember how one family, Guilio’s family, donated the land for the cemetery, such an integral part of the villagers’ lives.

  With these not so meditative thoughts shrouding me in unhappiness, I walked down the little trail to the road and followed the small group of people who were making their way from the furthest houses, toward the church. A continual flow, a growing procession wends its way up the hill, past the cemetery and down to the church piazza. Greetings are dull and passionless. Some handshaking, some kissing on cheeks, first right then left, no clashing noses. That is reserved for the new-world visitors, the uninitiated.

  The cheeks of the children, subjected so often to Nonas’ and Zias’ pinching, have become pink and round like little apples. Dressed like little princes and princesses, the girls wear frills and lace and ribbons of pale virginal colors, ears shining with gold studs, little black patent shoes iced with frilly white socks. The boys wear perfect little suits, black and austere with bow ties round their collars done up tight to the chin. The youngest cling to their mamas and peer up at the doting grandmas. Others run back and forth, excited, playful, for now the only true joy to grace this group of dour looking villagers. The older children, boys, of course, are behind the scenes, preparing robes, altars, candles, the magic of mass.