My Father Came From Italy

by Maria Coletta McLean

  “Do you know about this cloth?” I ask my father.

  “Well sure. Your grandmother made it. She sewed a piece of her hair in the corner — you know, like signing a painting.”

  We wander out; I am thinking about my grandmother by the fireside crocheting, Bob has his eye on the porchetta cart nearby. Under a glass case lies a roasted pig with a lemon in its mouth. A man stands with a knife in his hand, ready. With the other hand, he stirs a mixture of red peppers and chubby mushrooms on an oily grill.

  “There might not be anything to do in Supino,” says Linda, “but have you noticed there’s always something to eat?”

  The ubiquitous Rocco spots us from across the street and asks my father as he is approaching, “Mezzabotte, do you know the family Nichilo? They live above the post office. Next month they go to Toronto. First time away from Supino. First airplane ride. They are very anxious about the trip. Worried about lots of little things. That is why I am going to their house today to inspect the suitcase. The woman is worried about the luggage. Is it big enough to hold everything for two weeks? Or maybe it’s too big?”

  My father says, “I’ll stop in and see them later.”

  The church bell begins to swing. Low, mournful sounds fill the narrow pathways of Supino. People gather in the piazza and the bars fall silent. The bells are swinging steadily now and incense floats from the doorway of the church.

  Rows of altar boys parade through heavy wooden doors; men in red robes march behind. On their shoulders are two long poles and a platform of split logs where the statue of San Antonio rests. The villagers begin to sing, a tune from centuries ago, soft and sorrowful. Men hold their hats in their hands; women drape rosaries between their fingers. An old woman is tossing dried rose petals from her window. They float in the warm August air, tumbling slowly, leisurely weaving their way to the ground. Petals surround the Saint as he passes. As the altar boys step on them, their perfume mixes with the sharper scent of the incense. My eyes burn with tears.

  I suddenly realize my father is no longer standing nearby and scan the crowd for his frail frame. I duck down the nearest laneway and the scent of tomato sauce with olive oil and basilico and red wine greets me as I pass planter boxes spilling over with pepper plants. Card tables, plastic patio tables and heavy oak tables with ornately carved legs are adorned with checkered cloths and decanters of red wine. The patio is brimming with men in conversation and at first I can’t find my father. Then, from a side doorway, he enters carrying a bowl of spaghetti.

  “The priest’s family used to live here. They wanted to thank my mother for all her cooking, so one day a year, on the feast of San Antonio — did I tell you the priest’s name was Antonio? — they arranged for a feast: spaghetti, veal, chicken, wine. Music and dancing and singing follow the meal. That’s what’s going on here tonight,” my father says, as if he expected it all along.

  Outside, the lights of San Antonio shine suspended in the dark Supino sky. An outlined water fountain showers tiny white lights against an ebony backdrop. Suddenly, a burst of colour illuminates the sky. A million shooting stars jump from the mountaintop and rain down on the bell tower of the church.

  *****

  At the Ferentino market the next day, Bob and I discover a carpenter’s shop. An intoxicating aroma of wood shavings and beeswax wafts through the door. Inside the doorway is a beautiful pine buffet and hutch. I slide my hand along the silky surface of the knotty pine boards, caress the round wooden doorknobs, inhale the alluring scent of fresh sawdust. The woman in charge says it is $350, but Bob doesn’t use the next phrase as Joe instructed him to, “Troppo! Too much!” which should always be said loudly, in disbelief, preferably with a smack to your forehead to reinforce your point. Instead, Bob says to me, “Ask her if they’ll deliver,” but I’ve no idea how to say that.

  I point to the buffet, make a lifting motion with my hands and do the universal gesture for driving, two hands on an invisible steering wheel in front of me. The woman seems to understand. She repeats the price and we say, “Sí, sí,” and she walks to the door, looks at our car and laughs. I suggest we just write down our address, give her the money and hope for the best. Bob draws a map for the woman and she nods and says, “No problema.” We pay two thirds up front and pray the buffet will arrive.

  We continue our walk to the market and as we get closer, brightly-coloured awnings hail the bargaining of villagers and merchants. Triangular mountains of peaches tower over valleys of rosy strawberries, chubby purple eggplants snuggle close to rows of slim and shiny zucchini and piles of prickly artichokes. Fresh-cut pineapple scents the air. There are wheels of parmigiano, triangles of romano, fish in waxy paper, ceramic crocks of green olives in brine, wrinkled black olives, olives in garlic-studded oil, olives with whole chili peppers and black peppercorns.

  The market casts its web for miles up side streets, down laneways, throughout piazzas promising bolts of fabric, copper pots, every size of screw and nail, goat’s bells, bathing suits, prosciutto slicers, religious candles, leather harnesses, bed sheets, grapevine pruners, baby highchairs with wicker seats, bocce balls, hair dye, and at the edge of the piazza in front of a church, hot, freshly-roasted peanuts.

  Back at the house, Joe admonishes, “Bob. Maria. Why you sit in the house all alone? Come, it’s time for lunch. Your father and Kathryn, they already there. We wait for you.”

  After I tell Joe, delicately, about the buffet he points out that there is no kitchen, therefore no dishes, therefore no need for the buffet. When I suggest that perhaps a small kitchen sink could be installed he instantly says, “I have one in my garage. I put it in myself this afternoon.”

  A man joins us at the table, accepts a glass of wine from Angela, a plate of fettuccine and salad, pushes the reluctant lettuce leaves onto his fork with a piece of coarse bread. Finally he gets to the point of his visit. Joe translates.

  “Sergio here says there’s a truck at the Kennedy Bar. The driver’s looking for a Canadese with curly hair and glasses. He’s got a cupboard for him.”

  Outside a horn beeps, a moment later the doorbell rings and as Angela pushes open the kitchen window we hear the voices of the neighbours in the street below. Our buffet has arrived. This time, the question is not where to put the buffet, the question is why the Canadese would buy a cupboard to keep dishes when they have no sink to wash dishes. And that leads, of course, back to the original paradox of a house without a kitchen. Down on the street, where so many of our personal decisions are made by the villagers, no one rushes forward eagerly to help unload the buffet. The villagers just stand there, maybe one or two of them shake their heads. A house without a kitchen. And now, a kitchen cupboard for a house without a kitchen. Unbelievable.

  “Peppe. Massimo,” calls Joe, motioning them to his garage. When they emerge with a stainless steel sink in their arms, a wave of relief blows across the narrow street. Now, the neighbours admire the buffet, running their hands over the polished wood, tapping their knuckles on the glass cupboard doors, checking the wooden knobs on the drawers. Mario’s wife holds up one finger. “Aspetta!” she warns, lifting the corner of her apron to wipe a smudge off the glass door before we are allowed to unload our purchase.

  The neighbours see Bob pay the driver the remaining $150, but believe it to be the total price, so instead of saying, “Troppo!” they congratulate Bob, shaking his hand and saying, “Bravo, Bob. Bravo.” Even Joe, who knows the real price of the buffet, stands back with his arms crossed over his chest, full of pride. After all, Joe taught Bob everything he needs to know about buying furniture. “Grazie. Beve?” Bob suggests, lifting an invisible glass to his lips and the next thing I know we’re all down at the Bar Italia toasting our new cupboard and — for the first time — Bob is allowed to pay for the drinks.

  *****

  On our last day in Supino my father decides he wants to buy a gift for his nephew, Guido — six plastic lawn chairs.

  “My cousin has a garden centre,” says Roc
co. “Right beside the pensione. You can’t miss it.” Obviously I can miss it. Beside the pensione is a big stucco house with a long driveway that leads to a triple car garage. In the surrounding field, a herd of cows graze beneath the branches of a chestnut tree. My father pushes the button on the wrought-iron fence post. The gate and the garage doors open. We wander up rows of patio tables, down aisles of lawn chairs. I choose six plastic chairs for Guido and head to the cash register.

  “I’ll take these chairs, please.”

  “Certo. Rocco told me you were coming. I have your bench right here.”

  “But I want these lawn chairs.”

  “The bench is better. Luca. Gianni.” Two little boys jump up from beneath a patio table. They carry a white bench along the aisle toward the door, round the corner with a flash of blue jeans and a length of yellow rope. Then the bench and the boys are gone. A woman comes out of the house with a tray of glasses. Rocco’s cousin uncorks a bottle. After an hour in the sunshine and several glasses of Asti Spumante and strawberries, our faces match their rosy colour. There’s a large cardboard box tied to the roof of our car. On the side of the box it says, “Easy assembly.“ Rocco’s cousin hands my father a screwdriver.

  Sunbeams filter throug h the lacy leaves of the quince tree in Guido’s yard. The air is still. On the ground rests a grape leaf. As my father assembles the bench he hums the score from “La Bohéme.” Guido whistles along. When the screws are tightened, they flip the bench with a flourish and sit together, their arms on each other’s shoulders. Their white hair, clear blue-grey eyes, Roman nose, gentle smile, that nonchalant shrug of the shoulders when Bob suggests a photo — cut from the same cloth. I have that photograph on the wooden mantle now.

  “Maria,” says Guido, “for molti anni, many years, my house has been the only place in the village with a sign that says Coletta. Then you come. You buy the little house and you put a sign: BOB MCLEAN, MARIA COLETTA MCLEAN. I am very happy to see another Coletta sign in this village. Now you bring zio Loreto, my only uncle, back to Italy and you bring Bob and Linda and Kathryn. Suddenly, we are una famiglia grande, a big family. Many Colettas in the village; that’s the way it should be.”

  *****

  My father walks slowly down the hill of Via Condotto Vecchio toward the village. The sun is approaching the top of Santa Serena so its shadow stretches long and cool down our street. I can hear the clinking of the coins in his pocket slowly fade as he turns toward the tabacchi store. Bob and I go into the garden and plan the placement of forget-me-nots, tulips, daffodils, blue and purple morning glories. We decide to check the street for signs of my father and run into signora Francesca as she hurries over with her apron held carefully out in front of her. “Le uova,” she says, stretching the hem of her cotton apron toward us. Nestled in the cloth are half a dozen brown eggs, fresh from her chicken coop, bits of straw still stuck to them.

  “Grazie,” I say, transferring the eggs into my hands.

  “That’s okay,” calls Angela from her kitchen window. “I cook them up for you. Make a sand-a-wich. You eat it tomorrow on the plane. That airplane food. Not so good.”

  My father has returned, a can of brass polish in his hand. “You polish the door knob for good luck. Plus,” he continues, as he flicks a white cloth with a flourish, “if I polish the door knob, I know I come back. Ritorniamo insieme.”

  He continues to work, then says, “When the cherries are almost ripe, there’s a feast in this village. Festa di San Cataldo. That’s a saint who came from Ireland. People walk to Supino the day before the feast and sleep in the fields behind San Sebastiano. Some people bring things to sell. Like a fair. In the morning, for the mass, the church is full of people. Some people have to stand outside in the dark at three or four o’clock in the morning. I used to go first to church, then I would come home to get Giardinella and we’d go to the mountain just as the sun was coming up. On the feast day, there was no work. Every year, early in the morning, the committee came for my father. They wanted him to carry the statue. It was an honour. They gave him a red robe. Later, they build a big fire in front of San Nicola. Roast a pig, or something. There are also biscuits like your aunt Regina used to make, ginettes. Some candy brought from Abruzzo, with nuts. Lemons from Sorrento. Fireworks.”

  “Is that when they cook polenta?” I ask, remembering a fragment of a story he told me about the villagers cooking a huge pot of yellow cornmeal.

  “No, no,” he says, patiently. “That’s the polenta and sausage festival. That’s a festival for cold weather — not until January. I don’t even like polenta. Pazzo Lorenzo, you know, crazy Larry, he got the idea one year that he would stir the polenta. That was a bad idea, but nobody wants to say no to him. He had a big paddle he had made from an old two-by-four. Some people said it was an oar, you know, from a boat. They said he stole it. But that’s crazy. Who’s got a boat in Supino? The wood was pretty rough and maybe it had been sitting outside all winter because the bottom was caked with mud. Pazzo Lorenzo wouldn’t let anyone touch it, to wipe the dirt off. When the water started to boil, they poured in the corn meal and crazy Larry stirred. All by himself. Wouldn’t let anyone else put a stick in the pot. By the time the polenta’s cooked, the paddle’s all broken. Everybody’s got polenta with sticks in it. Like eating toothpicks.

  “The mostra delle azalee is the beautiful festa. Everyone brings their azalea to the piazza outside the church. Some pots are so big, you need two, maybe three people to carry them. You have to come early or there’s no room. There’s a mass in the morning and in the evening everyone walks among the plants, admiring them and choosing their favourites before the flowers are judged. Finally the cannons in the mountains, left over from the war, are shot off.”

  Benito walks across the street, pushing a wheelbarrow full of potted plants, 12 plants too many for this yard. My father takes the plants from Benito’s arms one at a time and sets them on the patio, then points to the strip of soil between our terrazzo patio and the neighbour’s wall. It’s a small space about a foot wide and 10 feet long before it plunges down the ravine. This is where I had intended to put my spring bulbs and morning glory vines. Benito gestures to the plants, bowing slightly, as if he’s introducing them to me. I don’t see a single flower, just tomato plants, pepper plants, rosemary and another that looks suspiciously like a grapevine. Benito sets some plants, very carefully, on the back steps, the others he lines along the perimeter of the yard. Then he stands, a shy smile on his face, waiting for my reaction to his gift. I say, “Bellissimo,” and nod my agreement.

  Joe comes walking through signor Mario’s woodlot, carrying a banana tree. Over Benito’s shoulder I see Angela coming into the house with a tray of pastries, two bottles of wine and tucked under her elbow, a sleeve of plastic glasses. Behind her are Guido and Luigina. A small group of villagers are climbing up the hill toward the mountain: Christina from the tabacchi store, the mailman, some neighbourhood children. At the same time, signor Mario, wearing his white shirt, his hair freshly combed, and signora Francesca, in her navy spotted dress, without an apron, step out of their house and head down the hill.

  The village is coming to say goodbye. They crowd the living room, sit in rows on the marble steps. Children run up and down the front stairs, playing hopscotch. There are three or four people on the verandah. Angela has put glasses and plates of cookies on the kitchen table, but every villager has brought something with them. You can hardly see the wooden mantle for bottles of homemade wine and cognac. Christina, from the tabacchi store, hands out lollipops to the children. Signora Francesca circulates a basket full of cookies, sweet with anisette-flavoured icing. In the corner, behind the front door, is a burlap sack of hazelnuts. Someone brings a sack of prickly chestnut skins, mulch for the garden to keep the moisture in the ground.

  Benito and my father go to Joe’s garage, returning in a few minutes with a string of lights. After my father plugs them in behind the fridge, he hooks the lights over the open back door and
hands the remaining coil of lights to Benito to string over a tree before he flicks the switch. They’re Chinese lanterns, papery houses of blue and red and yellow, swaying brightly in the black Supinese sky. At midnight the church bells ring. The crowds fall silent and we stand together listening to the mournful sound as it leaves the huge brass bell of the church of Santa Maria Maggiore and rolls up the hill, past our house, on its way to the mountain. By the time the 12th bell has rung, the villagers are in the street, waving farewell. “Safe journey. Buon viaggio. Come again, Mezzabotte.” And then, they are gone.

  ARRIVEDERCI MEZZABOTTE

  On the first of December, a Tuesday night, the phone rings and Bob answers it, says, “It’s your mother.” I check my watch. Nine o’clock — too late for her to be calling. Something’s wrong.

  “Your father says he’s sick. Come and do something about him.”

  I’m struggling with my jacket as I open the front door and step into the cold night. In the yellow light shining from my living room windows, I stare at the rectangular cement stones that lead to their house next door. When I get inside, my father’s lying on his back on the floor outside the bathroom door. He’s wearing white long johns and his body is so pale and so flat that at first I don’t realize he is actually there; I think my mother has spread the damp clothes on the linoleum to dry.

  “What’s wrong, Dad?” I ask, kneeling beside him and feeling for his pulse. His skin is cool.