A Year in the World (47 page)

In the bookstore in town, we talk to a woman who has lived all her life on Capri. She says Tiberius has been refurbished; he had good traits after all, and that Krupp—of the bomb and coffeepot family—definitely was misjudged. There is no proof at all that he diddled little boys, not her words, and his suicide over the accusations was a tragedy because he loved the local people. We’d noticed a
vicolo
with his name. But Fersen, the Frenchman—well, that is another story; yes, he lived with a fifteen-year-old Roman boy. The opium parlor at his house . . . She moves on to the Scottish writer Compton MacKenzie, also ahead of his time in kiddie porn, and I tune out. Ed switches the subject by asking, “What are your favorite restaurants?” Since I’ve been here, I have come to realize that the decadence of these men had more to do with who they were in the repressive countries they were escaping than with Capri itself. The tragic slant, to me, is that island families sometimes encouraged their boys to make liaisons with the sugar daddies. And that speaks more to the poverty of their expectations for their sons than to their approval of sex with old roosters. The writer I admire, Norman Douglas, at eighty, with his
thirteen-year-old boyfriend
. How titillating. The knowledge taints, when really these perverts are no more than small gargoyles on the rocky cathedral Capri.

I reread instead
Greene on Capri
, less for what Shirley Hazzard has to say about her friend Graham Greene than to learn what kind of writer
she
is, and how she quietly goes about crafting her fine novels. Her intense sense of Capri, the enchanting place, comes clearly through.

Afternoons, we retreat to our serene chamber above the sea. Ed reads about the flora of the island and the small blue lizards found only on the Faraglioni, the prominent offshore rocks where the surf perpetually fizzes.

Another
walk, out to the ruins of the mean Tiberius’s villa, scattered over a vast area of
primo
real estate. How can the paths be so endless, when the island measures only four miles long and two miles wide? One of Capri’s primordial appeals must be the scale. In a lifetime you could know the island as well as you know the loved one’s body. Know each carob, every stone wall with dangling capers, all outbreaks of yellow broom, all caves and coves.

The Italian custom of naming their homes has a mysterious aspect. A house named becomes more of an entity. The name becomes its fate and charm. All over the island owners have designed individual name tiles for the gates of their houses. I take photos of the tiles of Casa Mandorla (Almond House), La Veronica with a spray of flowers, Casa Amore e Musica (House of Love and Music), La Falconetta (The Little Falcon Roost), L’Aranceto (The Little Orange Grove), La Raffica (The Squall) with its boat, La Primavera with birds, L’Agrumeto di Gigi (Gigi’s Citrus Grove), Casa Serena with facing dolphins, La Melagrana surrounded by pomegranates, and Casa Solatia (Sunny House). We glimpse columned pergolas tangled with roses and wisteria, kitchen gardens, and shady terraces where cats sleep among geranium pots. Simplicity shines from these essential island homes. Move in, and soon you would be painting the walls blue, setting a pot of basil by the door to keep out the bugs, and napping away the hot hours under a grape arbor.

Along the walk we meet a group of six women holding paper plates piled with red rose petals. A bride is expected soon, and they are out to strew her path. They joke that we are the bride and groom. They have vibrant faces. I would like to stay with them all day.

Something
ugly becomes apparent at this divine hotel. On the stairs to our room, I look and look again at a bronze bust. “Is that, it can’t be, Mussolini?” We look more closely. Benito, why yes. Then when we’re asking at the desk about the boats to the Blue Grotto, we spot a large print of his potato face again on the wall. In the peaceful garden we find a marble monument to Il Duce. What arrogance and gall. The hotel may be splendid, but this offends me. I would never again stay here or at the Quisisana, owned by the same people. If they love the fascist, fine—but please don’t subject me to his mug.

The Blue Grotto. I am glad to go, just to see that particular shade of blue water. The experience requires that you suspend expectation of fresh experience because you are piled into a boat, then near the small opening into the grotto you are handed onto a smaller rowboat. Going becomes real only when you must duck, and flatten yourself across others in order to squeeze inside. We waited three days because of high seas, and this morning was still choppy. You easily could scrape your back. Caves give me the creeps. It’s too late when I decide I don’t want to go. We’re all scrunched down in the boat, then suddenly we emerge inside, floating in the legendary water. And blue it is, the color of the blue band at the bottom of my computer screen. No, the blue of a damask chair at my sister’s house. Or the brilliant tropical fish in my dentist’s aquarium. An explanation is given: because of the angle of the small opening, the red part of the color spectrum is kept out and only blue is refracted from outside.

You must imagine, because it will not happen now, that you can row yourself into the grotto, slip over the side, and swim like a mermaid in the excited blue water with your mercurial body sending off a silvery sheen. Instead, you are uncomfortable and jammed with others, wishing they would be quiet at least, but they won’t and you’re in and out of there quicker than you can say “ten euros.”

At
last we take one of the glamorous taxis up to Anacapri. Next time I will find a hotel here. Axel Munthe’s garden views stop the heart. The tunneled green paths seem familiar. We walk by a grand hotel where my sister once stayed when she was in her twenties and travelling in the Mediterranean. I would like to see her walk out the gate, her fresh laughing face, heading toward the shop where sandals will be made to measure just for her foot. For a moment I try to conjure that image into my mind. The ceramic scenes in the church beguile with their strangely mixed religious and pagan images. A big golden sun on the church floor jolts all my expectations of what I will see in a church. The walks are even more rigorous, with views across the known world, and sheer knife-pleated cliffs dropping into the sea. The mind goes plunging, happily, scarily, vertiginously. I step inside an armoire-size shop where a woman is sewing baby clothes. Soon we are talking about our families. I buy a yellow playsuit for my friend Robin’s new grandchild. The woman shows me the French seams, all hand sewn with crocheted edges, like the mice’s stitches in
The Tailor of Gloucester
. She opens a cupboard and brings out christening gowns and smocked dresses. Then I notice the clippings on the wall. She has been photographed and written about in American magazines, as has everything commercial on Capri. Ed waits outside in the Piazza della Vittoria on a tile bench. He has found a
gelateria
and holds out his cone of pistachio, lemon, and melon. I have not seen him so relaxed in weeks.

Odd, so much said about Capri in the books I’ve read, and the essence missed. What comprises the essence of this place? The guidebooks don’t tell me; I had to come here. The waves on the rocks tell me, the fisherman’s blue shirt shouts it out, the delicate shadow of an almond tree on a white wall scrawls three reasons in black. Capri—combing the island, inhaling the sun-baked scents of wild mint and the sea, making love in a mother-of-pearl light, joking with the woman chopping weeds along her fence, memorizing a tumble of pink and apricot bougainvillea intertwining on a white wall, picnicking on a pebble beach and leaning to catch a hot grape Ed tosses toward my open mouth.

For Example

Mantova

Rain and fog alternate with snow and wind all the way to Mantova. Driving from Cortona, we are shocked to see, so soon, piles of snow north of Florence, and then a Christmas-card landscape. “Freakish for mid-November,” Ed observes. We pass farmhouses with roofs that look frosted with boiled icing. Not-yet-picked olive trees stand in prickled white fields.

As soon as we cross into Lombardia, the land flattens and the eponymous poplars appear in long windbreaks. They rise in plumes from the land where large barns catch my eye because of their brick
salto di gatto
, cat exit, ventilation windows. I could spend a happy week roaming the countryside photographing these patterned barn windows. The ghostly trees are mesmerizing, flashing by the window. I sink into a kind of daze thinking of Mantova, made famous by the ruling Gonzaga family’s love of art. While they held sway from 1328 until 1707, they kept a coterie of artists on ladders in every room of their palaces. They left their little city to the world. Suddenly I remember Romeo. Hot for Juliet, he thundered out of Mantua (the English name) toward Verona, only twenty miles away, and with such immortal results.

Three lakes surround the city. In the 1930s, someone planted lotus along the edges, and I’ve read that in summer the blooms add a touch of the exotic. Pleasure boats ply the waters in warm weather, but today they are huddled at the shore, pelted by rain. We find our hotel easily. The lobby, all pale marble and Bauhaus leather, zings with contemporary art, but the spirit runs out on the floors above. Our room is ordinary. A salesman of machines for the vast agribusiness in the Po valley might sink onto the bed and surf the TV channels. The large painting reminds me of a blown-up Rorschach card, a smashed, magnified spider in a pool of blood. We drop our bags, take umbrellas, and walk out into the early afternoon.

That quality a homing pigeon possesses, Ed has for
his
bar. As soon as we land somewhere, he navigates toward what will be our destination several times a day for the duration. We always try others, but his first instinct proves right. And so we turn in to La Ducale, with their excellent coffee and pastry and an owner who pronounces each word with the enunciation of a speech teacher. She tells us about their special chocolates flavored with black pepper, cardamom, and cinnamon, then offers a piece flavored with
peperoncini
, little red peppers. This, she says, stimulates amorous activities. Espresso purist that he is, Ed is lured into having his coffee with one layer of zabaglione and another of cream. Other coffees come with liqueurs or rich concoctions of orange, almond, and lemon. The owner recommends a spiced pumpkin tart. We have that and a layered chocolate meringue tart, also with zabaglione that is violently gold because of the very fresh eggs. All this before we’ve walked two blocks.

The compact historic center is lined with colonnaded arcaded sidewalks. The marble columns are of different orders, as though brought from various sites for new use here. The shops are small and chic, one after another, with no chain stores, no junk. The people on the street look as though they have stepped just now out of these stylish shops. We pass several made-to-measure shirt makers’ windows, herbal cosmetics shops, displays of slippers of natural wool and fine linen nightgowns and comforters, many baby shops, luxurious lingerie and hosiery boutiques, and bookstores. Cooks must be happy.
Gastronomie
glisten with an array of
salume
, marmalades, vats and jars of
mostarde
, varieties of local rices, and chocolates from Lombardia and Piemonte.
Torrefazioni
send layers of roasted-coffee-bean aromas to the sidewalk, bread stores are abundant, and one has loaves like works of art. We pass several wine bars.
Che elegante questa città!

As in many Italian towns, the human scale of the buildings and the lack of cars in the
centro
make wandering a joy. We linger in front of the pastry shops, where we spot the treats we want to try next. An
anello di monaco
, monk’s ring, a big cake that looks like a frosted chef’s hat, looks appealing, as does the
sbrisolona
, a polenta and almond crumb cake usually served with a strawberry, fig, or cherry confiture. Paved with round stones, the streets and piazzas would be ankle breakers in Prada heels. In the rain they are shiny and gleaming. Little neon-green plugs of grass poke up from cracks.

Around the Piazza Broletto, presided over by Virgil who was born nearby, you can see contrasting medieval and Renaissance structures, even the revision of the former for the latter: square windows have been superimposed over arched ones, leaving the original idea in place. A little dolphin fountain may be too small for the space but gurgles happily anyway. The thirteenth-century town hall and the surrounding buildings each have something to offer the eye: the dome of Sant’Andrea over one, wonderful chimneys that look like houses, a tower, oculus windows,
denti
trim, lanterns, even a subtle McDonald’s, barely distinguishable from other facades and fortunately not emanating its usual noxious odor.

Shakespeare chose well Romeo’s departure point. Mantova is a storybook setting. It looks constructed by a child with a great set of blocks; at the end of the day the castles and arches go back in a box under the bed. If circumstances had turned out better, perhaps Romeo would have brought Juliet back for a visit, because surely he would have been impressed with this small elegant city almost surrounded by water, with spacious piazzas, castles, and substantial churches, all filled with art. The poet Politziano, born in our area of Tuscany, left the Medici patronage for a while to live under Gonzaga patronage. Verdi’s
Rigoletto
is set here, and also a novel by D’Annunzio. All these artists are eclipsed by Pisanello, then by Mantegna, who wielded many brushes for the Gonzaga households and made Mantova a crucible of Renaissance art.

A passageway links to the market Piazza Erbe, with a clock tower and the charming round church dedicated to San Lorenzo, which looks like a big cupcake with a small cupcake on top. From there we walk over to the grand Piazza Sordello, which feels way back in time with its stand of trees, the duomo anchoring one end and the entire side flanked by the old Gonzaga palace. We cut back through the piazzas, admiring facades with ornate windows and wrought-iron balconies still trailing a few summer geraniums. Slipping through small streets, stopping to look at churches, and pausing for yet another espresso, we while away the afternoon, ending at the
rio
, a little river that cuts across town from one lake to another. Houses along the water make me reach for my camera—jutting balconies, reflections, trees dipping their branches, a small boat tied to mossy steps.

What
is up with the Mantova restaurants? Something contagious happened with the naming. One translates as the Black Eagle, others as the White Griffon, the Swan, Two Ponies, White Goose. We choose L’Aquila Nigra, on a cobbled
vicolo
off the Piazza Sordella. All the guidebooks agree that it’s the best in town, and the desk clerk at the hotel concurs. We do, too. A few tables of diners are scattered about a spacious room with a lofty ceiling and walls of ochre Venetian plaster with remnants of frescoes. The room could welcome the bon vivants of the nineteenth century just as it is, except for the lighting, downfall of many Italian restaurants. I can’t forgive them for the spotlights in the four corners and the ugly black modern lights jutting out into this otherwise splendidly traditional room. At our neighboring table a woman in her thirties is dining with a man in his late seventies. They do not seem like father and daughter, but they both order poached eggs with truffles to go with their merlot in oversize glasses. Eggs seem like a familial thing to order together. Every few minutes she swishes out in her short skirt to smoke at the wine bar in the foyer. He looks sad and dejected the instant she leaves. Does he begin to brood about the family he left behind for this chain-smoker with great legs? Still, eggs with white truffles—a sublimely sophisticated dish. They eat with relish and drain their glasses of wine.

We’re wild about the food. When I go home, I will be re-creating the
insalata di fagianella al melograno e arancia candita
, slices of pheasant with pomegranate and bits of candied orange. Ed gives me bites of his local
culatello
, house-cured rump of pork, and local
salume
with
mostarda
of apples. Nearby Cremona is most famous for its
mostarda
, but actually it first appeared at the Gonzaga tables in Mantova. Various fruits and vegetables are put up in jars of sugar syrup and that hit that makes the difference, ground mustard seeds. Since the Romans, and even earlier back to the Greeks, Mediterranean people have enjoyed sweet/sour tastes.

Ed orders the quintessential Mantovana pasta,
tortelli di zucca
. Pumpkins, big green ones as well as the usual orange, star in the cuisine around here. The little
tortelli
are stuffed with spicy
mostarda
of pumpkin, ground almond cookies, and walnuts. The taste seems quite medieval.
Mostarda
seems deeply familiar to me because in the South I grew up with spicy chutneys, peach pickles under vinegar, something called chow-chow, and watermelon rind pickles. The
mostarda
provides a light touch—a taste here, a taste there—to complement a texture or taste with a gossamer sweetness and a kickball punch.

Then our
secondi
arrive—
guancia di vitello
, meltingly tender veal cheeks with thyme and artichokes, and for me
lombatina di vitello con tartufi bianchi
, ah, white truffles smothering a piece of delectable veal roast. We thrill to the sips of Nino Negri Cinque Stelle Sfursat—tops on Ed’s lists of Lombardia reds. We contemplate the menu, discussing the dinners we did not order: a snail strudel, little pig feet with fennel seeds, pike in anchovy sauce with parsley, capers, and green peppers, wild boar with prunes. The chef, Vera Bin, is ambitious. Her restaurant introduces the food of Mantova with imagination and panache. After our cheese extravaganza we congratulate her on her fine kitchen. The evening is winding down so she has time to chat for a while.

A pleasure of a small city: you can walk. I love to walk at night. In Italy usually one can, even a woman alone. The blind beggar we saw earlier under the sidewalk arcade in the Piazza Erbe still sits there with his accordion. Ed gives him five euros and wishes him a
buona notte
. As we walk away in the fog, he begins to play and we pause in the piazza. Then he sings, breaks out a big romantic voice that totally belies his circumstance. Several books describe Mantova as melancholy, and we have not felt that emotion here until now.

Back in our room we’re talking about Shakespeare because I’m still thinking of Romeo. “Shakespeare never set foot in Italy, and Italy was a major locus of his imagination,” I begin.

“What plays are set here besides
Romeo and Juliet
? Wonder why he didn’t use the Italian,
Giulietta
.”

“Let’s see.
Othello
,
Two Gentlemen of Verona
. What else? What was the movie with Gwyneth Paltrow set at a villa?”

“That wasn’t Gwyneth Paltrow; it was Emma Thompson in
The Taming of the Shrew
. And there’s
The Merchant of Venice
. I really prefer the Italian pronunciation of
Romeo
.”

“As in Alfa Romeo.”

“Yes, and one of the great Alfas was the Giula. There was a Giulietta, too. I miss my first Alfa.” Long an
alfista
—there’s actually a word for an Alfa lover in Italy—he’s mourning the silver 1972 GTV that he drove throughout the 1980s.

I veer back to the subject. “When Juliet took her sleeping draught, the nurse told her that when she woke, ‘that very night/Shall Romeo bear thee hence to Mantua.’ ”

“Star-crossed.”

The room feels stuffy. When I open the window, the main street into town three floors down is empty with a light mist falling around the lights. No stars at all.

A night of insomnia. When I have one, I try to think of new projects or good things that have happened instead of swirling down some drain of regret. Often the thoughts tumble like coins in a dryer, circling, banging, going nowhere. So now I think of Mantova, walk again all the streets, focusing on details I liked such as the enormous magnolia in the middle of a piazza, or surprises such as coming upon the remaining house of the ghetto and the sign over a trattoria saying
Lo Scrittore
Charles Dickens stayed there in 1844. Mantova has two fabulous wedding-cake theatres with tiers of gilded boxes. I count five other theatres for plays. The season for opera and music runs long. Italian towns offer astonishing cultural activities. Consider what an American town of fifty thousand offers culturally, then glance at the brochures from similar-size towns in Italy. Art and music, plays, even poetry still resonate in everyday lives.

Take, for example, a city I love down in Puglia. Like Mantova, Lecce is a small proud city unique unto itself: flamboyant baroque architecture, loaves of bread the size of two shoeboxes, the antique craft of papier-mâché angels and crèche figures—a dignity. Mantova has the close attractions of Verona, Ferrara, and Modena. Lecce, way down on the heel of the boot, has the Puglian beaches and the charming town of Gallipoli nearby. Another small city where I could set up household is Ascoli Piceno in the Marche, inland from the Adriatic beaches. Self-contained and cared for, Ascoli Piceno, set in sweet countryside, has one of the most glorious piazzas in Italy. Città di Castello, a Renaissance jewel cask over the hills from us into Umbria, is another town not overtaken by tourists, where one’s child could roam free and grow up in a place full of beauty. These are cities for lovers. Lovers of good life. Imagine the clean days behind one of those ornate facades, a little view into a
piazzetta
. The butcher can deliver a pheasant or woodcock the next day. The wine comes from the valley below the town. With your ten best friends you go to the opera all winter and feast afterward until late, late. Your child remains a child for the normal period and doesn’t nag for
things
. The priest comes to bless the house in spring, just after cleaning, even if you are a pagan.