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Authors: Sally Gable

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In all, the recital is a great audience favorite, aided no doubt by the fact that so many of the spectators have relatives onstage. But there will be a long hiatus before the dancers return to Villa Cornaro. The expense of the project, as compounded by the rain delay, I am told, is more than the ballet school and its supporters can risk again without financial aid.

Several of our most vivid memories of villa life involve those same wild
temporali
that swoop in from the north at irregular intervals. I sometimes think I should name them individually, like hurricanes: Angelo, Bonifacio, Carlo, Davide, Epifanio. Our introduction to them comes early. During our first October stay at our new villa, while we are still learning the mysteries of the security systems that Giancarlo installed for Dick Rush, Carl and I settle in our upstairs bedroom at the west end of the villa for a sound sleep after a busy and happy day. The October air is chilly, but we've cocooned ourselves warmly. The
balcone
are tightly closed, of course, blocking
out all light from the street and much of the sound. Suddenly, in the middle of the night, we are shocked awake by a one-two punch. First, a mighty clap of thunder explodes around the villa without warning. What can only be described as a stealth
tempo-rale
has ambushed us! Then, as we sit rigidly upright in bed, our senses floundering for an explanation of the first crashing noise, we hear a new sound: a siren has begun to wail, loudly and nearby.

“That's the burglar alarm,” Carl deduces at last. “The thunder set it off by rattling the windows.” Reflexively he leaps from bed, only to be confronted by three problems. First, he's completely underdressed for the temperature of the villa; second, the room is inky black and he can't find the light switch; and third, he has only the vaguest idea of where the burglar alarm controls are located, much less how to turn them off. By patting the wall frantically he at last locates the light switch several inches below the lowest point at which he thought it could possibly be. I gallantly find and hand him his summer bathrobe and send him shivering on his way down the circular wooden stair. We think the controls lie tucked away on a landing halfway between the ground floor and the
cantina
. Wishing him the best of luck, I immediately pop back into bed and pull up the covers.

Is it fair that Carl be sent off shivering into the night while I snuggle in bed? I ask myself. Of course it is, I respond. Who cooked dinner? Thunder hammers the villa, rain beats loudly against the
halcone
, and the burglar alarm strives to waken any neighbors whom the storm has left asleep. I now recall that the alarm system is also programmed to launch a series of three telephone calls immediately, first to the Miolos, then to the Battistons, who live next door, and finally to the local office of the carabinieri. I quickly review the possibilities. The Miolos, I am sure, will understand; I can explain it all to the Battistons in due course. But I am praying fervently that Carl finds the turnoff switch before the call is made to the carabinieri! I picture myself spending the rest of the night giving statements and filing official reports. Tension mounts. I conclude
that Carl is lost, wandering around somewhere in the
can-tina
. Suddenly, with all hope gone, the alarm ceases its wail, and Carl returns to bed triumphant, cold, and grumpy.

16
Gli Scquizzato

We do not meet the Scquizzatos all at once. We meet them at different times, in pairs or one at a time. The parents Memi and Francesca, a daughter, a suitor, a son, a daughter-in-law and her father and sisters, granddaughters, sisters and brothers, cousins of undefined distance. And one who looms largest in their own minds we never meet at all.

Memi is a short mass of a man. He would be called rotund if it weren't that all his bulk appears to be muscles built and tempered by a life of farmwork. Memi is an ebullient, gray-haired meso-morph, happy with life and dedicated to ensuring that everyone around him is also.

Memi is a major landowner with extensive acreage at the west edge of town, an unschooled man of assets and substance. His large henna-colored house sitting along Via Roma contains three commodious apartments: one for his son, Ottorino, Ottorino's wife, Michela, and their young daughters, Giulia and Elena; one for his bachelor brother, Livio; and one for himself, Francesca, and their daughter Wilma. Livio and Ottorino share in the farmwork.

During breaks in his farm routine, Memi bicycles slowly through Piombino Dese, ostensibly for exercise, but really for company and conversation. Occasionally he bicycles to our front gate bearing a large branch broken from one of his trees and clustered with dark crimson cherries; or he will have a bag of fresh eggs or a jar of golden peach
marmellata
that Francesca has just prepared. Memi and I have enthusiastic conversations despite the fact that I don't understand much of what he says. Memi is not troubled by
petty differences between Italian and the Venetan dialect and doesn't see why anyone else would be. If it becomes clear that Carl or I will never understand some particular point he is trying to make, he moves easily to another subject, realizing that it is only the conversation that matters, not the content.

Memi always seats me beside himself at dinner, whether to give me a lesson in his Italian/Venetan amalgam or to pour me another glass of wine more easily—because I obviously enjoy his homemade wine almost as much as he does. The long dining table ends only a few feet away from Francesca's stoves, one oversize gas range and a smaller woodstove. Francesca continually jumps to her feet and turns to tend some pot, as she readies each course on a just-in-time basis that a Detroit automaker could be proud of. As the meal winds to an end, Memi becomes more and more agitated. He looks for ways to prolong the occasion. He might first amble from the room and return with cherries or peaches or some other fruit from his orchard. Later he appears with a box of chocolates that he has remembered. His resources nearing an end, he passes a bowl of hazelnuts from last season. Francesca, abetted by Wilma, comes to his aid with rounds of cheese, dessert, and coffee. Coffee without a sizable splash of grappa is just dishwater, Memi confides, as he struggles to overcome our stiff resistance to his jolting our coffee.

In appearance, Francesca contrasts dramatically with Memi. She is slim, with a light complexion. Her surprising blond hair is stylishly coiffed. Yet she is Memi's match in energy and hospitality. Moreover, Francesca is one of the best cooks I know, with her daughter Wilma a close contender. In all our many meals with the Scquizzatos, we've never been served the same dish twice. Almost everything Francesca cooks is produced on their farm: vegetables and fruits, chickens and eggs, pigs and goats, rabbits, guinea hens, and cows. As their granddaughters grow up, they even add three horses, not for future menus but for the girls’ pleasure.

Livio is responsible for the enormous half barrels of raspberry rhododendrons and lollipop-pink hydrangeas in the flower gardens
beside the house and near the street, where the family often eats al fresco on warm days when the number of guests would overflow the dining table indoors.

Several townspeople have told me the story of one memorable Sunday several years before Carl and I arrived in Piombino Dese. Francesca had prepared a lavish noontime dinner for forty or fifty relatives and friends to celebrate the First Communion of Giulia, their older granddaughter. Colorful tables sprouted in the garden among the flowerpots and rose beds, as the massive crowd passed the huge serving bowls Francesca had prepared. Following coffee and dessert, an unknown man and woman emerged from the crowd to ask for the cashier, so they could pay their bill. Inquiry disclosed that the strangers had parked their car on Via Roma, entered the garden, and sat down after spying the crowd, which they thought to be a sure sign of a great restaurant. They had been served without hesitation.

No one has told me Memi's or Francesca's reaction to the discovery
of the interlopers. I imagine that Memi's first thought would be to check whether the strangers would like a final grappa before departing.

The Scquizzatos, with Sally, dining at Villa Cornaro (1) Wilma, Memi; (r) Michela, Francesca

At first, we do not meet their son Ottorino. Ottorino is a member of the town council and a political ally of the
sindaco
. Yes, the same mayor whose devious idea of placing a public sports field behind Villa Cornaro had been thwarted only by the combined efforts of Dick Rush, the local farmers, and officials in Rome. For political reasons, Ottorino several years earlier stopped joining his family when the Rushes invited them to the villa, even though his parents were the Rushes’ closest friends in town. Ottorino's boycott of the villa continues even after our succession to ownership. Soon, however, Carl's peace offensive with the
sindaco
frees Ottorino to rejoin the social program. Later, when the vicissitudes of small-town politics bring the mayor defeat at the polls, who is to succeed him? Ottorino Scquizzato!

Ottorino inherits a taller version of his father's build. His wife Michela, on the other hand, is a slim, elegant whippet of a woman. Michela is always impeccably dressed, bringing to her “business-casual” outfits a chic that defies the category. Improbably, this wife of a small-town politician-farmer is a globe-trotting multinational business executive. Her fast-growing family-owned business, Tasca Abbigliamenti—a prosperous women's apparel manufacturer— may be even more improbable. It is entirely managed by five sisters, who all thrive in a brutally competitive field.

Carl and I watch Michela's skills expand as she gains experience. When we first meet, Michela's father is still active in the business he founded, but he is reducing his day-to-day involvement. Italy has a particularly male-dominated business world, and I can only speculate at his thoughts as he fathered five consecutive daughters, followed at last by a single son. In fact, he seems to have reacted much the way my own father did when faced by three daughters: He taught us to fish and hunt.

Michela, the oldest, obtains her university degree in economics and begins working in Tasca's administration. Her sister Daria is
sent to fashion-design school in Italy and in New York so she can step in as the firm's chief designer. The other daughters are trained for roles in operations.

We sometimes talk with Michela about her business exploits. For Carl, this satisfies two needs: He gets to talk business, and he gets to do it in English. Michela's English is hesitant in our early years but steadily improves as her international responsibilities grow. On one early occasion, Michela proudly shows us through Tasca's sprawling manufacturing plant, situated between Asolo and Bassano. She points to the advanced new cutting tables where computer-driven cutters simultaneously produce pieces for hundreds of garments. She explains how computer programs shuffle and fit the various individual pieces of a garment to leave the least scrap, while at the same time keeping essential pieces properly aligned with the direction of the fabric. Carl is impressed by the capital investment that all the new equipment reflects.

As we return to Piombino Dese each year, we get fresh reports from Michela or, more often, her mother-in-law, Francesca, who becomes one of my closest friends. Michela's father has retired; Tasca has launched a sewing operation in Hungary; the queen of Spain has bought several Tasca dresses in Madrid; Michela has returned from China, where she is also setting up sewing operations; Tasca has opened a factory outlet in nearby Cavaso del Tomba.

Did she say factory outlet? I never pass up an outlet store; a New England gene prevents it.

“Orange? Oh, I don't think so! I could never wear orange!”

Daria merely smiles and waves the brilliant suit before my dazzled eyes the way the snake must have brandished the apple before Eve.

“You will be surprised, Signora Sally. Orange is perfect for you. You should just try it on.”

Couturier wonderland! The new Tasca outlet is a treasure-house, I discover, but Michela leaves nothing to chance. Alerted by
Francesca, she is there to greet me personally when I arrive with Carl in tow. Then Michela springs her surprise: she has brought her sister Daria, the chief designer of the whole company. I feel like the Duchess of Windsor with Christian Dior hovering about.

“Purple? Daria, maybe that's a bit too strong for me,” I suggest tentatively as another confection is waved before me.

Daria is holding a bright green dress highlighted with huge purple circles. The green tone tends toward the blue side of the spectrum, rather than yellow, the neckline swoops low, and the waist is encircled by a lavender cummerbund-like invention. Does she think I'm eighteen?

“All you'll need is purple shoes,” Daria assures me. “Here's a handbag that will go perfectly. lust try it on, Signora Sally. These are just dresses for you to try on.”

Daria plants me at an enormous mirror outside a trio of dressing rooms. The bars are draped in a myriad of styles and a rainbow of colors that she has collected from racks around the cavernous room. “Rainbow” isn't exactly the word; there are no pastels here. Everything has deep, strong hues to complement the complexion and dark hair of Italian women. Casting my eyes around, I see few black dresses and not a single white one.

BOOK: Palladian Days
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