A drive
with my nonno through the Venetian countryside: a cool bright morning
of bare poplar trees, silt-dark fields that plane to the horizon, the
grassy lane of a canal, fields tilled right to the edges of stone
farmhouses. Everything is still but the rushing car. The exhilaration
of the present. The countryside, ancient and smelling of woodsmoke,
holds motionless for history to pass through. The narrow road curves
through ranks of sycamore trees. In the distance we see the church
spire of Ceggia, tile rooftops. Outside of town there's a crane and
scaffolding – condominiums going up where a field once lay. My
nonno gestures proudly with his cigarette at the progress. He is a
boy again thrilled by the roads and machinery of Mussolini, the
potency of speed.
We come
to a small gas station so full of windows it could be a cafe. A lean
kid fills his motor scooter at the pump. In suede jacket and defiant
eyes I see my uncle in him: he's ridden right out of the Seventies
and will find his gang of friends down a dirt road under the trees
smoking cigarettes rolled with hashish, watching for the mountains to
appear above the fields. A man in well-ironed coveralls steps from
the station to help us, suddenly important in a day of boredom. The
kid rides off, scooter whining, and I watch him grow small as the old
men talk of the price of benzine.
We
drive into town. The streets are quiet, banked by curving stone walls
with the plaster pealing away; high forgotten windows that hold
mysteries within their wooden shutters. A piazza fronted by bakeries,
newspaper and clothing shops, a cafe who's small clinking sounds echo
into the street. Bicycles left standing at the curb. A few people
come and go on the narrow walk, passing each other with the polite
brevity of family.
Inside
the cafe, a coolness of tile floors, a faint sweetness of pastries
and oranges from Sicilia wrapped in tissue paper. Before the hissing
machina the barista works quietly. Young men read newspapers half
standing in their stools, while the tables are taken over by retirees
playing cards. My nonno orders coffee, but when I ask for a spritz a
pause of disapproval narrows his eyes, not because I ordered wine,
but because I ordered it out of season, the day's season.
He
stands at the bar, the black potent drink before him, a cigarette
held backwards in his cupped hand, content but noncommittal, prepared
to return to the Alfa Romeo and the few errands that give our drive
purpose, should he find the place lacking. He is a proud man, precise
and controlled, with glinting blue eyes and good manners but never,
you feel, one who truly listens to you. He is a man who knows very
well how to do things, how things ought to be done, good with tools
and gardens, yet his competency is limited to what he understands,
and when the barista bumps his elbow while wiping the counter he
smiles awkwardly to cover his disapproval. To improvise is to invite
criticism.
Why is
it, he once asked me, that the New World is not as good as this one?
Why in a country so rich as America are the houses made of wood, the
coffee made of water, the cars and women with no lines at all? I
couldn't answer him, couldn't argue, in part because I didn't
entirely disagree with the indictment, but mostly out of respect for
him. He was as right as any old man deserves to be after living
through the exactness of their lives. And who was I to say
differently?
My
disagreements are more subtle, there for him to narrow his eyes at or
ignore. I order wine instead of coffee, I bicycle to Caole instead of
taking the bus. But I try never to argue with him. That would be as
pointless as arguing with the past. As cruel as waking someone from a
dream.
And I
rarely argue because I'm usually quite content. Like now, my elbow on
the counter, a smooth euphoria rising in me with each sip of
sparkling wine. Thin sunlight through the windows, shining the
tables, the tiles at the feet of the old men playing cards. They play
efficiently, leaving room between hands for more elaborate gestures.
When the deck is finished a bit of laughter and kidding, then new
rounds are dealt and their faces go serious: the unturned cards slim
as blades on the table. We watch. The stillness of the cafe has made
old men of us all. All but the card players with blood in them. Even
the barista has grown ancient with watching; satisfied to let others
make their moves, their mistakes. I could almost fall sleep in the
ease of my contentment.
Then a
click of heals on tile and everything changes. A dark-haired, slender
woman has come into the cafe. She is not bad looking, she is fair
game. The boys look past their newspapers, pleased to give up calcio
and cards for that other more important sport. My nonno pretends not
to notice her and here I couldn't disagree more with him. He returns
to the card game and I watch my every move so as not to appear
obvious. She sets her purse on the counter, smiles mildly at the
barista, asks in a quiet but certain voice for a coffee, then
searches in her purse for something that doesn't exist – a pause
that gives her a moment to feel the eyes on her, to asses the room
and how guarded or casual she must be. When she looks up it's with a
slightly raised chin so that her eyes have the excuse of keeping
above the men's glances. She takes in the street beyond the window.
She's petite but her body carries a larger strength. She knows not to
be flattered by the attention these men give, that to accept is to
ask for more. Slowly, like tired children, the men's gazes fall away
and return to the idle of their papers, their empty cups.
She
watches the street earnestly now. She is alone and content. She is
thinking of someone, perhaps, and does not notice the small white cup
and saucer placed near her elbow. Her eyes crinkle with
concentration, with recognition: an old woman walking past the glass,
a thin skirt hugging her brute hips. She waves but the old woman is
charging straight ahead. A moment of indecision, and just as her lips
part to call she catches herself, unwilling to wreck the island she's
made for herself. She finds her coffee and reaches for a packet of
sugar. The little spoon clinks soothingly against the cup. She is
alone now, belonging to the cafe, as forgotten as the old newspapers
on spools hanging from the wall. When her coffee is finished she
stands a few minutes longer, still looking out the window, before
reaching into her purse to pay.
