The Reluctant Tuscan (36 page)

I screamed enough obscenities to wilt the amaryllis in the backseat, pounding on the steering wheel with my fist until I almost broke it. Then I remembered having passed a gas station up the street and being surprised that somebody was there on a Sunday. Sunday is the worst day to gas up because almost all the filling stations are closed, leaving you with two choices: either try to deal with intricacies of an Italian self-service pump, or get on the autostrada and stop at one of the Autogrills.

I jumped out of the car and started sprinting toward the service station, praying that they'd have a gas can they'd let me use. If worse came to worst, I could always buy one. How much could they want for it? A couple of euros at the most. Maybe five tops.

But wait a minute . . . when they saw how bad I needed it they'd raise the price. Ten euros . . . no, twenty, that's what they'll want! Those greedy bastards, I fumed as I staggered into the gas station, ready to tell them what they could do with their damn can.

“Of course we have a can for you to borrow,” the mechanic told me. “But we have no
benzina
.”

He had just come in to the station to work on his own car today because, thanks to the truckers' latest
sciopero
, they had not received their delivery of gas.

“How can they go on strike?” I fumed. “What about the public safety?”

“Ha ragione,”
he said, telling me that I was right. Then he explained that technically they don't go on strike but rather they call a big meeting to discuss going on strike, which has the same effect.

That was it! I was going on strike myself. I was going to lie down in the middle of the street and not move a muscle until I was either run over or this whole goddamn country came to its senses! And that's what I was thinking as I ran back to the car, scooped up all our stinking flowers, and started to jog home. Sweat was flying off my face and petals were flying off our flowers as I zigzagged my way through the line of cars that were creeping through the Piazza Maggiore. One car in particular started honking at me, and since I didn't have a free hand to give them the gesture the Italians call “the fig,” I kept running. Then I heard somebody call my name and when I looked back I recognized my sister and her husband as the ones who were honking at me.

I ran over to them, and there were hugs and kisses all around as I threw the flowers in the backseat and jumped in. By some miracle they had gotten all the way from Genoa without the use of the autostrada, and now they had to get me home in time to make my own wedding.

I
t was so crowded by the time we got back to the
rustico
, we had to park at the bottom of the hill. Every square inch of our property was covered with friends and neighbors, and friends and neighbors of friends and neighbors. New allegiances were formed and old animosities forgotten as our stereo boomed out a rousing tarantella and Dino's good wine flowed.

Maybe too much good wine, judging by how Cousin Aldo and Gigi got into an arm-wrestling contest that was fought to a red-faced draw. Then they laughed and started dancing with each other. Even Dino found himself in high enough spirits to tolerate Rudolfo showing up with Stefano. And while Dino was cool but cordial, Flavia was downright gracious, sitting down with Stefano and getting to know him, and delighted to learn that his family owned a fabric store in Massa that she shopped in all the time. This solved another problem, because the first thing an Italian woman worries about, with two men living together, is, who is going to do the sewing?

The mayor and his wife arrived and started circulating through the crowd. Perhaps he was still unnerved about having run into me on the way to visit his mistress, because he acted especially devoted to his wife in my presence. And since word had gotten around that I wasn't going to be revealing any dirty little secrets about the town, he didn't mention my article and I never brought it up.

More and more people kept coming. Pumping my hand and kissing me on both cheeks with repeated expressions of
tanti auguri
. . . a lot of good wishes. The signora from the news kiosk brought us a boxful of glossy fashion magazines; Gilberto from
la farmacia
gifted us with an elegant bottle of lemon-scented body lotion; and remember the tall, skinny carabiniere who was so helpful to me at the accident? The one who lost track of his machine gun? Twice? Well, wouldn't you know it . . . he left his present in his car and had to run back down the hill to get it.

I spotted cousins Spartaco and Faustino hanging out on the periphery of the party. Faustino was busying himself examining our olive trees for any reappearance of the fungus he had so efficiently exterminated, while Spartaco's attentions were focused on Pia Tughi and her shapely legs. Sadly, his gaze went unrequited because Ms. Tughi was fully engaged in a conversation with Vagabondo.

Nancy's mom and her aunt Rose continued their masquerade of identities, greatly aided by the fact that they couldn't understand anyone, nor could anyone understand them. This language barrier, however, did not prevent them from enjoying a pantomime-augmented dialogue with Signora Cipollini over the tastiest things to do with the pope's nose, which ironically, is what both cultures call the chicken's ass.

At my request Dottore Spotto was using my camcorder to videotape the proceedings. In addition to the visuals
il dottore
provided us with a running narrative where he attached his own psychological analysis to those he photographed. Thus he informed us that Va Bene was a passive-dependent personality with poor coping skills and Problema's chronic melancholia stemmed from his plethora of self-esteem issues. And that they should both be in treatment and on medication.

Some weeks later, when Nancy and I sat down to look at the tape, we discovered that, although he had covered the main event, he had mostly left us with footage of his children, Leonardo, Rafael, and
la bimba
Artemisia. It did make us laugh, though, when he turned the camera over to his wife, Monica, so he could get in the shot, that while he was posing, Uncle Carmuzzi sneaked up from behind and put the horns on him.

 

 

I looked around
for Nancy and was told that she was changing. I wanted to get cleaned up but there wasn't time. Father Fabrizio had finally arrived, with apologies for being late and a tale of woe over how poorly his new car was running, with the implication that he much regretted having given up the one we now own.

I told him that we needed to start because people were getting hungry, even if it was for the lasagna from the Alimentari Brutti. So while the priest took up his position at our makeshift pulpit, I rounded up my best man, Rudolfo, and made sure he had the rings. I then flashed a signal to Dottore Spotto's eldest son, Leonardo, to cue up the music. He clicked the remote and the sound of a pipe organ filled the air.

Taking their cue, our guests seated themselves on the rows of folding chairs with as much hushed anticipation as a crowd full of Italians can ever get. I got the high sign from Mina (from the hardware store, whom we no longer called Mean Girl) that the wedding party was ready. So I nodded to Leonardo, who flicked the CD to the next track, and the dulcet strains of the “Wedding March” filled the air. Flash cameras popped as Marco Mucchi's younger daughter came down the aisle in a pink taffeta dress, spreading flower petals and drawing appreciative ooohs from the crowd

Next came the bridesmaids in their matching dresses. Pia Tughi, Avvocatessa Bonetti, and my sister, Debbie, looked beautiful, but Vesuvia Pingatore was absolutely radiant. As she glided down the aisle, her face was so luminous in its serenity that her brother, Mario, couldn't help but smile. My side of the wedding party then entered, consisting of my best man, Rudolfo, followed by Umberto, Marco Mucchi, and my brother-in-law, Henry.

With everyone in place Leonardo clicked the remote and the music jumped to “Here Comes the Bride.” All heads turned as Nancy started down the aisle. She was wearing a simple white linen dress that she had bought in the open-air
mercato
in Siena. Her blond hair was sprinkled with tiny flowers, and she had made herself a veil out of a length of the white netting we had used to catch the falling olives. She looked like an angel, and I had never loved her more than I did at that moment.

She came to my side, and we turned to Father Fabrizio. He raised his hands and welcomed one and all to our ceremony. He spoke about the difficulties of keeping a marriage intact in this modern age of ours. How temptations and resentments were the potholes that threatened to break the axle of love between two people, and how much maintenance and servicing it took to keep a relationship running. It was a fine sermon, but at some point I felt as if he was referring more to his car than to our marriage.

He then told the audience that Nancy and I had prepared our own vows. And as I had prearranged with Rudolfo, I said mine in English, while he translated them for the audience.

“ ‘Hail to thee, blithe Spirit,' ” I said, taking both of Nancy's hands. “That's the opening line of a poem by Percy Shelley, who knew quite a bit about what it was like to be a
straniero
living here. And like him, I came to Italy to make a new life, even though this was not my idea. If you remember, honey, I was perfectly happy in L.A. working on a show I hated, overpaid and underappreciated, coming home every night burned out, angry, and exhausted.”

Rudolfo finished his translation and the audience chuckled at how only an
Americano
or a Milanese could live like that.

“But you kept working on me. Even though I was like the guy who sweeps up behind the elephant at the circus . . . I couldn't possibly imagine a life without the glamour of show business. We argued all the time, and I kept telling you that running off to Italy was crazy.
Pazza!
Well, it took months, and almost getting my brains splattered all over the Via Aurelia, but I finally came to see that hopelessly clinging to a way of life that was consuming me was the crazy part. It has been my lot in life to be dragged kicking and screaming into most of the really good things that have happened to me. And for that, my dear Nancy, I give you the sole credit. And to tell you how much I love you for your bravery, your resourcefulness, and your determination. I love you for knowing me better than I knew myself . . . for loving me when I didn't even know what love was . . . and for showing me what joy there was in sometimes doing the craziest thing. Shelley was writing about a skylark, but he must have been thinking of you, when he ended that poem with:

“Nancy, I vow to love you madly, treasure you deeply, and humbly offer you my undying devotion forever.”

Nancy stood facing me, her eyes glistening. She squeezed my hands and spoke.

“I want to express what you mean to me, but words fail me. You're the writer in the family, so if you will allow me, I'd like to show you what's in my heart.”

With that she nodded to Leonardo and he cued up another CD. The music started and Nancy lip-synced to an Italian version of “You Light Up My Life.”

As everyone was laughing and applauding, Aunt Rose, who's a little hard of hearing, turned to Nancy's mom and said that she never knew that Nancy could sing.

“She can't,” Betty said. “But that's never stopped her.”

T
he party lasted all evening and well into the night. Our neighbors could scarcely complain about the noise, since they were the ones making it. Italians may never sweep all the gold medals at the Olympics or establish a permanent colony on the moon, but when it comes to having a good time, no people on earth can touch them.

Nancy and I wandered through the maze of people, clinking glasses and welcoming their congratulations and best wishes. There was so much good cheer in the air that, at least for the night, bitter grudges crumbled and new affections blossomed.

Although not approving of his lifestyle, Dino talked to Rudolfo about letting him use the house Nancy and I had once rented so the boys would have a decent place to live. After all, they were going to need to be close by, since Flavia and Stefano were seriously discussing opening a branch of his family's fabric store here in Cambione.

Pia Tughi and Vagabondo were sighted nuzzling each other before slipping out to a disco. Avvocato Bonetti's elderly mother latched on to Pepe and, after claiming that our goat was her missing Siamese cat, tried to take him home with her. Uncle Carmuzzi and Dottore Spotto took turns reciting verses of Dante from memory as they drank each other's wine and concluded that the great poet belonged to all the people of Italy.

Avvocatessa Bonetti enjoyed more than one dance in the arms of the carabiniere with the elusive machine gun, Cousin Spartaco tearfully confessed to Father Fabrizio about his obsession with girlie magazines, and nobody died of food poisoning from the lasagna from the Alimentari Brutti.

A tipsy Vesuvia Pingatore came up to us with a glass of wine that kept threatening to slosh on my shoes. She told us that this was the best time she had had in years, and she thanked us for inviting her. We thanked her for coming and for being in the wedding party, and she replied that she was honored to have done it. I commented that now that we were all friends, there was no need for that high wall that she had put up. She blushed and confessed that she'd had the wall made taller because she liked to sunbathe in the nude.

I immediately took a swig of wine so as to not have that image permanently burned into my brain.