My Father Came From Italy

by Maria Coletta McLean

  “I think we should buy it,” I told Bob.

  “I can’t buy a house without seeing it!” Bob’s not Italian.

  “What’s the worst that can happen?” I reasoned. “If we don’t like it, we’ll just sell it again. You can take my father to see the owner. He’ll speak to him in Italian and find out everything you want to know.” Lorenzo knew the house’s owner, Tucci, belonged to the Supino Social Club, begun informally in the 50s as an alternative to hanging around the bars or being told by the police to move along while you were standing on a Toronto sidewalk, talking after a movie, the restaurants and cafés closed. They hadn’t gotten around to constructing a building yet, but there was renewed interest in having a permanent location as the 40th anniversary was approaching and there were now over 500 families from Supino in the greater Toronto area. In the meantime, they met here and there. This Friday it would be at the Monte Cassino banquet hall.

  That night the parking lot was full and inside everyone was speaking Italian, shouting, tunes on the organetto drowned out by protests about which national anthem to play first: music filled the hall with the notes of “Fratelli d’Italia,” followed by “O Canada.” Then, everyone sat down, uncorked the wine bottles, offered cigarettes to their neighbours and began various conversations. The president of the club began to talk about activities the club had planned for the following year. Every announcement invited a recap of the highlights of last year’s picnic, the feast of San Lorenzo, the outdoor mass. As the president continued his speech, the noise and the memories grew louder. Two men near the front of the hall began to tape large sheets of bristol board to the wall. Bob and my father stepped into the lobby to talk with my cousin Johnny. Johnny knew Tucci.

  “He’s my daughter’s godfather. He’s not here tonight.”

  Johnny knew Tucci’s house, but not his address. He could take them there, but it was getting a bit late. Bob and Johnny went inside with my father to say goodbye to Carmen, a friend of Bob’s who stopped by my husband’s coffee plant on his bus route each week. The atmosphere inside was relaxed. Platters of pizza had joined the wine bottles on the tables. The bartender was beginning to grind the espresso beans. The large sheets of bristol board were covered with names and on each board one name was circled. Under the heading “President” the name “Boni” was circled. Under “Vice-president,” “Caprara” was circled. Under “Treasurer” were several names, but the circled name was “McLean.”

  “Auguri,” said Carmen, as he shook Bob’s hand.

  “Auguri,” said a stranger.

  “Auguri,” said my cousin Augusto.

  Bob looked at my father. “Congratulations, you’re the new treasurer of the club,” he explained, as he pointed toward the voting results marked on the sheets of bristol board.

  “I don’t speak Ital—” began Bob.

  “It’s numbers, Bob,” assured Carmen. “We write them down for you.”

  *****

  Later Bob relayed the story and explained his plan. “No problema. Lorenzo said Tucci goes to the bar at St. Clair and Dufferin every Sunday after church.” Bob was so pleased with this key information about the house owner, I didn’t have the heart to tell him there are a dozen bars at St. Clair and Dufferin.

  The following Sunday, Bob and my father drove to that corner, went in and out of the bars asking for a man named Tucci. They ended up sitting in Tucci’s backyard in the warm February sunlight, drinking wine and admiring Tucci’s tomato and pepper seedlings growing beneath a greenhouse of two-by-fours and heavy plastic sheeting. My father and Tucci talked about the old country, various relatives and friends from years ago. Tucci gave them some green onions and they had coffee and cookies at the kitchen table.

  When they returned I had cream, sugar and cookies on our kitchen table. I phoned next door to my mother.

  She had come from Italy when she was young as well, but all her memories of the old country were remembrances of hardship: the death of her mother, the years of poverty, the cruelness of a maiden aunt who cared for them and the constant hunger. She didn’t want to go back, she wanted to forget. When my father had come to Canada, he was 19 and although his life in Italy had been a poor one, his memories were rich. He always talked about his childhood and his village with tenderness, while my mother spoke only with bitterness.

  I was pouring the cream into her coffee, when Bob asked, “What did the owner say about the condition of the house?”

  “I forgot to ask,” said my father, laughing and slapping his knee with the palm of his hand.

  My mother pushed the plate of cookies toward Bob. “How are your parents?”

  “Fine,” Bob replied, then turning to my father again he asked. “Didn’t he tell you anything at all?”

  “He’s anxious to sell. His daughter’s getting married this year, so he needs the money. Said he’d even take a little less, but he’s got to know right away. Raffaele — that’s his first name — went back to Supino 15 years ago. Said everything’s pretty much the same. They put new plaster on the front of the church — that’s all. He said it looked good.”

  “Would you like to go back, for a visit?” I asked, as I passed him the plate of cookies.

  “We really don’t need to buy a house to take your father back to Supino,” interrupted Bob. “There’s that pensione just outside of the village — or we can stay at a hotel in Frosinone. It’s only 30 minutes away.”

  “Why would you pay money to stay in a hotel if you own a house?” asked my father.

  “Would you like to go to Supino?” I asked again.

  My father looked at my mother. She had finished her coffee, slid her cup toward the centre of the table. Her arms were crossed against her chest, her lips set.

  “Well, it might be good,” he began, hesitantly, “to see the old places again. I have some cousins living up on the mountain....”

  “They’d all be dead now,” interrupted my mother, frowning. She pushed back her chair.

  “Maybe. They were younger than me though. They could still be there.”

  “You don’t want to go back,” declared my mother. “There’s nothing there.”

  I looked at my father. I looked at Bob to see if he heard it too. In the silence, we knew he wanted to go. Over the years I’d grown used to my mother answering for her husband. She made the decision, but she said, “Your father doesn’t want to...” as if he had a choice. Normally, I would have let the idea drop. Experience had taught me that she would get her way in the end. She insisted he didn’t want to go, warned me I’d be sorry, money would be wasted, he wouldn’t like it, he’d want to come back after one day.

  “I’m warning you. If you take him, don’t bring him back here.” My mother always attached the same string: accept her decision or risk losing her love. “Tell her you don’t want to go,” she said to my father.

  But my father didn’t say a word. He just looked at me with pale blue eyes, waiting.

  *****

  I would have given up if it hadn’t been for a cold March night a few weeks later. My father got lost returning from my sister’s, just as he had a few months earlier when he walked to Weston and Keele, thinking he still worked at Toronto Macaroni. My father’s doctor said it wasn’t Alzheimer’s, it wasn’t dementia, it was the stress of living with my mother. While Bob and I drove around looking for my father we worried that these incidents were happening more frequently, becoming more dangerous. Suddenly Bob slammed on the brakes. Someone was standing in the middle of the road, caught in our headlights. It was my father. A car behind us blew its horn.

  My father was startled; he looked hurriedly from side to side, but he didn’t move. Reaching for the door handle, I opened it noiselessly and walked slowly to the centre lane, motioning to the impatient driver to go ahead. Then, I touched the shoulder of my father’s coat, surprised at how feeble he’d become. I kept my voice very soft, tried to sound reassuring.

  “Where are you going?” I asked, with a small forced smile.
My father looked at me. He didn’t know me.

  “Where are you going, Dad?” I tried again.

  His cheeks and nose were red from the cold. The bitter March wind blew his coat open and I reached out my hand to button it. He flinched. I took a step back, wrapped my arms around my body.

  “It’s okay,” I lied. I could feel the tears, hot and bitter, at the back of my throat. “Can I help you? Where do you want to go?” His gentle blue eyes were rimmed with red and he started to cry.

  “I can’t find my house,” he said, as if I was an interested stranger. “It’s number 183, but there’s no one home.”

  “This is Church Street,” I explained. “You live on the next street, on King Street.”

  “My daughter lives next door,” he continued. “I knocked at her door, but a woman said no one named Maria lived there. She said she couldn’t help me.”

  Couldn’t help me. The words echoed in my head, in my chest. I bit the inside of my lip to keep from sobbing. Someone blew a horn, startling my father again. Taking his arm, I led him to the sidewalk. I could feel his elbow through the coat sleeve. He was trembling. We had crossed to the lawn of the local hospital, the same hospital in which doctors had told me my father suffered the brunt of verbal abuse. I offered my father a ride home; he didn’t say no. It was dark, but a little light shone on the verandah of #183. My mother’s shadow blocked the doorway.

  “You’re home,” I said to my father.

  “Home?” he echoed.

  *****

  Johnny knew the Tucci family from when he lived in Supino and knew the house on Via Condotto Vecchio. Johnny assured us that not only did the house exist, but he’d been inside. “I was there a few years ago, 14, 15 years. It looked pretty good.”

  “Does it need work?” Bob asked.

  Johnny paused for a moment, considering the question. Then he suggested, “Maybe it’s going to need a coat of paint.” So with the help of Rocco and a lawyer, signor Marcello Renzi, we signed the papers and bought the house at #10 Via Condotto Vecchio. Signor Renzi told us the street name meant “the old water way,” the path the underground stream followed from the mountain down to the pastures of Supino. In the lawyer’s office, our street name sounded romantic and idyllic, but as soon as we shook hands with the owner and handed over the cheque, I began to have doubts.

  Bob said, “It’ll be fine. We’ll go over in May and take a look at the place. Then we’ll hire a painter. You’re worrying about nothing. I want to buy this house, for you and for your father. We can give him a trip back to the old country, a few days of happiness in his hometown and memories for the rest of his life. And we will always have it as a reminder of where you came from.”

  MAYBE IT NEEDS A LITTLE WORK

  In May, Bob and I went to Supino to inspect our new house. We had the address, but first we had to stop at Enzo’s house, Raffaele’s brother, to get the key. There was a light rain falling when we arrived at Fiumicino Airport. We drove straight from the airport to Supino and knocked on the brother’s door just after one o’clock.

  “You arrive already. Good. Sit. Eat,” said Enzo.

  We were too excited to eat, but we didn’t want to insult him by refusing his hospitality. Already Enzo’s wife was gathering more plates and glasses from the sideboard. I explained to the woman with some hand gestures that we were very tired. I said, “Un’altra volta,” which I think meant “another time.” Covering Enzo’s dish of linguine with another plate, she motioned to her husband to take us to the house.

  “It’s not necessary,” said Bob. “Non é necessario. You stay and eat your lunch. We have the address. Just give us the key.”

  “No. No,” replied Enzo, shocked by the suggestion. “It is my pleasure, my honour, to show you the house of my brother. Then, I present you with the keys, my new Canadian friends, and we have a drink to celebrate.”

  Five minutes later, we parked our rented car beside the Bar Italia and ran up Via D’Italia and onto Via Condotto Vecchio. It was raining fairly heavily now and water ran down the gutters of the cobblestone street. The stone houses that lined the street were joined in one long building, so we hurried past several doors until Enzo stepped under an archway. It was a small stone entranceway, about a yard by a yard, with two sets of stairways, one going left and one going right. The cement work on the left stairway was cracked and broken, but Enzo turned to the right, where the stairs were in excellent condition, and we followed him to the front door of our new home. The double wooden doors had long etched glass panels. Enzo took the key from his jacket pocket and slipped it easily into the lock.

  “Ascolta,” he said, cupping his hand over his ear. “Uno, due, tre,” and we heard three little clicks announcing that the door was unlocked. Enzo stepped aside to allow Bob to enter first, but when Bob pushed on the polished brass door handle, nothing happened. He pushed again. Then, he leaned one arm on the door frame and gave a quick shove with his shoulder. There was a screech as the door scraped an arc onto the dirty cement floor. A foul smell greeted us and sent us reeling back down the stairs and into the street.

  “Un momento, un momento,” instructed Enzo, as he raced through the house, opening windows and doors. With one hand masking my mouth and nose, I slowly paced the length of the main floor. Sixteen feet by ten feet of cold, damp, dirty floors and clammy walls festooned with crumbling paint chips. In the corner was a fireplace, decorated with dull mustard-yellow and turquoise ceramic tiles. Every tile was cracked or chipped. Some were missing altogether and in their place remained a streaky square of grey grout. On the walls above the fireplace were vertical charcoal streaks where the rainwater had seeped in. Plastered solidly into the cracked ceiling were three large, rusty hooks.

  “What are these?” I asked, pointing to the hooks.

  “Meat-a hook,” Enzo replied, happy to point out this added feature. “For hanging salsicce — how you say? — sausage.”

  As I put my foot on the first step, I thought beneath the dirt there might be marble, but the steps were damp from the rain and I slipped. Reaching out to steady myself on the banister, I watched the whole railing fall slowly to the floor. Bob caught me under my arms. I went up the stairs slowly, balancing myself with one arm extended into the damp, musty air, the other pressed against the stairwell. As I climbed, bits of plaster crumbled beneath my fingers and trickled down the wall. With each step, I hoped for reassurance that the upstairs might be in better condition. The stairs ended where the front bedroom began. Its balcony doors were open and the wind carried the rain into the room. Water also overflowed a small pothole in the balcony floor, travelling along a crack and into the bedroom where it collected in a puddle around my feet.

  “I think the air is fresher up here,” I said. “And when the sun comes out — the sun will come out eventually, won’t it? — that breeze will be refreshing, right? Bob? Right?”

  “Let’s look at the third room,” Bob said.

  The floor was dry and a little larger; it would likely accommodate a double bed. I opened the closet door to a tiny window. If we took out the broken toilet and wash basin someone had stored in there and added a clothes rod, this could be a handy little addition. It even had a light switch, but when I switched it on, nothing happened. Looking up to see if the bulb was burned out, I saw a rusted shower head in the middle of the ceiling.

  Enzo squeezed between the cracked toilet bowl and the grubby sink and with a flourish turned on the tap. A few hearty sputters of protest and copper-coloured liquid spurted from the tap, for a moment. Enzo explained that we had town water access for an hour each day. On our street, Via Condotto Vecchio, we could usually get water from the taps between eleven o’clock and noon, most days.

  “How do people manage the rest of the time?” I asked.

  Enzo shrugged. “Fill pots,” he said.

  Cold water ran from the second tap too, for a few seconds. “Where’s the hot water?” I asked.

  “You require hot water too?” asked Enzo. />
  I walked the three steps to the back bedroom window. I was tired from the flight and the rain outside made things seem more dismal. The smell didn’t help either. From the balcony at the front of the house, I could see people heading up the hill to get water from the mountain stream, or down the hill to the shops of Supino, but the view from the back bedroom overlooked a ravine. Suddenly, I was in the country. The top half of the cracked glass framed a view of Santa Serena. The bottom half of the glass showed the valley of beech and hazelnut trees, shiny, yellow-green leaves and slender trunks bowing gracefully in the rain. Halfway up the hillside stood the farmhouse where my father was born. I could see the faded, clay tile roof through the spaces in the trees. I could see the farmhouse walls, shiny in the rain, the old wooden gate, the pathway edged with grapevines. I could pick out the three olive trees and the cherry tree that I knew would be in blossom.

  “What do you think?” asked Bob.

  I couldn’t think of one word to say, in English or Italian.

  Back on the main floor, Enzo pushed one of the front doors closed and in the wall behind it was another smaller door. He opened it and stood with his hand extended revealing a tiny triangular closet with a slanted roof (created by the stairway), a wooden shelf, smoke-coloured cobwebs and four coat hooks. Enzo reached in and took an enormous key off the shelf. The key was 10 inches long, made of black wrought iron, with an ornate handle of loops and scrolls. A key designed for a castle.