Nine Summers Page 12

  Instead of taking the road out of Santa Margherita to Rapallo, we erred onto a narrow winding road that led us past views over a jagged coastline and a glittering sea. By the time we realised that we’d taken a wrong turn, the scenery and the scents led us to a village nestled at the end of a horseshoe bay.

  Tall, terraced houses in shades of ochre, pink, yellow and terracotta lined the inlet. At the entrance was a cobbled piazza clogged with stalls selling food, clothing, tablecloths, pots and pans. The place buzzed with shrieks of laughter, and smelt of fish, cheeses, fruit and vegetables. The women, many dressed in long skirts, were coarse-skinned; the men, in baggy trousers and fishermen’s hats, had weathered faces.

  ‘Do you think we’re the only strangers here?’ I whispered to Felix.

  ‘Can’t see anyone looking foreign.’

  As we wandered among the stalls, people looked at us with curiosity. We bought peaches, then moved on to the quay. Two luxury yachts were tied up there; one belonged to the Duke and Duchess of Windsor, we heard someone say. But apart from these, only rowing boats and sailing dinghies bobbed up and down along the quayside. An old fisherman, his hands crippled with arthritis, was gathering his nets.

  ‘Inglesi?’ He smiled.

  ‘No, Australiani.’

  ‘Australiani?’ he said, his voice full of amazement. ‘Mio zio in Australia…had an uncle…went there before the first war… Australia è lontano, a long way...Tempi erano difficili…times were hard.’

  We offered to help him fold his sail. He was grateful. As we helped, we talked in my hesitant Italian. I told him about the dinghy we sailed in Sydney Harbour.

  The piazza had almost emptied when he said, ‘Would you like to take out my boat? I’ve finished fishing today. You can tie it up when you come back, and I’ll come down in the evening.’ Felix and I looked at each other and didn’t know how to respond. Then after a short silence, Felix looked at the man and said, ‘Grazie, tanto grazie.’

  The old man collected the nets under his arms then, with his stooped, painful gait, walked away.

  I stepped into the bow of the dinghy, Felix undid the rope from the bollard and took up the oars. We rowed out of the bay, hoisted an amber sail and drifted with the breeze to where the rugged landscape unfurled — our first view of a Mediterranean coastline from the sea. I don’t remember how long we sailed in that borrowed dinghy, but when I close my eyes I can still evoke the saffron light, the shimmer on the water, the stone villas clinging to rock, cascades of bright bougainvillea, the dark pines, the sound of sea rolling onto the shore, the scent of summer, the salt air, our stunned silence. By the time we tied up back at the quay, the lights had already come on in the piazza and along the quay. Felix looked at me, then said, ‘One day, we’ll have a boat and sail the Mediterranean!’

  For us, arriving in Portofino many years later was a nostalgic experience. From the sea the coastline was unchanged, and as picturesque as ever. But on shore it was more crowded and noisier than in 1953. We thought of our old fisherman, and wondered what had happened to him. We looked into restaurants, at people along the esplanade, and felt our age. The quay was filled with sleek yachts and cruisers. As we motored in, a cruiser pulled out and the ormeggiatore let us tie up.

  An ormeggiatore is an Italian institution. He reigns supreme over the public wharves and quays by holding the key to the water taps. To tie up in public ports you need his approval (unless he happens to be at home for siesta, in which case you sneak in).

  Having a berth on the quay made it easy for us to go ashore for the celebratory meal we had promised ourselves. And a celebratory meal in Portofino is no flippant matter.

  We thanked our kind ormeggiatore by asking him to top up our water tank, in spite of the fact that we’d filled it the previous day in Lerici. Those few litres were a sufficient excuse for a hefty tip.

  We booked a table on a terrace overlooking the bay and ordered the specialita della casa, the specialty of the house — branzino (bass) baked in 2 kg of sea salt.

  ‘I think we had half a pizza each in 1953,’ I reminisced.

  ‘We’ve travelled a long way since then.’

  Overwhelmed by the occasion, the awareness of our good fortune, and the knowledge that our time was limited, I clutched Felix’s hand.

  The following morning we motored to Paraggi, a bay adjoining Portofino, put down anchor in 12 m of water and had a late breakfast. A breeze had dispersed the summer haze and filled the bay with the scent of pines, the water was like velvet. Above us a gull was gliding in an updraft. High on the hill, cascades of burgundy bougainvilleas spilled over the Hotel Splendido’s terraced gardens. It was early, and few people were about.

  By lunchtime, a group of teenagers in hired rowing boats were diving into the sparkling water. Guests in large hats trudged from the Hotel Splendido down a donkey trail to the water, while up on the hill, white-gloved waiters served more guests at tables set under foliage. A short distance out at sea, a parade of luxury yachts was in progress. On the decks beer-bellied men in garish shorts strutted alongside tall, and occasionally bare-topped, girls. Waiters in black trousers, white jackets and bow ties dispensed drinks.

  By sunset everyone had disappeared and we were alone in the bay. It was a bright night, lights glowed around the shore, the water rippled like coloured silk, cicadas trilled, fireflies flickered and the scent of late summer warmed the air. I thought, ‘We’ll remember today as clearly as the day we hoisted the old fisherman’s sail.’

  Our lives had taken on a routine and we were happy in the stability of our cocoon. We bought the paper when we were ashore, listened to the BBC news and tuned into the Livorno weather report at least three times a day. ‘Chiamata generale, chiamata generale, chiamata generale, Livorno radio, per il servizio bulletino del meteo…’ We no longer needed to wait for the English translation.

  We read a lot, especially books on Tuscany. I was so engrossed in J. H. Plumb’s The Pelican Book of the Renaissance, I didn’t want to finish it. ‘You know,’ I said to Felix, ‘pot-latching, conspicuous consumption, riotous living, nepotism, scandalous behaviour, pursuit of power, were all there in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. It was an integral part of life in the city states in Central Italy. Although most Popes’ lives were not exactly virtuous, at least they had the good sense to employ people like Michelangelo and Raphael.’ I raved on.

  The day after we returned to Viareggio, we hired a car and drove to Beaulieu to pick up our Renault. Like a faithful dog, it had waited for us for almost three months. Not only was it filthy, it also had an enormous blob of chewing gum glued to its bonnet. Doubtless this was payback from one of the shop owners whose window display it had obstructed. But as soon as Felix connected the bits he’d disconnected, the faithful animal came to life, purred and revved, and away we went. We were now ready for Tuscany.

  ‘Pisa is only 20 km away, Lucca 27 km, Florence 90 km.’ I was on a high.

  ‘But I have to do a few running repairs first.’

  Felix’s Italian was now almost as good as his French. With a limited number of verbs, nouns and body language thrown in, he was able to discuss the radio with the radio maestro, the refrigeration repairs with the refrigeration supremo, not to mention be able to ask for everything he needed at the ship chandler and hardware stores. Grammar, agreements, tenses… he decided he’d attend to these some other time. He was teaching me words he’d picked up, such as pilla for battery, frizione for clutch…And as soon as the latest repairs were done, we were ready.

  ‘First, let’s go to Lucca. We’ve never been there.’

  We took the small by-ways to the thick ramparts that girdle Lucca. Along these walls, the dark branches of trees were already discernable as autumn leaves fluttered to the ground. We walked into the old town, with its eleventh century cathedral and peeling gothic palaces, reminders of the city’s ancient wealth, and we felt we’d entered a Renaissance world the twentieth century had left untouched. By lunchtime Felix was tired
and starved. We found a restaurant and sat under a pergola covered in grape vines.

  ‘What is the specialty in Lucca?’ I asked the cheerful, plump woman with a slight limp. She looked as if she’d cooked for a large family all her life.

  ‘Ah, signora, in Lucca tutto è speciale…everything is special.’ If you are hungry, soup, zuppa di magro is very good. Also tortelli casalinghi, cannelloni…’

  We had a long lunch of zuppa di magro, a meal in itself, too much wine, and continued to watch the passing parade. ‘I need a siesta,’ I said, and loosened my belt. ‘Time to go home.’

  We made our way to our car and found it hemmed in by a car in front, and another behind. We walked around it and wondered what to do. Soon a small crowd gathered.

  ‘Che maleducazione! Such rudeness!’ An elderly man with a walking stick surveyed the situation. ‘Guardate!…Look at that!’ He said to three strapping young men. They took one look at us, waved Felix and me aside, discussed the situation among themselves, and then without much ado, rocked our car up and down, heaved our front bumper bar over the car in front and turned it sufficiently for us to get in.

  ‘Bravo!’ A roar went up.

  ‘Grazie tanto.’ We shook hands with everyone, got into the car, waved and made for home. ‘There’s no end to the advantage of old age…’ I muttered.

  The weather was noticeably cooler and the days shorter, so we left for Siena at dawn, avoiding the autostrade and driving along minor roads into the Tuscan landscape, past picturesque villages on mountain peaks, built not for grand views, but for strategic defence. Feuds and competitions between Florence, Pisa, Lucca and Siena had once been vicious, and frequently led to war.

  Every now and then we took breaks to walk in these villages, along meandering lanes into small squares with stone houses, terracotta roofs, green shutters and window boxes. We looked through archways into courtyards where geraniums trailed on weathered walls, and cats warmed themselves.

  Towards midday, Felix had a fit of coughing, so we went to a bar to get water. It was a shabby place, as if it had been untouched for years. When the old man behind the counter saw us, he stopped and offered Felix a glass of water. We ordered cappuccinos and sat at a table outside, where an elderly man sat gazing into the distance, a glass of wine in front of him, a cocker spaniel at his feet. He was carefully dressed in a brown hound’s-tooth jacket and grey wool trousers. His features were patrician, thin and chiselled. His hair, carefully brushed to one side, was sparse and mottled grey. It was a silent place. Now and again a puff of wind brushed past.

  When the old man brought us our coffees, he shuffled past the man at the table and nodded respectfully to him. Felix and I spoke quietly as we inspected a map to work out which route to take. We must have interrupted the man’s thoughts, because he turned and smiled. ‘You are English?’ he asked.

  ‘No, Australian.’

  ‘I was in Australia for some years, a prisoner of war. It was a good place to be.’ His English was fluent with a heavy Italian accent.

  ‘I suppose you came back to Italy after the war.’

  ‘Yes, I liked Australia very much, but I had to come back to my family.’

  We would have liked to ask more but he seemed a private man, lonely and sad.

  ‘Are there many young people here?’ I asked.

  ‘No, this is not a place for young people. They move to the cities, partly for work, partly for the life. They come back to visit their parents or old relatives. Sometimes they come for holidays with their children, to show them what real chickens and cows look like. Here everybody knows everything about everybody, and young people don’t like that. They like to move about, to travel. The cities offer them more. These places are dying, unless of course they can be turned into tourist resorts. No one in this village is interested in attracting visitors, that’s why it looks so neglected.’

  He seemed shrouded in sadness. When the conversation turned to our drive to Siena, he advised us which route to take. We finished our coffee, shook hands and left him to his reminiscences.

  It was almost lunchtime when we reached the outskirts of Siena. The twentieth century had encroached on most medieval Italian towns, and parking stations had sprung up in the outskirts. We parked, then walked up a long steep path past young people clutching books as they emerged from a university campus. From the top of a hill we looked across a wide valley towards the rooftops, towers, belfries and ramparts of Siena, bathed in a golden light — ‘burnt siena’. We entered a gate and walked down a narrow street. Although the most recent Palio had finished some days earlier, we passed two boys dressed in medieval costumes beating drums.

  The Palio, the central event in the life of Siena, has continued uninterrupted for over 700 years. It is a bareback horse race in which each year seven of the seventeen contrade or city wards take part. The race entails racing three times round the central, fan-shaped Campo or piazza and lasts about two minutes. As soon as one Palio is over, preparations begin for the next one. The Sienese don’t see the Palio as just a sport — it has the features of a ritual and politics as well as those of a game. While the horses are drawn by lot, the contrade hire their own jockeys. These are mercenaries who can never be trusted. Although each contrada promises their jockey a bonus if he wins, the jockeys also enter into secret agreements with other contrade, so the outcome is never predictable and large sums of money are involved.

  On the day of the race, the city is decorated with flags and bunting, people hang from windows and climb poles. A deafening cacophony of shouts fills the air, and the smells of horse manure and human sweat permeate the piazza. The winner receives a palio or banner, and celebrations continue unabated through the night. Although we had come just days after the most recent Palio, judging by the boys we met, preparation for the next one was already under way.

  When we entered the Piazza del Campo, it was a beehive of tourists. The back streets were packed, shops were filled with souvenirs, and countless languages hummed. ‘This is like the tower of Babel,’ Felix commented. Just then, the bells of the Duomo struck, and from all corners of Siena, churches and basilicas sounded in response. A shudder ran through me as deep sounds beat in unison — boom, boom, boom. A breeze stirred, and a dog cried plaintively. We stood and listened. The sky was already a deep blue, and high above a campanile I glimpsed the white outline of a new moon.

  ‘You know, being a Pope in medieval times was an enviable job, better than being one of today’s CEOs. They could do just as they pleased — have women, children, with no media or journalists to print salacious gossip. Take Pope Pius II. He rebuilt the village where he was born, forced his cardinals and dignitaries to buy properties there, and chose a Florentine architect to build the first truly Renaissance town, which was re-named Pienza.’

  Felix laughed as I read on.

  ‘When Enea Silvio Piccolomini was born no one could have imagined that he would become a Pope. But in 1458 he was elected Pope Pius II. His early ambition was to re-build the impoverished village where he was born into a summer resort for himself and his court. He hired the Florentine architect Bernardo Rossellino to build what would become the first, perfectly harmonious Renaissance town, Pienza. But the architect had spent three times the original estimate and anticipated punishment. Shaking with fear, he presented himself before the Pope, who addressed him as follows: ‘You did well, Bernardo, to lie to us about what this undertaking would cost us. Had you spoken the truth, you would have never persuaded us to spend so much money, and this fair palace, and this church, the loveliest in all Italy would never have existed…We thank you and consider you deserving of special honour.’

  Pienza, 50 km from Siena, is a quiet place. As we stood in the square, the only sound was of a young man riding a Lambretta. We walked through the courtyard of the papal palace onto a vast terrace with a view over a valley, the Val d’Orcia, towards Monte Amiata. Only a handful of people stood there, speaking in whispers. Pienza was hushed, as if silent spirits reign
ed there. Below, the setting sun blazed on scattered windows in the valley, and fleecy clouds raced across the sky.

  Dear Kids,

  This is almost the end of our second summer. Our six weeks in Tuscany have been wonderful. We’re leaving the car in Florence with Grazia and Giovanni, and hope to find mail from you there. We’ll phone you when we get there. We plan to sail south now and leave Galatea on the dry for the winter in a boatshed on the Tiber near Rome. A couple we met in Sardinia keep their boat there and offered to look after her. Then we’ll drive back to London via Paris. We’d like to find a little flat to rent in Paris and spend next winter there instead of London. Wouldn’t it be great to have Emma and Jackie with us in Paris for Christmas 1990?

  Lots of love, Mum & Dad

  ****

  We put Galatea on the dry using an antique crane belonging to a boatshed on the banks of the Tiber at Fiumare Grande and farewelled her for the winter.

  Then we took the train to Florence, picked up the car, drove back to Fiumare Grande, loaded the belongings we needed and drove to Paris. There, we found a flat to rent for the following winter, then made for London. It was a dramatic winter: on 9 November 1989 the Berlin Wall came down.

  In London, I had one major priority. During the previous months I’d learnt to live with my hair colour, a melange of apricot pink. But now I was paranoid. I admit that I’d started pulling out grey hairs when I was 8, but the numbers failed me by the time I was 30. It wasn’t that I minded getting old. I just didn’t fancy myself grey.

  But being at sea for months and moving from port to port tested my resolve to stay brown. Every four or five weeks, I went in search of the cleanest looking salon in whichever town or village we happened to find ourselves, and explained, in what I assumed was reasonable French or Italian, that I wanted a medium to dark brown. To confirm this I pointed out the colour on a chart.