Tarantella: A Love Story

by Siomonn Pulla

  “I’ll let you know soon Nicolitto.” Carmella took her bottle of olive oil and put the change from Nicolitto in her pocket. “Buon Natale.”

  I followed Carmella out of the store and into the piazza. A wind was starting to blow more snow in from the mountains and I could feel the damp cold seeping its way in through my thick wool coat.

  “You want to come over for some food?” Carmella stood close to me, clutching her bottle of olive oil close to her chest. “Mama is making a frittata for lunch.”

  “I’d love to, but I’ve got to get this amaretto back to Mama Delgobo. She was very adamant that I return home as soon as possible so she can get her baking done.” I inched closer to Carmella, hoping to catch a faint scent of her sweetness. “I could walk you home though.”

  Anything to prolong this moment, I thought to myself.

  “Such a gentleman.” She linked her arm in mine. “I’m so glad Marco finally has a good friend. He speaks very highly of you.”

  “He is a fine man and he loves you very much.”

  We walked to the other side of the piazza and started making our way down the narrow, snowy cobblestone street.

  “Every night Marco would say a prayer which included a line like, ‘and when I get home, I pray that Carmella still loves me as much as I love her.’” I tried my best to imitate Marco’s animated, dramatic voice. “Some nights I’d hear him speaking your name in his sleep.”

  “Marco is a kind man.” Carmella sighed heavily. “Can I tell you something Pietro? Something private? Can you keep a secret?”

  “Of course.” I felt my heart starting to beat faster, worried that Carmella would hear it. “You can trust me.”

  “I don’t know if I’m ready to marry Marco.”

  “What?” My heart felt like it was going to explode through my chest. “Marco will be devastated if he finds out.”

  Secretly I hoped she was right. There was now a chance, a small hope, that I could still win the heart of the most beautiful woman in the world. But I was sad. I knew how much Marco loved Carmella. This would break his heart.

  “You’re just getting scared is all. It’s understandable.” I rationalized. “Marriage is a big commitment, there’s no turning back. You want to make sure it’s the right person.”

  “That’s the thing. He’s changed. Or maybe I’ve changed.” Carmella divulged. “Oh ma, I don’t know anymore. I’m just confused. My heart tells me one thing and my head tells me something totally different.”

  “What’s the rush? Why can’t you just take some time and get to know each other again?”

  “That’s exactly what I said to Marco!” Carmella stopped on the street. “I feel like he’s rushing me, like he’s not listening to me and what I want.”

  “Tell him that.” We started walking again. “Tell him exactly what you just said to me. If he loves you as much as he says he does then he’ll listen. He has no choice but to listen.”

  “But he never listens! That’s the problem.” Carmella exclaimed. “He’s worse now. It drives me crazy. All he wants to do is get into my pants, and I used to want to get into his pants too. But I don’t feel that same way anymore. I want to be with someone who listens to me, who I can tell my secrets too. Who can talk to me. Like we’re doing right now.”

  “Give him some time.” I urged her. “It was a long road back to Limosano.”

  “Maybe you’re right. Grazie Pietro.” We stopped in front of Carmella’s home. “I like talking with you. Maybe you can tell Marco to try to take things a bit slower with me?”

  “I’ll try.” I gave her a big hug. “Are we going to see you tomorrow evening?”

  “Certomente! I wouldn’t be without my favorite men on Christmas Eve.”

  I watched Carmella disappear into the warm glow of her house, thinking, dreaming, and wishing that one day, we would walk, hand in hand, into that house together.

 

  Chapter Eight

  Don Alexandro

  It was two Italian resistance fighters, Fabio and Francesco, that saved our lives in Milan that morning. After a brief gun fight with the German soldiers, they spirited us away down through the darkened alleys of the city to a safe house.

  Guns and ammo were pilled up in the various corners of the small apartment, and in the middle was a table stacked with the curled ends of maps.

  “You have to leave here fast. You’re not safe.”Francesco rolled open a map of Italy onto the table. “It’s better not to go through Bologna; Too many German soldiers. Go down the coast-side to Tuscany. The resistance has a small farm on the outskirts of Florence. You can stay there for a few days and figure out where you’re going to go.”

  He rolled the map back up and handed it to his partner.

  “You two are lucky to be alive. Now go with Fabio - he’ll give you some new clothes and drive you to the outskirts of town before those Nazi pigs come looking for you.”

  After changing into new our clothes we followed Fabio out to a beat-up old truck with a large tarp in the back.

  “Get in the back and be invisible,” suggested Fabio. “Just in case we run into a German patrol. It’s not far to the outskirts of town where we’ll be safe”

  Marco and I got into the back of the truck and pulled the large tarp over top of us. After what seemed like no time, the truck stopped and we heard Fabio open his door and come around back.

  “Ok. This is as far as I go.” He motioned us out of the truck. “Francesco is having somebody come to pick you up to drive you to Don Alexandro’s.”

  After Fabio dropped us off, we waited anxiously on the outskirts of Milan for another truck to pick us up and drive us down to the coast to Genova, where we got in another truck that drove us down the coast to Viareggio.

  It was a long, cold journey in the back of those trucks. But we didn’t notice it. We were just happy to be alive.

  When we got to Viareggio, the entire outskirts of the city were in rubbles. We hid amongst the snow-covered rubble, waiting for the next truck to come and pick us up and bring us to the farm out the outskirts of Florence.

  To our surprise, it wasn’t a truck that picked us up, but a small car, and an equally small man behind the wheel.

  “Quick. Get in. I’m Carlino, your new driver.” The car stopped quickly in front of us. In the dark it was hard to see much of anything “We’re too exposed here. Those Nazi bastards could be anywhere waiting to blow us up with a mortar.”

  Without even questioning the driver, Marco and I piled into the small car, which raced off as quickly as it stopped. After a half an hour, I could feel the car working hard as we made our way from the coast up into the Tuscan highlands. A few hours later, the sun started to peak over the horizon, unveiling the majestic beauty of a rolling landscape gently embraced by the soft snow.

  “I’ll never get used to the beauty of this country.“ I murmured from the back seat of Carlino’s fiat. “It’s so stunning,”

  The new morning mist was rising from the acres of sleepy vineyards.

  “Too bad our cities are being reduced to bombed out rubble,” Marco piped up. “I can’t believe Viareggio. What a mess.”

  “We’ll just rebuild. The Italians have been doing it for thousands of years,” added Carlino, our driver. “At least we’ll have jobs after this war is over reconstructing the mess.”

  “If it ever is over.” Marco replied sleepily. “I’ve seen how efficient and heartless those Nazi’s are.”

  “Ever day we’re pushing them further and further north.” Carlino sped the car up, as if to emphasize his point. “You just wait, soon we’ll parade Mussolini’s head around Milan and run those Nazi’s back to Germany, where they belong, with their tails between their legs.”

  “The resistance sure is impressive.” I added. “If it wasn’t for your tenacious stubbornness, Marco and I would be on a train to Stulag right now.”

  “La Madonna she smiles on us Pietro.” Marco was starting to wake up. “When
we get back to my village, I’ll find you a nice wife, almost as beautiful as my Carmella, the most beautiful woman in all of Limosano.”

  “Limosano? Mamma mia! You two have a long way to go yet,” Carlino pushed the car harder up a steep pass. “I heard there’s an old witch there that can make your pecker grown two inches if you pay her enough money.”

  “C’mon. You don’t believe those stories!” Marco laughed. “The only thing those witches are good for is curing a belly-ache.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Carlino managed to keep the little fiat upright as we twisted down through a mountain pass. “The witches in Tuscany will turn you into a pig if you’re not careful. It happened to my brother-in-law.”

  “That’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard.” I scoffed. “You Italians are so superstitious. The stories you have are incredible!”

  “Never believe a Tuscan Pietro. “

  “Who ever wants a serene life, should live a humble and happy life my friend.” Carlino replied. “We’re a proud culture, with ancient roots. Don’t misunderstand magic for superstition, or you’ll find yourself in big trouble.”

  Carlino slowed the car down and pulled into a long narrow road. An old stone farmhouse was visible down at the end of the lane way.

  “Don Alexandro is probably waiting for us.” Carlino stopped the car. “I’m sure Francesco has wired ahead.”

 

  Chapter Nine

  Senior Minicucci

  “Ciao Marco, why so glum? It’s Christmas and you’re home alive.” The old man sipped his espresso. “What more can you ask for.”

  “It’s nothing. Just tired.” Marco gulped his coffee back and ordered a second. “I’ve seen more in a year than most men in this village will see in their lifetimes.”

  “Sure, sure. It’s written all over your face. I know.” The old man laughed. “When my wife died last year I looked just like you. Forty years we were married. She was the only reason I got up in the morning. I loved her with all my heart and soul. She looked after me and I still don’t know what to do without her.”

  “That sounds rough.” Marco sipped his second espresso. “Luckily I’m not that bad.”

  “Not yet, but you’re close.” The old man leaned back in his chair. “What’s her name?”

  “Carmella,” Marco sighed. “You’re right. I’m getting close to being lost. I love her so much it hurts at night to sleep without her in my arms, it feels like I’m dying a slow death.”

  “Carmella Moccia?”

  “”Si.”

  “Mamma mia. You’re definitely in trouble. She’s the most beautiful woman in Limosano! What’s wrong?”

  “We were engaged to marry before I was posted.” Marco explained. “There was so much tenderness between us. We would sneak out a night and kiss under the stars, plan our life, our family, together. She’d laugh at my jokes, respond eagerly to my touches.”

  “Young love. Que bella.” The old man smiled. “These are the best years of your life ragazzo.”

  “Then when I got home,” Marco continued, “she was distant, cold, uninterested. All I could think of the last year was my beautiful Carmella and now she’s playing hard to get. I could be dead in some Nazi camp in Germany. But I’m not. I’m here, alive, and ready to settle down. It’s frustrating.”

  “You should talk to her, tell her how much you love her.”

  “I did. She told me she wants to take it slow. Wants to get to know me again. Rekindle the fire and all that nonsense.”

  “Maybe she’s got a point.” The old man sat up in his chair. “Enjoy this chance to fall in love all over again with the one woman you want to spend the rest of your life with. This is a gift. It doesn’t come very often and you’d be a fool to spit in the face of St. Valentino. He’s smiling on you right now. If you lose this opportunity, well, buona notte al secchio. Your heart it’s going to go dalle stelle alle stalle!”

  “So you think I should just ease off a little bit?”

  “Certomente. It’s Christmas. Give her a nice gift. Spend time with her. Get back in touch with why you love this woman so much. Don’t be so eager to jump into bed with her and make babies. There’s lots of time for that. Savour the time you have now. It’s special. Once you’ve got the kids to look after - oh ma - it’s a different story. Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing more important than la familliga, asides from la Madonna of course, but you know what I mean.”

  “I think so.”

  “Va bene. This is what you need to do. Go see Faustina La Vechia, the witch, in St. Angelo. She makes the best love potions. Guaranteed to work for forty years! Just make sure nobody knows you’re going to see la Stregha Vechia, especially Father D’Angello. He’ll flat out refuse to marry you and Carmella if he finds out you’ve enlisted the help of La Vechia. She’s a mean old woman but crafty. Bring a pocketful of money too, cause she’s not cheap. ”

  “You’re kidding me right? La Stregha Vechia? She’s a grumpy old woman that makes folk charms and scares children. I’m not going to pay her the little money I have for something that isn’t ever going to do what it’s supposed to.”

  “Suit yourself ragazzo. La Vechia can give you an insurance policy. It’s easy.” The old man folded his arms in front of him. “Then you can enjoy yourself and sleep easy knowing that you’re going to spend the rest of your life with your anima gemella.”

  “I guess when you put it that way it sounds more appealing.”

  “Veramente. It’ll be the best money you’ve ever spent,” assured the Old Man. “Guaranteed.”

  “I hope you’re right. Until we’ve got the tractor built, money is really tight right now.”

  “So it’s you who’s building the tractor!?” The old man seemed interested in changing the topic of conversation. “Nicolitto just told me about your crazy idea. If you don’t get killed before it’s finished, I think you’re going to make a lot of money! It’s exactly what this village needs.”

  “We’ve got one of the best military explosive experts helping,” said Marco, “so I think we’re pretty much guaranteed to have the tractor operational by the spring. Just in time to get the first crop in.”

  “You might as well get a protective charm from La Vechia when you visit her. It can’t hurt to have a bit of an extra help looking out for you, if you know what I mean.”

  “If I have any money left over after she’s robbed me, I’ll consider it.” Marco stood up and pulled his thick wool coat on. “I better get going. We just found the perfect truck to dissemble for parts for the tractor. Pietro is going to sweep the area and make sure it’s safe so we can start salvaging the materials. I’m convinced the engine is perfect!”

  “Sta attento. Be careful. Nobody likes a funeral at Christmas.” The old Man pointed his finger at Marco. “Make sure you make this the one season Carmella will never forget.”

  “Buon Natlae Senior Minicucci. Thanks for the advice.”

  Marco tipped his hat as he left the small cafe. The wind was swirling around the piazza and the snow was starting to come in from the mountains.

  If I’m going to St. Angelo I better go now before the storm hits. Marco thought to himself. I sure hope this old man knows what he’s talking about. I wonder if there’s gas in my motorcycle?

  Marco pulled his hat snug onto his head and flipped the collar of his coat up.

 

  Chapter Ten

  Villa Alexandro

  That morning at Don Alexandro’s, Marco and I ate like kings. It had been a long journey from Milan and we hadn’t eaten very much along the way. Don Alexandro’s wife and daughters kept bringing more and more food and coffee and by mid morning we could barely stand up.

  “Go sleep. Alexandro will want to talk to you in the morning.” Don Alexandro’s wife was a soft-spoken woman, who held a commanding presence. “Maria will show you to your rooms.”

  Maria was a beautiful young woman. Her long auburn hair fell in tight curls aro
und her breasts, which were perfectly formed and proportioned. Her dark eyes betrayed a shyness the deepened her beauty like a spring rose ready to bloom.

  After showing us to our rooms, Maria disappeared, leaving only a trace of her beauty in my room.

  That night, I dreamt of a giant spider, dancing in its web. If Marco hadn’t woken me up, I probably would have slept through the whole day, caught in that spider’s web.

  “Come on Pietro, can’t you smell the delicious coffee?” Marco was, as usual, full of energy. “I don’t know about you, but I slept like a king last night. The only thing that would’ve made it better was if that young nymph Maria had taken me up on my offer to spend the night!”

  We followed the rich aroma of coffee down one of the many hallways of the old Tuscan estate to a large room where Don Alexander and Carlino sat in oversized chairs in front of a large, deep-set fireplace. A stack of wood on one side of the fireplace reaching high to the ceiling.

  Don Alexandro was an imposing man. His large six-foot frame protected a heart of gold, and a sharpness of intellect unmatched by anyone I’ve met since. His kind face was outlined by a well-trimmed and short grey beard. And his clothes were immaculately pressed and of the highest quality. He smoked a pipe, absentmindedly tapping the ashes out and refilling the bowl with fresh tobacco.

  “How was the drive Carlino?” Don Alexandro and Carlino sat around the blazing fire, sipping their coffee. “Any sign’s of the Nazi retreat?”

  “Pretty quiet,” replied Carlino. “I don’t think the Germans haven’t started marching north from Rome. They’re still holding onto the city like a precious pearl.”

  “Everyone’s hiding,” said Marco. “Nobody want’s to come out of their houses and risk being captured by the fascists.”

  “Or maybe their just dead,” I added. “The rubble in Viareggio reminded me of gravestones.”

  “Ah good morning gentlemen. Please, sit down.” Don Alexandro motioned to two empty chairs. “So you saw what happened in Viareggio. A lot of people died.”