Summers in Supino

by Maria Coletta McLean

  When I finished the letter, I broke off a small branch from the cedar bush that grew beside the front door and enclosed it in the envelope. Probably you aren’t allowed to send part of a plant from Supino to Moss Point, but I licked the envelope and decided not to think about such North American ideas.

  Bob was leaning against the stone wall, enjoying the view of Supino’s main street. He rested one foot on the wall, his camera slung over his right shoulder, and the sun was shining on his curly hair. If I avoided the left side of his face, Bob looked healthy. He turned when he heard my footsteps on the cobblestones and smiled his lopsided grin. “Ready?” he said.

  Once we were seated at the restaurant in the woods, we discussed the purchase of the house in the piazza and the challenges of turning it into a summer bar. Bob was keen to bring in a small coffee roaster from Milan.

  “Imagine the smell of the coffee beans roasting each morning. The breeze will carry the scent over most of the village. Who could resist that?”

  “Will you sell by the pound?”

  “At first, I thought, why not? But then, I thought the coffee should be tied to the café experience, you know? The villagers come to my bar for fresh-roasted espresso. Coffee never tastes the same at home — different water temperature or the portions aren’t measured exactly or the grind’s not consistent. If we can put some tables and chairs on the piazza, the summer tourists will have a great view of the sunsets behind Santa Serena. That’s one of the advantages of this location — it’s high. I’m not sure about the church though, they may not want us to be open when they’re open for Mass. I have to ask Joe about it.”

  “What’s Joe say about the idea of a patio?”

  “He’s working on it. Along with the permits. There seems to be some rule about how many bars there can be within a certain section of the village. Joe says they can’t be too close to each other, which makes sense, but when I asked him about the Bar Italia and the bar without a name just down the street at the piazza del l’erba, he said that bar has been there a long time, before the rule. That bar actually has a name. It’s La Vecchia Fontana — the old water fountain.”

  “That’s perfect since there is no old water fountain, at least not that I’ve ever seen.”

  “Maybe there was one years ago. The piazza del l’erba doesn’t contain a blade of grass, but maybe a hundred years ago it was flush with grass.”

  “What are you going to call your bar? Café San Pietro, for the church?”

  “Café Coletta, for your father.”

  With those two words, Café Coletta, I put aside my worries about Bob’s plans. I figured that if the bar didn’t work out, we’d simply close it and rent out the house, or sell it. The important thing was for Bob to have the chance in the same way that we’d taken a chance on buying a house in the village.

  The waiter brought our pizza on a metal pedestal.

  “Do you remember?” I asked.

  “I was just going to ask you the same thing,” said Bob.

  Years ago, when Bob took me home to meet his parents, they’d told me about going to Buffalo one Sunday for dinner. In my family, no one went out for dinner on a Sunday night, that was family night, and no one ever drove from Toronto to Buffalo for dinner, that would be a waste of gas. But Bob’s family’s not Italian. His parents were in this restaurant, just finishing their roast beef dinner, when the waiter passed by carrying a large plate in front of him.

  “It was like a silver cake pedestal,” Bob’s mother said. They’d asked the waiter what he was serving — it smelled so delicious — and the waiter had said, “Pizza pie.”

  His parents were so intrigued with this new type of pie that they ordered one for dessert. “It tasted great,” Bob’s father said. “It’s an Italian dish. Do you know it? Pizza pie.”

  Bob had grown up in a world completely different from mine. In the ’60s, when we met, my parish priest was preaching that the more things a couple had in common, the better their chances were of making a successful marriage. I remember telling Bob about this the summer that we met, as he walked me home from the library. He pointed out an elderly couple coming toward us. They were well into their 70s; the man had a newspaper tucked under his arm, the woman carried a book, and they were talking softly to each other. Bob said, “That’s how I want to be when I’m old, walking along enjoying the day and still holding hands with my wife.”

  We were married seven months later. Everyone said we were too young and our backgrounds were too different, but we’d seen our future in that older couple walking along holding hands. Now we would be that couple, walking along the cobblestone streets of Supino, for six months every year, and we’d still be holding hands.

  The next morning we were heading out for coffee as Joe was driving out of his garage. He rolled down the car window.

  “Ey, Bob, you come tonight?”

  “Where?”

  “The festa.”

  “What time?”

  “About six.”

  “Where?”

  “Usual place. See you later.”

  We passed the village priest, Don Antonio, who was en route to the water fountain.

  “Welcome back.” He shook Bob’s hand. “Are you coming tonight? Good. You can carry the flag.”

  We asked Bianca at the Bar Italia what she’d heard about tonight’s festa.

  “Bob’s carrying the flag, no?”

  Angela was sitting at a table outside the bar, drinking cappuccino and chatting with Cristina.

  “I thought you were working at the City Hall,” I said.

  “I’m on my break.” It was barely 10 o’clock.

  “Do you know anything about the festa?”

  “It’s a feast for the emigrants. First there’s a mass at six o’clock at Maria Maggiore. Someone lays a wreath at the Statue of the Fallen Soldier. The band marches everyone down the street to the public garden —”

  “What public garden?”

  “Down the street. Bob, you carry the Canada flag. Someone from Detroit carries the American. Dinner at the pensione at Quattro Strade. No, this year it’s at the new place, the Cowboy Restaurant.”

  “Are you coming, Angela?”

  “I don’t eat the hotta dog.”

  One of the very few — perhaps the only — event that starts on time in Supino is the daily six o’clock Mass at the Church of Santa Maria Maggiore. We arrived about 15 minutes early and the pews were already nearly filled. The altar was decorated with wildflowers from the mountain displayed in large copper pots. Some white satin bows with baby roses knotted into narrow ribbons were tied to the first half-dozen pews. “Matrimonio,” began the woman seated next to me, pointing to the bows, and then she continued in a torrent of Italian telling me all about yesterday’s wedding. All I had to do was nod in agreement until there was a pause in the monologue.

  “Were you there?” I asked in my best Italian.

  “Oh, no,” she said, and then she was off telling me the rest of the details of the wedding: the cost of the bride’s dress, the courses served, the bomboniere, and then . . . the altar boys entered from the side altar and the Mass began.

  My eye caught a patch of white dress shirt beneath a black Italian suit and the flash of a cufflink. A stranger tapped Bob on the shoulder and whispered, “Meet me outside after communion.”

  Bob nodded.

  I whispered, “Who was that?”

  Bob shrugged.

  After the Mass, I hurried outside to the little piazza in front of the church and there was a crowd of band members, flag bearers, police officers, a man with a video camera, a photographer with his camera set up on a tripod atop his Fiat, and the usual assortment of villagers and stray dogs. The only thing missing was the ubiquitous traffic, but that was because the street was closed. Bob waved from behind the Canadian flag and before I could wave back, the
man with the black suit and the flashy cufflinks raised his hand and — boom! — the band began their requisite marching song and the procession moved on down via Regina Margherita. The American and Canadian flags flanked the Italian flag, and behind them came an assortment of other banners and flags representing the region, the province, City Hall, and San Cataldo.

  We marched to the bottom of the hill, where the procession met the lines of cars waiting for the street to reopen. Most of the cars were empty; I could see the drivers at the bar or just standing on the roadway, chatting.

  The procession veered off to the left and up the stairs to the public garden, where I had yet to see a tree or a flower growing. There was a large cement pod almost the size of a tennis court, which was used during the summer months to host films under the stars. By the time I reached the top of the hill, the band had loosened their ties and tucked their hats beneath their elbows. The flags were lying lengthwise on the bleachers, and that popular refrain, “Ci vediamo,” see you later, was everywhere.

  “That’s it?” I said to Bob.

  “That’s it.”

  At the Cowboy Restaurant, the owner had set up the tables outside, so we didn’t get the full effect of the saloon-like décor, complete with cowboy posters, that he’d created inside. However, speakers piped country music onto the patio area — Hank Williams was singing about a broken heart. Instead of the usual freshly pressed linen, the tables were covered with white paper held down in the corners by shiny tin horseshoes. In the centre of each table stood a silver serviette holder with paper napkins.

  At the table next to ours some members of the Toronto Supino Social Club were talking to the mayor about renaming a street in the village “Toronto Street.”

  Someone from the Montreal Supino Social Club said, “Why Toronto Street? Why not Montreal Street?”

  The discussion got a little louder with the mention of Vancouver Street and then a debate about which street might be appropriate for a name change. Everyone wanted a main street named after their North American city: no one wanted a side street or, even worse, a dead-end street.

  Hank Williams was singing “Your Cheatin’ Heart” when the antipasto arrived. Instead of the usual display of olives, cold cuts, cheese, and roasted peppers, there were wooden bowls of potato chips and pretzels and trays holding old-fashioned glasses of Coke. The waiters put jars of mustard, ketchup, and relish on each table. The guests started to look around.

  “Where’s the cheese?” someone asked.

  “No pasta tonight,” said the owner. “It’s American night with American food. Hot dogs and hamburgers from the grill.”

  The waiter put the first tray of hamburgers on the table.

  “What’s this?” said someone as he lifted the bun.

  “It’s a flat meatball.”

  “Where’s the tomato sauce?”

  “You put ketchup instead of tomato sauce.”

  The guests looked at each other. Someone broke off a corner of a hamburger with his fork. “Buono,” he said. “A little dry.”

  Someone passed the ketchup. The waiters brought Budweiser beer and began pouring it into tall glasses. The beer glasses had been engraved with Festa dell’Emigrante, and the date. “A souvenir,” said the waiters.

  “Give me one,” said the older woman sitting beside me, and she opened her purse and tucked the glass inside. Johnny Cash began strumming “Orange Blossom Special.” Beyond the twang of the guitar I could still hear the conversation about the renaming of streets — Windsor Street, Sault Ste. Marie Street, Thorold Street, Hamilton Street, Sudbury Street, and Aliquippa Street.

  “That’s an American city,” someone said.

  “So?”

  One of the men left the table and walked over to ours and introduced himself as a paesano from Pennsylvania. “My name’s Coletta like yours,” said the American, as he pulled up a chair.

  He was wearing Bermuda shorts and a T-shirt, so I knew he didn’t live in Supino. Despite his American appearance, he had a warm and genuine Supinese familiarity that suggested that since our names were the same we were somehow related.

  “I’ve been doing some research on my family tree and from what I can tell, there are four branches of the Coletta family in the village,” he said. “I’ve never been able to go back far enough to connect them. I read your book, by the way. Enjoyed it a great deal.”

  Before I could respond, the stranger switched topics and continued, “Do you know Tchaikovsky’s Capriccio Italien? Tchaikovsky composed it during his visit and tour of Italy in the 1880s. His melodies and themes are those that he heard in the various provinces. His main theme is from the area of Ferentino and Frosinone. My mother would always sing the lyrics whenever she heard this piece played on the radio. She told me that a man named Battisti owned a lot of land in the valley below Supino near the road leading to Ferentino. I understand your father’s family farmed some of the Battisti land. My mother remembers as a young teenager how the women in the wheat field would sing this melody. One worker would start it and the others would all join in. The singing of the workers was something she always told me about. Tchaikovsky took this melody and made it the central theme of his capriccio. I have always regretted that I never asked her to write out the lyrics.”

  There was silence when the American Coletta finished his story. After a moment, the woman with the beer glass in her purse began to hum a faint classical tune, but before others could join in there was a ruckus at the door of the western restaurant. “Yippee aye oh!” said the waiters as they pushed out the karaoke machine. “All you country music singers sign up for your turn to sing.”

  “Thank you for the lovely story,” I said to the American. “My father used to talk about working those fields on the road to Ferentino.”

  “Have you been to the Ferentino Mall?” asked the American.

  “It’s not for me,” I said. “I can do that kind of shopping at home. I prefer the outdoor markets.”

  “I guess we can’t expect the village to stay the same forever.”

  “No.”

  But neither of us sounded convinced. Of course, one-stop shopping was simple and convenient for the villagers, but Supino had lost something with the opening of the mall. The villagers didn’t have to bring their shopping baskets or canvas bags, because the mall stores provided plastic bags; the café in the mall served their espresso to go in small Styrofoam cups and the pizza restaurant was take-out only. The shoppers were hurried. In the village shops, the owners called everyone by name and the customers had time to chat. Often the shopkeeper’s son or daughter would carry home the customer’s purchases, packed in a cardboard box. At the mall, the customers pushed their purchases to their car in a shopping cart. Guido said that at the mall you don’t even have to climb stairs, the stairs move for you. We stayed for the ice cream, served in glass dishes and topped with chocolate sauce and a maraschino cherry. When the waiters brought thin American-style coffee in thick white ceramic mugs, and Hostess cupcakes wrapped in cellophane, Bob pushed back his chair.

  “Let’s get going,” he said.

  Joe called over from the next table, “You leaving?” and when Bob nodded, Joe said he’d like a ride home.

  “How did you like American night?” I asked.

  “The beer was good,” said Joe. “By the way, Bob, I was thinking we need to go back to the house in the piazza with Luigi.”

  “Who’s Luigi?” I said.

  “The plumber,” said Bob. “I want to get a price on putting in a bathroom on the second floor. Then I can put together an offer for the owner.”

  “I told that German guy that no one wants to buy his house. If we wait for the spring, I’m pretty sure we’ll get a better price.”

  “I think 50,000 euros is fair, Joe.”

  “The new bathroom’s going to cost. Then the renovations for the bar. You have to buy the
tables and chairs — I can get some used tables and chairs, Bob.”

  “No, everything’s going to be new.”

  “Okay,” said Joe, “whatever you want.”

  I gave my head a shake: Had Joe actually agreed to let Bob set up the bar his own way? Bob was smiling his lopsided grin as he reached for my hand. “Next year at this time, we’ll be in business.”

  “Come in,” said Joe when we arrived on via condotto vecchio. “Angela will make some spaghetti with olive oil and garlic.”

  “It’s late,” I said.

  “Only takes a minute,” said Joe. “And I’m hungry. What about you, Bob?”

  “Starving,” said Bob.

  Before the church bells rang the half-hour, we were sitting at the table in Angela’s kitchen. As she piled the spaghetti onto the plates, Joe grated the parmigiano. “Buon appetito,” he said, and he turned out the light. We ate our spaghetti by the light of the moon shining in the kitchen window.

  Partway through the meal, I heard a whistle from the street below, and Angela got up and pressed the buzzer that opened the front door. “That’s Benito,” she said. “Out late again. You should talk to him, Joe.”

  “What am I going to say? He’s a grown man.”

  Benito stopped in the doorway to wave good night, but instead of continuing up the stairs to the bedrooms, he stepped into the kitchen and came to the table and kissed my hand. After that, he did a little dance step out the kitchen door and up the stairs. It all happened so quickly that I didn’t know what to say, but Angela said, “Benito is seeing some woman who lives up on the mountain.”

  “How do you know?” said Joe.

  “Mmm, beh, Cristina told me that he bought a box of chocolates at the tabacchi store last week. Do you see any chocolates in our house? And the flower man said Benito bought roses last Saturday. Do you see any roses here? And the woman at the —”

  “Okay, okay,” said Joe. “When the jeweller tells you Benito bought a ring, let me know.”