by Phil Doran
I immediately pictured Telepiù Italia’s secret launching pad high in the Alps. A rocket blasts off with two Pasta-nauts and they dock with the satellite. The hatch pops open and Luigi says to Giovanni, “Okay, pass me the wrench.”
Giovanni says, “Hey, I thought you brought the wrench.”
“Doh!”
We didn’t want Umberto to know the real reason that our building permits were delayed, so in the grand tradition of una storia, we informed him that there’d be a slight holdup because the paperwork had to be routed to the city of Lucca for somebody’s signature. It was a lie, of course, but it was a good explanation because this kind of a delay could take anywhere from two weeks to two years to resolve.
Truth was, we had made repeated appeals to the Comune to issue us an address, but we had been flatly turned down each time. We realized that we needed help, so we sought out a lawyer. After sifting through a number of recommendations, we settled on one who had the exact qualifications I always seek in an attorney: He was cheap and he spoke English. But despite his reasonable rates, when we drove up to the office of Avvocato Bonetti, I found myself agitated about paying good money to somebody whose title sounded like the key ingredient in guacamole.
The office itself was on a run-down commercial street sandwiched between a shoe repair shop and a store selling clocks. The walls were thin, so as you sat in his office, you had to conduct your business with the steady tapping of the shoemaker’s hammer in one ear and the constant barrage of bells, gongs, and cuckoos in the other. If this weren’t enough, Avvocato Bonetti had three cell phones on his desk, one of which was always ringing. The constant barrage of phone calls was all from members of his family. His wife called (twice), followed by his daughter, his brother-in-law, and of course his mamma.
“You think you have problems?” he said, picking up one of his cell phones. “It’s nothing compared to what I have with my family. Excuse me.”
“Of course,” I said as a clock next door bonged eleven times, even though it was only twenty after two.
Each time he spoke to someone, I noticed that l’avvocato propped his cell phone under his chin, freeing up both hands so he could make hand gestures that the other party would never see. And he had good reason to gesture emphatically, for, as we were to learn in the course of that hour, he was struggling to find a job for a brother-in-law who hadn’t worked in two years, cart around a teenage daughter who had to be driven to a clinic in Siena three times a week for an eating disorder, and console an elderly mother who kept waking him in the middle of the night to find a Siamese cat that had been dead for twenty years.
“You seem awful busy,” I said, getting up and gesturing for Nancy to follow. “Maybe we should come back some—”
“No, no, no,” he assured me, opening a desk drawer and sweeping all of his cell phones into it. “You have my complete and undivided attention.”
Nancy tugged on my shirtsleeve until I sat back down, and we proceeded to lay out our story. Avvocato Bonetti listened intently, never once distracted by the muffled rings of the various cell phones from inside his desk drawer. Then he leaned back in his chair, rubbed his chin, and told us that the problem we were facing could take months to resolve. Maybe years. But not to worry, over the course of three centuries our house must have been identified in some surveyor’s report or perhaps a geological survey. There had to be a record of it. And once we had that, we’d have enough evidence to file an appeal, which we could win!
By now I had the makings of a fine headache brewing behind my eyes, and with the few brain cells I had left, I was ready to summon my arm to throw in the towel. But Nancy was smiling, her eyes glinting like a bird of prey’s at the prospect of proving that, at least in this part of Tuscany, you can fight City Hall.
Avvocato Bonetti buzzed his intercom, and a moment later a young lady entered. This was his sister, Avvocatessa Bonetti, apparently the only person in his family he wasn’t at odds with. She would help us search the old city records to find any trace of such a transaction. Meanwhile, Avvocato Bonetti told us that he would speak to the head of urban planning for the entire Frazione di Lucca. Perhaps he could be persuaded to look the other way.
We were perplexed. Was he suggesting a bribe? And if so, did they take American Express? He was vague, even though influence peddling is not illegal in Italy. The only crime associated with such an action is if you take money on the promise you can fix something and you fail to do so.
We arranged to meet Avvocatessa Bonetti at the Comune archives, thanked them both, and said our good-byes.
My head was ringing louder than Big Ben at high noon, but as we headed for the car I was determined to tell Nancy how ready I was to dump the house. I decided to soften her up by first telling her about my headache, but before I could get to the part where it was most likely an inoperable brain tumor, she suddenly wrapped her arms around me.
“Do you know how great it is that you’re here with me?” she said.
“Me? What do I do?”
“A lot, and even if you did nothing, just you being with me makes me feel like I’m not fighting everybody all by myself. I know this is hard on you, but I just want you to know how much I really appreciate you being on my side.”
“Hey, that’s what being a couple’s all about,” I said.
She smiled and my brain tumor was miraculously healed.
13
Un Giro
My behavior at the Dipartimento della Licenza and the lawyer’s office made Nancy feel that I was becoming as stressed-out here as I had been in Hollywood, and she worried that I was in danger of missing all the joys of living in Italy. A change of scenery might help, so when I managed to scorch the Teflon off our favorite frying pan, it gave us the perfect excuse. We decided to splurge and buy a new one in rame, copper. And when you buy copper, everybody knows that you must take a giro (a trip) to Montepulciano and buy from Signor Mazzetti.
The drive to Montepulciano took us through some of the most serenely beautiful wine country in all of Chianti. Soft, rolling hills, as sublimely curved as a Stradivarius violin, spread out before us as the land pulsed with the greening of early summer growth. Rigid rows of grapevines ran like spokes to the horizon. Tall, spindly cypress trees swayed in the wind, and from everywhere at once came the smell of sun-warmed earth and budding Sangiovese grapes.
I was trying to let the palpable sensations of the land wash through me and sweep away my cares, but the very vehicle we were sitting in reminded me of our problems. Without an address to register it, we couldn’t buy a car. So for the past two months we had been renting a Fiat Punto at twenty-four euros a day. Do the math and you’ll quickly discover why Avis owns a sixty-seven-story high-rise in Manhattan and you don’t.
A more imminent threat, however, was not money but death. Italians drive with a ferocity usually connected to a blood sport—horns blasting, brakes screeching, gears grinding—and that’s just getting out of the driveway. Two thousand years ago these maniacs would have been racing chariots around the Circus Maximus, but today all their horses are under their hoods, as they roar past each other in pursuit of a laurel wreath from some long-forgotten past.
I was grateful that Nancy was behind the wheel and not me. Being far more familiar with both the terrain and the temperament, she did the driving and navigating, while I was charged with the all-important tasks of selecting the appropriate CD and turning off the air conditioner when she went to pass somebody on a hill.
The problem with driving in Italy is basically this: Cars and Vespas come at you so suddenly and from such unexpected angles that a driver all by himself is easily overwhelmed. My theory is, to drive safely in this country requires at least two other people in the car, a tail gunner and a wingman. Even then, it’s precarious because eighty-five percent of the drivers in Italy drive much too fast, while fifteen percent drive much too slow. Of course, the too-fast drivers are obsessed with passing the too-slow drivers on roads that are ancient, narrow, and
winding. This would be dangerous enough, but throw in the inordinately large number of huge trucks and those odd little three-wheeled putt-putts, comically overloaded with bales of hay and various farm implements, and you begin to get a sense of the peril.
We were stuck behind such a putt-putt, chugging along at eleven kilometers an hour, as we followed the road up to Montepulciano, the biggest and highest of all the hill towns in southern Tuscany. The town sits atop a narrow ridge of volcanic rock and as you approach, the ancient fortifications seem to lean down on you in their full medieval menace. We entered the city through the Porta al Prato, driving past the three hanging balls that signify that these gates, and much of this city, were once the property of the Medicis.
We then began the search for a parking space. Whenever you plan a trip in Italy you must double the time you’ve allotted, because it takes the same amount of time to find a parking space as it does to travel to your destination. The problem is so acute that as soon as an Italian spots a parking space he grabs it, then leaves his car there, preferring to get around by bus and taxi for the rest of his life. On the off chance that a parking space actually does open up, chaos ensues. The situation is best illustrated by one of those flat puzzles we all played with as kids, the one where you moved the tiles around because one space was free. Whenever anyone leaves a parking space, every car in Italy moves to adjust, because, like nature, Italian drivers abhor a vacuum.
We finally found a space so ambiguously marked, we had an equal chance to get or not get a parking ticket. We walked down the Via di Gracciano as it looped through the monumental area of the old town, changing names four times. We strolled past churches and palazzi built of warm, salmon-colored stone and supported by graceful curvilinear pediments.
The street, now calling itself Via di Voltaia, widened as it gently ascended upward. It was a stunning walk, because as you strolled in shade past the tony boutiques and gourmet wine shops, you’d come to a break between the buildings and you’d be suddenly dazzled by a slice of golden-green countryside
Finally, we came to the establishment known as Signor Mazzetti’s Rinomata Rameria (Copper Store of Renown). It was a small, densely cluttered shop where every square inch was occupied by something made of, or covered with, copper. Pots, pans, kettles, clocks, Jell-O molds, colanders, wine stoppers, mailboxes, doorstops, hat racks, weather vanes, and irons, back-scratchers, and letter openers, all in copper. The only things not covered in copper were the elderly Signor Mazzetti and his cat, Beppe.
He spoke passionately about rame, his white mane of hair bristling with excitement at the idea of copper-coating an object he had not yet thought of. Did I mention he sold a copper-coated fly swatter?
We told him we were in the market for a cooking pan, and sensing we were new to his world, he took delight in explaining the three different grades we could buy. He showed us his best, a heavy-duty, restaurant-grade pan three millimeters thick with an inside coating of quicksilver-colored tin. I grasped the long bronze handle and imagined that when full of pasta it would be the equivalent of bench-pressing one of those three-wheeled putt-putts.
He showed us the medium grade, which was two and half millimeters thick and was intended for large families. Again, it would take a large family to lift it off the stove and haul it to the table. We finally settled on the most popular one, measuring two millimeters thick. It had the graceful classic shape of an Etruscan bowl, and with its bulged-out bottom and hammer-pounded surface, Nancy liked the way it would look hanging on the kitchen wall. Signor Mazzetti was pleased with our choice, commenting that whichever one we selected, we would be getting an authentic piece of copper work that was fatto a mano, made by hand.
As he wrapped our pan and prepared the bill, we browsed his store for any of our other copper needs, coming frighteningly close to buying a copper-handled toilet plunger.
The copper bell above the door rang and Signora Mazzetti entered with their four-year-old grandson, Lorenzo. While Lorenzo chased Beppe around the store, she reminded Signor Mazzetti that he had promised to take his grandson for a haircut. He told her that he first wanted to show us his workshop. We suggested that if he wanted to take Lorenzo to the barbershop now, we’d go have lunch and come back afterward to see his workshop when we picked up our pan.
He asked us where we were going to eat. When we told him we had no idea, he insisted we go to a little osteria around the corner, because they were making one of their specialties today, pici all’aglione, thick spaghetti in a garlicky tomato sauce.
Allow me a moment to explain the various designations of eating establishments in Italy, and what the differences are between a ristorante, a trattoria, and an osteria. Although the lines have tended to blur over the last few years, anyplace called a ristorante is bound to be fancy, with white tablecloths, heavy silver, and a menu that usually takes classic Italian dishes and tortures them with a fusion of sauces until they are beyond recognition. Although they often serve excellent food (one has to be profoundly unlucky to get a bad meal in Tuscany), many think it’s unnecessary to pay those prices, because great Italian cooking is simple, especially in Tuscany, where the cuisine is essentially peasant food, honest and delicious. For that reason, you may be better served by eating at either a trattoria or an osteria.
A trattoria is a family-style restaurant. It has checkered tablecloths, and Chianti bottles hang from the ceiling. It’s the original of what the rest of the world thinks of as Italian dining. Meals are served a la famiglia on large platters, and not surprisingly, the ambience is noisy, smoky, and brimming with life.
An osteria, which actually means “tavern,” is the least expensive of the three and is primarily a place where working-men take their meals, with long wooden tables covered with butcher paper, benches without backs, and food far greater in quality and quantity than you’d ever expect to find in such humble surroundings. There is a rough conviviality that welcomes you, but as many old-timers are sad to report, white-collar workers, ladies in hats, and even yuppie scum have recently discovered the delights of osteria dining and bestowed upon it the highest compliment an Italian can give an eatery, “Si mangia bene, si spenda poco.” Here, one eats well and pays little.
We didn’t have dessert at the osteria since Signor Mazzetti advised us to go to a certain wine shop down the street, and enjoy their famous baked ricotta cheese smothered in local honey. This proved to be one of those remarkable instances of just when you thought something couldn’t get any better, it did. The pici all’aglione we had for lunch was hearty and superb, the sweetness of the garlic elegantly melding with the natural tartness of the tomatoes. Just like the syrupy smoothness of the honey found its perfect complement in the warm brick of baked ricotta cheese it was poured over at the wine shop he had recommended.
Like many of the enoteche (wine shops) in town, this one invited you to go down into their wine cellar and see the Etruscan tombs. This part of the old city had been built over a honeycombed maze of basements and underground tunnels that once connected all the palaces and cathedrals. So with the ambrosial taste of ricotta and honey still in our mouths, we descended the moldy staircase that led down to the wine cellar, examining a collection of medieval torture devices, household utensils, and chastity belts bolted to the wall. We walked down long, darkened corridors, passing rows of fat oaken vats lying on their sides, as big as four-door sedans and filled with wine aging in the cool silence. The scent of wine was so pervasive, it seemed mixed in with the very moisture sweating through the ancient brick walls.
We finally came to an expansive chapel-shaped area. It was a barren space, but when we looked closely we could make out indentations on the floor that might have been the outline of an altar. To this day no one can figure out how old this room is or what it was used for, but it’s located directly under the altar of the Chiesa di Gésu above, leading to speculation that it was once an Etruscan place of worship.
We returned to Signor Mazzetti’s shop to find our pan wrapped a
nd Lorenzo sporting a new haircut. After paying and saying good-bye to Signora Mazzetti and Beppe the cat, we followed Signor Mazzetti and Lorenzo out the back door and down a flight of broken concrete stairs. We navigated the narrow medieval alleyways as Signor Mazzetti, holding Lorenzo by the hand, told us how his father had come to Montepulciano from a small village north of Perugia to set up the store in 1910.
Signor Mazzetti and his wife took over the shop after the Second World War. It prospered and they raised a fine, healthy family. But now that they were ready to retire, they didn’t have anyone to leave it to. He lamented that we were living in an age when young people weren’t interested in the old crafts anymore. His sons and sons-in-law had no desire to work the copper, but he was praying that he might plant a seed in Lorenzo.
Crossing one of the perpetually gridlocked streets that led out of the city, we approached a padlocked garage. He opened it, and we entered a cramped, dark workshop smelling of sulfur. He turned on the bare hanging bulb to illuminate a world of drill presses, workbenches, kilns, stacks of copper ingots, and boxes of every imaginable size of fitting, hinge, and rivet. But the star of this constellation was the anvil. Dark, silver-gray, and battle scarred in its invincibility, it sat on a concrete pedestal and even though it was only about the size of a sewing machine, it occupied the center of Signor Mazzetti’s workshop with the permanence of a mountain range.
He sat Lorenzo at a workbench with a battered piece of copper and smiled as the child gleefully pounded on it with a small hammer. Then Signor Mazzetti selected a flat copper disk about the size of a DVD and took it to his anvil. He began using various taps and dies to engrave the copper as he asked us about ourselves. We told him how we had come to Tuscany to try to make a new life together and about the problems we had run into along the way. As we told our story, people started wandering in.
