The Reluctant Tuscan (17 page)

All of the obvious questions ensued, followed by all the obvious answers. No, the path cannot be obstructed in any way. No, the only way to change the course of the path was to petition the Comune
and
get permission from the owner of the trees. And, yes, the owner was none other than our neighbor, Vesuvia Pingatore.

Nancy fumed and stomped all over the disputed strip of land, trying to figure out how she could enlarge our house while still allowing Vesuvia to get up to her land. As she did this, I studied the ancient map, looking for a loophole. Unable to make any sense out of the renderings of property lines so arcane, I half expected to see illustrations of dragons in the corners to show what would happen when you fell off the edge of the earth.

I walked over to where Nancy was talking to Gigi about how we might reconfigure our design in light of this new development. Not that I could be of any help, but the sun was really starting to beat down, and I wanted to stand in some of the shade Gigi was casting. I watched them carry on for a while, then Gigi walked away—either because the conversation was over, or because he was feeling uncomfortable that I was standing so close.

“What does he think?” I asked.

“Well, as it stands now, Vesuvia's footpath will run right through our new shower stall.”

“That'll be cozy,” I said, studying the terrain around as if I actually knew what I was looking at. “I don't suppose we could open up the area behind the house.”

“Solid bedrock. It would cost a fortune. The only way we could grow the house is in this direction, and now we can't even do that.”

I looked over at Vesuvia's house, and unless the sunlight was playing tricks on my eyes, I thought I saw a figure moving behind one of the shaded windows. She was watching us and probably enjoying the heck out of our latest problem.

I nudged Nancy and directed her attention to Vesuvia's window. “What if we offered to buy it from her?”

“She's not going to sell to us,” Nancy said.

“It's worth a shot.” I looked uphill at the clump of trees in question. “It's a such a small plot, she probably doesn't even use it anymore.”

“All our money's tied up, remember?” she said.

“Maybe we can put it on a credit card,” I said.

“Look, don't worry about it.” Nancy started pulling up a wooden stake and repositioning it. “Maybe there's a way to alter the design so we—”

“No, why should you?” I said. “You spent time working this out, let's see if we can't get it the way you want.”

“How? Just call her up and ask her how much she wants?”

“I was thinking more of a peace offering. Suppose we give her a gift. Something nice. And in the note we say that since we're going to be neighbors, would she consider selling us that piece of land?”

Nancy thought for a moment, chewing on her lower lip in concentration. Then she looked over at Vesuvia's window, where our neighbor was now in full view. “Think you could get me a photo?”

 

 

This took a
little figuring out, but I was finally able to give Nancy what she wanted by using my camcorder. I set it up on a tripod behind some foliage so it was surreptitiously aimed at Vesuvia's house. I zoomed in tight on her side porch and locked it down. Then, using the remote, I started taping whenever she appeared there to shoot another
malocchio
in our direction. It took a few days, and there were times I felt as if I were filming a nature special for the Discovery Channel, but at least I wasn't standing hip-deep in a piranha-infested river waiting for two tsetse flies to start mating.

What Nancy wanted was a nice clean profile, almost a silhouette, which I was able to get. I then used the software on my computer to clean up the edges, sharpen the image, and enlarge it. I printed it out for her, and Nancy took it to her marble studio. She selected a small, flat piece of moon-white alabaster, and working freehand with an air hammer, she carved out a bas-relief showing Vesuvia's face in profile.

The carving was a remarkable likeness, even though Nancy took pains to turn Vesuvia's flyaway hair into smooth, flowing locks and make her hawkish nose look aquiline and aristocratic.

When it was complete, we carefully composed a note saying how much we were looking forward to being her neighbor, and how, in the spirit of friendship, we'd like to give her this gift. We ended the note with the humble suggestion that perhaps she would consider selling us the small plot of land at the top of our hill. We arranged to have the package dropped off at Vesuvia's door, and then waited for her response.

It would prove to be a long wait.

W
orking at a speed that undoubtedly made them dizzy, the Comune approved our petition for an address, and within a week
il piccolo rustico
was forever to be known as 42 Via Serena. I liked the number because it was easy to remember, but Mario Pingatore was particularly delighted, for as we learned from Umberto, who heard it from Vesuvia, forty-two was the year he was born, and he wasted no time spreading the word that this was an omen the house would soon be his. And this portent apparently had enough street mojo to prompt several customers of Lucca's Barbershop to set up a pool establishing Mario as the eight-to-five favorite.

The force of superstition in Italian life can never be minimized. It seems to exist with equal potency up and down the boot as well as the socioeconomic ladder. Some of these superstitions exist without any trace of explanation, like the one decreeing that the head of your bed must never touch a wall that faces out to the street, or you'll die of brain fever. Some have a twisted connection to science, like the adamant Italian belief that no water, not even the amount involved to wash your face, can touch you after you eat, or you will die. This is probably related to the avoidance of swimming after eating, which can cause cramps. And some superstitions, as crazy as they sound, may actually have a basis in logic, like the phobia about eating freshly baked bread. This came from the hard years after the war when Italian mothers, wanting the loaf they had just baked to last a few days, told their kids that eating bread while it was still warm could cause, you guessed it, brain fever.

With the exception of rubbing the head of an occasional dwarf, I have little regard for superstition, having lost any respect for the occult when as a teenager I was unable to reconcile, from an astrological standpoint, how Soupy Sales, Cardinal Richelieu, and my girlfriend Marsha could all share the same birthday.

Perhaps my skepticism has softened, for I was grateful to whatever mysterious powers now favored us because, thanks to our having an address, we were able to turn in our rental and buy ourselves a car.

True to the idea that a rising tide lifts all boats, Dino was quick to insist that we could get preferential treatment and the best deal only by shopping at his future in-law's establishment, Tito Tughi's Auto Mundo. In addition to keeping the money in the family, Dino saw this as an opportunity for me to spend some quality time with Rudolfo and convince him to marry Pia Tughi, guaranteeing that there would be a family to keep the money in. I wanted no part of this, preferring to stay focused on our goal of not winding up with a vehicle that didn't need a horn because you could hear it two blocks away. But in Italy, where nothing is business but everything is personal, my objections were in vain and we soon found ourselves in the backseat of a van, our faces being licked by dogs, while Dino drove us to Signore Tughi's car lot.

To Americans the words
car lot
conjure up a very specific image. A crisp, asphalt-paved expanse of real estate, festooned with flapping flags and neon signs fluttering and flashing over rows of gleaming cars, while a fast-talking guy in a loud sport coat earnestly tells us that he's not authorized to go that low, but he'll go talk to his manager. That was exactly what Tito Tughi and his Auto Mondo were not.

The lot itself was a meandering patch of land partially concealed by an outcropping of bramble bushes. Not only was it unpaved, but it dipped and dived into flat-bottomed gullies and shallow ravines, so that all vehicles on display sat at various heights and angles, as if they were bobbing on the surface of a rather choppy body of water. Additionally, the phrase
hail fellow well met
never has been, nor ever will be, used to describe Signor Tito Tughi. A dour man with tired, droopy eyes and a toothbrush moustache, he dressed in black and walked around with his hands clasped behind him in a manner more befitting a gravedigger than a used-car salesman.

There wasn't a vast assortment of cars to choose from, but after navigating up and down the terrain and kicking the tires of various Fiats, Lancias, and Opels, we gravitated toward a red sedan that was parked at such a steep angle, we could see without a doubt that no fluids were seeping out. When we asked Signor Tughi the price, his hangdog expression became positively funereal.

“Do you have any young children?” he asked.

Nancy told him we didn't and proceeded to translate.

“Then this would be a good car for you. For when you have that unfortunate traffic accident”—Signore Tughi held up a closed fist with his pinkie and thumb sticking out in the shape of horns—“you won't have to worry about them being killed.”

His use of the hand gesture the Italians call
le corna
to ward off bad luck did little to soften the fact that he was speaking of a car accident as if it were as much a part of driving in Italy as an oil change.

“Much safer to be inside this,” he said, patting the fender of a VW Polo with one hand as he made
le corna
with the other. “If and when . . .”

Signore Tughi went into great detail extolling the solidity of the frame and the dependability of the airbags, with the tacit implication that any
macchina
build by the Germans had to be superior to anything manufactured in Milan, Turino, Detroit, or Yokohama. A begrudging respect for their engineering skills is about the only good thing the Italians can find to say about their Teutonic neighbors. That's because the atrocities committed by the Germans during the war seem as fresh in people's minds as if they happened last Tuesday, and even a carefree stroll around the piazza takes you past a plaque marking the spot where the Nazis lined up eight partisans and shot them. Resentments run deep, for as our neighbor Annamaria so succinctly put it, “How can a nation that belches understand a nation that sings?”

After the Germans failed to occupy Italy by force, they turned around and conquered it with Deutsche marks, and now euros. This fact also riles the Italians to the point where if a German and a French customer are in a store, the Italian clerk will often choose to wait on the French one, only because they hate them slightly less than they hate the Germans.

Over and above the car's excellent bloodlines, Signor Tughi presented us with the most compelling reason to buy it. The original owner was Father Fabrizio of the Chiesa della Madonna dell'Acqua, so not only had this car been actively engaged in the charitable acts of visiting the sick and the needy, it was also featured in the annual parade honoring Our Lady of the Autostrada. Clearly, here was a car whose history of pious service would long protect its occupants. I, for one, didn't feel worthy to own such a hallowed vehicle, but events were pushing us along and we found ourselves following Signor Tughi through the bramble bushes back toward his office.

When Nancy asked him the price, he led us over to the garage to talk to his sales manager, who turned out to be his daughter, Pia, a lively blonde in a short skirt that seemed better suited for a disco than a service bay. She signaled that she'd be right with us, but she was busy dressing down her two brothers for botching up the repair on an exhaust manifold. Signor Tughi looked away, and the boys all but hung their heads, as Pia showed them the proper way to remove the housing assembly without tearing apart the gasket.

Wiping her hands on an oil rag, she approached us. Dino made a great display of welcoming his daughter-in-law-to-be and introduced her to us. She shook our hands and told us how much Rudolfo liked us. We in turn told her how fond we were of Rudolfo, with Nancy commenting on what an adorable couple they made. Pia blushed and I was hard pressed to understand his reluctance to settle down with a girl who not only looked good in a miniskirt, but also knew how to rebuild a transmission.

The question of the price came up and Pia was almost apologetic, hoping we'd understand that, all religious implications aside, Father Fabrizio had taken very good care of the car, rarely driven it, and had had it serviced regularly. I figured this was the Italian way of letting us know it had once been owned by the Little Old Lady from Pasadena, so after a nod of agreement from Nancy, I was prepared to make a counteroffer.

Pia brought the offer over to her father. He took out his pocket calculator and she whipped out hers, and they stood, not ten feet from us, arguing as they plinked on their keys as if they were playing a duet. After a great deal of bickering Pia threw up her hands in resignation and returned to us with a new figure that was only a few euros less than their original.

We seesawed back and forth, but we were clearly at an impasse. Nancy finally took Signor Tughi aside and told him that as much as we liked the safety features of the Volkswagen, it was too expensive. We would have to settle for a cheaper car and pray that, when my sister visited with her grandchildren, any accident we had would not be fatal. As she said this, I stood behind her making the sign of
le corna
and looking to the heavens for divine protection. This moved Signor Tughi to relent. Not wanting the blood of innocent children on any car that came from his lot, he agreed to come down from his price and we split the difference.