McLean - Summers in Supino: becoming Italian: a memoir

The news of my fathers death came flying over the ocean and sped down the autostrada until it reached the blue sign pointing to Supino, his village. Here it slowed, as it climbed the curves and hills, weaving through the beech trees that arched over the roadway leading to the ancient church of San Sebastiano. The melancholy news rang from the bell tower. It arrived in wicker baskets along with the winter vegetables, it unfolded from the January news, and was carried in patched pockets jingling among the coins to be exchanged at the market and the bakery and the tabacchi store. In the January dusk, the wind carried his name beyond the village and up the mountain path to Santa Serena, where the cows stopped momentarily to listen before they lowered their bony heads and continued grazing on the wild sage. High above the mountaintops, his name, Loreto, put down roots among the clouds.

Every activity had lost its appeal since my fathers death and Id been hesitant about returning to our little house in Supino. Wed spent 10 sunny days there with my father last August. But since he had died in the winter of 1992, I was worried that our future visits to his village would remain in the shadow of sorrow.

When I explained my concerns to Bob, he said Supino was our village too, and we had a lifetime to make new memories there. As soon as we drive up the main street, youll get excited to be back, Bob said. Supinos always good for you.

He called our neighbour, Joe, who lived across the street on via condotto vecchio. Joe and his wife, Angela, looked after our house when we werent there. I overheard Bob confirming our plans: S, July. S, Sunday. S, afternoon. S, rental car. At the end of the conversation, Bobs voice grew uncertain even though he kept repeating, S, s, and finally, Arrivederci.

He put down the phone. Its all set.

Everythings okay?

Sure. In fact, Joe has a surprise for you. He said to tell you that he repainted the house.

It took me a moment to realize that Joe meant our house. I thought about our next-door neighbour Peppe. Hed painted his house orange last summer. Said it was a warm colour.

Did he mention the colour?

He talked mostly about his son, Marco he got a job at a factory outside Supino on that road that runs parallel to the autostrada.

He didnt say he painted it orange, did he?

No. The government divided half the jobs among workers from the South and half from the North. So a few Northerners are boarding at the pensione just outside of the village.

Do you think he repainted it white? Just to freshen it up?

He didnt say. Let me finish. When Joe found out how much the workers were paying to stay at the pensione, he said that Angela could feed them better for half the price and... well... heres the thing the workers are boarding at our house.

At our house? Bob, for heavens sake. What did you say?

What could I say?

Bob was right. Whatever he said, Joe would have said, Dont worry about it. If there was one thing wed learned about owning a little house in my fathers village of Supino, it was that it was always better to go along with the villagers and their traditions. Joe could speak English and he looked after our house when we werent there. I keep an eye, was how Joe explained it; that meant he kept the house and its contents and the tiny backyard the way he liked it. So what if our furniture was often rearranged to suit his wifes taste? So what if odd bits of furnishings, like a wardrobe, a folding table, and a stool with a broken leg, found their way into our house? So what if our tiny back garden was full of Joes brothers plants?

The important thing was that when we called each summer to say we were coming to Supino, our house was always spotless. When we left, we simply gathered our bed sheets and towels and left them for Angela, along with an envelope of euros on the kitchen table, and when we returned everything was washed and dried and folded in wooden crates that Joe had gathered for us to use as a linen closet. If something went wrong at the house, like the water pump wouldnt work, we told Joe and he fixed it or brought in someone who could, and another envelope of euros would change hands.

Joe knew everything that was going on in the village, he knew everyone who lived in the village, he carried the keys for all four churches in Supino in his pocket so our house key was safe among them.

Six months after my fathers death, on a hot July afternoon, we arrived in Supino. Outside the Kennedy Bar, men were playing cards as usual, scaffolding still surrounded the proposed Supino old folks home, the Bar Italia was closed, and an ice cream truck was parked in the middle of the street, blocking the corner of via dItalia and via condotto vecchio. We stopped our rental car, and Cristina, from the tabacchi store, opened the passenger door.

Mi dispiace, she said, reaching in to hug me. I was to hear that phrase, Im sorry, over and over during the next few days. Every villager we passed repeated those words to us until I thought I couldnt bear to hear them anymore.

Up the hill to number 10 via condotto vecchio, we climbed, with a suitcase in each hand, saying, Buongiorno, to every face at every window, while I wondered what colour Joe had painted our house and how many factory workers might be living there.

But the house was still white, and no strangers lounged on our verandah. However, the front door was wide open and rock music blared from a radio inside. Peering into our doorway, we saw a strangers sweater hung over the back of our chair, a package of Marlboro cigarettes and a tangle of keys waiting on our table. We set our bags down and followed the music up the newly washed stairs.

You come already, declared Angela from the second floor. Marco, hurry up. Move the broom. Shut that noise. Sorry. Scusa. Bob, Maria, mi dispiace. Your father a good man.

We looked around for signs of the factory workers, but there was only Angela and her son, Marco.

Marco, said Bob, your dad tells me youre working.

No more. Finished last week.

Marco, said Angela, hurry up. Let Bob and Maria rest. Get out of the way. Go. Take that noise with you. Go, go.

Two minutes later, our house was empty, just the echo of Angelas voice as she called up the stairs, Come later to eat. Sleep now.

When Bob carried up our suitcases, he held an envelope of euros in his hand. Our share of the boarders rent money, he explained. And by the way, someones drunk all the brandy from the wooden cabinet.

We lay down on sheets that smelled like fresh air and sunshine, and there above the bed, on the freshly painted ceiling, was the chandelier from the living room. Joe must have moved it. I thought about going down to see what light fixture hed hung downstairs, but, really, what was the point? I closed my eyes and slept.