Michele gave me a lift from the train station in Scalo. His boys Mirò and Leo were in the back seat, cheerful and friendly as ever.
Michele practiced his English on me as we drove into the country, and merit to me, I encouraged him by returning in English. It was a turning point in my learning Italian; in short, conversation is not always about me, but it is always about us. Hey, Zarko! Wake up over there! Been trying to get that through your thick skull since you got here! And who knows how long before that?
Claudia and Enrico’s home in Monterubiaglio is an old stone house on two levels with a rooftop terrace that looks over the town. Cotta floors, open fireplace, stone drain board, deep set windows. It’s relaxed, kid-friendly, and thoroughly charming. We might say “authentic,” though as with any word co-opted by marketing forces, that begins to sound hollow when describing the real thing.
Enrico fixed a favorite of his, spaghetti with tuna sauce, Claudia prepared an arugula salad with tomatoes and onions, someone put together a cheese board, there was wonderful sour dough, whole wheat, brown German bread (ordered at the leather shop in Orvieto), regional wine, and sweets from Bavaria. The kids ate pasta, ran off to play, and returned for dessert. Some things are universal. Leo was the one who asked where he should take his empty plate – smiled, and followed instructions – before he ran off to join the others.
After the boys left, conversation turned to the American election, as it frequently does these days. Enrico referred to the photo of a sullen White House staff watching DJT coming in for his first meeting. He found it, passed it around, everyone shook their heads, groaned, then chuckled. He asked if I’d seen photos of Trump’s New York apartment. I’d not. Fake Renaissance, he said, not a place most people would care to call home.
Yesterday, an American friend and I took a day trip to Caprarola to see Palazzo Farnese. The Farnese were an exceedingly powerful Roman family of the Renaissance who had palazzos and villas surrounded by what were essentially their own private towns scattered all over Central Italy. The palazzo in Caprarola began as a fort, then was converted into a country seat for a powerful cardinal of the 16th century. The finest and most admired architects, painters, sculptors, and landscapers were brought in to manage the conversion. The result is impressive, indeed. The artists did a fine job, and if their boss’s instructions exhibited a lack of good taste, they did well smoothing the rough edges.
Over and over again in the historical notes, various points of décor are described as extolling the cardinal’s virtues, showing him victorious over enemies, exhibiting his power, winning the admiration of the gods. It started me wondering what Trump’s apartment looks like.
Enrico had pictures of that, too. He showed them around after lunch. Mr. Trump did not have editors as strong as those employed by the Farnese cardinal (or perhaps the copyists Trump hired were second rate) and no one explained the symbology, but the apartment looks like a casino with – well, fake frescos. It reminded me of the joke about a sign in the palace at Versailles that warns “Do not try this at home.”
Claudia and Enrico’s youngest, Andreas, marched in with the Game of Risk, called Risoko in Italy. The adults made jokes about the name being shortly changed to the Game of Trump. Andreas, Leo and their fathers played a remarkably short set (they may have just ended it on a time limit, I don’t know for sure) while Claudia and I chatted and interacted with cats. The men invited me for a walk through the village, joined by their Risoko partners, trailing the older boys who were already at the soccer field.
We strolled, the boys ran, Enrico and Michele talked about the year it snowed so heavily, and unusually, and how the steep streets turned into recreation centers. The both remarked how magical it was. Lately from the American northeast, I held my tongue. Why snow on their parade?
After a few minutes at the soccer field, Claudia joined us. Andreas went off to the older boys, while Leo engaged Claudia and myself in our own game of soccer using a ball so tormented that it would hardly roll let alone bounce. Leo began as the goalie while Claudia and I attempted to score points. Having no idea what the rules are, I imitated. Leo turns out to be an excellent goalie for his age. Then gradually the game evolved into variations on soccer, until it became about throwing the ball backwards through a hole in the fence.
When I was about Leo’s age, my family had supper one summer night at the home of Gain and Jane John. Gain was a customer at my father’s auto repair shop, and Dad was always struggling to get his name straight. They were a lovely family and their house was a miracle to my young eyes with a wood paneled office where the front porch should have been, a conservatory, a grandfather clock, a baby grand piano, and copper bottomed cookware perfectly polished (the last intimidated my mother no end.)
After supper, somehow we fell into a game of pass the balloon, four adults, me, and the John’s daughter who must have been about four. It seemed to go on for a happy eternity, playing as equals, neither of the families all that familiar with the other. I kept replaying that unforgettable half hour today, and imagined Leo, fifty years from now, recalling his own memories of our tossing around a broken soccer ball.
The music of the band, Organicanto, began to be heard from the piazza, so we found our way back to the main event, La Festa del Bigonzone – the festival of the young wine. I’d been to the festival last year at the end of my third week here; I felt privileged, and stunned, and stiff, and more than a little frightened. The weather last year was mild, the piazza packed, the band… oh, my, the band was a miracle.
Organicanto are all local musicians who create music that is a mix of traditional folk, rock, and something else unique to them. Last year there were eight or ten members by the time I arrived. Instruments included bagpipe, flute, viola, clarinet, harmonica, concertina, guitar, stand up base, cello, and various percussive items. All that melodious instrumentation created a musical fabric that was so rich and expressive, I became a life-long fan on their first number. They traveled the world with each song, effortlessly and without pretense. Their lead concertina was, and is, a rock star.
This year the group was smaller, though it began to add members just as I had to leave. Consequently, their music was not as richly textured. But they were still worth the wait. Two little boys danced figure eights in front. Eventually their fathers joined them, first lifting them up in quasi ballroom style, then joining them in a jubilant circle dance. No one listening stood still for long. Except for Simone.
Simone is one of my favorite people in Monterubiaglio, and I’m not alone. He’s developmentally challenged in some way, but with a sly smile and a sweet disposition, and everyone cares for, helps, and protects him as much as they can. Last year, whenever I saw Simone he was in constant motion, holding hands, repeating his latest fascination, always in the middle of things, dancing jubilantly to Organicanto. Then, for reasons no one quite understands, his meds were changed. Now he passes about in a daze. People still try to engage him, it works briefly, then he runs out of energy, and wanders off. I’m heartbroken. Many are, and are trying to figure out how to influence an adjustment so we can have our friend back.
The roasted chestnuts, however (that last year were not so great) were excellent. And the wine was perfect. Whatever was missing will be back, maybe next year. So, we shrug, give a mental finger to the ghost of Mussolini and all those Renaissance cardinals who betrayed their faith for power, dress against the cold, and keep celebrating the oil and bread and wine and sausage and chestnuts and fennel in season and boys dancing with their fathers, for centuries without end. For now, we are fortunate. May our small celebration beat like the wings of a butterfly.