A voice called from beyond. Beyond what, I wasn’t sure. “Sopra o sotto?” I asked. “Al cancello.” it replied. The voice belonged to Andrea. I thought maybe it was my neighbor Renzo. At this point, all Italians sound the same.
I had switched off the ringer to my phone as I always do when I go out with it in my pocket, and had forgotten to turn it back on – which is also what I always do so I’m not sure it qualifies as a thing I forget. Andrea had already called, emailed, and texted. There was a dinner in Centeno, near Procena, he was invited and his wife Natsuko didn’t want to go. Did I? Oh, and by the way, would I drive?
Andrea owns a car, a 1998 Alfa-Romeo, but somewhere along the way I guess he decided he wasn’t a driver, so when travel by car is necessary, Natsuko usually takes him there. When she’s not up to it, or is simply not in the mood, Andrea must forsooth, stay home. Lucky for him, an American without a car who does drive (however reluctantly) lives ten minutes walk away and is usually eager to experience whatever. So, I said “Sure, let me get my driver’s permit.”
To be honest, I jumped up like I’d been given an electric shock. I was thrilled. Not just by the prospect of dinner in Centeno, but by a friend having dropped by and yelled over my gate. It was so, like, I live here. So Italian. I brought Andrea a glass of water, ran upstairs to put on real shoes, grabbed an old vest made of a kind of silky fabric colored with gold and brown, we rushed to Andrea’s parking place in the yard behind the palazzo he where lives, and off we went to the far reaches of the Lazian countryside.
We took the “short” way out of town. That means lurching into the twists and turns and extremely narrow streets of the Quartiere di Serancia, following a torturous path that seems to go on forever only to arrive maybe twenty meters from where we began so we can turn onto a lane too narrow for one car let alone the two-way traffic it carries, then swerving through Porta Romana (which is even narrower) timing our transit so as to miss the oncoming vehicle by seconds. A few more such maneuvers brought us to Sferracavallo below the city, and onto dark, curvy roads that either aren’t banked at all or are banked in the wrong direction, with cars appearing behind us at unreasonable speeds, then passing on improbable curves. I understood why Natsuko had opted out of the trip.
Another forty minutes or so brought us suddenly to the gates of Centeno. The gate, singular, I should say. Invisible in the dark are four metal posts connected with chains on either side of a gap barely wide enough for an especially narrow Fiat. Andrea pointed them out just as I was about to plough into one but with enough time for us to slow down and squeeze through the middle. “Park anywhere,” he instructed. I did. And as quickly as possible.
I had been invited to one of Piero Ortusi’s dinners last May. He is sort of the caretaker of Centeno. Historically, the tiny town was a customs check between the Papal States and Toscano. The name is said to be derived from its location at 100 kilometers from Rome on the Via Cassia, the ancient way north. I suspect this story for several reasons, the least being that kilometers didn’t come into use in Italy until after Napoleon, but it’s a pleasant justification for calling it Centeno and is likely based somehow in fact. The town also served both as a way-station and a quarantine, protecting Firenze and Siena from the vulgarities and insalubrious habits of Rome.
At some point in the past 20 years or so, a significant part of the town was repurposed as an artists’ retreat. There are private rooms, dormitories, a dining hall or two, studios for painters, dancers, and musicians. Piero has a house and studio of his own. He’s a quiet man who wastes neither words nor gestures. His puckish humor bubbles continually behind his observant eyes. He was a stage designer for years at the amphitheater in Verona. Now he sculpts.
I greeted everyone, and as I came around to Piero he fingered the fabric on my vest. “Nice colors, good pattern. I’d keep that on, if I were you.” and he winked without winking.
This dinner, as the one in May, was about plumbing the imaginations of Piero’s artistic friends regards an annual festa he wants to inaugurate in Centeno next summer. It’s a wonderful group of people. Smart, talented, funny, insightful; they are puppet makers, performers, arts administrators, ecologists, and writers. The dinner was potluck, but Piero hosted as if he were the keeper of a venerable inn. We dined in one of the halls, the doors open wide to the night, bread toasting over a fire (regardless of the day’s heat), moths of every size and color coming and going along with the dogs and children. No one is ever distracted by the traffic of creatures. The food is always various and wonderful, and appears in sudden bursts out of nowhere. No one waits for the Queen to dip her fork into the frittata. Everyone pours and scoops and passes without ceremony.
There was a woman of about forty there last night who I had not met previously. She has a lovely relaxed way about her, was dressed even more casually than the others. Her hair, piled and tied improvisationally about her head, manages to look elegant. She speaks well and with kindness, but for the first half hour I had no idea what the subject was, only catching bits and pieces and nothing that would make a whole. Others held forth in turn. It was a polite and committed exchange of views. The speaker would continue for a goodly time, someone else would pick up the argument, and everyone else would listen. Claudio, the fellow sitting to my right, said nothing for so long I imagined he wasn’t much of a talker, then it was spontaneously his turn and he proved me wrong.
Eventually, someone asked if I was able to follow the conversation. I hazarded a very inaccurate guess. They explained that the area around Acquapendente has accepted eighty-some refugees from North Africa. The discussion was about the treatment the refugees were receiving, the need to educate their children, the difficulty of employing them, and generally how they will be absorbed into local society. I thought about the walls and taco trucks that seem to define discussions like these in the States, and fell into deep wonder. The conversation broke quite naturally into pairs and trios all talking at once, there was a crescendo, a finale, and the room fell quiet.
More food arrived from somewhere, the woman with the pile of hair took out a notepad, and the discussion turned to the festa. Many proposals and ideas were put forth, always in the same deliberate manner as in the discussion about refugees. Notes were taken by several at the table. After each proposal or question, the woman with the hair would take the lead into the next phase. Piero spoke rarely until it was time to conclude, then he gave a settled description of the pieces he imagined would constitute Centeno’s festa.
I leaned over to Andrea and confessed that the hour was making me tired, and as I had to face the twists and darkness that lay between us and Orvieto, we had best contemplate an exit. He nodded and concluded his piece with a comic oration. He stood, explained my need to bring him home alive, everyone followed suit, and goodbyes were exchanged. Piero again fingered the fabric of my vest, lifted his eyebrows and made it clear that I would don that garment in his presence again only in peril of losing it to a more appreciative wearer. He winked – again without winking.
Back in the car Andrea quizzed me on the second round of discussion. I had been able to follow it a tiny bit better. “She’s the major, you know.” Who? What? “Il sindaco di Proceno.” Who? “The woman you hadn’t met before.” Oh! The mayor. “Si. Sorry. The mayor. Centeno is part of the comunale of Proceno.” Wow. “Yes, good to have her here.” Nice to have seen this idea develop in its various stages. “Oh, there will be more dinners like this one.” Good. Good. That’ll be good.
The road back was exactly the same, of course, but so much easier to drive.