Mamma Mia... That's Life!

by Valerie Barona

  “That’s definitely a red card. Is the referee blind or what?” he’d splutter. At this point, he usually started pacing the room, gesticulating and waving his arms about, totally unaware of the fact that his son was two steps behind him copying his every move. When, occasionally, Fiorentina scored a goal, Michele jumped up, punching the air with his fist:

  “Sì, sì, sì!” he cheered. This elated state soon become one of anxiety as his team then had to hold their lead. The second half of the game was always crucial: if they were losing, they had to draw, and if they were winning they had to defend their victory. Of course, if they could have heard Michele’s suggestions, I’m sure they, in turn, would have been spurred on to win every game. As it was, I had to learn to live with a despondent fan hoping that the following week would prove to be a better game.

  *

  Michele came home one day with the news that Fiorentina were playing the following Sunday, against Como, at Como.

  “Why don’t we go?” he suggested.

  “Why not?” I replied. Not exactly my idea of a fun day but it meant doing something and going somewhere.

  We usually spent our weekends at the Rendez Vous, and had lost the habit of going out but Pietro assured Michele that he’d be quite able to cope without us for once. We decided to leave the children with my sister-in-law and her husband. Alex and Elisa happily agreed because they were always spoilt and usually ended up at a playground before having an ice cream.

  We arrived at the stadium early to buy our tickets and also to avoid any fear of ending up together with the home supporters. I hadn’t realised how near the stadium was to Lake Como. Several coaches from Florence had parked nearby and already an orderly line of Fiorentina fans waited for the gates to open. Como had been promoted into the Serie A, and their supporters proudly touted their blue scarves, flags and hats.

  “I needn’t have worried about being the only female,” I whispered to Michele. Although this was 1984, I couldn’t believe how many girls were there and not only those accompanying their boyfriends, but groups of them.

  All of a sudden, the gates opened and we found ourselves being pushed towards a policeman, who wanted to see what my bag contained, and stewards who checked our tickets and showed us where to go. We took our seats behind a group of girls who quickly donned their purple scarves and started waving their banners. Before long the stadium was packed and a tremendous feeling of expectation filled the air. Adrenalin pumped through my body whether I liked it or not. At that moment, I was no longer an ordinary British subject – I was a Fiorentina fan.

  A roar went up as the players ran out onto the field. The two captains shook hands, the referee blew his whistle and the ball shot up in the air in the direction of Como’s goal. From then on, the atmosphere was electric. Supporters on both sides encouraged their team, singing their praises and chanting, but at the same time, they didn’t accept mistakes and whistles were rife when the ball hit a goal post or a player missed the chance to score an easy goal. I learnt an entirely new vocabulary regarding football from the girls in front of me. They even shocked Michele. No way could we repeat what two of them wanted to do to Passarella, one of the Fiorentina players… I mean, he didn’t intend kicking the ball straight to his opponent two minutes before the first half finished.

  “We ‘ave to score – at least one goal,” Michele whispered to me, as the players took their places on the pitch for the second half. Once again, I was mesmerised by the sea of purple from the Fiorentina fans oscillating around me and shouts of:

  “Dai, Socrates, passa.”

  “Passarella, fai un gol.”

  Most of the spectators were on their feet and we could feel the tension around us. Neither team had managed to score, despite numerous chances. Morale was running low and the language around me became less than eloquent. A supporter next to Michele looked as though he was going to burst into tears any moment. No matter how vigorously fans waved and shouted, no goal materialised. On the pitch, footballers shook their heads and tried desperately to find a way to fool their opponents but to no avail. The referee and linesmen alike ignored fouls and no amount of rolling around on the ground, faking a leg or knee injury would elicit a penalty kick.

  After what seemed an eternity, the referee blew the final whistle and the players, with a brief acknowledgment to the crowds, took refuge in their changing rooms. A general feeling of despondency filled the air as we filed out. Nobody had expected a score of 0-0. Both Michele and I had hoped to have experienced the thrill of seeing Fiorentina score at least one goal. Driving home, conversation was minimal and for the first time ever, I had an insight into what Michele went through every week with his beloved team.

  8

  Hello, Hello!

  After the heavy snow of winter, 1985 breezed into our lives with an air of expectation. Telecom announced the arrival of telephones in Piussogno and a month later, technicians started working. This was progress. I tried to be patient but the waiting period proved an ordeal: after the initial flurry of digging, laying cables and then resurfacing roads, nothing happened. Telephone wires lay dormant.

  “What’s happening?” I asked Michele.

  “I don’t know. Per’aps they ‘ave to lay cables in Mantello as well.”

  Maybe, but why couldn’t they just finish the job in hand instead of going on to the next village? I still had a lot to learn about life in the Valtellina. Patience is a virtue and the quicker I adopted the motto, the easier it would be for me. In the meantime, my phone had to have pride of place on a designer shelf and the two sons from the furniture shop in Piussogno came to take measurements and decide on the style. A week later they mounted their work of art.

  “Well, what do you think?” They stood back admiring it.

  “It’s great, just great,” I said, imagining the phone sitting there.

  I think I felt more excited than the villagers when the technicians finally installed the telephone and tested it to make sure it functioned properly.

  “I can’t believe we’ve got a telephone in our house at last. Now Nanna and the rest of the family can ring us whenever they want to… and I won’t have to pop to the disco to make phone calls anymore.” I couldn’t stop smiling.

  “Can we phone Nanna to tell her?” Alex asked.

  “We can try but there’s no guarantee she’ll be in.”

  The children took it in turns to dial the number and then we listened expectantly, our breathing almost inaudible above the soft intermittent dialling tone, until we heard a familiar voice answer: “Hello, 605159.”

  “Hello, Nanna. It’s us, we wanted to tell you we’ve got our very own telephone…Mummy said you’d be out but…” I let the children have a quick word before having a chat myself.

  “Mum, isn’t it great? At last we’ve got a phone in the house.” I hadn’t realised just how much I’d missed not having one.

  A few weeks later, I celebrated my thirtieth birthday and my family were able to ring me at home to wish me a happy birthday. For once, I didn’t have a Baker Moment, with a lump in my throat, when I heard their voices. Having our very own telephone meant I could ring them anytime I felt nostalgic.

  *

  “Mummy, what’s this?” Elisa asked one Saturday morning, pointing to the asterisk on the telephone.

  “You have to press it to redial the last number,” I explained and left it at that.

  I finished making the beds then did the dusting – I was in housewife-mode, encouraged by the bright spring day outside. Walking back into the lounge, I suddenly became aware of a low murmur as if someone was talking quietly – and someone was. Sitting on the floor beside the telephone, my four year old daughter held the receiver tightly to her ear and whispered into the receiver. She jumped when she saw me and then smiled.

  “I’m talking to Nanna,” she said.

 
“You’re what?” Taking the phone from her, I listened to the voice on the other end to make sure it was Mum before explaining what had happened.

  “Oh, dear. I’m never out when I should be,” Mum said and we had to laugh.

  I suggested to Elisa that it would be better if she didn’t touch the telephone or the asterisk again unless I was with her and she solemnly agreed.

  “Good job Mum doesn’t live in Australia,” I told Michele later.

  *

  Our new piece of technology proved invaluable when a language school from Milan, la Scuola 2F, contacted me with the offer of a job to teach English to students and adults in the evenings.

  “But how did they find me?”

  “They probably looked the number up in the telephone directory.” Michele couldn’t understand why I found it so strange.

  “Yes, but…”

  “Certainly, everyone knows I’m married to an English girl and word gets around.”

  “I know that, too but I still can’t get used to it. I mean, this language school is in Milan. How did they know that I, an English woman who teaches English, lives so many miles away in Piussogno on this telephone number?”

  It had taken me several years to accept that the feeling of being constantly watched was really only a natural curiosity on the part of the locals. Now this oral network amazed me beyond words. Michele folded his sports paper and laid it on the table before continuing.

  “They want an English teacher for this area. What do they do? They ask people if they know of anyone and your name comes up. They find the number in the directory and ring you. It’s easy.” He picked up his sports paper again and scrutinised news about the next Fiorentina match.

  Explained like that it made sense but I still wasn’t convinced. The next time they rang to confirm an English course, I asked them how they had found me. I could hardly believe my ears – it was just as Michele had said. I felt chuffed to have been singled out for the job but also apprehensive: no one had mentioned my qualifications.

  “I wonder when someone will ask to see my teaching certificate,” I said to Michele after the last phone call to give me the dates of the first course in Morbegno.

  “They know you’re a teacher, so why do they need to see a piece of paper?” Sometimes I forgot how Italian my husband could be.

  “Because then they’ll know I’m qualified to teach,” I replied, none too sweetly but my words were lost as Bruce Springsteen belted out Born in the USA on the radio at that particular moment and Michele decided to do a duet with him.

  In the end, the only credentials I had to give were my name and address. I fully expected to meet the organisers and undergo some sort of interview before the classes began but instead we made all the arrangements over the phone and the course material arrived by post. When I queried the fact that I had yet to have some physical contact with a representative of the Scuola 2F, the voice at the end of the phone assured me that someone would come to the first lesson in Morbegno. At that point, I could only presume that things were done differently here.

  I arrived early for my very first teaching role in Italy and introduced myself to the man who had come along to open the place for us. It was an old building tucked away behind the shops but the room which would be the classroom for the next sixteen weeks was bright and spacious. Tables and chairs formed a semicircle and I had an antique mahogany desk with an old fashioned blackboard standing to one side. While we exchanged pleasantries, the door opened and I finally came face to face with Mr Milano as I’d nicknamed the voice on the phone. He exuded efficiency and elegance and gave me a contract to read before signing. I assumed he would stay and evaluate my teaching methods but instead he said a few words to greet the students when they had all taken their seats then he wished everyone a happy English course and left. I had no time to worry or panic – lesson one had to be a success. The next ninety minutes flew past.

  The students were a mixture of ages: two 16 year olds went to school in Morbegno and wanted to improve their knowledge of the English language; others aged between twenty-five and fifty, wanted to learn enough to understand and be understood for holidays abroad. Their enthusiasm permeated the air at the end of the session when they each realised they could say:

  “Hello, I’m Mario. I’m Italian. How are you?”

  “I’m very well, thank you. And you?”

  “I’m fine, thanks.”

  The students seemed to have enjoyed themselves, but I didn’t really know whether their laughter was a tactic to alleviate the embarrassment of a total lack of comprehension or because they were a naturally happy group.

  “Bye. See you next week,” I said as they filed out at the end of the lesson.

  “Cosa?” one of them asked, looking at me with a baffled expression.

  “See you next week,” I repeated slowly. “It means: ci vediamo la prossima settimana.”

  “Ho capito. Bye!” A chorus of ‘Bye’ followed them out of the door.

  The man returned to lock up and I drove home.

  “So, ‘ow did it go?” Michele asked as I walked in.

  “I think it went well. I’ll find out next week if they all come for lesson two!”

  I told him how Mr Milano had only stayed long enough to welcome the students without taking into consideration the necessity to check my teaching credentials.

  “What’s the problem? You are a teacher,” Michele reasoned.

  “I know and you know but Mr Milano doesn’t know. He’s never seen me teach,” I argued.

  “Look, did the students learn something and did they enjoy themselves?”

  “Yes, I think so,” I replied.

  “Well, then. Don’t worry.”

  I didn’t. The following week all twelve students turned up and once again, the ninety minute lesson passed before we knew it. I discovered that three students actually lived in Mantello, the village next to Piussogno and another two knew Michele’s family. I spent the next four months happily in the company of my students who gradually built up their basic knowledge of spoken English. They had a test half way through the course and then an exam on the last day. I naturally expected someone to come from Milan to hand out the exam papers and correct them, but no, it was left to me. I assumed I’d explained clearly and precisely the object of an end-of-course exam: principally, to see how much the students had actually learned – but I had to laugh when ten minutes later, the reigning silence gave way to a general murmur as they conferred on various aspects of English grammar.

  “Puoi aiutarci con i numeri 14 e 17?” A couple of students asked me to help them with questions they had forgotten while others calmly opened their files to flick through the pages until they found what they were looking for. I realised the idea of cheating, in certain situations, came naturally and without guile to Italians. I smiled, remembering my theory exam for my driving licence seven years earlier. Expecting to find the same conditions for a public exam in England, I had watched incredulously as the instructor walked around the class pointing out errors, while the examiner calmly read his sports paper at the front of the room. Funnily enough, we all passed. Not surprisingly, all twelve students had excellent scores, too and, in true Italian style, we celebrated la fine del corso d’inglese in a local pizzeria.

  So began my role as an English teacher for the Scuola 2F. I enjoyed meeting new people and found each course a veritable challenge. Taking evening classes meant Michele could look after Alex and Elisa. I loved being a mother but I also loved teaching.

  One evening, a student told me he’d be absent for two lessons as he had to go away on business to England. The following week, he took out some photos to show me.

  “I don’t believe it. This is Poole. And look, this one’s Sandbanks.”

  “Cosa? Come fai a conoscere questi posti?” He couldn’t understand w
hy I was so excited about the places he’d just been to.

  “It’s where I was born.”

  “Nooo!”

  He explained that he’d gone to Sunseekers to discuss various aspects of interior design for boats. He enthused over Poole Quay, the town, the beaches; everything to him was bellissimo!

  “Scusami se sono invadente, ma se sei di Poole, cosa fai qua a Piussogno?” Now it was his turn to be incredulous. A very good question, I thought: if I’m from Poole what am I doing here in Piussogno?

  “Ask my husband,” I replied.

  *

  After seven years, Michele and his brother decided to rent out the Rendez Vous. Although they were reluctant to do so, they had to admit that it was time for a change. Thanks to the disco, we had been able to afford a lovely house with a large garden for the children to play in but now they had to look for alternative jobs and opted to help their cousins Remo and Gianni in the building trade. The fact that I had just started English courses made the transition a little easier. Looking after the children and preparing lessons kept me busy and I didn’t have time to worry about what the future held. Of course, I still dreamed of teaching in a school one day but until my teaching certificate was recognised in Italy, it wasn’t going to happen.

  Due to his new job, I had to get used to hearing a ream of dialect from people wanting to speak to Michele on the phone, regardless of whether I understood. Not wanting to seem totally incapable of giving a message to him, I took to asking for their number and suggesting Michele rang them if need be. Some phone calls were for me and were usually about English lessons. I’ll never forget one from an engineer who did not join my rank of happy students. He introduced himself with his full title and in a rush of concise Italian went on to give me what I can only describe as his CV.

  “I need to learn English in a month. It’s very important for my job. I speak French and German but absolutely no English.” Before I could reply he was talking again.