“What did you two talk about on those morning walks?” I asked Bob.
“Nothing special,” he said. “Your father’s usual stories about his cow and how he walked her up to the mountain each day to graze. One time he pointed out where he’d gone to school, but it looked like someone’s house.”
“It probably was. Was it the school or where his teacher lived?” I asked.
“I’m not sure, but your father didn’t call him his teacher. He called him professore. Said the professore wanted him to stay in school past grade four. Said your father was good in math.”
“Well, he was good in math,” I said. “And he taught himself to read and write in English when he came to Canada. I never asked him if he would have liked to stay in school.”
Like many who have lost a parent, I wish I had asked him that question and so many more.
I looked around once again. “Where are we?”
“Two minutes from the Kennedy Bar,” said Bob.
We stopped at the bar for ice cream because Joe had said, “Figs are ripe. Next time you go to the bar, try the fig ice cream.” Joe was sitting at a table in front of the bar playing Scopa with some friends.
“Where you been?” he asked.
“Lunch,” said Bob, “We’re on our way home.”
“Did you go to the restaurant in the woods?”
“I didn’t know there was a restaurant there.”
“Sure, sure, just past the soccer field,” said Joe, turning to his card-playing friends for confirmation. They all nodded.
“There’s no sign,” I said.
“Sign. Why are you so obsessed with signs, Maria? There is a sign. ‘Calcio.’”
“I meant no sign for the restaurant, unless it’s called ‘soccer’ too.”
“No, it’s Guerrino alla Selvotta. Guerrino is the man’s name — Gary. Alla means ‘at the,’ and Selvotta is the name of the area in Supino where the restaurant’s located. They serve good fish. That’s their specialty.”
The card players were laughing. Was it because I’d expected to see a restaurant sign? Because I thought the restaurant was called Calcio? Or because I believed there was a restaurant in the woods of Supino that specialized in fish?
“Why don’t we take you and Angela there for dinner one night, Joe?” offered Bob.
“How about tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow we’re going to Alberto’s.”
“Why you going there?”
In bed that night, I said, “Okay, we’re having dinner at Alberto’s tomorrow night with Franco and Pietro and whoever else is invited. I think you’re right. Pietro arranged it because you’re all politicians. Or because Alberto’s originally from Supino. Maybe Pietro’s introducing us to people he thinks we have things in common with. I don’t know. But on Wednesday, let’s go to Vietri.
“I know you’re going to say that we have lots of time, but two weeks can go by quickly. We have to go to my cousin Guido and Liounna’s house. I don’t want them to feel bad knowing we’re in the village and we haven’t been to see them. Guido’s my oldest cousin in Italy so we really have to get over there soon. And Liounna will want us to come back one day to eat, which is great, but we also have to eat at Joe and Angela’s at least once or they’ll feel bad. We’ve spent a day with Franco. We’re spending another evening at Alberto’s, but we have to be careful. Pietro will ask us if we’ve been here or eaten there, and before we know it, they’ll have organized our whole trip. What do you think?”
But when I looked over, Bob was already asleep.
The next day, we did the typical Supino things: cappuccino at the Bar Italia followed by a browse through the street market. We didn’t need to buy anything, but the bright umbrellas and the fragrance of peaches and the sound of the tea towels as they flapped in the morning breeze beckoned. Even a small village like Supino has its neighbourhoods, but the outdoor market, in the centre of town, brings everyone together, so we often see women standing chatting near a stall, men sitting and talking at the bar, and children skipping here, kicking a soccer ball there. But when the church bells begin to announce 12 o’clock, the crowd reshuffles. Couples meet up at the street corners, shopping bags are redistributed, and children steal one last kick at the soccer ball before running off to join their families, heading back to their own neighbourhoods. As we climbed the hill back to the pisciarello, which is our part of the village, we often walked with a group of neighbours, each one turning off at various laneways or stairways heading home for lunch. “Buon pranzo,” we’d wish each other, which means “Have a good lunch.”
Pietro said he’d pick us up at seven to drive us to Alberto’s house in nearby Frosinone, and the seven o’clock bells were ringing when he knocked at the door. We gathered our things and walked to his car, but he said it was too early to go to Alberto’s for the eight o’clock dinner. Bob and I looked at each other, trying to grasp, once again, this Italian concept of time. We’d been ready for seven even though we didn’t expect Pietro until closer to eight; then he actually arrived at seven, but here he was telling us we were too early.
“We’ll walk down to the bar,” Pietro said, and so we did, saying buona sera to every villager, at every window and street corner, so that by the time we arrived at the Kennedy Bar, everyone had checked out the style of my dress and the cut of Bob’s suit and they knew Pietro was taking us somewhere outside the village. We found Franco at the bar, and we had a drink and discussed whose car we were taking to Enrico’s house.
“Wait a minute, wait a minute. Who’s Enrico?” I said.
“The mayor,” said Pietro.
We took Franco’s car to the mayor’s house, where we had a tour of his wine cellar and discussed how many bottles of wine to take to Alberto’s. No one seemed concerned that it was now past eight. Enrico insisted Bob and I go in his BMW, so Franco and Pietro followed the mayor’s car to Frosinone.
In 30 minutes, we arrived at a beautiful apartment building. The lobby was cool and elegant, with tropical plants and a winding marble staircase. Alberto’s wife, Simonetta, stood waiting for us on the second floor and led us straight onto the balcony, where she pointed out Supino, the village’s pale lights blinking intermittently on the sloping mountainside.
Alberto soon arrived with a tray of vermouth in thick glasses shaped like gigantic teardrops. After the introductions, with glasses in hand, Alberto proposed a toast: “To Supino!”
Although he was a senator in Rome and lived in the nearby city of Frosinone, Alberto had been born in Supino. He was a gregarious host, leading us to the table, all shiny with silverware, crystal, and candlelight, and as soon as we were seated, he passed the first tray.
“These are polenta squares with different toppings — figs, sausage slices, goat cheese,” explained Alberto. “Are you familiar with polenta, Maria?”
I laughed. “Yes, I like it, thank you. We rarely had it at home because my father was convinced it was food for the pigs. Now cornmeal is a delicacy.”
“Years ago, my grandfather was the doctor in Supino,” said Alberto. “He’s dead now, of course, but I’m sure he would have remembered your father.”
My father had told me that the doctor owned one of only two cars in the village. The other belonged to the parish priest. “Everyone else walked,” my father had said. The doctor also owned some racehorses that he kept at a property up the mountain. “My brother Americo and I used to ride those horses up on the meadow sometimes, even though we weren’t supposed to,” my father remembered. “They were pretty high-strung, a little jumpy, you know, but we held on. Boy, once they got going, those horses could really run. One time we were racing across the field — Americo was in front, but I was gaining on him — when we saw the doctor’s car heading up the road. Americo steered off to some trees. I followed. Americo passed between the trees, and I could still see the horse, but my brother was gone. Then I saw his legs dan
gling. So I grabbed the tree branch and swung up too.”
Partway through the meal, Alberto said, “Tomorrow I’ll be at your front door at eight a.m. to take you to Rome for the day. Did Pietro tell you? My wife and I will both come. A little sightseeing. Some shopping. Lunch at a trattoria that I know near the Spanish Steps that serves stuffed zucchini blossoms — a Roman delicacy — you’ll love them. The Pantheon, of course. The Coliseum, if you like. The Vatican. I’ll have you back in Supino by 11 in the evening. Perhaps midnight.”
“Thank you,” Bob said, and when I nudged him beneath the table, he added, “We can drive down to the coast on Thursday.”
“Thursday’s the Frosinone market,” I said.
“Oh,” said Alberto’s wife. “Do you like to go to the market? My friend has a nice little stall that sells silk stockings. Would you like me to take you?”
Pietro had said very little throughout the meal but now he spoke up. “Thursday marks the beginning of the activities for the Feast of the Immigrant, signora. City council will want to meet Bob and Maria, our newest residents.” He turned to us. “Come around four.”
“Where?” asked Bob, but I intervened.
“Pietro, please, I appreciate the invitation, but we’re only here for another week and I want to drive down to Vietri sul Mare to buy some tiles for my kitchen.”
“Then, of course, you must go,” said Pietro. “Why not stay in Italy an extra week or two? I can make a call in the morning to extend your return ticket.”
“We can’t stay longer. Bob has his coffee business to look after and I’m attending university classes in the fall.”
“You need at least a month to relax and enjoy,” said Pietro. “I don’t think North Americans really understand vacations. Even if you spent a month in Supino, you’d never see everything there is to see and you expect to come and go in a week.”
Although I knew Pietro was trying to be helpful by arranging our schedule, I don’t think he understood. I was determined to get to Vietri and buy the kitchen tiles.
Before I could respond, Alberto pushed back his chair and said, “Momento.” He went into the kitchen, returning with the same silver tray that had held the vermouth glasses, only now it held a bottle of liqueur and tiny glasses rimmed in gold. “A toast,” he said, as he poured and passed. “To Supino and to Maria’s father — son of Supino.”
Tears scratched the corners of my eyelids. By the time I’d blinked them back, someone had placed a tray of specialty cheeses from the area, coupled with the first figs of the season and a platter of plums on the damask cloth. Then the aroma of espresso wafted out from the kitchen door, so Pietro and Bob were discussing a tour of the coffee roasting plant in Frosinone on Friday.
The next day over a bottle of wine in Joe’s backyard, I explained how I wanted to drive down the coast and everyone else in Supino had other plans for us.
“You don’t like these people?” asked Joe sympathetically.
“No, no, they’re very nice.”
“You didn’t want to visit Rome?”
“Yes, but I had planned —”
“You come to Supino to be in your father’s village and then you don’t want to be here. This makes no sense, Maria. And you worry too much about everything. Where’s Bob? It’s almost time for supper and Angela is making pasta e fagioli. That’s pasta and beans — a Supinese specialty.”
“Yes, I know, Joe, but we can’t spend all our time in Supino just going from one house to another to eat. Soon our holiday will be over and we won’t have actually done anything.”
“That’s no problem, Maria. You just stay longer.”
Back in Toronto, we were instantly immersed in our big-city life. I balanced my family with finishing my BA at York University, while Bob juggled the family, the coffee company, his councillor role at City Hall, and a lot of committee meetings, including the Supino Social Club. Bob was seldom home in the evenings and busy most weekends: he didn’t see as much of the family as he would have liked. He solved that by involving us in the organization’s activities. We decorated a float for the Weston Santa Claus parade; we enlisted our oldest nephew Rick to drive the truck and our older children to walk alongside handing out candy canes; we put younger relatives in costumes, and they sat on the back of the flatbed truck and waved red-mittened hands at the crowd. At the opening of the Weston Farmers’ Market and at other community events, we helped to set up or take down tables and displays, and we worked behind those tables selling cupcakes, operating the face-painting stand, or pushing raffle tickets. When we finished participating in one event, the planning would start for the next.
Even our backyard was a beehive of activity as Bob and his friends built contraptions for the opening-day festivities for the Weston Farmers’ Market: a water-dunking tank, cardboard outhouses on wheels for the outhouse race, and beds on wheels for the bed race. When the yard wasn’t filled with construction projects, it was filled with people, because Bob had hosted a fundraising barbecue for the seniors and it had been so successful he expanded it to include other groups. The kids and I were often barbecuing Italian sausages, serving drinks, and cleaning up afterwards.
And then there were the family celebrations: birthdays, holidays, graduations, showers, weddings, corn roasts, and Sunday dinners. Bob had grown up without this constant celebration of . . . everything . . . but he thought it was wonderful to gather on some cousin’s property with a bonfire, bushels of corn and pots of boiling water, guitars and harmonicas, and pizza — always pizza.
So our days in Toronto were full, but by January’s end we were already starting to look forward to the peacefulness of the village.
The following spring, as we were planning our trip to Supino, Bob said, “I’d like to spend a few days in Venice while we’re in Italy.”
“How are you going to get a trip to Venice past the villagers’ plans?” I asked.
“We call Joe as usual to ask him to get the house ready. We visit Venice first, and then we drive to Supino and pretend we’ve just come from the airport. Or we leave Supino early, drive up to Venice for a few days, and fly home from there. They’ll never know.”
“We better go to Venice first,” I said. “Or I’ll spend all my time in Supino trying not to mention Venice. I can just hear Joe: ‘Venice? Why you want to go there? Costs a lotta money and there’s nothing but tourists and water, and the water don’t smell so good.’”
So we booked a flight to Venice and on a warm spring morning in May, after a delayed take-off, we were finally approaching the Venice airport. There was a problem on the runway and we had to circle the airport for over an hour before receiving permission to land. Then our luggage was delayed. After that, the bus that goes to central Venice was late and, finally, toward five o’clock, hot, hungry, and cranky, we were squashed onto the blue bus with other equally grumpy travellers.
The young woman sitting in front of us turned to her companion and asked, “Will the hotel hold our reservation no matter what time we arrive?”
“Absolutely,” replied her seatmate.
“Thank goodness. I’d hate to have to start looking for a hotel this late in the day.”
“Only a fool would come to Venice without a reservation,” assured the know-it-all.
I took an immediate dislike to that woman. Bob and I were the fools that had come to Venice without a hotel reservation. Bob squeezed my hand and used Joe’s favourite expression: “Don’t worry about it.”
By six o’clock we were in Central Venice, lined up at a ticket booth trying to figure out how much the boat fare cost. As soon as the vaporetto arrived, we were swept on board among students and knapsacks, tourists and luggage, elegant Venetians carrying equally elegant dogs, and bored businessmen with their noses in the news. I kept one eye on the luggage and the other on Bob, who got seasick easily. Whenever we pulled up to a vaporetto stop, I’d raise my eyebro
ws: This one?
Not yet, he’d signal, and we’d keep going. I knew he was watching for a residential area.
By the time we reached St. Mark’s Square, there were only tourists left on our vaporetto and more waiting on the platform ready to board. We started back toward the piazza where we’d begun and got off at the first stop, Accademia. Right beside the boat stop was an outdoor pizza restaurant with the prices posted on a menu out front.
“Troppo,” declared Bob, another expression he’d learned from Joe. It meant “too much.” We walked away from the canal and the crowds, and as the sun was beginning to set, we found a small café and ordered two espressos. The bartender slid them across the counter without a glance, continuing his conversation with the locals leaning against the bar. The coffee was awfully strong.
“Scusa,” I said, “zucchero?” and the bartender flicked me a sugar packet.
“Is there a hotel near here?” Bob asked.
The barman pointed vaguely toward the open door and the setting sun.
“If we were in Supino . . .” I said to Bob, picking up my suitcase.
“I know. He’d walk us right to the hotel.”
“And haggle for the best price for the room.”
“And buy us a drink before he left.”
“Of course, we’d probably have to go to his house for lunch the next day.”
“Meet some neighbour who’d been to Toronto 20 years earlier and —”
“We’re just tired. I’m sure once we get a good night’s sleep, Venice will charm us in the morning.”
We trudged from one full hotel to another until we decided it would be more sensible for me to sit on the bench with the luggage while Bob scouted out a vacancy. It was pitch dark before he returned. “Found a room,” he said. He passed me a thin slice of cold pizza. “Don’t even ask me how much I had to pay for that.” And we were off.
The sign out front said, “American Hotel,” and underneath in smaller letters, “Air-conditioned.” The lobby was lovely and cool. Our room, which the owner had assured Bob was the last vacant room in Venice, was in the attic. It had whitewashed walls, slanted ceilings, and no air conditioning. We fell onto the bed and sweated until dawn.
Summers in Supino Page 3
