Palladian Days (7 page)

The park, looking south

And where was Carl? I ask smugly. Four thousand miles away, I answer—living the life I've escaped, our joint life.

His life, I add as an afterthought.

What do I mean by that? I puzzle even myself. I'm sitting on the south loggia now, watching the
rondini
(swallows) dart about searching for small flying insects in the early evening shadows just as they do in the morning. I have a glass of prosecco in hand to facilitate clear thinking. After twenty-five years of marriage, I cannot imagine life without Carl, but if “escape” is the right word, maybe what I'm escaping is Carl's life—escaping his life to find my own.

Carl's career and his business travels have imposed a sort of cica-dian rhythm upon us, I realize. A week of travel to Sweden each quarter for meetings at his company's automotive-parts plant, with side trips to the plant in Germany or to see customers in France and England; a week of travel to Korea every six months to confer with the joint-venture partner in the plant there; one-day round-trippers almost every week to see customers in Detroit or visit plants in Indiana or Virginia or Minnesota.

But if “escape” was really my motivation, I cannot lay everything at Carl's doorstep. I have to examine my own late-blooming career as well. In our children's early teen years, when parenthood was at its most tedious and exasperating, I had found a blissful outlet singing in Robert Shaw's 220-voice Atlanta Symphony Orchestra Chorus. Happy college memories of singing with the Radcliffe Choral Society welled up in me, the happiest being our performance of Bach's B Minor Mass with the Boston Symphony. Robert Shaw, of course, was America's (the world's!) leading choral director, and his charismatic presence in Atlanta touched the life of every singer in the state, either directly or through his influence on voice teachers and choir directors. My life was touched as well. My heady seven years of singing and recording with his chorus led to my late master's degree in sacred music and then to my role as a
church music director. I reveled in the music, in planning programs, in the camaraderie and faithful service of my choir members, but I resigned the post after five years to make possible my long stays in our new villa.

Surely that was not an “escape.” It was my first real job—community volunteer work aside—since our first child, Ashley, was born. I had my own office, support from parents grateful that I was teaching their children to sing, praise from the members of the congregation who enjoyed my selections of new music or new arrangements of old favorites. Escape? I don't think so!

How honest do I have to be with myself? The
rondini
have returned to their nests, night is settling rapidly in the park, and I have finished my glass of prosecco. It is a time for candid thought: Is it possible that some of the exhilaration of my church post had worn away after five years, buffeted by occasional reminders that relationships in churches can be as political as those in any other form of association? Had I needed something beyond church music to fulfill me for a lifetime? Dark thoughts.

Some of our early efforts at managing the villa are distinctly hit-or-miss.

Giacomo believes he will have enough time to care for the lawn and hedges himself, despite the long hours he is spending at his
caffe
now that it has reopened. We will need a new riding mower for the lawn, he explains. The walk-behind model that Epifanio Marulli used for years is too slow and decrepit. This seems reasonable enough until Giacomo launches us on a shopping expedition to find one. A dealer in Loreggia shows us a model the size of a Volkswagen Beetle.

“Quanto costa?”
Carl asks. He has already pointed out to me
that it is the Italian phrase he uses most often. His other favorite is
“II conto, per favore
. The bill, please.”

We are confused by the dealer's response. Either we misheard his answer or we are making a mistake in our mental conversion of the price from lire to dollars.

“Lo scriva, per favore,”
Carl requests. This will all make more sense if we see it in writing.

Carl stares at the written price; I peer over his shoulder. We agree there is only one possible explanation: The mower actually
is
a Volkswagen Beetle, just an enhanced version! The price is three times what we paid for our first car when we got married. As we hurriedly leave the dealership, I decide that the Italian sun has done Carl no good at all; he is white as a sheet.

“Nessun prohlema,”
Giacomo assures us. We'll find something better in Resana or, if that fails, we'll go a few miles farther to Castelfranco. We spend several more days shopping and comparing prices. Meanwhile, the grass at the villa has grown to our ankles and the weeds—a major part of the mixture—approach our knees. Carl begins to mutter speculatively about switching the park from grass to white pebbles. Finally, we find ourselves back in Loreggia, where we began. We swallow hard and write a check, grateful that the price has not gone up while we delayed.

Soon Giacomo is proudly driving the Rolls-Royce of riding mowers around the yard, seated like the rider in a dressage event, tall in the saddle, shoulders back, putting his high-stepping steed through its paces.

The romance of man and machine is not to last. By summer's end, Giacomo concludes he can no longer handle maintenance of the yard. The
caffe
is prospering; by the time the last customer has left and Giacomo has cleaned up the premises, it is past 3:00 a.m. The daylight hours are too short for him to assist Silvana with the lunchtime business, care for the villa's grounds, open the villa for tour groups, and still find time to sleep. The gardening seems to be the only dispensable item. Giacomo is firm about the need to find a new solution before the spring, when the grass will begin to grow
again. Giacomo's decision is no surprise. I only wonder how he managed the yard as long as he did. Giacomo promises that he will find an alternative solution during the course of the winter.

Giacomo is Figaro, our own personal Barber of Seville with a solution for every problem. Some solutions prove more lasting than others. Upon my return to Piombino Dese in the spring, Giacomo introduces Mario, our new gardener. I protest that we don't have enough work for a full-time gardener. Giacomo explains that Mario needs full-time work, that he can do other handyman tasks, and that the cost will not much exceed the part-time options available.

Mario is a small, gnomelike man about sixty years old, a former
falegname
(carpenter) with bright blue eyes that don't see well. Sprickles of curly gray hair adorn the sides of his head, making him a perfect candidate for Santa's workshop. His family is eager for him to stop woodworking because, they say, the sawdust has given him asthma, which is exacerbated by his smoking; the fresh air in our garden will be good for his lungs—and he won't have time to smoke.

Mario begins his new career in gardening.

He likes to sit astride the mower. He rides for hours. The task metamorphoses in Mario's mind to become like painting the Golden Gate Bridge: when the job is finished, it is time to start it again. Mario doesn't like to weed, he doesn't like to prune, and he doesn't like to fertilize. He doesn't like to sweep the
cantina
, where the mower is stored. And he doesn't stop smoking. I often discover him in one of the south stairwells, gazing dreamily out a window while puffing away.

Mario doesn't much like any part of his job, except the riding. He begins arriving at about 9:00 a.m. each day; by 10:30 he is across the street at the
caffe
for a shot of grappa. Break for lunch and
riposo
at noon, return at 3:30 p.m. At the bar by 5:00 p.m. for another tipple. Each succeeding day becomes shorter in work time than the day before. After a month I break the news to Mario that instead of having a full-time gardener and no help cleaning inside
the villa, I have decided to split my budget between a part-time gardener and a part-time housekeeper.

Mario takes the news cheerfully. He crosses immediately to the
caffe
for a grappa and a smoke.

We are back to square one. Giacomo is out, Mario is out. Our magnificent lawn mower sits idle in our
cantina
. The grass is growing around us. Which way should we turn? Even resourceful Giacomo seems stymied. Is that a look of desperation I see in his eye as the prospect of having to return to the saddle himself looms before him ?

Of course, the answer is obvious. Whom do we call on when a tree falls in the park and must be cut up and carted away? When the long-abandoned ziggurat/cooking counter that Julie Rush left half-finished in the kitchen must be sledgehammered and removed? When a pigeon family decides to set up housekeeping in the crawl space over our bedroom? How have we overlooked the obvious answer: Ilario!

We all know that Ilario is conscientious about anything he undertakes, and he would treat the mighty mower as lovingly as he does the cows that share his home. But will he take the job on? He has his own farm that he and Giovannina must tend. Giacomo and I, in consultation with Carl by long distance, have concluded—notwithstanding my experience with Mario—that in the summer the routine yard work should actually require about one full day every two weeks. Maybe another half day a month would be needed for some extra tasks. Giacomo volunteers that during dry
periods he can take care of any watering the plants, hedges, and lawn might require. Obviously Ilario would not be available during the weeks of planting and harvest, when the timing of his farm-work is critical and highly sensitive to the weather, but maybe he could fit in the work during the rest of the season.

Ilario Mariotto at work at Villa Cornaro

Giacomo tells me I must ask Ilario myself. Ilario feels a great allegiance to the villa, Giacomo explains, and a direct appeal from me will be hard for him to turn down.

When I bring the request to Ilario, he considers it carefully, as I knew he would. If he accepts, he will consider the task an important obligation, not something agreed to lightly. After discussion with Giovannina, Ilario accepts. With Ilario on board, we know that one problem has been definitely resolved.

The moos bother me at first. An eruption of mooing overwhelms conversation during our antipasto course. Ilario excuses himself from the table to see what is troubling his cows. He's leaving behind a platter of homemade salami, a
caciotta
(a simple cheese) made by Giovannina, and a saucer of dull green olives that tease my taste buds.

The cows live in an adjoining apartment of the house, separated by a wall and a hallway from the dining room where we sit. Arriving at the Mariotto home on our first visit, after Carl's arrival in late May, we park our car beside the corncrib, admire the ten frolicking kittens, and find ourselves presented with a choice of side-by-side doors, as in the story of the tiger and the lady. Fortunately, Ilario and Giovannina appear in the doorway on the right to greet us, eliminating our need to choose. The door on the left, they explain, opens into the home of their eight resident cows, aligned one beside the other. At last a riddle is answered for me: If, as we are
told, the corn growing in all the fields around us is to feed animals and not humans, where
are
these alleged animals? We've never seen a single cow grazing in a Venetan field. Now I understand they are all living hidden from sight, like Ilario's.

Ilario returns to the dinner table.
“Nessun problema,”
he says.
“Loro vogliono solo compagnia
. They just want a little company.” The cows represent a tremendous asset for Ilario, and he always reacts immediately to any complaint he hears from them.

The table at which we're sitting—Ilario and Giovannina; their older daughter, Alessandra, and her
fidanzato
(fiance), Stefano; their younger daughter, Valeria; and Carl and I—crowds the small sitting/dining room. A sofa clings to one wall; a large television set roosts on a tiny table in a corner.

Ilario earlier has walked me through the garden that embraces the house on the east and north. Ilario's small farm was formerly one of the fields of the villa plantation, and the villa itself peers above a row of trees in the distance. I exclaim to Ilario about the variety of his garden: fig, plum, pear, and apple trees; green beans, pole beans, tomatoes, zucchini; turban squash, onions, potatoes, all laid out in straight, manicured rows.

“This is Giovannina's garden,” Ilario replies in slow, careful English. “It is very beautiful! And she planted all those flowers at the driveway—not necessary, I think; we can't eat them! But she likes the colors.” A rainbow of zinnias greeted us as we drove off the little lane leading from Via Marconi to their home. A dozen sunflowers stand guard at the woodshed.

Giovannina hops up from the table and, with the girls’ help, clears the antipasto dishes. She brings from the kitchen a large bowl of zucchini risotto and a small one of grated
grana
. She works to speak slowly in Italian for our challenged American ears, but sometimes she turns to address the girls in Venetan. At one point she seems to be telling Valeria to mind her manners, because Valeria sits up and takes her elbows off the table.