“Anyone want to swallow fire?”
“I’m going to call it a night,” said Bob. “You stay if you want.”
“Are you all right?”
“Just tired,” he said.
Bob left my side, and a moment later I saw Kathryn and Davide work their way through the crowd.
“Is Dad all right?”
“Just tired from the flight.”
“Do you think the fire-eater reminded him of the radiation?”
“Let’s give him a few minutes, then I’ll go up and see.”
By the time I got to the house, Bob was already asleep. He hadn’t even taken the time to move the bed to the window so we could sleep beneath the stars. I opened the window to the Big and Little Dippers, which were outlined clearly in the dark Supino sky. The moon, barely half full, shone its pale light onto the bed. Bob was sleeping in his usual position, his left arm extended and his left cheek resting on his shoulder. I slipped in behind him and put my arm around his waist.
“Mmm,” I said.
“Mmm,” he said.
That was our signal that everything was okay.
The next morning I was coming down the stairs just as Bob was pulling the chesterfield away from the back wall. He opened the kitchen door and said, “Our patio’s been moved.”
I looked outside. Our patio stones were missing, Benito’s plants were missing, and the earth that once held our patio had been pushed about two metres beyond our back door. An X made of two-by-fours blocked our exit. We stood behind the wooden barrier looking at nothing.
“Ey. I didn’t know you come already. Welcome back,” said our next-door neighbour Sam, who was standing in his backyard. “Come.”
We walked out our front door, down the steps, past Sam’s house, down his driveway and into his yard. Sam shook Bob’s hand.
“What’s going on?” said Bob, with a sweep of his arm to take in our missing patio.
“See here,” said Sam, as he pulled a paper from his pocket. “Your property is 10 by 10. Ten years ago, I marked it on the wall in white paint, you remember, Bob? The measurements are here on the paper too. Some water was leaking into my back wall so I had to dig and waterproof the foundation. I figured I’d do yours at the same time. The tar covered the mark, so I repainted it. You want to measure? Make sure you still have your 10 feet?”
We certainly weren’t going to measure and insult a neighbour who had just waterproofed our wall for us.
“Can I pay you?” asked Bob, even though we knew Sam would shake his head.
“One day my daughter will own my house just like Kathryn will have yours, so you have to take good care of the place. Will you have some coffee?”
We sat in Sam’s yard and he told us the rest of his plans. First he was waiting for the tar to dry completely before he pushed the dirt back into place. “Probably tomorrow,” he said. Then we’d have our yard again — that is, if tomorrow meant the next day and not sometime that summer. “Those patio stones that Joe put for you were too old,” he said. “And I don’t like terrazzo. I’ll get the old tile-layer, Mario, to lay authentic terra cotta tiles. Beautiful. Just like on your roof. Authentic. Not like that plastic stuff people put today. Then, I’ll put the wrought-iron fence. We’ll go together, Bob, to the factory and pick what you like. You can pay for the fence. What do you think Benito wants? Planter boxes or iron frames to hold his pots of hanging flowers? I don’t like flowers myself. I grow zucchini, eggplant, tomatoes, all organic. How long are you staying?”
“We’re here until August 22,” Bob said.
“Good. Welcome back.”
We walked back to our house carrying a zucchini from Sam’s organic garden as well as a large bag of arugula. “What’s that?” I said, pointing to a narrow paper stuck under our door.
“It looks like mail. Do you think it’s our hydro bill?”
We raced up the stairs. Bob unfolded the paper. It was a flyer advertising specials for the Ferentino Mall, the kind of junk mail we always got in Toronto and had never seen in Supino. Benito joined us and showed us his dustpan that contained half a dozen flyers, some crumpled, some torn, some with footprints on them. He shook his head.
“Benito doesn’t like the flyers. They blow off the door handles and clutter the street,” said Angela from her kitchen window. “A mall opened in Ferentino, like they have in North America. Lots of stores inside and a big paved parking lot. Only 20 minutes away. You can buy everything you need in one trip.”
I thought about the closed stores, the flyers littering the streets. Another North American idea had come to Supino.
“What about the people who own stores in the village?” I said. “What about the greengrocer and the hardware store man and — ?”
“They go to the mall too,” said Angela. “I can’t talk now. I have a job.”
“A job? Where?”
“City Hall. I clean the offices. That reminds me, Bob. The mayor’s wife told me you didn’t pay your water bill yet.”
“What water bill?”
“The water bill you’re supposed to pay every year.”
“But where’s the bill? Does it come to the house?”
“The man comes to your house and you pay him.”
“When does he come?” I said.
“How much?” said Bob.
“I find out,” said Angela.
Now that our patio issue seemed under control, and Angela was going to find out about our overdue water bill, Bob got the idea that we could solve the hydro issue. “I’ve asked Marco to call the office in Frosinone and make an appointment for tomorrow,” he said. “Then we’ll go together. We won’t leave the office until we get the bill put into our names and sent to our house.”
“Tomorrow’s a civic holiday,” Marco told us. “Civic workers will be on parade in Rome. But we have an appointment for the day after tomorrow at 9:30.”
“We shouldn’t have to wait long then,” said Bob.
“Bring your passports, your fiscal code number from Supino City Hall, and your ownership papers. Bring your business card too.”
Marco drove, and we arrived in Frosinone with 10 minutes to spare, which he used trying to find a parking spot. Finally Marco pulled into the gas station across the street from the hydro building. He rolled down his window and had a quick conversation with the attendant. “Ten euro, please,” Marco said to Bob. Bob handed the bills to Marco, who handed the money to the attendant. The attendant pocketed the money and gave a quick sideways nod toward a space with a sign that clearly said, “No Parking.” That’s where Marco parked the car.
The lobby of the hydro building was large and cool with white marble and ostentatious plants but no desks and no people. Marco led us to a side door and buzzed. I checked my watch; we were right on time for our 9:30 appointment. We walked into a room full of people. A machine was installed on the wall, like the kind they have at the deli counter where you take a number to be served. Marco took a number. “We have an appointment,” I said.
“Appuntamento,” said a woman who was sitting in a chair knitting. “Everybody has un appuntamento.”
The door opened again and a man entered. He was carrying his lunch. I could smell the provolone cheese and peppers. He took a number. The sign said they were serving customer number 34; we were number 53.
“I can’t sit here,” said Bob. “I’ll go for a walk and come back in an hour.”
“Make it an hour and a half,” said Marco.
We waited. People came in, and people went out, and we waited. The only break in the monotony came when the bell rang and the sign above the door changed to the next number. Number 44 flashed, but no one responded. The same thing happened with numbers 45, 46, and 47. The man who’d brought, and eaten, his lunch now folded his newspaper and began to watch the sign.
At 11:30, our number came up.
I jumped out of my chair before the bell had finished its chime and hurried through the door into the inner office. There I saw two desks and two officials, both bored. I introduced myself in Italian, showed my Italian passport and my latest hydro bill. The official glanced at my papers, but he addressed Marco, “Fiscal code?”
Marco pointed to the number on the bill, but the official shook his head.
“I own the house,” I said.
“Your name is not on the hydro bill, signora. Who pays the bill?”
“My travel agent. I send him the money and he pays.”
“If he pays, he owns the house.”
“I own the house.”
“Signora, please, why would someone pay the bill if they didn’t own the house?”
Out the window I could see our car parked at the gas station. I wondered about offering the official some cash. Bribing an official to send you a bill seemed wrong: I should be bribing him not to send us a bill.
“He’s going to check with his superior,” said Marco.
When the official returned, smelling strongly of coffee and cigarette smoke, he said, “The hydro will be turned on today at two o’clock. The bill will be sent to your address on via condotto vecchio, number 12.”
I started to explain that we live at number 10 not 12, but Marco interrupted.
“Grazie. Arrivederci.”
“But we’re number 10,” I said to Marco as we left the building.
“Maria, please. You’ll have hydro this afternoon at two. What difference if the bill goes next door. Sam will stick it under your door. Where’s Bob?”
We found Bob just crossing the street. He had a bunch of yellow gerber daisies in his hand. To celebrate our success with the hydro officials, we took Marco for lunch at the restaurant in the woods.
“This is my favourite restaurant,” said Bob. “I’d like to eat lunch here every single day.”
As usual, the owner, Guerrino, had the waiter bring us glasses of ice-cold limoncello to finish our meal.
“Do you really think we’ll have hydro today?” I asked Marco.
“You worry too much, Maria. The official said today, therefore you’ll have the hydro today.”
And we did. But only because Marco and Joe ran the orange electrical cord across the road from their upstairs window to ours.
Guido came to the house that evening. He shook hands with Bob, then pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes. “Bob, my Canadian brother,” he said. “You’re too skinny. Come to my house for lunch on Sunday.”
Joe knocked on the door a few minutes later with biscotti that Angela had made. Bob poured glasses of vermouth, and Guido opened the back door.
“Don’t go out,” said Joe. “The cement’s not dry.”
“What cement?” I said. “Sam said terra cotta tiles, not cement.”
“Maria,” said Joe, “I told you this before. You worry too much. The cement is not for you to sit on. The tiles will sit on the cement.”
“You’re putting new tiles?” said Guido.
“No. Sam is putting the tiles in exchange for the soil beneath the patio.”
“The soil belongs to you.”
“But we don’t need the soil and we do need new patio tiles. Sam is going to build a cantina under the patio.”
“Under your patio?” asked Guido.
“I’ve been thinking about it,” said Joe, holding his glass out for a refill. “If you keep the soil, you can grow things.”
“I’d rather have a patio than a garden.”
“Mamma mia!” said Guido. “I can plant a few things for you: lettuce, onions, tomatoes, peppers, zucchini, some swiss chard. I’ll build a little chicken coop on the side of the garden too and Bob can eat fresh eggs every day.”
“What are we going to do with a chicken when we go home next month?”
“Roast it, no?”
The next thing I knew the men were in the backyard, talking loudly. Guido seemed to be marking out the proposed chicken coop, but Bob was shaking his head. Then Sam was showing them the future cantina, stepping back to demonstrate how the doors would open into his yard, and Guido was shaking his head. The conversation accelerated. I gave up trying to translate. The men waved to me as they went on their way.
“See you on Sunday,” said Guido.
Bob came into the house and said, “It’s the old good news–bad news scenario. The good news is that Sam’s going to build you a pizza oven.”
“Yeah,” I said, “I’ve always wanted a pizza oven. Wait a minute. Where’s he building it?”
“That’s the sort of bad news,” said Bob. “He’s building it in his backyard.”
“Mamma mia. Just once, I’d like to have one thing go the way that I want it. I know they live here and we’re just summer visitors, I know they mean well and they’re looking out for us and all that stuff, but really, Bob, look at those darned ceramic tiles behind the sink — they’re the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen next to this crazy disco light. We can’t even keep our furniture the way we want it — we have to sneak around moving our bed under the window and every single time we come I have to search for that blue ceramic plate with the sunflower and hang it back up above the fireplace and take down the latest calendar or picture of San Cataldo or photo of the Lazio soccer team that Angela has hung there. And what’s that wardrobe doing in our bedroom and how on earth did Joe get it up the stairs and did you notice that it’s blocking the fold-down ladder that leads to the attic? How are we supposed to get up there? And another thing, every time we come, our patio is moved or missing or being replaced or — I don’t even know why I’m saying our patio because it’s like everyone but us makes the decisions and I would just like one thing to go my way. Just one.”
“I said no to the chickens,” said Bob. “Sam said you can use the pizza oven anytime you like. Joe’s going to stack some small logs just for the oven. I think he’s planning to use it too. Tonight I’ll take you to the restaurant in the woods and we’ll sit on the terra cotta tiles and admire the garden and eat pizza and pretend the patio and the garden are all ours.”
I thought about Bob’s idea to open a coffee bar in the village. I thought about dealing with the hydro officials and the neighbours and the laws of Supino — if they really were laws — but I didn’t say anything to Bob. For him, it was more than opening a business; it was an Italian adventure. Why dampen his dreams with my reservations? For Bob, it was all about becoming Italian.
On the way to the restaurant, we stopped at the piazza at San Pietro, because I wanted to look up an address. Somewhere on the street that ran from the church down to the main street was a house where a man named Sergio Coletta had spent part of his childhood. Sergio now lived in Moss Point, Mississippi, and he had written me a letter, which had arrived on the same day we were packing for Supino. I’d tossed it into my suitcase. Sergio Coletta had written to say that he’d read a review of My Father Came from Italy in USA Today and he’d ordered the book online because the author’s last name was the same as his. Imagine his surprise when he began reading the book and discovered that I was writing about Supino — the village where he was born. Sergio decided to write and tell me his story.
“I was born in Supino in 1929; my father died in 1933 and in 1935 my grandfather wanted my mother and me to come to America and live with him. My six years in Supino were centred around the Piazza del Popolo, via Roma 71, and the church of San Cataldo.” Sergio went on to tell me about his Supinese relatives including his grandfather, “Giovanni, who had a dry goods and grocery store at the Piazza del Popolo.”
Neither of those stores was there now and the church, which Sergio referred to as San Cataldo, was now known as San Pietro. He wrote that he knew very little about his father’s side of the family, the Coletta side, except to say, “For reasons never explained to me there was ‘bad blood�
� between the Tolfas and the Colettas. Probably one of those stupid hard-headed disagreements that can only happen in Italy, especially in a small village like Supino.” His Coletta grandparents, Giovanni and Antonia Berrola Coletta, were unknown to me, but I was interested to read about his aunt, Maria Tolfa.
She taught school in Supino from 1923 to 1973. She retired as principal of the school at San Sebastiano, and died in 1997 at the age of 90. She was known as Signorina Tolfa or Maestra Tolfa. She lived at via Roma 71. She dedicated her life to seeing to it that the children of Supino received the best education possible. Many a farm family was talked out of ending their children’s education after the sixth grade. She talked many other families into financing the children’s education to become lawyers, accountants — professionals. There were over 400 Supinese in attendance at her funeral in April 1997.
It may have been the memory of his aunt who’d encouraged education for the Supinese children; it may have been the appeal of strong blue ink on thin airmail stationery; it may have been the simplicity of his sincere signature, “Grazie, Sergio Coletta,” but I felt the letter needed something more than just a standard acknowledgement for writing.
Bob parked the car at San Pietro and walked across the piazza to take some photos of the three-level house that was still for sale, and I walked down via Roma to number 71. Sergio’s aunt had died four years earlier, but I couldn’t tell if the house was inhabited or not. The forest-green door was covered with a thin layer of dust, but the planter beside it contained a small but healthy cedar shrub. There was a round doorknocker, but it too held a coating of dust. I looked around; all was quiet on via Roma. I sat on the front step and wrote:
Dear Sergio, I am sitting on the steps of your aunt’s house. In the distance I hear the bells of the goats that graze the hills behind the church and from below the voices of the men at the bar beside the Statue of the Fallen Soldier. Thank you for taking the time to write to me. I did not know about your grandfather’s dry goods or grocery store that was once here. There are no shops surrounding the piazza now but there is a little house for sale, which my husband Bob wants to buy and open as a summer coffee bar . . .
Summers in Supino Page 12
