Seasons in Basilicata (30 page)

We'd discussed with the baker what size and shape of loaf we wanted with all our tidbits mixed in, and I'd suggested the eighteen-inch–diameter donut-shaped loaf that was one of his specialties. Of course we knew that this was a complete waste of time because, just as on other occasions, it would turn out to be the same one-foot–diameter, circular pielike loafs cooked in a special pan with all our ingredients spread in a layer in the center of the bread. And that's exactly what it was. But what made it so enticing this time was the baker's wife, a tiny and very huggable, gnomelike lady with sparking eyes. With a distinct blush—an unusual sight in a seventy-year-old person—she asked if she might have a tiny taste of the strange bread she'd been baking for us on and off for weeks. We were delighted. Using the cleaver-like knife she handed me, I cut her and her husband two generous wedges, and a third for her sprightly young counter assistant, whose fresh, country grin had brightened so many of my early mornings.

As they all began to munch on their slices, I cut thin slices for Anne and myself, and we all stood like wine connoisseurs at a tasting—nibbling, chewing, and savoring the rich tastes and aromas from the still-warm bread. And smiling. The little shop was suddenly full of smiles—honest ones, I think—as our three co-conspirators in creative baking all agreed that the flavor was
superbo.
Anne and I praised their skill at baking and the selection of the appropriate shape (despite our request for the ultra-large donut); they praised our selection of ingredients and the finely chopped mix we had given them. But despite this warm aura of mutual admiration, when I asked the husband-and-wife team if they thought such a loaf would be popular with the villagers, they shook their heads sadly. The young girl also shrugged eloquently as if to say, “What can you do in a place where the old ways are as rigid as the sequences of a Catholic mass?”

“But you all seemed to be enjoying it. Why wouldn't other people in the village enjoy it?”

There was a flurried exchange of eye contact and unspoken debate until the lady baker explained, “We only have twelve different kinds of bread.” This really wasn't an explanation at all, more like an apology for the constricting regimentation of old traditions.

Well, I thought as we left the bakery, at least those three enjoyed it. And it was definitely one of our best. Something about the mix of the tiny warm pieces of prosciutto and salami with those four cheeses and just the slightest hint of anchovy, garlic, and basil had given it a rather unique character.

We looked forward to enjoying more of our creation when we returned to the house. But we never got that far. As we were approaching our door, a plump gentleman in a long, black cashmere coat, red scarf, and perky black
coppola
cap strolled across the piazza with a determined air and held out his hand.

“
Buon giorno.
Hello. How are you? 'Scuse me for interrupting, but I am Alberto Garambone.”

“Ah,” I said, having no idea who Alberto Garambone was except that, with his plump, smiling face, fat moustache, and bright, shining eyes, he seemed the kind of person it might be fun to get to know.

“Yes. I am the son of the
Americano.
You remember from Carlo Levi's book? He had lived much of the time in America. The one who owns this palazzo.” Alberto was pointing at the large, stately, and a little aloof, house by the post office, which, since I'd arrived, had
always been shuttered and empty. I'd often been curious about this place but had never seen anyone enter or leave. So far it had been a rather splendid mystery.

“Oh, really? The
Americano
's home. Of course. I remember it well. Levi described its elaborately carved door and lots of geranium pots on the balcony.”

“Yes, you are correct,” said Alberto, with a cheek-bulging grin. “You know his book well.”

I smiled and nodded. I should. I was into my ninth read, and in places the text was barely decipherable in a blizzard of my notes and underlinings.

“Maybe you would like to see inside?”

“Yes, indeed, we would. When?”

“Well, now,” Alberto said, his happy grin widening. His face reminded me of that of an equally plump British actor who always played the character role of a well-meaning Dr. Watson–type bumbler. I still can't remember his name.

“Fine,” we said.

And so off we all went across the piazza. Alberto unlocked the huge, brown doors of the palazzo, with their elegant carvings of cherubic faces. They opened onto a steep staircase leading to the upper living floors. As soon as Alberto opened the doors to the kitchen and “informal” dining area, I knew we'd stepped through a time warp and back to the early 1940s. An ancient but immaculate white-enameled wood-burning cooking stove had pride of place against the far wall near a glass-door cupboard filled with delicate porcelain dinnerware. The table, with elegantly carved legs, was set for one. “I sometimes stay here overnight, but I live in Grassano. Maybe you would like to visit me there? Grassano is very famous for its
passatella
games. Maybe you and your wife would find interest.”

We murmured agreement but were distracted by the tour of this museum-like mansion, with its elegant formal dining room, over-stuffed armchairs, lacy crochet covers on all flat surfaces, and tall, windup gramophone. (“It still works beautifully,” Alberto said proudly.) Melodramatic Victorian-spirited paintings in elegant
frames hung on the walls, including one of those “Monarch of the Scottish Glens” works of a majestically antlered stag standing proudly atop a highland peak. (These had once been almost obligatory accoutrements in British homes, including my grandfather's house in Yorkshire.)

The upstairs bedrooms were classic forties, too, with washbasins and jugs, an enormous polished-steel (or zinc?) bed with a most flamboyantly scrolled headboard, and more large artworks. The corridor led to an expansive terrace with spectacular vistas to the east across the valleys and foothills toward Stigliano.

“I would so much like to make this into an official bed-and-breakfast,” Alberto said a little hesitantly. “You think?”

“I think—with a few changes and some repainting—it would make a great B and B,” I said. “When will you open it?”

“Ah,” Alberto murmured sadly, a sound I'd heard so often before when ambitious plans were discussed there. “That's the problem. Too much paperwork…permissions…the mayor, the police…”

“For a two-room bed-and-breakfast? Why all the bureaucracy?”

Alberto nodded, smiled sadly, and shrugged. “This is Italy,” he said.

“But everyone I've talked to agrees that the only real future for a place like Aliano is in “cultural tourism,” linked to Levi and the whole spirit of Basilicata. I'd like to think they would be pleased to have some B and Bs in the village. There's nowhere for people to stay here at all!”

Alberto continued shrugging and shaking his head. “I know, I know. You are so right. It's the only way. But…”

I waited for the coda. We actually spoke the words together: “This is Italy.”

Outside again, we bid farewell to yet another newfound Levi enthusiast and promised to visit him in Grassano.

“You will both come for big lunch. Then I will show you
passatella
games in the bars. Very interesting, very crazy!”

“Excellent. We'll look forward to that.”

 

B
ACK AT THE HOUSE
, Anne made the morning fire to countertact the strange late-summer chill. She's a far better fire-maker than I. Something to do with the way her dad taught her to build diagonal layered stacking and spaces for the flames to “breathe.” I tend to cram everything in, light a couple of fire-starters, and hope for the best. Which means there's rarely a “best” and usually a frustrated me blaming wet wood, lousy newsprint that won't burn, or bunged-up chimneys.

“Could be, darlin', could be,” Anne usually responds as she sets about remaking the whole thing after my pathetic efforts, and invariably ensures that the fire lasts throughout the day and well into the evening.

We chuckled over our little adventures in the bakery and with Alberto as we munched on the remaining fragments of our special bread.

“You know it's market day today,” she said, and I remembered that market day was indeed every second Thursday.

“Great,” I said. “We've got time before Sebastiano. Let's go and see how massive the piles of panties are this time.”

“You're so crude,” she reprimanded me, but laughed when I indicated with elaborate arm gestures that one pile at last month's market had been more than four feet high.

A while later we were walking up the long hill past the twenty or so market vans with their cooking pots and huge casserole dishes, China-made trinkets galore, cheap curtains and clothes and duvets, and a couple of delivery trucks packed with cheeses, hams, and sausages.

And unexpected delights began again. The peddlers seemed to be in the mood for generous bargaining, so we ended up with a few bags of things we really didn't need—“couldn't resist the price” type of household goodies. And also a bag of enormous plate-size fresh
funghi prataioli
(meadow mushrooms) free of charge. We still have no idea why. We had only smiled pleasantly at the Buddha-bellied
salesman whose van was packed with large boxes brimming with these just-picked wonders, and he'd smiled back…and next thing we knew, Anne was presented with a bag full of these delicious items. Doubtless, if I hadn't been around, she would have bussed both his red, shining cheeks for his kindness. As it was we all just shook hands and vowed always to buy our fresh
funghi
from him, despite the frowns of dismay this would generate if our local greengrocer ever found out, which she might, given that her store was directly below our terrace. (She seemed to regard us as part of her extended family, sharing the daily gossip with us in exuberant torrents of local dialect, none of which we understood.)

Back home we selected two of the largest
funghi
—both more than eight inches across—doused them in raw egg and heartily seasoned flour, and sautéed them into succulent mushroom steaks, liberally sprinkled with fresh grated parmesan cheese and served for an early lunch with the remaining fragments of our special bread.

Normally we would relax a little after lunch, but not this time. “Oh, damn!” I said. “My hair. I forgot. I've got to get it cut before we see Sebastiano. These side pieces are beginning to make me look like Einstein on a really bad hair day.”

Anne was silent but smiled with catlike complacency. She'd been urging me to have a haircut for the past two weeks. So, before the village closed for the “sacred time,” I scampered across the piazza to the local barber, who I'd been told was far younger and more “modern” than other nearby barbers and who actually listened to your requests regarding styling. I even had the correct word for a trim (
taglio
) written down along with
poco,
which usually means “a little.” And, delight of delights, for five euros he applied his tonsorial skills masterfully, giving me the perfect trim—even though I had to listen to a litany of complaints about his latest girlfriend, which ended with a dramatic tirade when he denounced her for having had the audacity to use another hairdresser for her last perm. I commiserated as best I could and escaped before my own hair became the recipient of his macho-misery flailings with scissors rampant.

Finally we were off to Stigliano to meet Sebastiano and the
potter. And when we arrived, who should also turn up but Giuliano, in his familiar
coppola
cap. We stood together in the small, pot-crammed studio watching Michele Rasulo, a
ceramista artistica,
create intricate little flared pots, wine jugs, and olive oil decanters on his electric-powered wheel. I could have watched for hours this magical transformation of crude misshapen gray balls of clay into finely articulated fluted jugs and bowls. Giuliano, whose primary skill was the creation of his handmade bricks and pantiles, and more recently little souvenir-type animals for children (another one of his dozen or so ongoing projects), watched in awe, too.

S
TIGLIANO POTTER

Michele showed us his kiln crammed with just-fired items, all now salmon pink and ready for his vigorous hand-painting with decorative borders and sprightly cockerels sporting flared blue tails, and other equally convincing birds created by four or five min
imalistic brushstrokes. Almost Japanese in the freshness of the flourishes.

Maybe it was our smiles and exuberant praise, but we all walked away with personally signed gifts—olive oil and balsamic vinegar holders and a special pot for
olio piccante
(a redolent, throat-scorching mix of extra-virgin olive oil and
peperoncini,
that ubiquitous Basilicatan seasoning mix).