A Drive with My Nonno

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.