by Dick Rosano
“Do you time the baking?”
Wagging a finger, Zia replied, “No, no, only by touch.” She gestured this last phrase with her index finger, poking downward at a make-believe loaf of bread.
Carlo knew this would hardly extract him from the center of attention, but hoped to divert the attention and appear to be concentrating on the baking process. But the blood was slow to subside from his cheeks.
Chapter 19
The Art of the Vine
Cristiano observed the activities from a respectful distance. By this time in the morning, he would usually be in the vineyard but, leaving the house, he suspected that this young guest might need to be rescued from the ovens, so he wandered close to the square and sat at a café table, smoking a Toscano cigar and sipping espresso till the right moment.
“Carlo,” he called out, “vieni qua,” – “come here.”
It sounded vaguely like an order, not an invitation, but Carlo appreciated the opportunity to remove himself from the circle of women. Bread baking was a patient art and he could learn more later.
He sat down at Cristiano's table and smiled at him wanly. The older man knew what was happening, and Carlo knew that he had been given a reprieve.
“Baking bread is a fine art in this village. Altamura is famous throughout Italy, probably the whole world,” Cristiano said with exaggerated pride. “And the women of our little town are famous for it.” Leaning toward Carlo and pointing his index finger at him, Cristiano added, “And my wife is without question the best of them all,” raising that index finger to the sky to make the point.
“But sometimes the women must be left to their own, non è vero?” he added.
“Sì,” came Carlo's simple reply, “agreed.”
“Sì,” Cristiano repeated. “We are visited by the spirit…,” something that Carlo recalled hearing that morning from Zia Filomena.
“Zia talked of that when we were collecting the rising dough for the oven. The spirit is the yeast?”
“Sì, the yeast that ferments both the bread and the wine of Altamura. In your country, winemakers use yeast they get out of jars.” Cristiano spat out this last word as if it was a crime.
“Well, not so much anymore,” came Carlo's retort. He didn't know a lot about commercial winemaking in America, but he had made wine with his father and uncles, and he knew enough that propagated yeast – often lamely called “commercial yeast” – intended for winemaking was being replaced in some cases with natural yeast by some more resourceful winemakers.
Still, Carlo accepted Cristiano's disdain for the propagated yeast without compliant, even while he felt compelled to defend his own country and remind his elderly patron that the best winemakers in America respected the difference and tried to find a compromise between the gap in styles.
“Sì, sì,” said Cristiano impatiently, “but here there is no dispute. Natural yeast, the spirit in the air, is what makes our wine and bread. We don't have to debate it; it is plain to see.”
With that, he tapped Carlo on the shoulder. “Andiamo,” he said, standing and beckoning Carlo to follow him.
They walked side by side past several streets, back to the Filomena house. When Cristiano ducked inside the doorway to his own home, he again waved his hand at Carlo, instructing him to follow.
They walked past the dining area and kitchen, where Carlo paused to wave at Giovanna at the stove. Cristiano then led Carlo into a back room through a heavy oaken door. It was not a cellar – the room was above ground – but it served as Cristiano's winery. Bulbous oak casks and large demijohns of glass lined the walls. Assorted instruments of winemaking hung from pegs on the walls. Ancient, gnarled, wooden racks held hundreds of bottles of wine, and an old wine press stood guard in a corner of the room.
Cristiano entered the room without intending to impress Carlo because, for him, the trappings of the small Filomena winery were nothing out of the ordinary. All Cristiano wanted was to treat Carlo to one of his bottles of wine.
The old man pulled a bottle from the rack. None had labels, but Cristiano's actions were focused and clear. He knew which bottle he wanted and – Carlo assumed – knew which vintage to secure, before setting the bottle on an aged wooden table in the middle of the room.
Cristiano reached for a corkscrew on a peg above the wine racks and set about driving it into the bottle gripped in his left hand. With a subtle “pop,” he pulled the cork as wondrous and fruity aromas filled the air. Cristiano poured two glasses half full and set the bottle down on the table.
“Salute!” he said. “To your health.”
As Carlo raised his glass he examined the wine's deep ruby color. Simple house wines were not meant to be studied and for Carlo to examine this too closely would be an insult to this host.
Cristiano took a hearty gulp, which Carlo mimicked. The wine was silky smooth, with a fruity mouthfilling flavor, and it went down softly without any aftertaste. Among the elegant wines of the world it would be forgotten, but as a simple, table wine it was wonderful.
“What is it? I mean, what are the grapes you use?”
“Primitivo,” Cristiano replied. “I think your winemakers in California call it Zinfandel.”
The origins of Zinfandel had been traced to Puglia and DNA tests suggested that it is derived from the Primitivo grape. He accepted the science, but he had to admit that the two wines were very different. The Zinfandel of California was more pronounced and spicy; the Primitivo that he was enjoying at that moment was smoother and had what he could only call more elegance.
Cristiano explained the process he used for winemaking, beginning with the harvest of grapes in the fields outside Altamura and ending with the heavy lifting required during the bottling phase.
“Most of our families don't bottle their wines,” he admitted. “They keep the wine in barrels or demijohns. But I like to bottle it and serve just a bit at a time. It keeps the rest of the wine from spoiling too quickly, and” he continued with a wink, “you can send greedy drinkers home after a bottle or two, before they've cleaned out an entire batch.”
Chapter 20
La Passeggiata
That evening, after cena, or supper, Giovanna took Carlo to the main square of Altamura for the evening passeggiata, a ritual event for families to get together in the piazze where they walk arm in arm, striking up conversations with friends who were also sharing the evening air.
Zia and Cristiano went along and, just behind them, came Gia and Carlo. She was already comfortable enough with her house guest that she slipped her hand through his arm as they walked, and she pointed to friends, calling out “ciao” and “buona sera” frequently, and telling Carlo about the people of Altamura.
Gia had the olive complexion, dark eyes, and luxurious tresses common to her heritage as a southern Italian woman. Her eyes smiled along with her lips, and she took great pleasure in telling Carlo about the young couples she pointed out along the edges of the piazza.
“Oh, you would not be able to resist her,” she claimed, indicating a voluptuous young woman named Diana who was being courted by no less than three men. “She is the, the… what do you call the most beautiful girl in America?”
“Miss America?” he offered.
“Sì, sì!” Gia's description of Diana bore no hint of jealousy. Carlo could see the Gia too was very attractive, and he noticed the attention that she got from the young men they passed.
“Ah, Arabella!” Gia exclaimed. She pulled her hand from Carlo's elbow and threw her arms around the neck of a striking girl who had just entered the square.
“Come stai?” she asked, “how are you?”
“Molto bene, grazie,” came the answer. “Very well, thanks.”
Carlo took advantage of the girls' chat to appraise Arabella. She had light, almost blond hair, and crystalline blue eyes highlighted by the light touch of eyeliner applied above and below. Her cheeks were a soft pinkish red, but not from blush.
Her dress was modest, but a scoopin
g neckline showed off her figure, and the tight sash across her waist emphasized her shapeliness. He picked up on Gia's comments about him – “Viene dagli degli Stati Uniti” she said, “he comes from the United States,” and noticed Arabella smiling back at him.
“Carlo, ti presento la mia amica, Arabella,” said Gia, gently pushing her friend closer to Carlo. Arabella offered her hand to shake, though Carlo was unsure of the appropriate response. A handshake seemed a bit too American, but he really didn't have a firm understanding yet of Italian etiquette. He accepted Arabella's offer though, taking her hand lightly in his.
“Carlo is visiting us to learn more about life among Italians,” Gia explained. “He thought he would just watch and observe us, eat our meals and meet our pretty ladies.” At this, Carlo blushed. “But mama has him baking bread and papa, well, you know my father, he has Carlo enjoying the fruits of the vine.”
“No, well yes,” he stammered. “But my main interest is in learning more about Italian life. You see, I'm Italian-American and…” His voice trailed off when the two young ladies in front of him seemed to lose interest.
“Come,” Gia said, taking Carlo's right arm. At the same moment, Arabella took hold of his left arm, and Carlo blushed thinking that he was now escorting two beautiful women on la passeggiata.
They walked around the piazza while Gia and Arabella talked back and forth in front of Carlo, nodding and gesturing with their free arms. The conversation was lively, punctuated by occasional giggles or outright laughter, but Carlo was enjoying every second of it.
“Alessandro has been spending a lot of time around Giulia's house,” said Gia.
“Sì,” replied her friend, “and I don't think her papa likes it very much. How about Giada?” she said, pointing to an auburn-haired woman sitting at the cafè.
Gia giggled, then frowned. They both knew Giada, and didn't particularly get along with her, but such were the ways among competitive young people.
“How long will you stay?” Arabella suddenly asked Carlo. The conversation up to that point had been in Italian, which he followed, but Carlo realized that he had not heard Arabella speak in English until she addressed him.
“Um, I don't know. Probably for a couple of weeks.”
At that instant, Gia pulled her arm from his, smiled at them, and spun away to talk to another friend standing nearby. Arabella and Carlo were left alone and, to his estimation, this had been planned by his adopted “sister.”
“So, due settimane?” Arabella said.
“Si, two weeks,” he replied as they resumed their walk.
“Okay,” Arabella commented, slipping her arm further around Carlo's. “Then I'll tell you all about the people of Altamura.”
Chapter 21
La Chiesa dello Spirito Santo
Like most Italian towns, Sunday mornings in Altamura have a different routine from the other days of the week. Dressed in their best clothes, Zia Filomena, Cristiano, Gia, and Carlo walked several streets to the broad stone steps of La Chiesa dello Spirito Santo, the Church of the Holy Spirit. They exchanged greetings as they made their way through the crowd entering the church. Carlo spotted Arabella but, to his disappointment, she avoided his gaze.
The interior of the church was cool and calm, with the stillness broken only by an organ's melodic promenade leading churchgoers to their seats. The Filomena family – plus one – ducked into a pew four rows from the altar.
The Latin mass had been abandoned decades before in favor of services in Italian. But Carlo noticed that here, in Italy, the vernacular was much closer to the Latin version and it reminded him of the rare instances when the mass was said at St. Ambrose church in St. Louis in Italian instead of English.
An elderly man lit the candles. His thinning hair revealed a shiny pate and his broad frame bore simple work clothes neatly pressed for the Sunday service. Carlo saw a serenity in the man's face that seemed to feed on the peaceful ritual taking place at the altar, and the American visitor envied the man's inner calm.
Standing, kneeling, sitting, and singing hymns commanded everyone's participation, even those with obviously deficient vocal talent. Carlo joined in, but tried hard not to embarrass his hosts by torturing notes that he never felt were within his range. After the Eucharist was offered and the final benediction given, the parishioners slowly filed out of the church into the late morning sunshine.
Zia and Cristiano lingered near the door of La Chiesa dello Spirito Santo, talking to friends while Gia and Carlo talked about the coming events of the day. After a few moments more, the priest, Don Adolfo appeared in the doorway. He was wrinkled, gray, and stooped over. Carlo estimated his age to be about 90, but the elderly priest smiled in the sunshine and strongly grasped people's hands as he worked the crowd.
Don Adolfo approached Cristiano and Zia, offered a handshake for the man and salutation for the lady, and was introduced to Carlo.
“He is visiting from America,” Giovanna explained, but Carlo interrupted her.
“Piacere, padre,” he began, “pleased to meet you, father. I have grown up in an Italian-American family and have great respect for the Italian culture. I want to spend time in your wonderful town to learn more about Italian families and what makes them so special.”
“What makes them so special?” Don Adolfo said, with a sly smile of amusement. “What makes them so special is that they stay together, loving each other, and carrying the Lord in their hearts.” He said this with conviction, nodding his head to stress the truth of his statement.
“And you are Catholic, yes?” asked Don Adolfo. Carlo nodded, knowing that this was not the time to debate the details of the marginalization of American Catholicism.
“Va bene,” replied Don Adolfo, with Zia, Cristiano, and Gia nodding their heads. “Very well. And I hope you will attend Mass regularly while you are here.”
Carlo offered his assurances and shook the priest's hand. Don Adolfo's grip had a firmness that Carlo hadn't expected from such an old man. The priest made the sign of the cross on their parting.
Turning away from Don Adolfo, Carlo noticed the elderly man from the candle lighting standing among the pews of the church. He carried himself erect and appeared to possess a physical strength that belied his age, which Carlo estimated to be about seventy. The man was busy arranging the hymnals left behind by the parishioners and turned only momentarily toward the people outside the church.
He nodded to Carlo and gave a slight smile.
“That's Nino,” Gia explained, whispering in Carlo ear. “He's very nice but a bit unusual. He's very quiet, some people think he's not right in the head.”
“He's fine in the head,” Cristiano protested. “Maybe he's not as smart as your friends at the university, but he keeps the church tidy and works hard in maintaining it.”
“Nino lives around back, in a little house attached to Don Adolfo's residence,” said Zia. “He takes care of La Chiesa dello Spirito Santo and the convent that is part of it.”
Gia took her parents' words as a rebuke. “I wasn't trying to speak ill of Nino, but he does seem a bit slow.”
Carlo watched the man walk back into the church, carrying stacks of hymn books with him.
Chapter 22
Seeking out the Sassi
After breakfast at Hotel San Nicola, Martin returned to his room to collect some things for his day's activities. He put his camera, guidebook, and Italian-German dictionary into his back pack. He sat on the bed for a moment, thumbing through his grandfather's journal until he reached the back. The phrases his grandfather left and the short narrative paragraphs focused his attention on this town and the Sassi that were cut into the nearby hillsides. There was nothing said directly about the Murge, the plateau that dominated the topography of this region, so he consulted the guidebook to get a better understanding of the area.
He carefully placed the old journal in his pocket and left the room, quietly closing the wooden door behind him. He proceeded down the stone steps that l
ed to the lobby and straight out into the daylight. After his earlier encounter with the desk clerk, he didn't expect to get any guidance from the man about the Sassi, so Martin knew he would have to ask for help elsewhere.
It was only half past eight so the sun was up but it was not yet hot. Martin decided to find a seat at a nearby café to allow himself more time to consult the journal and his travel guide and, hopefully, find a waiter or other staff willing to tell him more about the Sassi.
“Buon giorno,” said his waiter rather curtly. “What would you like?” he continued in stilted German. Martin realized the waiter could tell he was German by the travel guide on the table.
“Un espresso, per favore,” Martin said, hoping to get on the waiter's good side. A few moments later the man returned with a small cup and saucer.
“I sassi…” Martin began, “sono vicini?” – “they are near here?”
The question seemed lame even to Martin, since it was fairly common knowledge that the famous caves were a destination for many tourists. The hillside had been eroded over the millennia by the Gravina River, cutting a ravine upon the face of which the Sassi were dug.
“I sassi?” the waiter asked.
“Sì, the Sassi.” Switching back to English, Martin pressed on. “I have heard much about them and I would like to learn more, perhaps visit them. Are they off limits?”
“No, signor, non è vietato l'accesso.” Access is not forbidden.
“But they are so old,” Martin continued. “I just assumed that they would be held as precious ancient buildings.”
“Sì, they are old, and they are, as you say, preziosi, but we have lived in them for many centuries.”
“Not now,” Martin said with conviction.
“No, no signore, not now,” the waiter corrected, “but the people of Basilicata and Puglia lived in the Sassi until the 1950s.”
The guidebook indicated that the United Nations had declared the Sassi to be a World Heritage Site, but said nothing about humans living in the caves until so recently.
