In Love With Emilia Read online

  We spend hours and days cleaning up outside. The lower level of the old ruined house next door, the house where Luigi and his siblings were born, is still partially standing. As with most of the old houses built into the hillsides, the rear wall is the steeply sloping bedrock. The front wall, facing out across the valley, is still intact. Built into the hillside it is level with the land now, but the east wall drops about twenty feet to its base below. The two side-walls have partially collapsed in on themselves but the piles of rock are retrievable and eventually Luigi would rebuild the walls under the very critical eyes of his nephew who is an expert on rock walls. As always, Luigi does everything his own way. I am sure all the men had a chuckle in the garage when they talked about his stone mason skills. But for now there it all sat, a forlorn shell. A dump filled with old bed springs, old stoves and pipes, cracked china sinks, plastic buckets, bits of broken furniture, dented kettles, bottles, baskets, and old farm tools. We waded around in it, our hearts sorry for what once was. The nettles and brambles fought to retain their hold on the few bits and pieces we tried to salvage. How sad it all seemed now. Part of a long forgotten time.

  We sat on the wall for some time, contemplating the mess. Looking out across the valley, the wonderful view was soothing. Luigi slipped into his inevitable stories of the old family. A family tree so convoluted and intertwined like a tropical rain forest. I hack my way through the jungle of twisted vines and branches gasping for air, trying to reach the top. Determined to grasp and remember the names, I vow to bring pruning shears on my next encounter with Luigi’s inexorable account of his family. Somewhere, in the year dot, these people began. Just when I am sure I have grasped a line, more relatives leap from the branches. And grandpa Luigi and grandmother Carolina begat Angelina, Guiseppe, Marietta and Agostino, who begat Jackie and Linda and Eugenia and Meri and Lena and Luigi, who begat Veronica and Remo and Aurora and Gianni and Roberto and Stefano and Giorgio and Guiliana and Carlo and Melody, some of whom are still begetting. But wait, Angelina married Lorenzo and they are related. How can that be? Somewhere in the annals of time, their ancestors crossed paths and so on and on we go. I will be taken to meet this uncle, that cousin, twice removed, introduced to Zias and Cougini. I will meet long lost cousins seventeen times removed who have arrived from the States.

  Our peace is broken as a Scottish brogue hails us from the fields, another twig on the tree. Ah, that’s the “Scott’s Porridge Oats lady”—name association? Forget it, I just remember the association. There is “Cow Bruno” and “Brown Bruno” not to be confused with Cousin Bruno; the “Paintbrush Man”, the “Sad Lady”, the “Tractor Boy”. There are also the “Dog Man”, the “Cat Lady”, “Popeye” and “Early Gray”.

  I have long since leapt from the family tree. I think of my own roots, William the Conqueror intertwined in them somewhere, but they seem a mere sapling in comparison to this monstrous jungle of lives. After all this family history, quite enough to boggle my mind, we finish our work for the day. With backs broken, sweaty, grime streaked faces, we manage a giggle among the groans of pain. Tomorrow we will continue to clean up, to find stuff to fill the gaping remains of that poor old house. Our plan was to repair the walls, fill the whole lot level with the tops of those walls and make a little piazza where we could sit in the sun, sip wine, drink cappuccino and do those things that are an integral part of this life.

  Dinner brings more stories of family and villagers. Tales once, twice, thrice told, handed down over time, grow and blossom into larger more exciting, more intricate stories. This would be a typical dinnertime, a lovely meal cooked by Luigi, our favorite wines and total relaxation. This dinnertime I was treated to a story about the strange old man called Ricobon who had lived in the clump of houses call Brattesani, down the hillside just below us. During and after the war he continually demanded police protection because he was a fascist and was convinced the partisans were after him. The caribinieri were constant visitors and the villagers wished they would just take him away. His paranoia never assured him of his safety. He died a miserable old man, alone in his old cottage. No wonder he was a bit odd, poor old thing, they say he had a hole in his head and would show the children of the village his throbbing brain.

  I was also treated this evening to the story about the old man who practiced witchcraft. After the war he went to California for a number of years and the villagers say he lived with a group of native Indians and this is where he picked up his wickedness. After returning to Rovinaglia he began his black magic rituals. He set up an altar in his house and would place his pet chicken upon it proceeding to have lengthy discussion with the hen. He would also sit up in the cemetery making piles of a mixture of sand, clay, and salt and chant and perform rituals as he read the bible. He was blamed for every disaster that befell the community. The villagers said that the storms would come, there was too much rain, not enough rain, too much wind, too hot, too cold, too damp, too cloudy, loss of hay, small eggs, early winters, late springs, almost everything that went wrong was attributed to him and his wretched chicken.

  I can personally relate to how stories can grow and flourish over the years. My own husband in the telling, often, of his childhood to his children, went from, “The nearest town, Borgotaro is quite a long way away”, to “It was an overnight trip just to get there let alone return, my mother would pack food baskets for me, I took a blanket to sleep under the chestnut trees at night.” Years later the kids and I had such a giggle as we discovered it was only six kilometers, an hour or so walk. We still tease him about that. He has never since to this day, walked down to Borgotaro.

  * * *

  It is Monday, market day. Great preparation takes place for this weekly event. It is the highlight of the week for the ladies of the village. They primp and preen, hair is washed, curlers lovingly placed and wrapped safely in cotton scarves, the lumpy sleepless night endured. The best frock resurrected once more, the church cardigan buttoned once again. Gather the shopping bags, the faithful umbrella, for if it should rain, you would not want to get wet because then you would catch a cold or maybe influenza or even pneumonia. Meri and Giulio always go alone. She will not share a car with the other women, so much a loner and independent. The other old folks squeeze into the little cars and descend the six kilometers into the town, into the 20th century. A joyous gathering of Monday morning happiness, which seems to gradually lessen during the week until Sunday arrives and the ritual churchgoing once more invigorates them.

  The travelling stalls arrive early. At six o’clock in the morning they roll into their weekly-allotted spots between the great London Plane trees on Viale Bottega, street of the market, that have sheltered generations of markets. What stories these trees could tell of bartering, dealing, and complaints, of gossiping groups and busy mamas stocking up for the week. Of squalling lambs and upside down flapping chickens, calves and cows and gobbling turkeys, and soft sweet bunnies all on their journeys to hell. These days the Planes are happier. The times of the livestock markets are gone with the introduction of the new animal rights legislation more sensitive to the welfare of our co-dwellers on this planet. The trees sway their gorgeous leaves above the white vans, tin box things void of personality, dead nothings. But wait, they live, the sides are thrown open, the colored awnings unfurled, the merchants and their wares burst from within. Tables, stalls, racks are erected. Shoes, buckets, carpets, can openers, plastic crosses, glass ashtrays and much more to satisfy the needs of any self-respecting mama. Hanging clothes brush the heads of the early throng. No orderly queuing. Shouting and pushing for the best bargains, get in, get out and on to the cheese stall, the vegetables and fruit. Shout louder, a cacophony of sound, liberally seasoned with music blaring from an old man’s stand, and tapes of accordion music, scratchy tenors of yesteryear, long since consigned to the garbage by the younger generation. All this is wrapped in an aroma of sweat, cigarette smoke, and cologne, the smelly Parmesan adding just the right
mix to gag the uninitiated. The process complete for another week, the women scuttle away, their elbow joints stretched beyond repair, arms bearing bags sprouting cabbages, garlic, tea towels, plastic flowers, and toilet brushes.

  The men have collected at their favorite bar on the corner at the end of the Viale Bottega, awaiting the arrival of the women. An impenetrable crowd of card players, smoking, drinking espresso, tossing back a quick aperitif. Others, standing in groups, passing the time of day. The same old stories, the same old Monday morning conversations. Cigarettes dangling from lips, from yellow stained fingers, eyes screwed up, faces wrinkled, stray smoke assaulting nostrils. Sixty, seventy, a hundred men, solving the world’s problems, invincible, in total control, until their women arrive. These puffed up rooster-men, these warriors, deflate when claimed by their women. Shrinking, submissive, doddering old men, laden with plastic bags, are herded away by the tough little ladies, stuffed into tiny cars, retreating to the hills until next Monday.

  Meanwhile back in the market, the next shift browses. Townsfolk, the mothers and babies, toddlers underfoot, running here and there with no fear of predators, just doting Italians loving their children, the heart of all Latin families. Workers on their morning break, visiting soccer players, aimless wanderers with nothing else to do this morning, and the younger set.

  Have genetics created these beautiful young people? The young women, lithe sashaying bodies, perfectly formed figures encased in silky lycra, so tight were they poured into those pants?—no cellulite, no lumps and bumps and rolls, perhaps a little silicone here and there. Tanned arms, beautifully manicured hands reaching to stroke the swaying curtains of gorgeous sweaters, long slinky skirts, lacy sexy undies. No bargaining, no screaming back and forth, simply handing over thousands of lire without a second thought. The young men saunter in groups, arms draped around shoulders, open signs of affection for their friends, hips swaying in Armani jeans. Are drop dead gorgeous looks a prerequisite for the Italian male? Eyes deep, mysterious, flashing and naughty, scanning every inch of female anatomy. No political correctness here, just open appreciation of the gorgeous females. No twittering and giggling from the girls as their equally appreciative glances are returned.

  I walk up one side of the market and down the other, being sure not to miss a stall. I need a few small things for the house, some hooks, a ball of twine, tea towels and a dustpan and brush. In fact I need too many things but I must adjust to this way of life. I can do without, I can “make do and mend”! Two hours later I am still enthralled, as I will continue to be for many Mondays. I leave with huge yellow silk sunflowers, a definite necessity that will look gorgeous in an old green glass demijohn rescued from beside a garbage can. I am weighed down with much more than I intended. Ropes of huge garlic corms, the heaviest kilo ever carved of real, solid Parmigiano. A wonderful plump, purple melanzzane (eggplant), more geraniums, even a bunch of flowers for that fearful little woman whom I actually secretly admire for her steadfast ability to endure, to cater to every need of her family, to fend off interlopers come what may.

  I leave the market and pass through a now smaller crowd of men who are still gathered in the piazza in front of the bar and seem to fall aside in shock as I stride straight through the middle of them all. Sorry guys, I want the shortest route to my favorite outdoor café, Maria’s Pizzaria, where I will wait for Luigi. Eventually they will accept the tall Canadian but for now they seem shocked at my apparent brazenness. I walk through cobbled streets and alleyways to via Nazionale. I never cease to be in awe of these cool, shady streets, carved between the tall buildings. Ochre, yellow, sienna walls reaching skyward, joined together to form solid façades along the streets. Clinging to the walls are colored shutters and balconies dripping with geraniums. Lines of washing linking opposite sides of the narrow streets, decorated with an array of old ladies’ bloomers and bras, lacy little things daughters bought at the market, holey old undershirts, socks, tablecloths and dish rags, all on display for the world to see.

  These handsome old buildings were once the 16th and 17th century palazzos of the great families of the region, Boveri, Bertucci, Corsini-Manara. Visiting royalty often graced these palazzos with their presence, Landi and Fieschi, Dukes of

  Lavagna, Marie Luigia of Austria, Elizabetta Farnese on route to her marriage to King Philip V of Bourbon. Behind the walls lie the inner courtyards, gardens, and elaborate stone patterned paths. Arched porticos supported by marble pillars surround the courtyards with stone and marble stairways leading up to first, second, and third floor walkways. Tall doors open into high, cool salons, frescoes decorating their domed ceilings, electric cables stretched hither and thither across angels and voluptuous women draped seductively as they look down upon the 20th century.

  Archaeological findings in and around Borgotaro indicate that the town’s history reaches as far back as the 5th Millennium B.C. Etruscan ruins can be found in this area as they can across northern Italy. Broadening its empire, Rome began to overcome the Etruscan centers about two hundred years before Christ. Borgotaro represented a strategic position at the junction of three regions, Emilia Romagna, Etrusca, from which originated the name Tuscany, and Liguria. The Romans had forged passes across the mountains, giving access to these regions. Borgotaro’s economy improved as merchants, armies, travelers, and wandering tribes crossed these passes and took their cultures and influences to others. Access to Central Italy, the East Coast, and France improved trade and communication.

  Historical records show that sometime during 900 A.D. a church was built at the confluence of the rivers Taro and Tarodine. The community of Toresano grew around this site. Some inhabitants began to settle further westward and a separate community grew across the river. It became known as Borgo Val di Taro, “Town in the Valley of the Taro”. The original fortress had its origins in an 11th century community run by the monks of Bobbio who led a very simple, uncomplicated way of life. This was not to last as throughout the centuries to follow the town was conquered and owned by different warring dukes, Landi and Fieschi families such as, Visconti, Sforza, Doria and Farnese. Even the popes and the

  Council of Piacenza would get their greedy little paws into the fray. In the 12th century, Henry VI dropped by en route to Naples from Milan. So impressed was he with the unique setting of the Fortress in the Valley that he declared its name to be official. It would not change until its 20th century inhabitants began to call it Borgotaro. The old town that we see now was built around the church of San Antonino, the first stone for which was laid in 1650. Inside San Antonino is a wealth of beauty and history. An amazing wooden pulpit with carved wooden statues and ornate inset panels, a high altar of white marble towers over those who kneel before it, a magnificent organ issues tones from one thousand and eight hundred organ pipes.

  Because of the town’s strategic position, ownership continued to ricochet between Dukes and Princes. Early in the 14th century, the then current Duke of Landi, Agostino, took control. He ordered the destruction of the beautiful city wall encircling the town. Apparently he was quite convinced that rival factions within, were planning an uprising and without the walls the naughty rebels would be in full view standing around in the piazzas discussing his overthrow. But of course like all good rebels they went underground, secreted away down dark cobbled alleyways, in cantinas and behind shuttered windows. In any event he need not have bothered because the Visconti armies performed a successful invasion and tossed him out.

  Between 1322 and 1335, the papal domination involved Borgotaro’s submission into the Holy See and then once again the battling began between the dukes, and the town changed hands four or five times. Finally in 1578, fed up with so many regimes, the people took control of their own town and sent the princes and dukes on their way. Through free choice, the people chose Octavio Farnese to be their prince, and for almost two hundred years there was little oppression and the townsfolk felt quite secure and settled. With no male h
eir, the dynasty ended in 1731. The dukedom was passed into the hands of Carlo Borbone, son of Elizabetta Farnese, and so began years of Borbone rule.

  During his Italian Campaign in 1796-97, Napoleon Buonaparte came marching through at the head of his troops, his high black boots creating the image of a man larger than life, or a fashion faux pas. He was successful in annexing parts of Italy, thereby breaking the then current Austrian stranglehold. Consequently this poor little town was once again kicked around like a football, changed hands, and became part of the French Empire.

  Oppressed people do not sit around for too long before rebelling and the early 1800’s brought revolution. Italy’s greatest hero in the making, Garibaldi, led the forces towards a united Italy and in 1860 the kingdom of Italy was born. Kings were crowned and sat on the throne, comfy in the thought of a secure future for the monarchy. Well of course all good things come to an end—the royal bottoms warmed the royal throne until 1946 when the Christian Democrats voted in favor of an Italian Republic. King Victor Emanuel III abdicated and his son, Humbert II, ascended the throne, but was made short shrift of and was sent off to exile.

  Through all the centuries of madness and mayhem of battles and world wars, of partisans and Nazis and Fascists, Borgotaro has plodded on her steady way through history, wall-less and perhaps not as beautiful as some historical centers, she retains an old-world charm, unspoiled by hype and commercialism. A charm enhanced and perpetuated by her people. The weekends and evenings bring out the crowds. Families stroll back and forth along the cobbled via Nazionale. Dads, moms, grandparents, teenagers, children running back and forth, playing free from the danger of traffic which is banned from the town center for the summer. The cafes and bars are full of coffee and aperitif drinkers, and of course many walkers lick at the inevitable gelati, the best ice cream in the world.