by Adele Parks
'It is not on the square.'
'Oh.'
'We passed it driving in, but not to worry, we will see it soon enough.'
I'm nervous that he didn't point it out to me; is it a wreck? I push the thought away and concentrate on the innumerable mysterious shuttered buildings. I hope they are shops.
'The streets are emptier than I expected,' I comment.
'But then it is bitterly cold and it's after passeggiata and yet too early for the teenagers to hang out,' reasons Roberto.
I can imagine the teenagers, now boisterous but harmless, leaning on their mopeds. There are a couple of resilient old guys chatting happily outside one of the bars and a young family, the mother (heavily pregnant) pushing the empty stroller as her husband stays close to their giddy toddler who is rushing ahead chasing pigeons. It's frustrating that the place is practically deserted but it's adding insult to injury that the only woman in sight is pregnant. I shudder.
'I said you'd be cold,' tuts Roberto.
I don't want to give him the opportunity to say I told you so and so inadvisably I rush to explain the true cause of the shudder. 'I was just looking at that family.'
Roberto's gaze follows the direction I am pointing in.
'Elizabeth.' He sounds weary.
'What? I'm not sad. It might be a good omen. Mightn't it?'
Roberto doesn't reply but instead says, 'That one is Mamma's home.'
He points to a building that is unremarkable in every way. It's painted a shadowy grey colour, rather than rich terracotta or warm yellow like many of the other buildings scattered about. It looks neither well kept nor dilapidated. There are no plants or hanging baskets decorating the sills or balcony but then there's no peeling paint either. The large, rectangular shutters are clamped down and for reasons I can't quite explain they put me in mind of a toddler refusing food. There is a modern bell and intercom next to the door; I had imagined a large brass knocker. As Roberto's finger stretches towards the buzzer the door flings open.
'Mio figlio, mio figlio!'
11
It crosses my mind that I have never actually been inside an Italian home before, but still, I know exactly what to expect. I'm thinking high ceilings, marble floors, stylish arrangement of furniture, a warm, large kitchen with a pan of pasta on the stove and a bowl of fruit on the table. Raffaella's house does not disappoint, but there are elements that are unanticipated. The ceilings are high and the floor in the hall is marble, but both facts appear to be effectively disguised by a scattering of dusty, mismatched rugs on the floor and by a hideous brown flowered wallpaper which is peeling at the skirting board. With a lot of excited fuss, jubilant shouting, waving of arms and kissing we are ushered into the living room, which at first glance appears extremely small. After a while I realize it is in fact a reasonably big room – it's simply packed with dark, heavy furniture which makes it feel as though the walls are closing in. In fact, there's so much furniture that it's quite difficult for us all to squeeze into the room. I hang back a little, allowing Raffaella, Paolina and the old grandpa to welcome Roberto.
There's a huge dining table with eight chairs stood against one wall but it's clear that this dining table does not get used. It's pushed close to the wall so that three of the seats cannot be accessed. It's made of a deep mahogany wood that is polished to resemble an icy lake. I'd be terrified to put crockery or cutlery on to the gleaming surface for fear of scratching. There are two leather armchairs that are heavily stuffed and a small wooden two-seat settee which looks uncomfortable as the only padding is a thin, embroidered rectangular cushion. I note that home crafts seem to be alive and well in Veganze – besides the embroidered cushions, traycloths and table runner, it looks as though the room is suffering from a terrible case of measles – there are crocheted head- and arm-rests on the chairs and a plethora of crocheted place and drink mats dotted all over the place.
There's an enormous dresser groaning under the weight of beautiful earthenware. I quickly count that it's a set for at least twelve. There are dinner plates, pasta plates, soup dishes, side plates, dessert bowls, tea cups and saucers, espresso cups and saucers. I smile to myself imagining the hours Mamma-in-law and I will spend together in the kitchen preparing wonderful dishes for friends and family that we'll serve from the beautiful hand-painted bowls. I've (repeatedly) heard from Roberto that Raffaella is a great cook; I'm not a great cook but I'm determined to learn. I wonder if she has any secret family recipes that she'll pass on to me and whether crochet is hard to pick up. Pictures and photos are squeezed into every inch of available wall space. The pictures are mostly slightly creepy sketches of birds and fish, but I'm keen to browse and take a better look at the sepia photos. I consider that there will be plenty of time for that. Raffaella has finally released Roberto from her wide arms and I see my moment. Roberto sees it too.
'Mamma, this is my wife, Elizabeth,' he says in Italian. His voice is proud and confident.
I step forward, squeeze in among them, and move to hug my mother-in-law.
'Piacere,' she says stiffly.
Disappointingly, there is nothing about my mother-in-law's face to suggest that she does think our meeting is a pleasure. I put my arms around her and while she does not pull away from my embrace I sense that every fibre .in her body is silently resisting it. Immediately embarrassed that I've been too forward, I quickly break away. How silly of me! I've been day-dreaming about an immediate and entire welcome into Roberto's family and I'm expecting too much. Of course Raffaella is a little uncomfortable with me; this meeting is long overdue. I shouldn't have tried to rush things.
Raffaella takes a step back and starts to rattle on again in Italian. It's clear she's offering Roberto something to eat. She keeps pointing towards the hostess trolley which is situated between the comfy chairs and the austere two-seat settee. It's full of fruit and cheeses, olives and other delicious-looking antipasti that I don't know the name of. I'm very hungry; while Roberto is shaking his head and refusing food, I'm staring meaningfully at the focaccia, desperately hoping to be offered a plate. I'm not.
I so want to make a good impression with my new Italian family. I decide that I must seize the moment to energetically recite my parrot-learned expressions. I ask after Raffaella's health and say how happy I am to meet her at last. She stares at me in confusion.
'Che? Che? Parla Italiano. Parla Italiano.' She shrugs, puts her hands to her ears and rolls her eyes at Roberto, Paolina and their old grandpa, who is now sitting quietly in one of the over-stuffed chairs.
I repeat my comments to him this time, slower and louder. I'm pretty sure I have the pronunciation spot on. For goodness sake, it's just a greeting; I can't have muddled that, can I? Roberto's grandpa offers me a toothless grin in reply but he doesn't look as though he understands much. I'm not sure if that's me or his age. I try for a third time to tell Raffaella that she's looking well. Once again she rolls her eyes and shrugs. Roberto and the senile old grandpa grin affably with her, not understanding my embarrassment. A bucket of icy water sloshes over me. This time I understand Raffaella's point with stunning clarity. There's no language barrier between the two of us. Her gestures manage to insult me and fool the others at the same time; they think she's being funny. I suppose she is, but not in the ha-ha sense. I see at once that she is a woman to be reckoned with and that she'll be expecting me to work hard for her approval.
Paolina seems to understand Raffaella's gesture too and kindly tries to come to my rescue. She translates my questions and Raffaella's responses.
'Mamma, lei sei, "Buonasera. Come sta? Piacere." Elizabeth, Mamma says, "What? What? Speak Italian. Speak Italian!"'
Paolina means well but her efforts to translate just add to my embarrassment. Frustrated and cross, I mutter, 'I am speaking Italian.' Roberto simply smiles and nods, all the nuances and friction drifting over his head; he pops an olive into his mouth.
Raffaella sits in the second comfy chair and pushes Paolina and Roberto into the w
ooden two-seat settee; I linger, unsure where to plonk myself. The floor looks dusty and Raffaella has her feet on the footstool, so I drag out a heavy dining room chair and sit in that. For reasons I can't quite explain – something to do with Raffaella insisting that she doesn't understand my attempts at Italian or maybe the fact that she hasn't even offered me so much as a slice of tomato – I daren't pull the chair to join the semicircle of chat but just move it enough so I can squeeze into the seat. Roberto glances my way and mouths, You OK?'
I don't want to make a fuss so I vigorously nod and grin like a mad Cheshire cat. He beams at me, easily reassured.
I see what has happened here. Raffaella has totally forgiven her son his six-year silence. She's embraced him fully and firmly. But at the same time she has a need of a target for her resentment and fury. She's been angry for a very long time and that anger has not vanished in an instant. No, she's found a new vessel into which she can pour her umbrage. Me.
I spend an uncomfortable evening trying to follow the conversation but I fail miserably. Trying to follow a conversation in a language I don't speak reminds me of the occasions when I'm the only sober person at a party of drunks, or worse, the only drunk with a bunch of teetotallers. I do recognize the words 'my family', which Raffaella repeats with greater and greater enthusiasm as the night progresses and the grappa is sunk, but pretty much everything else escapes me. It soon becomes clear that when Raffaella is talking to Roberto she seems to have only two modes of communication: garrulous and very garrulous. Her soliloquies, directed towards him, are punctuated with grandiose hand gestures and hugs. He accepts her affection and noise with a resigned shyness that's quite touching. I only wish I could understand what she was saying or that some of her affection was directed my way. Still, I can't expect miracles. At least it's good news that the two of them are getting on so well.
After about an hour Paolina brings me a plate of food and hangs around to chat while I munch.
'Mamma is so pleased Roberto has come home,' she says.
'I can see that.'
'And you too, of course,' she adds, colouring slightly. Neither of us is really convinced, but it's pleasant of Paolina to pretend I am at all important to the family. 'You'll have more time with Mamma another day,' she says apologetically.
'Naturally she's excited to see her son after such a long time. We'll become friends soon enough; I suppose these things can't be instantaneous,' I reply cheerfully. I'm hoping to convince the two of us.
Paolina quickly nods. 'They are talking business. The bar is in quite a bit of trouble,' she adds gravely.
'Is it?' I'm munching the most delicious cheese, otherwise I might be more alarmed to hear this.
'We don't make much money. Mamma is too old to run a bar that will attract the young crowd. You with your bar experience and Roberto with his advertising ideas and knowledge will make a big difference, I'm sure.'
'Oh yes, probably. This bruschetta is delicious. Did you make it?' I ask.
'No.'
'Your mamma?'
'No, it is bought from shop.'
'Oh.'
Paolina pats my hand, 'Well, don't worry about the bar. I am sure that you can make it work.'
I nod. 'I'm sure we can,' I say with a confident grin.
She pauses and then leans in to hug me. 'It's so nice that you are this positive.' She pulls away and for a moment I think she looks a little concerned, but then she adds, 'I'm tired. I'm going to bed. I probably won't see you in the morning. I leave the house quite early.'
'Where do you work?' I know Paolina is a solicitor but I know little else about her.
'I work in Padova.'
'I know Padova. It was the first Italian city I ever visited,' I gush.
'Really?' Paolina beams. 'Where else have you visited in Italy?'
'Erm, that's it.'
'Oh.' The conversation is bunged up by this confession.
After a couple of moments I think to ask. 'Is Padova a long commute?'
'It's about fifty-five kilometres away. I drive. It takes about forty minutes if the traffic is good. I work quite long hours so I really should be getting to bed. Good night and good luck tomorrow.'
So she's not concerned then, just tired. There's nothing to worry about.
12
At midnight Roberto turns to me and gives me a weary smile.
'Mamma has been talking about the bar and some of our challenges.'
'Yes, Paolina said so.'
I want to sound bright and interested but I'm knackered and just need my bed, so I don't prolong the conversation by asking exactly what those challenges are; we can talk about it in the morning. Domani domani has always been an Italian philosophy which I respect. Roberto asks me if I'll give him a hand bringing the suitcases in from the car. Raffaella watches as we struggle to drag the suitcases into the house; then she kisses Roberto on both cheeks and turns to go up the stairs.
'Ciao,' I call after her, rather lamely.
'Buona notte,' she replies formally.
'I don't think I made a particularly good impression,' I whisper to Roberto. I pull a face and he in return pulls me into a hug.
'I thought you were very polite. It was kind that you allow Mamma and me to catch up with our news; very thoughtful. I'm sure Mamma think so too.'
'I think she just assumes I'm dull and haven't anything to say for myself.'
'Impossible. When she gets to know you better she'll love you, almost as much as I do.' He smiles at me and his smile manages to massage away some of my insecurities. He squeezes me into a tight, long bear-hug but it doesn't last quite long enough for me, because when he pulls away he says, 'I'm afraid Mamma has not had time to arrange the bedrooms. Tonight you will sleep on a mattress in Paolina's bedroom and I am to sleep on the couch in Grandpa's room.'
'Oh no,' I groan. I just want to hold him tonight, all night. I know I should be feeling on top of the world, I'm finally here in Italy, but oddly I feel just the tiniest bit nervous, a little out of my depth. Holding him would help.
'I know, a pain, isn't it?'
'I don't understand. Isn't there a spare room for us to stay in together?'
'There is room but Mamma has not been able to get it ready yet. It's full of junk and needs to be cleared.'
'Your mum has known we were coming for a couple of weeks now.'
'She's been busy with our other preparation. The cooking for example.'
I haven't the heart to tell him the antipasti was shop-bought. It seems petty to mention it and we are both so tired we might start to bitch at one another. I just need to get to bed – or at least I need to get to the mattress on Paolina's floor.
My restraint is rewarded as Roberto kisses me for a long, lingering time. It's cosy and comforting. I don't know how I'll sleep without the warmth of his body. The house is freezing the moment you move away from the fire.
'We'll make plans for the bedrooms tomorrow or at least as soon as possible,' he promises, and then he kisses the top of my head. 'Now go upstairs and get some sleep.' He beams at me. 'Just think, Elizabeth, we are here in the Italy of your dreams. Can you believe that?'
No, I can't quite believe it, but we are indeed in Italy.
13
16 January
When I wake up it takes a moment for me to become orientated and remember where I am. Paolina's bed is empty; presumably she's already left for work. I hope she doesn't work late tonight; I feel I need her around, as she's the only family member who has said more than two words to me so far. I stretch and rub my arms and legs in an effort to keep warm and to nudge out the cramp; that certainly wasn't the most comfortable night's sleep I've ever had.
There's a tap at the door.
'Roberto,' I squeal – I'm delighted to see him. I pull him towards me and although he's fully clothed I try to edge my fingers under his jumper and run my hands across his back. 'Sleeping separately and sneaking around the house first thing in the morning like a teenager is quite a turn on,' I
giggle.
I lead him towards the bed and ease him on top of me. We start to kiss and Roberto's hand is wiggling up my thigh when suddenly he pulls away from me. He sniffs the sheets.
'Not on Paolina's bed. It smells of her. I feel weird,' he says.
'Point taken. How about the mattress?'
We fall on to the mattress and Roberto continues to kiss me for a minute but then reluctantly disengages. 'I wish we had time but we don't. Come on, you need to get dressed. We have a busy day. Plus Mamma has made breakfast. It's disrespectful to make her wait.'
Looks like it's me who will have to wait then.
I cautiously feel my way around the house. It's all pretty daunting. The bathroom is ancient and it's clear that it's not even on nodding terms with Mr Muscle or any other cleaning product. To think the Italians were the people who were responsible for the introduction of hot and cold running water, steam baths and early lavs. This one looks as though it hasn't been cleaned since Caesar was putting his royal bum on the throne. Of course, some of my friends have dirty bathrooms back home but this is Italy, I wasn't expecting it. The floorboards squeak on the landing and on the stairs. The place seems big but I haven't got the nerve to look behind all the doors that are slammed shut. The whole place is draughty. I remind myself how much I always hated the wall-to-wall carpets, central heating and starched nets that are a feature of my own family home. Haven't I always wanted charm and character from the place where I lived? I suppose I just hadn't realized how much dust and grime accompanied charm and character. Still, it hardly matters, it's not as though Roberto and I are going to stay here forever. We'll just be staying with Raffaella until we can find our own place to rent. Then we can have the towering ceilings and marble floors but we'll have more stylish duvet covers.
I am last down to breakfast, which takes place in a dining room where there's another equally huge mahogany table. I'm relieved to see it's protected by a cloth; at least I won't scratch it. That said, I've never been keen on tablecloths; stems of glasses always seem to become entangled, leading to spills.
