Summers in Supino

by Maria Coletta McLean

  One of the last things we did in the village, before we packed up and headed back to Toronto, was to walk over to Guido and Liounna’s house. We timed our visit for four o’clock so they would have already eaten their one o’clock lunch and Guido would have had his afternoon rest, but it would still be a while before the dinner hour. We didn’t want Liounna to feel obliged to feed us and we wanted to catch a concert in the village that evening.

  Joe had shown us a shortcut to cross the ravine that involved walking through a narrow laneway leading to a parking lot, across the lot, up a set of stairs that belonged to a large six-plex apartment building, and through a short path with a broken gate to the street that wound around to Guido’s house. Along this route, we always passed an open garage with dust drifting onto the street — the owner was always in his garage, sanding plaster statues. He’d invited us in one time and we’d admired his plaster sculptures displayed on shelves in his garage. They were a ubiquitous collection of Elvis busts, various archangels in different poses, busts of Caesar and the Pope, a few dwarfs, and several Virgin Marys.

  I’d asked Joe about this man, and Joe had said, “That man makes a lotta money. Sells a lotta statues.”

  “But who buys them?” I asked.

  “People,” said Joe. “You know, around.” And he’d made the circular hand motion. As we passed the garage, Bob made the same gesture. Guido and Liounna’s house was the last one on a winding road that held 12 or 15 homes. This was the street, via piagge, that my father had lived on when he was a boy and the land was farmland and the homes were little stone cottages with low roofs and cement floors. Although the homes were now large and modern, the grapevines and olive trees were ancient, and Guido and Liounna’s house was a one-room stone cottage that they’d put an addition on a dozen years before. So now it was a two-room cottage with a cement driveway larger than the cottage, even though Guido didn’t own a car. The house had thick wooden shutters, a cement patio, and a gnarled quince tree in the front, along with the bench my father had bought for Guido a decade before. In the back lived the chickens, beside a vegetable garden and orchard that was tidier than my Toronto house. That’s where we expected to find Guido at this time of day, watering his cantaloupes and pepper plants. Instead, we saw a group of strangers standing around a car. A little girl was skipping near the front door, where Liounna was standing, cellphone in hand. She waved the phone and then laughed as she put it back to her ear. “Scusa,” she said, “Maria and Bob come.”

  “Scusa, scusa,” she continued as she hustled toward us. She looked different somehow. Something more than just the cellphone. Then I realized what it was: Liounna was not wearing her apron. “Scusa,” she said once more, and then a string of Italian that Bob and I tried to translate together as she called to the house, “Guido, vieni. Guido!”

  “I understand that they’re going out to a trattoria,” I said to Bob.

  “And they’re late,” said Bob. “But who are these other people?”

  The strangers approached to shake our hands and introduce themselves at the same time that Guido emerged from the house wearing wool trousers and a dress shirt. Liounna was telling him to hurry, and a young woman was trying to corral the skipping girl into the car, where the little boy was standing on the front seat, holding the steering wheel and pretending to drive. In all the confusion, it took me a moment to realize that the man who had introduced himself to us as Guido’s oldest son was speaking English.

  “We’re off to the trattoria,” he said. “You know the place where the autostrada crosses over the road to Ferentino.”

  “There’s a trattoria there?” Bob said.

  “Yes, of course, the big three-storey house with the green shutters.”

  “Yes, I know the house,” said Bob. “I didn’t know it was a trattoria.”

  “Well, there’s no sign and I know you Americans like signs,” said the son, as if all North Americans had the same affliction. “The food’s almost as good as Mama’s.” He called to Guido, “Ey, Papa, you coming?” and Guido came to shake Bob’s hand and explain that they were on their way out.

  Then the church bells from San Sebastiano began to ring a low and mournful sound, as if they’d grown heavier and the bell ringer was having difficulty pulling the rope.

  “Someone’s died,” said the son, and he put his hand on his heart.

  The little girl stopped skipping, and everyone stood still for a moment, hands over hearts. Then Guido began to cough, and Liounna opened her handbag and pulled out his puffer. “Melancholia,” she said, referring to the sound of the church bells, but she gave a quick glance at Guido and I felt a chill. Guido was well into his 70s and that cough was worrisome. I couldn’t imagine a Supino without Guido. He gave me a wink as he got into the car, his eyes the same blue-grey as my father’s.

  “Prossimo anno,” he said.

  “Sì, sì,” we said. “Prossimo anno, see you next year.”

  We stood in the yard and waved goodbye as if we were the occupants of the little stone cottage and Liounna and Guido were visitors. A brown leaf floated down from the quince tree and landed on the bench. I brushed it away. Bob pulled the gate closed behind us as we began our walk back across the ravine.

  “Remember the first time we came to Guido’s house and he showed us how you could see the roof of our house across the ravine?”

  “You mean, how he took us right into his neighbour’s yard across the street and pointed to the roof?” I asked, laughing.

  “Exactly. And how the neighbour called out his window at us and when Guido explained who we were, the whole family came out to shake our hands?”

  “And we had to have a glass of wine to celebrate?” I said.

  “Right. And then we had to try the red wine to compare.”

  “Yes, and that huge cheese that his wife brought out and sliced?” I said. “And that fabulous bread that was all crusty on the outside and chewy on the inside. I loved that bread.”

  “All that just to celebrate the view of our new roof,” said Bob.

  “Let’s buy a loaf of that bread tomorrow morning on our way to the airport. If I wrap it up in some of my clothes, it should still be fresh when we get off the plane.”

  “Do you think you’re allowed to take bread on the plane?” asked Bob.

  “I don’t know, but I’d like the kids to taste it.”

  “Now,” laughed Bob, “who’s becoming Italian?”

  That evening, a classical music group was scheduled to play in the piazza across from the Church of Santa Maria Maggiore, but when we arrived at eight, there were only white plastic chairs stacked in rows, waiting. We walked down to the pasticceria to buy an ice cream — mango and raspberry for me, hazelnut and chocolate for Bob — and then we wandered down to the Kennedy Bar to sit at the new fountain.

  We’d been at Guido and Liounna’s house, eating homemade pasta at the table set under the quince tree in their front yard, when Guido had first told us they were building a fountain in Supino. He couldn’t remember the English word for fountain. “Remember the time I first met you in Rome?” he asked.

  “Ten years ago?” asked Bob.

  “Really? That long ago? I mean the place.”

  We’d taken a bus from L’Aquila, where we were staying, into the centre of Rome, and Guido was supposed to meet us at the bus station. He was late, at least by Canadian time standards. And he was supposed to drive us to Supino, but he’d arrived on foot. And he’d taken us by bus to his house. And we’d eaten lunch there and . . .

  “You mean the water fountain?” asked Bob.

  “Yes!” said Guido. “Fontana — they’re building one in Supino.”

  “Where?”

  “Where the road grows fat near the Kennedy Bar. In that way, they’ll have enough space.”

  I’d pictured something along the lines of the Trevi Fountain in Rome, where
people threw a coin into the water to ensure their return. I imagined tables and chairs scattered here and there on the piazza like the coins sprinkled in the fountain. In Supino, the fountain was built in front of the smallest church in the village, the Church of San Sebastiano. This spot marked the entrance into the village. The fountain was fashioned from cement and resembled a large, flat soup bowl. Instead of a marble statue in the centre, there was a metal pipe where the water would spring like a geyser. Only it didn’t. All summer the fountain contained nothing but stray leaves and discarded flyers from the Ferentino Mall. Joe said they were fixing it — something about low water levels and then something about the broken pump, and still the empty bowl sat waiting. The evening of the concert, water gurgled up the metal pipe and cascaded back into the bowl. There was a simplicity about the fountain that almost brought a tear to my eye. The movement of the water produced a slight breeze and children were leaning over the sides, sticking their fingers in the water while mothers warned them not to fall. Because the fountain was built in the middle of the busiest street in the village, cars had to circle the fountain to drive into the village or down to the soccer field.

  Bob said, “Joe told me they’re going to put a sign right at the bus stop, as you come into the village, saying, ‘Drive Slowly.’”

  I looked at the cars and motor scooters speeding around the fountain, the men sitting beyond the traffic circle playing cards at the tables outside the Kennedy Bar, and the priest standing in front of San Sebastiano catching the evening breeze. It was chaotic but it was pure Supino, so I rummaged in my purse, pulled out a coin, and tossed it into the fountain. We’d be back next year, renovating a house into a bar, so the coin was more for buona fortuna — good luck — than to ensure our return. A blue bus pulled into the square and exhaled diesel fuel and black exhaust and a dozen or more musicians, all dressed in black suits. The driver opened the luggage doors and began to pull out instrument cases. I checked my watch: it was nine o’clock.

  “With a little luck,” I said, “the concert could begin in half an hour.”

  We started back up the hill as the musicians starting filing into the Kennedy Bar.

  Joe was at the piazza. “The musicians are at the Kennedy Bar,” I told him, so Joe began to set up the chairs and Bob helped him. Villagers started arriving in the square. The bar owner put his stereo speaker outside and started playing a medley of Louis Prima songs from the ’50s and ’60s. Couples began to dance on the cobblestones; children formed a conga line to “Hey mambo, mambo Italiano.”

  The priest came and sat beside me. “Look at that,” he said, pointing to the bell tower, where the bells were ringing 10 o’clock. “The north star.”

  By the time the musicians had trouped up the street, the piazza was full, and by the time they’d set up their music stands and opened their cases and warmed up their instruments, the bar owner had collected all the scattered espresso cups and beer glasses and come to lean against the doorway of his bar. The maestro tapped his baton, the moon peeked over the bell tower, and the little orchestra began. I searched the crowd, trying to find Bob, but it was too dark. Beside me the priest sat with the palms of his hands resting on his knees, the way my father always sat.

  When the song ended, I heard a comforting “Mmmm,” and Bob’s hand was on my shoulder. Everything was okay.

  When we got back to Toronto, Ken met us at the airport. “Dad looks more tired than when he left.”

  “He’s picked up a cough that won’t go away. It might have been the dampness.”

  “Make a doctor’s appointment,” said Ken.

  It was our wedding anniversary and a lot of family were there that day, and after dinner there was an impromptu baseball game on the front lawn. Little Miguel hit the ball with his plastic bat, and Bob picked him up under his arms and ran the bases with him. When they got to third, Bob had a coughing fit and Ken stepped in and ran Miguel home. Bob still couldn’t catch his breath.

  Our family doctor listened to Bob’s lungs and prescribed some cough syrup with codeine. By the second day, the cough had subsided, Bob was feeling better, and we were getting into the busy routine of autumn in Toronto. Kathryn was back at university; Bob was back at the coffee company; my American publisher was arranging a book tour through the northeastern states; and the Supino Social Club was organizing the dinner dance in honour of the feast of some September saint. Bob came home from that meeting in early September and he was coughing again.

  “Feel like taking a drive after dinner?” he asked. “One of my customers told me about a second-hand store up near Highway 89 that has an old-fashioned coffee grinder for sale. It’s a big one like they used to have on the counter of general stores. I thought it might be good for the bar in Supino. Not to actually grind the coffee, unless the grinder’s really precise, but just for the effect, you know.”

  We drove to the second-hand store. The grinder was solid, with a large wheel and a wooden handle. Bob pulled a handful of roasted coffee beans out of his pocket.

  “Does it work?” he asked the storeowner. “Can you adjust the grind?”

  The storeowner didn’t know, but just as Bob suspected, the grind was too coarse and it was inconsistent.

  “It’s really just good for display,” Bob said, “but I’ll take it.”

  The storeowner helped Bob lift the grinder into the back of the car and, as Bob closed the trunk, he started coughing again.

  “Bob,” I said.

  “I know. I’ll call tomorrow.”

  This time our family doctor sent Bob straight to the hospital for x-rays. “I’ll call you tomorrow as soon as I see the x-rays,” the doctor said.

  The phone rang at five minutes after nine the next morning.

  “I made an appointment for Bob to see the radiologist at the hospital today at 11.”

  It was September 11. We stopped for gas en route to the hospital and I went inside to pay and to buy Bob another bottle of water. The proprietor had the television on. Some planes had crashed into a tower. When we got to the hospital waiting room, everyone including the medical staff was watching the televisions screens. Bob couldn’t concentrate on the magazines or the television. My eyes were on the television, but I couldn’t connect to the disaster. I needed all my energy and strength to deal with our own disaster.

  This became one of those pivotal moments where people would remember exactly where they were and what they were doing. My reason for remembering September 11 would be different: I’d remember the feeling that I had buried deep under my heart that something was wrong with Bob and that cough that wouldn’t go away, but I couldn’t think about what it might mean. If I allowed that thought to surface, then a hundred other thoughts would emerge and I’d crumble, as surely as those towers on the television were doing, over and over again. Our 11 o’clock appointment stretched out to noon and then 12:30, and still we hadn’t seen the doctor. The nurse was tired of seeing me and I was tired of asking how much longer.

  “Let’s go,” said Bob. “I’ve waited enough.”

  “If we leave now, we’ll only have to come back again.”

  Finally, the nurse motioned us into an examining room, where we waited another 10 minutes. Bob sat with his head leaning against the wall and his eyes closed; I paced the small room. At last the doctor walked in, holding the x-rays as if they were heavy sheets of metal. His movements were slow. Again, I thought of those images playing over and over again in slow motion on the television. It seemed as though the world was in shock and everyone and everything was moving slowly. The doctor listened to Bob’s chest and said there was definitely some congestion in the lungs. He said that the x-ray was a little blurred and it was difficult to give an exact diagnosis without seeing Bob’s medical history.

  He said, “When’s your next appointment with your oncologist?”

  “Next week.”

  “I’ll renew your prescri
ption for the cough syrup. That’ll make you more comfortable in the meantime, and I’ll send the x-rays down to Princess Margaret. No hurry.”

  The next week Bob’s cough had cleared up, but he asked me to drive to Princess Margaret and let me drop him off at the main door while I went to park the car. Usually we took the stairs to the doctor’s office, but that day Bob stopped at the elevator. He walked very slowly down the long hallway to the oncologist’s waiting room.

  “Give them my name, will you?” Bob said, motioning to the receptionist, and he sat down in the closest chair to catch his breath. In a few minutes, the receptionist called Bob’s name and we followed her to the doctor’s office. I stood at the oncologist’s door, holding it open, waiting for Bob, who was walking slowly so he wouldn’t aggravate his cough.

  Bob’s oncologist pulled the x-rays from their brown manila envelope, put them up on the lightbox, and said, “What the hell happened?”

  “You tell us,” I said. My heart was pounding in my ears, but I could still hear Bob’s laboured breathing.

  “I’m sorry, Bob. You can see your whole left lung is grey and your right lung’s already beginning to fill with fluid. It’s lung cancer and it’s pretty advanced.”

  “Is there anything we can do?” asked Bob.

  “No.”

  Bob reached for my hand. I felt like someone had dropped a cement block on my chest and I was destined to carry that weight for the rest of my life. I heard the doctor’s voice, but I couldn’t decipher his words.

  When Bob stood up, I saw that the doctor was gone. The door was open, and we walked back down the long hallway together. I stopped to phone Kathryn, and then we were in the car driving home. I remember the day in stills, like someone fast-forwarded a movie, stopping here and there.

  We were back home sitting on the edge of the bed when Bob finally spoke about the doctor’s diagnosis.

  “The doctor said the cancer’s right through my body. He said there’s a sort of web of cancer around my heart. Wouldn’t it be funny if I died of a heart attack instead of lung cancer?”