Today was Friday. I know that because yesterday was market, and that means yesterday was Thursday. Tomorrow will be a Saturday without market, and the day after that, Sunday without church. But no day is really significant to me now until Monday. Monday we walk. Monday we can order takeout at restaurants able to be open on that basis. Why, Monday if I get it in my head to go to San Giovenale to look at the view, while carrying a sandwich I will later eat at home, I can just do that.
We are so fortunate. I really mean it, and don’t have to explain why.
It was suggested to me a week ago that I submit a few of these journal entries for publication in the U. S. So I’ve been reading back to March 10 when the national lockdown in Italy was announced. Count forward six days, I was already yearning for pizza. At the time of the announcement a two-week closure seemed inconceivably long. As of today, there is still a month to go for a haircut. And a month doesn’t seem so bad. It may be a month of long hair, but while it achieves its hitherto unimagined lengths, there will be pizza.
And there will be the unending kindness of good people.
Ten or twelve years ago, I inadvertently entered what I came to think of as “the gift wars” with friends Vera and Giovanni. Every time we would go into their shop for a purchase, we were given something of greater value than what we had purchased. On subsequent visits, we came with gifts for them, which were met with extra gifts in return. It was impossible to keep up, let alone pull ahead. Eventually, I stopped tallying, expressed my profound gratitude, and left it at that.
One night earlier this week, I won’t pretend to know which one, I finished supper wishing there were dessert. Fifteen minutes later there was a rapping at my chamber door. It was not Edgar Allen Poe, it was my neighbor Renzo with a plate in hand.
“Crostata. Apricot.” he said, whipping off the paper towel that covered it with a flourish.
“Your timing is awesome. Thank you!”
“Buonanotte.”
It was still warm from the oven, and so light and delicate I had to hold the edges of its paper mantle to keep it from floating away. I ate half on the spot, and half after the next day’s lunch.
Maybe it was the following evening or two evenings later, I won’t pretend to have a superhuman grip on the passing of time, but I ran out of energy for cooking. The whole day had been an energy vacuum, and when faced with turning what was in the fridge into something more elaborate than a sandwich, imagination failed me. I felt new appreciation for my mother who during lunch would begin to speculate as to what we might have for dinner. The relentless arrival of mealtimes can wear a person down. I ended up fixing a sandwich, and not a very interesting one at that.
After a glum consumption of said sandwich, I spread out my newly acquired blister packs of pharmaceuticals and set to organizing them into bins and boxes, a job I never look forward to but usually accomplish with less distress that I was experiencing that night.
A face appeared at the window.
“I called but you didn’t answer.”
“My phone is upstairs. I didn’t hear it.”
“Fresh tagliatelle with Bolognese. Buona cena.” and he was off.
I cleared a spot in the chaos of the table, and enjoyed a supper far superior than I had expected or deserved.
Next morning, I sent Renzo and Patrizia a WhatsApp.
“You are a kind of wizard. I wanted a dessert after supper, and you arrived with a crostata. I didn’t feel like preparing supper at all, and you provided a delicious pasta. I cannot thank you both enough for your kindness.”
The reply, “And you are always kind to us. Our behavior is not the fruit of magic, but rather the result of what our parents taught us about the value of life – admire and respect each other. Friendship and family rise above all else. It is for us a great pleasure to have you as friend and neighbor. The simple joy of service is beyond assessment of value. Good day to you, our friend.”
When a great tenor finishes a perfect aria, the appropriate response is appreciation, so I left it at that.
About an hour ago I saw Renzo and Patrizia on their balcony.
“’Risotto tonight! Good by you?”
“Wonderful! Thank you.”
And I left it at that.