Palladian Days (6 page)

And I continue to whack everywhere: on the wall above my bed, on the floor under the bath mat, peering from a crack in the dining-room floor, half beneath the refrigerator, on the front portico's wall, on the grand salon's window frame. I pluck a dead one off the underside of my bed's coverlet; a live one scuttles out from under some laundry left on the floor.

We find a nest under the central table in the grand salon, disturbed when we move the furniture for a chamber-music concert. One evening, as I am cooking supper for Ilario and his family, the villa's electricity goes out and I feel my way upstairs in the dark to the circuit-breaker box. When I return to the kitchen an enormous scorpion lies sprawled next to the stove where I had just been standing a few minutes earlier. Where did it come from? One of Ashley's visiting friends expresses terror at the possibility of encountering such an animal. Of course, we assure him—with a confidence we don't feel—that we rarely see a scorpion, this is not the season for scorpions, they flee at the sight of humans, etc. After he leaves and I begin pulling the sheets from his bed, I find a three-incher tangled between the top sheet and the bedspread. I never tell him.

And I will certainly never tell him about an article I read in an Italian newspaper one morning: An Iranian family of five dies of scorpion poisoning because they drank tea brewed in a teapot where an unseen scorpion lurked. Giacomo assures me that the Italian variety is not lethal, its sting more like that of a wasp. He cautions that if we kill off all the scorpions, we will have many more of the spiders and bugs that scorpions eat. I prefer spiders. A spirited pesticide campaign brings the scorpions under control within a few years, aided by the fact that scorpions actually reproduce slowly, with just one brood a year in some types.

Carl and I have each set ourselves a mission for our first spring at Villa Cornaro. I'm determined to get the kitchen reworked with modern equipment and cabinets, and I've convinced Carl—as a man committed to eating at regular intervals—that this is in his interest as well. Carl's project is to become acquainted with the
sindaco
of Piombino Dese who bedeviled Dick Rush with the plan to build a soccer field on the farmland behind the villa. If we can establish a friendly or at least neutral relationship with the
sindaco
, Carl reasons, we improve our chances for avoiding other confrontations in the future. At a minimum we will avoid having the ill will that exists between the
sindaco
and Dick Rush automatically transferred to us. Carl's campaign ultimately produces a photo I think Dick would find amusing, taken in what we call— because of its dominant fresco—the villa's Tower of Babel room.

Carl's first step is to determine the best way to be introduced to the
sindaco
. He seeks Giacomo's advice. Giacomo suggests—to our surprise, because we don't understand Italian village life—that we should consult with Don Aldo, the parish priest, whom we met at the Rushes’ welcome/farewell reception last fall. This resonates with an old (and dubious) maxim that Carl has heard somewhere, namely, that the three people most important to know in an Italian town are the
sindaco
, the priest, and the chief of the carabinieri. Giacomo raises the matter with Don Aldo and reports that we should invite Don Aldo to the villa for tea.

Within a few days Don Aldo is seated with us in the Tower of Babel room. Don Aldo is a pale man perhaps fifty-five or sixty years old. His height is little more than mine, but his carriage makes him look taller. We're already familiar with his aggressively friendly manner from our earlier introduction at the Rushes’ reception. We restate our interest in achieving good relations with
the
sindaco
and leaving all controversy in the past—although Don Aldo has already been apprised of all this by Giacomo.

“We should all meet together with the
sindaco
so this can all be explained,” Don Aldo concludes.

“We would be happy to meet at any time,” Carl replies. “Whatever time is convenient.”

Don Aldo rises. “Now,” he says. “The
sindaco
is expecting us.” It's obvious that Don Aldo is way ahead of us on this. Carl and I hurriedly close a few open windows on the ground floor, lock the villa, and follow Don Aldo's quick step to the
municipio
, which is housed in a converted eighteenth-century villa just a block away. The
sindaco
is awaiting us in his office, as Don Aldo has promised. I bring to the meeting an overwhelmingly negative preconception, and nothing about the
sindaco
changes my view. He seems to be about forty-five or fifty years old; he is muscular and full of energy, defensive and suspicious.

We explain our purpose, although it's obvious that he has been well briefed by Don Aldo. The
sindaco
particularly questions whether we are long-term friends of Dick Rush or have just met in connection with the purchase. He joins in our expressions of goodwill. Then Don Aldo surprises us a second time.

“Why don't we return to the villa and talk there?” he asks. Clearly, Don Aldo intends to memorialize our truce with symbolic ceremony. We all quickly agree. Back at the villa, we change our beverage from tea to prosecco. Carl realizes that we have a unique photo opportunity. He returns with our camera after a hurried search, and we commence a round-robin of snapshots. At one point I am delegated to photograph Don Aldo, the
sindaco
, and Carl in a cheerful line like old friends. We are in the Tower of Babel room again, but they are standing in front of a different fresco panel. Behind them, Abraham is bowing before God; Don Aldo's head is directly beneath Abraham's lowered face, while the
sindaco's
is under Abraham's derriere—a symbol Don Aldo does not foresee.

We follow our armistice with the
sindaco
by having him and his wife for dinner, a somber affair but suitable for its purpose. Then,
when we realize that we need to retain a
commercialista
(a sort of accountant-cum-tax/business-adviser) to handle our tax filings and various other reports, we visit the
sindaco
at his office and ask him for a recommendation. In his
Autobiography
, Benjamin Franklin observes that the best way to obtain a man's approbation is to ask him for a favor, such as the loan of a book. Carl's idea is to follow Franklin's advice on the one hand, and on the other to give the
sindaco
a chance to gain favor with some ally.

In the next year, just as all the elements of Carl's program seem to be falling into place, the
sindaco
subverts our efforts by losing his bid for reelection.

Like several other Palladian-villa owners, Dick Rush allowed tour groups to visit the first floor of the villa and the park. He required an appointment and charged a small admission fee. Individuals not in a tour group could visit on Saturday afternoons during the summer. Motivated by a combination of public spirit and private interest, Carl and I decide to continue the practice. On the one hand, we want to share our treasure of art and architectural history with all the world; on the other, the income will help us in a small way to maintain the villa.

Giacomo and Silvana handle the appointments and open the villa when groups arrive. My involvement is not expected. In my first spring at the villa, however, during my weeks alone, I find the groups are good company. They often provide an opportunity to speak English, for a change, even if the group is actually from Germany or France. The tours are also a way for me to expand my own store of knowledge about the villa, as well as learn what features interest tourists most.

Usually the groups are accompanied by an informed guide or
lecturer, sometimes even by a true expert on the Veneto or Palladio such as Peter Lauritzen, Bruce Boucher, or Wilma Barbieri. Often the groups themselves include knowledgeable architects or professors. Yet on some occasions they have no more guidance than that which their bus driver provides, so I become a self-instructed docent, drawing on all the research that Carl and I have been doing, on what I've learned from listening to tour guides, and from my own experiences. Even the professional guides solicit my comments on how it feels to live in a Palladian villa. Is it comfortable? How long do I live here each year? The tourists are pleased to have found a villa that is a real home, not just a museum. They stop to look curiously at the photographs of our family placed around on tables just as in our Atlanta home. They inspect the books or magazines that I've left half-read on tables and chairs. Finally one day I realize that I've begun to guide whole tours myself. Even the best guides are relaxed about it, just chiming in from time to time on points they want to emphasize. Upon reflection, I am acutely aware that I haven't mastered the nuances of Palladio, details of his influence on later Palladianism, or correspondences between Villa Cornaro and his other works. But in terms of our own magnificent villa—its individual history, its moods, its changing light, its breezes, the adjusting of its shutters to bring in fresh morning air while maintaining its indoor temperature, its unique personality— I become, over time, an expert.

As a consequence of my growing self-confidence I am less awed than prudence would dictate at meeting some of the distinguished visitors who appear from time to time, such as the directors of great museums or the well-known scholars and writers. I enjoy meeting all tourists to the villa, the well informed and the novices. I appreciate their interest in Italy, in Palladio, and in Villa Cornaro, as well as their enthusiasm and energy. Coming from dozens of countries, they are for the most part drawn by a genuine curiosity to learn more about an architect whose vision of a reborn classical architecture has helped shape the way the world looks today. I am building a great stockpile of memories.

One morning, when Silvana arrives to open the
halcone
, she tells me that an arts group from Paris will be visiting at ten o'clock. Later I see a group of smartly dressed women gathering with admirable punctuality on the sidewalk outside the front gate. Gia-como arrives from Caffe Palladio to open the gate and lead the tour guide and her party up the stone steps to the north portico, where I greet them. Even in this splendid party, my eyes are drawn to one elegantly attired woman in a memorable bright red wool knee-length coat that flares out when she moves. I can hear her outfit whispering to me, This is as good as French couture gets.
Note to diary: Why can't I ever find something like that at Loehmann's?
“Madame Chirac,” the tour leader says, introducing her and the others to me. There is no possibility of my conducting a tour in French, but they all seem perfectly comfortable with English. Ten days later I receive gracious thank-you notes from four of the women—all in English. One of them purports to speak for all in extending to me an invitation to pay a reciprocal visit to the home of any of them in Paris. I presume that the offer includes the Mai-son de Ville, since M. Chirac is mayor of Paris, but it is clearly one of those invitations that are better appreciated than accepted. Nonetheless, I will wonder several years later, after the striking lady's husband has become president of France, whether the offer is still open.

Whatever brought you to buy a Palladian villa in Italy?

Though I hear the question continually, I don't remember ever hearing it from an Italian. An Italian might ask how much time I spend at the villa, how many servants I have to maintain it, or even how much I paid—but never
why
. If you have the opportunity to buy a Palladian villa and the resources to do so, an Italian would wonder only: Why would you
not
buy it?

The Italians are right, of course, but their view reflects an understanding of the rewards of Italian life and culture that I did not have in 1989 and would gain only with the passage of years. So I always respond to the question
why
with my story about the
search for a second home in New Hampshire. In my own mind, however, the story is beginning to wear thin.

You bought the villa to escape
.

That's the upsetting new notion that I work to suppress. Escape? Why would I want to escape? And from what? Carl and I have been very happy with our life in Atlanta, with our three children, our jobs and colleagues at work, our neighbors and other friends, civic duties and hobbies. Why would I want to “escape”? Yet the idea will not leave me.

I think about the things that have been most fulfilling about my early days in Piombino Dese: my ability to thrive in a new language, my exploring new friendships among Italians with life experiences so different from my own. But I think of other, less obvious points as well. I found that breaker box when I was naked, wet, in the dark, and surrounded by scorpions, I reflect with satisfaction. I've made decisions about septic tanks and water pumps in conferences with Italian plumbers and electricians. I've shown hundreds
of intimidating visitors through my home and survived the experience.