Taking Tuscany (18 page)

After dessert, the five of us cozy up in the front room by the fire. This little cottage is full of neat old things from way back. The tables and shelves are covered with knickknacks and dolls and old wooden toys. While I'm busy looking at everything, Gina pulls out the photo albums. “Come see the family.”

More relatives?
I'm almost afraid to look after meeting everyone on Uncle Nick's side of the family.

“There's something I think you'll be excited to see,” Gina says, flipping the album open.

As long as they aren't dancing and roasting animals over fire pits.
I sit down beside Gina and try to show some enthusiasm over seeing yet another branch of this ever-growing family tree of ours.

“This is your great-great-Nonna and Nonno Renzo.”

I'm completely taken back by the photo. “Are you sure they're
Italian
?”

“Yes, I'm sure,” Gina chuckles.

“But they have … they look … they have blue eyes and blonde hair and look like me!”

“I thought that might surprise you. That's why I was so excited when I met you—you are one of the true northern Italians.” Gina flips through page after page filled with more of these blue-eyed, blonde Italians who have obviously passed along a recessive gene. I am
floored.
I'm not the only light Italian in the world—there's an entire colony just like me!

Gina has moved on to the plans for the weekend, but I'm still stuck in my new identity. I am a
true
Italian, a northern Italian, with blue eyes and blonde hair and I belong here as much as the rest of 'em! While I'm letting this revelation sink in, I can't keep from staring at these people in the photographs—these beautiful, wonderful relatives of mine.
Hey, people, I'm one of you!

Meanwhile I haven't heard a word of what Gina is saying, and try to tune back in …

“… So we'll drive up to Conques in the morning and spend tomorrow night at the Château Sainte Foy. It's right across the street from the Abbey Sainte Foy, home of the statue Sainte Foy. The restaurant in the Château Sainte Foy has wonderful food.”

Don't tell me … they have Sainte Foy burgers at the Sainte Foy Bistro.

Since we'll be getting up early for the trip to Conques, Gina suggests that we all turn in for the night. It sounds like a good idea to everyone but me and Ada, because we are both still wide awake. We stay and chat in front of the fire while everyone else heads off to bed. There's so much I want to know before I go to sleep tonight.

“Ada, what was it like for you and Nonna growing up in Italy? I've asked Nonna before, but I'm not sure her memory is all that clear.”
Understatement.
I can tell right off that Ada is still sharp as a tack, and this may be my only chance to hear the real story. Nonna has her own version, but I have my doubts—unless her father was really the prince of Cimano and raised kangaroos.

“Oh, well, my goodness, let's see … Juliana and I were in a family of six girls, living in the town of Cimano, in northeastern Italy. I was named Immacolata, after my grandmother, which was the traditional way of naming one's children.”

Oh, don't I know it.

“In English, Immacolata means
immaculate,
as in the Immaculate Conception.”

Okay, that right there is a good reason to be grateful my grandma's name was Juliana.

“Your Grandmother Juliana was the youngest daughter and barely remembers our mother. She died when Juliana was only eight years old. Juliana looked so much like our mother it was remarkable. Mother was very dark and beautiful—and probably responsible for changing the family genes from blonde and blue-eyed to brunette and brown-eyed Italians. Our father loved her very deeply, but his family was against the marriage, so he ran off to marry her and lost his family inheritance. They were poor but happy. They owned a corn mill, and ground flour for the people of the town. When our mother died, it broke our father's heart. He was never quite the same.” Ada's eyes tear up.

“By the time Juliana was twelve, I had married, and all the other sisters found work in a brick factory in Austria. Juliana was Father's only consolation, and he loved her very much so she stayed home with him. But Father got very ill and could hardly care for Juliana. Eventually it was she who took care of him.

“Juliana came to visit us from time to time, but Father missed her terribly—she was all he had, so he would not let any of us keep her very long.” Ada has a faraway look in her eyes, like she's going back in time. I feel like I'm going back right along with her.

“There was one winter we went home for Christmas. Juliana was around ten years old then. When we arrived we found only our father at home. Father was bedridden and had asked Juliana to go to buy some bread. It was so cold out, and Juliana went out with no shoes or stockings, only a little flour-sack dress. That was all she owned. We had bought her some winter clothes and socks for Christmas from some of the money we'd earned at the factory, but we didn't arrive in time. Apparently, on her way to the bakery, it began to snow. Juliana had to walk barefoot through the woods. Along the way she fainted. The snow came down and covered her up. When we finally found her, she was beneath a blanket of snow, nearly frozen to death. We carried her home and warmed her up by the fire. She has never liked the snow since.

“After that Father sent Juliana to stay with me. He told her to be good and stay until he could come for her. But he never came. I knew something was wrong, because Father never liked to send Juliana away. As I suspected, when my husband returned from checking on him, he gave us the sad news that our father had died.” Ada reaches up and wipes a tear from her eye. “I've never stopped missing him.”

I think I understand why Nonna says her father was a prince.

Ada looks tired. “Thank you for telling me about Nonna. I'd better let you get some sleep. I'm real happy I got to meet you.” I give Ada a good-night hug.

“Bonne nuit, ma cherie.”

Must be French.

Ada catches the confused look on my face and smiles
.
“
Buona notte, amore mio
,”
goodnight, sweetheart, she says, and kisses me on both cheeks.

We part ways to our bedrooms.

Nonna and I get to share a double bed in the tiny guestroom. I try to climb in without disturbing her, but the springs on the old brass bed wake her up. Nonna takes one of the pillows, goes around and climbs in at the opposite end of the bed. “Good night,” she says.

“Nonna . . . what are you doing down there?”

“I snore. This way I won't keep you up. This is how we did things when we were married.”

“
Sogni d'oro, Nonna
.” Sweet dreams. I lie here thinking of Nonna as a young girl, something I've never really done before—especially being my age, cold and hungry, without a mama or daddy. The only Nonna I've ever known has been my sweet, old, funny Nonna. Sweet to me, anyway, not to everyone. She always tells me I'm her favorite. I think it's because of my name. Mama says I bring out the best in Nonna like no one else can. Daddy brings out the worst in Nonna—only because he married her baby and she was left alone again. Seeing her now as that brave young girl—walking through the snow to bring her father some bread—I'm so proud of my Nonna.
Prospettiva.
Perspective.

I drift off, knowing I have a heritage I am truly a part of. I knew I was Italian, but it's different when you really look like the people you belong to. Maybe that's why God made us in His image, so we would know we belong to each other.

17

La Bambina Santa Fede

(Little Saint Faith)

A remote country road winds up the mountain like a snail shell, leading us to Conques. The small medieval village rises up out of the morning mist like a setting in a fairy tale. Tall steeples and slate-stone roofs give way to majestic churches and quaint mountain cottages. Old but cute. No, not cute, but charming. I know there's a better word for this … something ancient … and mysterious …
Enchanting.
That is the word I'm looking for. This town is
enchanting.

We pull up to the Château Sainte Foy, across the street from the aged yellow stone Sainte Foy Abbey. Rudi holds the car doors open for us ladies, letting out a big yawn. Probably due to all of our jabber.

“I'll check us into the hotel while you
mademoiselles
visit the abbey.” He kisses Gina on the cheek and says he'll meet up with us after he takes a short nap.

Crossing the street to the abbey, Nonna and Ada are like Siamese twins joined at the hip, sandwiched between Gina and me. Now that I'm actually here, I'm kind of excited about our little Sainte Foy pilgrimage, but a little nervous, too. This is, after all, my first saint encounter. Entering the musky cathedral, we're greeted by a man with pure white hair and a white robe—looking much like a saint himself. He introduces himself to Gina as Sainte Foy's guardian. I never realized that saints have earthly guardians in the same way we have heavenly guardians.

When we're brought before the statue of Sainte Foy, I can understand why she needs a guardian. Sainte Foy is a three-foot-tall gold statue, encrusted with glimmering stones and jewels. The statue of Sainte Foy. The head seems oddly large for the small body it sits on. I am captivated. Who was this child? Behind me her guardian is telling the story to Gina in French, who is translating it to Italian for Nonna and me. Ada understands both versions.

I can hear Gina's voice in the background, but as the story of little Foy unfolds, her cold, hard statue slowly transforms into a twelve-year-old girl, running about these green hills, the same as I once ran around Indian Island …

“When she was very young, she had a nurse who secretly taught her about Jesus. Little Foy took bread to the poor people in her village and told them about her Jesus. But her parents were not believers and were very upset about her Christian faith. They insisted she worship the goddess Diana, as they did. Little Foy refused. She was brought before the proconsul Dacien at Agen on October sixth in the year 303. She said, ‘My name is Faith, and I am a Christian.' She explained to him, ‘His name is Adonai. Since I was a little child and first learned of Him, I have loved the Lord, Jesus Christ.'

“When Dacien ordered her to sacrifice to the goddess Diana, little Faith said, ‘No,' in a great loud voice for all to hear. ‘No, I will not.'

“That was the end for little Foy. As they marched her off, she could hear her mother crying and asked that her mother be told that it was with joy she was going to her Savior. Her mother's name was Sophie.”

Sophie? That's my mama's name.
I'm stunned this really happened to a little girl with a mother named Sophie. This is one of those spine-tingling moments when I suddenly realize this happened to someone not so different than me. Nonna gently takes hold of my hand. I don't know how long we stand together, grieving for this brave little saint. I only notice Gina's voice again when we are walking away. She says there is a book in the abbey,
Liber Miraculorum Sanctae Fidis,
Book of Miracles of Sainte Foy. “Sainte Foy's miracles include stories about animals that came back to life when Foy prayed to Jesus for them,” she says.

Oh, little Foy, where were you when my Ruby drowned?

The others follow the guardian to see the book. Standing alone at the altar, I'm wondering if I will ever do anything brave for Jesus. The only one I've ever risked my life for was Ruby Jean, my hamster. It's not likely I'll be sainted for that.

When you're in the company of people over the age of sixty, afternoons are reserved for nap time at the Château Sainte Foy. While the
mademoiselles
join Rudi in slumbering the hours away, I pull out my travel journal to write about my first saint encounter.

Conques, France, November 4, 1972

Sainte Foy: French

Saint Faith: English

Santa Fede: Italian

Santa Fe: Spanish—hey, Santa Fe, New Mexico!

Sanctae Fidis: Latin, and the title of her book of miracles.

To Saint or Not to Saint? … That Is the Question

I've never felt a kindred spirit with Nonna's saints before. They were always so far beyond me. But little Sainte Foy, I'm kind of taken by. She was so courageous and brave, but she was also once a real girl like me. This is the first time I've realized that saints started out as ordinary people. The icons of the saints with halos and crowns have always led me to believe they were born holy. But I realize now they weren't. They were born sinners just like the rest of us, and made the choice to live and die for God. If the artists would paint the saints in their street clothes, without the gowns and halos, more of us not-so-holy folks could relate to them better. Not to say they don't deserve to be honored, but if they could hold off until heaven for the halo and crowns …

I don't know … maybe little Foy would rather just wait and be honored by God up there in heaven anyway. I like having an example to follow, but would feel better if she were presented as an everyday kind of sinner who went the extra mile for Jesus. Then people like me might feel we have a fighting chance to earn something more than a Girl Scout badge in our lifetime.

Cousin Rudi is still snoring … in concert with Nonna. Sounds like a good time to throw on my winter gear and explore this enchanted little town. By the time I'm ready to roll, I've got myself so bundled up I can barely walk, but I'm in no hurry since I don't know where I'm going.

Waddling my way through the lobby and out to the sidewalk, I consider my options. Stroll uphill, or stroll downhill. I choose downhill. That's downhill on a cobblestone street. Even though it's misty and dreary out, it's all kind of charming and enchanting at the same time. But, I have to say, this town is
way
old. I was just getting used to the idea of Italy being old, but this place makes Tuscany look young. I'm walking on cobblestones that were probably laid by cavemen. Seriously, stone ages, as in
stone everything
—stone houses, stone walls, stone roads, stone sidewalks. I'm almost expecting Fred Flintstone to come rolling around the corner in the Flintmobile.
Ya-ba-da-ba-doo
! Where do these ideas in my head come from anyway? Dunno.

Strolling through town, I stumble upon a tiny rock bookshop—rock walls on the outside, books on the inside. My heart starts to pound the second I step in from the cold to the warmth of the small reading room. I'm in my personal heaven once again, surrounded by books … wonderful old books. It dawns on me that they're all written in French.
Rats.
I can't read French. For now, I can look at the pictures in the kid's books. Some things in life are universal, and art is one of those things. Yessiree, a picture book is a picture book no matter where in the world you go.

Once the short, hunched-over shopkeeper realizes I don't speak or understand French, he stops limping around behind me and leaves me to myself to browse. It takes me a while to find some illustrations I recognize, but I finally come across some French fairy tales, including
Beauty and the Beast.
I love the art they've used in this and look at the pages over and over until I figure it's about time for the folks back at Chateau Sainte Foy to wake up. At least I hope it's time, because I am starving. “
Merci
,” I announce to the little hunchback on my way out the door. “
Adieu
,” farewell. The sum total of my French vocabulary.

Returning to our room, I'm relieved to find that naptime is officially over.

“What took you so long?” Nonna asks me. “We've been waiting all afternoon for you.”

I've only been gone an hour.

We all traipse down to the hotel lobby for supper. I have no idea what I want, since I have no clue what anything says on the menu. I tell Gina I'd like whatever we had at their house last night, so she helps me with my order. “It isn't exactly what we had, but if you like things with a sweet sauce, you should like this.” She tells the waitress what I want.
I wonder what I just ordered.

Ada orders beef stew for herself and Nonna. She says Nonna loved beef stew when she was little and only got to have it on special occasions. Personally I have never seen Nonna eat beef stew before, but maybe she forgot that she loved it. The waitress brings us a steaming pot of tea, which really hits the spot after my chilly walk. Nonna puts a pinch of salt in her tea but drinks it anyway. She lets us all know that's the way they drink tea in Italy, and that Italians will often add a twist of lime to it. Welcome to Nonna's world.

When the waitress returns with our orders, I quickly scan the plates trying to guess which one is mine.
Crepes.
French crepes with butter and apricot sauce—
oh, yeesssss!

While I'm happily indulging in my sweet, warm crepes, Nonna is pouring sugar all over her beef stew. “Nonna,” I whisper, what are you
doing
?”

“I wanted sweet sauce too, and you're the only one who got it.”

She obviously forgot how much she loved beef stew. I dish one of my crepes onto my bread plate and slide it over to her. “Here, we'll share.”

Nonna starts dishing her sugar stew concoction onto my plate—on top of my last crepe.

“… What are you doing?”

“You said we're sharing.”

My white dog is telling me to see Nonna's good intentions.

My black dog is growling
.

White dog reminds me to cherish my time with Nonna.

Black dog reminds me of the long train ride ahead.

The train pulls out from Nîmes at seven o'clock sharp, Monday morning. Fortunately Gina packed us a picnic lunch, so I won't have to endure public embarrassment in the dining car again. Nonna is busy rearranging her purse. I never realized what she kept in that big old bag until I had the chance to sit next to her on a long train ride.

I take out my travel journal.

Travel Journal Entry: November 6, 1972

Returning from Afar

Today we begin our journey back from France, and leave behind the miraculous world of Sainte Foy. Even more miraculous was discovering I have true Italian roots. I'd like to come up with one poetic stanza to describe my pilgrimage with Nonna …

Tucked in this town so quaint and steep

Lie hidden mysteries old and deep

I've roots and memories to keep …

Just one more line . . .

“Move your big cast, it's in my way.” Nonna elbows me and pulls out a box of paper clips from her purse. She turns each one over and faces them the
other
direction, then rearranges them back into the box—which she
tosses
back into her purse. She takes out some old S&H green stamps that she must have saved from back in the States—from about a hundred years ago. She licks each of them and sticks them to index cards. Next, out comes a hole punch, and she starts punching away at the stamp-covered index cards.
Punch … punch … punch … punch … punch … punch …
Little white and green circles are flying everywhere.

“Nonna?”

She looks over, while continuing to punch.

“Stop … please.”

She makes five more punches and puts it all away.

I go back to my journal.
Hmm, one line, one short line …

Rhythmic sifting sounds start up and begin to grate on my nerves. Looking over, I expect to find Nonna with a pair of maracas. She is shaking a large a plastic tube of red glitter.
SHAKA-shaka-shaka-SHAKA-shaka-shaka …