Taking Tuscany (3 page)

Daddy's appalled and checks to make sure no one is sitting down below. “Who in the world raised you, boy?”

“It looked like it should taste good,” Benji says.

We all like the baklava and send the boys back to fill up one more plate of that alone.

It doesn't take long before a couple of distant cousins of the male gender notice Adriana and make their way over to our table. They introduce themselves—Demetrios
and Adonis—and try out some of their limited English on us. “Hello, how you are?”

“I am thank you, fine,” I reply, and laugh—until Daddy gives me
the glare
.

Before long we're actually able to make some conversational headway with Demetrios
and Adonis
.
We're even starting to enjoy their company when we're interrupted by escalating voices on the next balcony over. No need to look to know whose voice that is.

“All I am trying to say, Gen, is nobody in Italy
paints
a villa
cobalt blue
—apart from maybe a beach villa in Portofino. But this is Tuscany, and my guest hotel business depends on my ability to provide tourists with a pleasant view of the Tuscan landscape. Your color scheme does
not
go with the natural shade of the land.”

The Italian hands begin to fly. “So whose business is it anyway what color we paint our villa?”

“Oh, for the love of Pete, only everybody who has to look at it. We're a hilltop over from you, and it stands out like a sore thumb.”

“Is that so? What do you expect us to do, sandblast the whole thing just for you?”

“Sandblast it, whitewash it … whatever it takes.”

Aunt Genevieve plants her hands on her big hips and says, “Well then,
little sister
, why don't you take that pretty little Sofia Loren face of yours on home if you can't be a gracious guest in
my
home on
my
birthday? And pull your fancy little lace curtains shut while you're at it.”

“Well, I think I'll do just that.”

Now that the main attraction of the party is my mama arguing with the birthday girl, Daddy seizes the moment and grabs Mama's hand. Before she can utter one more word, he hustles us all downstairs. “C'mon, kids, time to go.” Not one to miss a good reason for leaving early, he herds us toward the door. But not before Uncle Nick notices. “Hey, you're not leaving, are you?”

“I'm sorry, Nick, but I'm afraid we are. Sophia's had an awfully long week trying to get the guesthouse ready for summer travelers,” Daddy replies, without stopping.

“But we're just about to crack open a little
ouzo
.”

“Another good reason to leave now,” J. R. whispers. We've seen what “a little
ouzo
” can do at these gatherings.

“Oh, let them go,” Aunt Genevieve remarks, coming down the stairs. “They don't care for our new color scheme anyway.”

Uncle Nick looks at us as if someone just said we don't like chocolate. “You don't like blue?”

“Uh, we like blue,” Daddy says. “Sophia's just concerned that it kind of stands out in the view from her new guesthouse.”

Uncle Nick looks at Mama, then at Daddy. “Well, if that isn't the pot calling the kettle black …”

Daddy stops in his tracks and faces Uncle Nick. “How do you mean?”

“Well, Sonny, we've had to put up with looking at your old ruins for over three years now. We sit out here on our balcony night after night, wondering when you're going to put a little work into that place of yours.”

Daddy's jaw begins to tighten. In a low, firm voice, he says, “For your information, Nick, the boys and I have been working our tails off on our property—as well as on a number of other properties. You might recall that's what I do for a living.”

“Sure, I remember. So what's the holdup?”

Daddy takes a deep breath. “It takes time to restore dwellings that are centuries old
.
Most of the work takes place on the inside before it is evident on the outside
.
We've all worked very hard trying to get Sophie's place open for the summer season, and are concerned over her ability to draw guests—given the view.”

“Sonny, you're my brother-in-law, and I love your family, but I think you're taking this whole thing a little too seriously. If you're really concerned about your customers objecting to our blue villa, your best bet is to advertise in a few Greek travel magazines. There's not a Greek I know of who wouldn't love to look out those windows and see a replica of a Grecian palace bathed in their national colors.” Uncle Nick shakes his head. “I don't know, it almost feels to me like this may have more to do with a little jealousy than anything else.”

The veins in Daddy's neck start to pound, which happens every time we spend too much time with Uncle Nick. Nudging him gently with my shoulder, I take hold of his hand. “Daddy,” I whisper, “I think it's time to go.”

Daddy squeezes my hand back. “I think you're right, A. J.” Then he turns and leads our family out of the big blue monstrosity on the hill.
Arrivederci.

2

Il Mio Bel Castello

(My Beautiful Castle)

Bel Castello
is the name of the villa Nonna inherited from her great-uncle, Bruno. He's the reason we are here. Because he died. The only glitch was Nonna failed to tell us the true condition of her “charming little castle” when she insisted we come to Tuscany to live with her. Daddy has come to realize that
charming
is just another word for
really old
. It has been nothing but
lavoro, lavoro, lavoro—
work, work, work—since we got here. Mama's guest villa has already taken three years to fix up. The castle was barely even livable before Daddy went to work on it. Now it's next in line for renovations, which, from the looks of it, should take the rest of our lives.

There is
one
thing that has worked in my favor since we moved here. I called dibs on the room in the top of the castle—the round tower room, three stories up. Uncle Bruno sold off nearly all of the land surrounding Bel Castello before he died, so Nonna inherited just the castle and a guest villa on a hilltop. Included in the deal were some nice cypress trees, fruit trees, a small olive grove, and one cracked Italian-tile swimming pool.

Once we agreed to move here, Nonna signed the whole estate over to Mama because she said she'd rather it all be Mama's headache to care for—as long as Mama feeds her until she dies. Mama does much more than feed her. I think Nonna got the easier end of the deal.

Bel Castello is rather small as far as castles go, but it's still a castle. Rumor has it the castle was built for the daughter of an emperor way back in the chariot days. In a sense I guess I could consider myself somewhat of a princess, if I wanted to stretch it a little. I'm keeping a princess journal for the times I feel like stretching it.

Princess journal entry: High spring on the crest of summer

spring + summer = spummer

*add “spummer” to dictionary

Spummer from My Castle Window

From my bella vista I see nothing but green hills that roll all the way down the valley. Spring is the best surprise of all. Scads of bright poppies burst into color from here to infinity. Like red birthday sprinkles on a green frosted cake, they bring the hills back to life after a long, barren winter.

With the coming of summer, hilltops will soon shine with sun-drenched villas the color of orange Creamsicles (with the exception of one blue villa in the not-far-enough distance).

My castle tower is where I indulge in my three favorite pastimes: reading, writing, and *philosopholizing. Another A. J.-ism for the dictionary. That's phil-o-soph-o-li-zing: being philosophical + analyzing = philosopholizing. In other words the world according to A. J. Sometimes there are just no good words to describe what it is I'm trying to say. I'm a word person and, I am sorry to say, Mr. Webster does not always provide the word I'm trying to come up with, so I make it up, right there on the spot.

I have my own dictionary started with about fifty of my own words so far. Mama and Daddy call my words A. J.-isms. It won't surprise me to see a few of them in a real dictionary someday. Especially if the novel I'm working on becomes a best seller. People will want to know what some of the words I made up in my novel really mean. And I'll be able to say, “Look that one up in your Funk & Wagnalls!”

My biggest fear about being so high up in this tower is the unsettling knowledge of how old this castle really is. If someone were to pull even one stone out from the wall down below, it would probably go crashing down to the ground—with me amongst the rubble. Apart from that, this wouldn't be such a bad place to live—if I had Sailor here with me. And if I weren't the only blue-eyed, blonde Amer-Italian, who will have no friends for the summer, except for a dog and a horse up the road. And if Francesca and Daniela didn't spread dumb rumors about me that made me have to change schools two weeks before summer break. And if I didn't have to be “the new weird girl” twice in one lifetime. And if mail didn't take so long to go back and forth from Indian Island to here.

—Reporting live from the castle, Princess Angelina

“
Ficucia!”
Daddy bellows up my tower stairwell.
Ficucia
is Daddy's nickname for me—it means
little girl fig
in Italian. I think maybe that's what I looked like as a baby. “There's a letter down here for you!”

Finally.
Getting mail is the highlight of my life right now. I live for my mail—especially news from Indian Island. I pull a chicken feather from the back pocket of my overalls pocket to mark my place in my journal, and dash out the door. I fly down my spiral staircase and back up in less than a minute flat. There are very few things in life that get my blood moving that fast. News from home is one of them.

June 1, 1972

Dear A. J.,

Sailor is doing great and loves being back on the island. He liked the Oklahoma farm life, especially herding chickens, but he missed the lake as much as I did. He's barely been out of the water since we returned. I wish I could say my grandpa was doing as well, but his health is the reason my folks let me move back to the island. He still gets around, but needs help caring for the cabins and upkeep on the island. I'll be chopping wood all summer to store up for the fall and winter.

I've been keeping busy with the Baptist youth group and will be adjusting to a new school come fall—Squawkomish High. So you won't be the only “new weird kid” at school. Remember, people thought Jesus was a weird kid too. You're still the apple of God's eye.

Hang in there,

Sailor and Danny

The sun is a-shinin' and I'm headin' on out. Danny has a way of bringin' the Southern out in me. It took me a whole summer back on the island to get
fluent in Southern,
as I called it. Mama thought it was the craziest thing in the world to have an Italian daughter speaking with a Southern accent. But lo and behold, the Morgan family showed up from Oklahoma and had that entire island babbling in
Southern
from sunup to sundown. I was in heaven. Mama was not.

I fold my letter and stash it in my back pocket. I stash my mini-notebook in my other back pocket in case I need to jot down random ideas for my novel. Then I stash
To Kill a Mockingbird
in the front bib pocket of my overalls, so I can read it for the hundredth time—but in Italian this time—while I'm out and about. Plenty of chicken-feather bookmarks in my side utility pocket. All systems go.

“Where are you off to, Angelina Juliana?”
Grandma Juliana.
She's the only one who calls me by my first and middle names. She likes to hear her own name, which came in second in the coin toss when my parents named me. Grandma Angelina came in first. It was all based on yet another Italian tradition: Give the grandkid your name—no matter what it is. That's another thing about Italy that bothers me; it's all about history and tradition, history and tradition … blah, blah, blah.

Adriana lucked out being named after our great-grandmother, Adriana Maria Degulio, who was still living at the time. It was her dying wish that her first great-granddaughter take her name. Who could say no to that? I tried to swap names with Adriana when I was eight years old, but couldn't afford her asking price. That's when I took things into my own hands and changed my name to Dorothy Jones at school—and was nearly disowned by both grandmothers.

“I'm just going for a walk, Nonna. Did you want to come?” She always says no, but she'll get mad if I don't ask.

“No. I think I'll just stay and talk to St. Francis.”

“Okay. Say hello for me.”

“Will do, but he rarely says hello back to anyone but me.” She turns and shuffles back to the courtyard where her army of saint statues stands guard. She recently moved from the castle into the adjoining mother-in-law suite, along with her twenty-some statues. Daddy made it a priority to fix up her living quarters even before he finished Mama's guesthouse. He said he'd have her suite ready by this summer even if it killed him. According to Grandma, Daddy was never good enough for Mama, and she makes a point of reminding him of that every time she sees him. At least now it's a little less frequent.

When I reach the dirt road in front of our villa, I have a choice of going to the right or the left. If I choose left, I'll end up down by a small lake that I like to walk around when I feel like hearing frogs, crickets, and birds. If I go right, I'll end up visiting Caesar the horse and Napoleon the giant mastiff dog. Today feels like a Caesar-and-Napoleon kind of day. I pull my book out of my bib pocket and head to the right. I've done this same walk so many times with my head in a book, I could do it blindfolded if I had to. There aren't any cliffs I have to worry about walking off of, so it's a relatively safe reading zone. Well, once I bashed my head on a low-hanging tree branch. I was reading
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
, so it was par for the course.

“Buon pomeriggio,”
Angelo calls to me from his front porch rocker. He's got a little bag of tobacco in one hand and his pipe in the other.

“Buon pomeriggio,
Angelo
.”

Angelo is a nice old man—the first person I met when we moved here. I was so lonely that I went to visit Caesar and Napoleon every day, and Angelo would call out
buon pomeriggio
to me every time I walked by. He doesn't speak any English, so he had to wait for me to learn Italian before we could say anything besides
buon pomeriggio
to each other. He'd bring out Caesar's brushes for me whenever I came, then he'd sit and rock on his porch swing, smoking his pipe while watching me brush his old horse. One day he brought out his saddle and taught me to ride.

At first he would watch me ride around the corral, giving me pointers. Once I stopped falling off, he let me ride out in the vineyard. Now he lets me go wherever I want on my own. Sometimes I even go bareback. There is something about riding bareback through the Tuscan hills astride a big black horse that thrills my soul. Except for the time I fell off and had to walk all the way back. I still can't climb back on without stirrups.

Angelo points to the leather saddle hanging on the porch rail. I nod enthusiastically. He seems to enjoy having someone ride his old horse for him. I have a hunch he feels too old to ride anymore. He cinches up the saddle and adjusts my stirrups for me. I've learned to do this by myself, but Angelo insists on helping. Handing me the reins, he waves me off with a big toothless grin. I've noticed that people in the Old Country don't seem to care much about things like missing teeth or looking old. It's like, “Hey, we live in the Old Country and we expect to get old.” That's just their way. It makes more sense than living in a young country like America and always trying to look younger than you are.

I'm kind of looking forward to the day when I don't have any teeth left in my head. Who likes to brush their teeth anyway? I think God figures we'll be tired of brushing our teeth by the time we hit eighty and takes care of the problem for us. So why push the issue with a set of fake teeth that you have to see floating in a glass of water first thing in the morning?
Ewww.

Napoleon paces back and forth from the barn to the corral, never taking his eyes off me. He lives for having something to herd, and the bigger the better. With a slight nudge Caesar hits the dusty road at a snail's pace. Napoleon trots along behind, wagging his tail. I know most dogs don't trot, but Napoleon does. He's the size of small horse, and when he follows us, he trots.

We're all feeling a little lazy from the heat today, but I have an agenda to keep. There's something I need to investigate. I can see it just as we crest the hill. The big Franciscan convent next to the children's orphanage. Some of these nuns are teachers for the orphanage school. The sisters direct all of the Christmas and Easter plays and have the children perform at our cathedral on special holidays. But I'm not sure what those nuns do once school lets out for the day, and this is a good time to find out.