My Father Came From Italy

by Maria Coletta McLean

  “It’s the street sweeper. You see him every morning at the Bar Italia, leaning on his broom, talking to the policeman who sometimes directs the traffic.”

  The three of us sat comfortably in the eleven o’clock sunshine, drinking espresso, exchanging a word or two. With my glasses and my dictionary, I translated the poster. It was an announcement of the activities surrounding the feast of San Cataldo. We’d been invited to participate in the official ceremonies at City Hall. I thought it was because my husband was a politician. The villagers love titles: professore, dottore, consigliere, especially if it’s a local made good. Partway through my translation I discovered a line in English.

  “Bob, listen to this. Official visit of signor Robert McLean, Alderman City of York (Toronto) four o’clock Tuesday, May 8th at City Hall. That’s today,” I said. “What time is it?”

  “Eleven. We’ve got lots of time. Four o’clock in Supino probably means six.”

  Before heading back to the pensione to change, we stopped again at the Bar Centrale. Our city official had removed his tie, loosened his collar, rolled up his sleeves and was still deep in conversation. We knew there was no way he was going to return to his duties at City Hall today. The ten o’clock cappuccino break had stretched almost to lunch time. We carried on up the hill to our house to see how the renovations were progressing. The workers were also on a break, sitting beneath the willow tree in the empty lot up the road, drinking beer and eating cake, supplied by signora Francesca who lived across the street. They jumped up when they saw us approach. Not to work, but to tell us Gino’s brother had just returned from Toronto with pictures of the CN Tower.

  “Isn’t it strange how fascinated the villagers are with the CN Tower?” I asked.

  “Isn’t it strange that no one’s working?” responded Bob.

  Our house was locked, tools, paint cans, plaster neatly piled in the cantina. The workers gathered up their sweaters and their caps and headed home.

  “See you later,” they claimed. “Ci vediamo.”

  “They accomplish a lot when they’re working,” I said.

  “Sure,” agreed Bob, “when they’re working. They stop for the strangest reasons. What about last week? The whole town shut down to hike up the mountain for an afternoon picnic. And why? Because the wild roses were in bloom or the cherries were ripe. What kind of a village is this anyway?”

  “My father’s village,” I replied.

  We passed the house again, just before four, en route to the official ceremonies. I assured Bob we’d see workers in action. The street was deserted. We drove to City Hall without passing a single car or person. The doors of the municipal building were locked.

  “We’ll try the Bar Centrale,” suggested Bob. “Maybe the owner, Carlo, knows something.”

  The piazza was empty. The bar was closed. Even our town official had gone.

  “Interesting way to hold an official opening.”

  “Let’s go sit on our balcony,” I replied. “I think the workers will be back from their lunch break soon.”

  On our narrow balcony two cane chairs, left in the attic, fit side by side, but we had to climb over their wooden ladder backs to sit down. There was nowhere to put our legs. For a few minutes, we sat folded like jackknives, until we traded the chairs for empty plaster pails. Perfect. From up the mountain, a soft thumping noise grew louder, approached the curve of our street. As we turned toward the sound, a brass band appeared around the bend, horns shining in the sunlight, drums beating brightly. When the band passed the houses along Via Condotto Vecchio, the villagers spilled from their doorways. Dressed in their Sunday clothes, mothers pushed strollers, children skipped, men straightened their ties and their collar bands; the street joined in a parade. When they passed our balcony, we deserted our plastic pails and joined as well.

  Down the hill we proceeded, gathering neighbours as we went, past the Bar Centrale, still closed, and up the hill to the City Hall where red and yellow banners fluttered from its second story windows. The doors stood wide open with a uniformed policeman at each end. The crowd gathered outside the doorway and waited. Another policeman stepped out. He held a bugle to his lips and played a few notes.

  “This must be something really important. All three Supino policemen are here.”

  Dignitaries in black suits filed out of the building. The last man wore a red, white and green sash tied diagonally across his chest. The mayor made a fine speech about something, speaking so quickly I couldn’t decipher enough words to create a sentence. Then he spoke in English, “Signor Bob, welcome. Missus Bob, welcome home.” The mayor placed a bunch of red roses in my arm, shook my hand and kissed me on both cheeks. Even though it was my father’s birthplace, my father’s country, my father’s language, it was the moment I felt I belonged.

  *****

  The next day, as we drove down Via Condotto Vecchio, Bob checked the gas gauge. It was almost empty.

  “Is there a gas station in Supino?” he asked.

  “Isn’t there one near the Kennedy Bar?”

  “You’re thinking of the phone booth. I’d better stop and ask. I don’t think we have enough gas to get to Frosinone.”

  Attached to the Kennedy Bar is a pizza parlor. The woman who makes the pizza doesn’t speak English, but she has a pleasant face and like all the Supinese, she’s anxious to help. We can look up the phrase “gas station” in the dictionary and ask her. That’s the easy part. The hard part is the answer. Someone always has a better way of getting there and every heated conversation always ends with the question, “Understand?”

  Bob memorized the words for “right” and “left,” copied down the words for “where,” and “gas station” and was back to the car in a few seconds.

  “That was almost too fast,” I worried. “What’d she say?”

  “Quattro Strade — the four streets, we know where that is. Turn right and boom! That’s it.”

  So we drove with Bob watching the gas gauge all the way and turned right and boom! There it was. We waited in the car for a few minutes, Bob tapping his fingernails on the dashboard, but no one came. Bob suggested, “Maybe it’s self-serve.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen the word ‘self-serve’ in Italy,” I said, but no one was coming and we had to be in Frosinone in 20 minutes. Bob opened the car door and stepped up to the pump. He squeezed the gas pump, but nothing came out.

  “Ey!” called a voice from the window above the gas station. “What you do?”

  Bob began a pantomime, holding up the pump, pointing to the car, asking me, “What’s the word for empty?”

  “Come back Thursday,” said the man in the window. “I get gas on Thursday.”

  “You have no gas?” asked Bob. “You’re out of gas?”

  “Just until Thursday,” the man repeated. “Come back Thursday.”

  “I have to get to Frosinone, today,” explained Bob.

  “You got some gas?” asked the man, sticking his hands out the window and lifting them up and down, as if he was comparing some invisible weights.

  “Yes.”

  “Then, you got no problem, signor. You Americano?”

  “Canadese ,” said Bob wearily, as he screwed the gas cap back on the car’s almost empty gas tank.

  “Oh, the Canadese . To Frosinone, go straight,” instructed the gas man. “Why you look so worried? It’s all down the hill from here.”

  We drove down hill until we got almost to the autostrada. Before the car could begin to cough and sputter and announce it was completely out of gas,

  I pointed to a battered blue tin sign, stating chiuso, hanging on a chain across the gas pumps. A young boy on a two-wheeler came racing out of nowhere and braked in a spin beside Bob’s window.

  “Signor Canadese ?” asked the boy.

  “Sí.”

  “Aspetta,” the boy replied, as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a ring of keys. Quickly, he unlocked the chain, unhooked the gas pump and filled the tank. He poi
nted to the total showing on the gas pump and put his hand out to Bob. Bob counted out the lire, asking, “How did you know who we were?”

  “Telefona,” he said, pressing his thumb to his ear, his baby finger on his lower lip. “Canadese . No gas. Frosinone.”

  “The guy at the other station must have phoned ahead,” I said to Bob.

  “Supinese,” the boy explained. “Like you.”

  Bob drove like an Italian maniac all the way to Frosinone. We got there with 10 minutes to spare.

  “Bet we’re waiting here for over an hour,” I said to Bob.

  “Not a chance. Lawyers are the same everywhere. Time is money.”

  There was something about the traffic, the people, even the heat of this small city just 30 minutes from Supino that suggested business and industry. Rocco pulled up five minutes before noon, jumped from his car, raced

  to the building. It was the fastest we’d ever seen him move. By the time we reached the front lobby Rocco was already at the top of the stairs. He motioned us to hurry.

  “Number 27. This is it,” said Rocco. “Good luck.”

  “Aren’t you coming with us?” I asked.

  “No need. You have your papers, right? Everything’s all set. No problem,” assured Rocco. Then, he added, “Don’t worry, Maria, the lawyer speaks perfect English.”

  “We’ve heard that before,” I declared, but Rocco was gone with a wave of his hand and a “Ciao, bella.”

  After the midday heat of Via Margarete, the lawyer’s office, with grey marble floors and rich green plants, was cool and peaceful. The receptionist looked up for a moment when we entered and waved us toward the open door of the lawyer’s office. No buon giorno. No handshake. Not even an enquiry. The lawyer, in his Armani suit and Versace tie, was just as businesslike.

  “Sit,” he instructed. We pulled out the soft leather seats and sat.

  “Sign here,” he said.

  “These are the same papers we signed at the lawyer’s office in Toronto,” began Bob. “Why do we have to sign them again?”

  “This is Italy,” the lawyer replied, so we took the fine-tip fountain pen and signed.

  The lawyer placed a small wooden box on the table, opened the lid and from a bed of burgundy velvet, took out a block of dark blue sealing wax and a metal seal. With his cigarette lighter, burnished silver with his initials discreetly engraved in the bottom-left-hand corner, he lit the wick and dripped wax onto the official documents. Then he pressed the seal down firmly on the melted wax and waited a few seconds, tapping his manicured fingertips on the mahogany table. Lifting the seal he said, “You are now official residents of Supino. Auguri. Any questions?”

  “Our water tank,” began Bob.

  “Municipal business. Go to the City Hall in your village.”

  “Our house has several different numbers painted on it,” Bob explained. “Six. Ten.”

  “Ask your neighbours.”

  He checked his Rolex watch. “Anything else?” he asked and stood up to indicate that the appointment was over. He walked over to the sideboard. A bottle of amber-coloured liquid and several glasses waited on a silver tray. Were we going to drink a toast to our official status?

  He returned with one last document, opened the folder carefully, turned the paper toward us and, keeping his hand outstretched, waited.

  “And this is?” Bob asked.

  “My bill,” said the lawyer, in his perfect English.

  We were out on the street before Bob spoke again. “It’s 253,000 lire. That’s $253 for who knows what? Advice that you could get for free at any bar in town.”

  We took the shortcut back to Supino. It’s a shorter trip if you avoid the rush hour when the sheep, walking 12 abreast, jam the roadway between the green pastures, ripe with clover and the stone building at the rear of the shepherd’s home. It was hot. Beneath the chestnut and fig trees that dotted the countryside, instead of the usual dark patches of shade, circles of white woolly mounds rested in the shadows. We drove along the bridge, built with wooden planks and low rocks, around the bend by the ancient chestnut tree and onto the smooth paved road that runs parallel to the autostrada. Bob slowed the car and pulled over.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Let’s get out for a minute. I want to show you something.” We stood at the side of the road, the sun beating strongly on our shoulders. “You know how the village’s two main streets intersect like a cross? Even though you can’t see your father’s farmhouse because of the trees, if you imagine a body lying on the frame of the cross, his home is at the heart of Supino.”

  We were anxious to get back to our balcony, to buy sandwiches at the porchetta stand near the autostrada. We laughed at the crooked blue sign with its arrow pointing upwards and the white letters that spelled: SUPINO. This was the spot where some kind of magic always began to take hold. We roared up the narrow street, sounded the horn as we entered the one-lane bridge under the piazza Umberto, swerved round the quince tree and the two shoe store ladies who were always sitting beneath it crocheting. We zigzagged past the Bar Italia, up the mountainside to

  Via Condotto Vecchio and home.

  “Here’s the plan,” I said to Bob. “Tomorrow we’ll go back to City Hall — well before the ten o’clock cappuccino break — and arrange for a water tank, a hydro meter and an official street number.”

  “You’re #10,” said a voice from below, a voice that spoke English. We looked down and saw a short, white-haired man.

  “What you eat? Sand-a-wich?” asked the man. “That’s no good. Come. The wife — she feed you.”

  Bob looked at me and said, “What do you...?” but I was already heading for the stairs. I’d seen the stranger’s watery blue eyes, his shy and gentle smile.

  “My name, Giuseppe. Call me Joe. I been working in Frosinone. The wife she tells me you were arrived. You, famiglia Mezzabotte, no?”

  We could smell roasted chicken, with rosemary and garlic, from the kitchen window of Joe’s house. Bob would have said he was related to anyone just to get a taste of that chicken.

  Joe hustled us into the house, calling to his wife as we entered, “Angela! The neighbours — they sit alone on the balcony. What’s a matter with everybody? Where’s Marco? Why you didn’t call them over, introduce them to your mother, practise to speak the English to them? Sit. Sit. Angela you gonna let these people eat buns. No pasta? No wine? What’s a matter with everybody?”

  Bob was eating his third piece of roasted chicken when he broached the subject of the water tank.

  “Joe we need a water tank for our house. We can put it in the cantina. I understand I have to fill out an official form, apply to City Hall.”

  “I get the tank for you this afternoon, Bob. We go after lunch.”

  “I don’t think City Hall opens until four o’clock. Even then, it doesn’t seem to be a definite thing. Sometimes they don’t open at all and....”

  “Angela. What you call Bruno’s cousin? You know, the one who likes to wear the uniform, sit at the desk, read the newspaper.”

  “Luigi.”

  “Sí. Sí. Luigi. Today’s Wednesday. He’s at the Bar Italia. Plays cards. We go after lunch. You and me Bob. You brought some coffee from Canada, right?”

  “Yes, but how did you...?”

  “You’re in the coffee business, no? Sixteen employees. Four delivery trucks. And you drive a good car, Lincoln Continental, right? Everybody knows. You bring some coffee for Luigi. He make the papers for you.”

  *****

  It was almost dark when Bob returned to the pensione, face flushed, laughing and talking so quickly I could barely understand him.

  “Where have you been all this time?” I asked. “Stop waving your hands all over the place. I can’t listen and follow your hand gestures at the same time. Do you want some coffee?”

  “Please. I already drank four, no five, espressos, none of which I paid for. These paesani of your father’s! They all talk at once. Faster than I can translate.
They fight over who’s paying for my coffee. I thought they were going to come to blows at one point. And they expect me to know every relative that ever emigrated from Supino to Toronto. But wait until you hear this.”

  “What’s the house number situation?”

  “The house is #10, just like Joe said. Here’s how it works: after the First World War, they numbered all the houses in order, then after the Second, so many buildings were abandoned, deserted, they renumbered, but just the houses where people were living. Are you still with me? The empty houses had no numbers. Every decade, they repaint the numbers. Our house has been empty for 15 years, so no need for a number, right? But now that we’ve bought it, more renumbering. We’re #10.”

  “Who told you all this?”

  “Joe, of course. Who else? There’s more. The water tank’s coming. Just like he said. Two pounds of Canadian espresso coffee, one water tank.”

  “How did you arrange that without going to City Hall?”

  “No idea. Joe did it all. I just handed over the coffee when he told me to. And get this, Joe says the empty place next door to ours has been sold — the backyard too. The new owner — his name’s Sam — wants to buy our woodshed. We talked it over at the bar. Well, mostly the neighbours argued with Joe about how to handle the sale.”

  “We’re going to sell our woodshed?”

  “No. Joe’s going to fix it up. He said he’ll put on a new roof. Everyone here has pleasant memories of your father’s family, they call them famiglia Mezzabotte. They all have a story to tell about your grandparents, your father, Aunt Regina. They want to watch out for us, make sure no one cheats us, because they think we’re rich. We just bought a house, without seeing it, because it’s in your father’s village. We’re spending as much on renovations as we did to buy the house in the first place. We’re flying back and forth to Italy twice a year. We rent a car while we’re here — half the people who live here don’t even own a car. We stay at the pensione. We’re buying furniture, as soon as we find the furniture store. Face it. By their standards, we can only be ricchi o pazzi. Take your pick.