That's Amore!

Valerie Barona

Description

The book is a light-hearted view of life in a rural Italian village in the 1970s. It is a picture of an Italy that is long gone. Aged 22, Valerie left a comfortable life in Poole, Dorset, to follow her Italian fianc to his home in northern Italy. In 1977, Piussogno was a sleepy mountain village where nothing much happened apart from the occasional triple birth of lambs. Valerie's arrival was cause for gossip. The decision to build a disco meant she must be rich and it was also a foregone conclusion that she was pregnant. They were wrong on both fronts. Her new life involved living with her future in-laws, learning both the language and how to drive like an Italian and then the completion of the disco coincided with a visit from the local mafia... The language, the locals and lasagne - That's Amore!

Sujets

• Travel writing

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 01 août 2013
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781783068913
• Langue: English

Extrait

That's Amore!
Lasagne, language trouble and love in a 1970s Italian village
Valerie Barona

Copyright © 2013 Valerie Barona
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study,
or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents
Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in
any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the
publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with
the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries
concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
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ISBN 978 1783068 913
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For Mum
Contents

Cover


Acknowledgments


Prologue


1


2


3


4


5


6


7


8


9


10


11


12


13


14


15


16


17


18


19


Epilogue
Acknowledgments
I’d like to thank my family for their support while I was writing this book. In particular, I’d like to give a special mention to my Mum who was my Number One critic and had the job of reading and re-reading, giving heartfelt comments at the end but who didn’t get to see it in print.
Thanks to Gordon Kerr, who gave me invaluable advice and edited the book, calmly talking me through the simplest of problems.
Thanks to my sister-in-law, Debbie Baker who read every chapter I emailed giving me constructive feedback.
Special thanks to Ivan Guglielmana, not only a talented musician but also a computer wizard – and my saviour – who answered every S.O.S. each time I managed to erase an entire file or needed help with some technical problem on the pc while writing.
Thanks to Marco Barbieri for his help in correcting my Italian dialogue and to Katia and Michele Rapella who gave helpful comments regarding various aspects of the book.
A big thank you to Ilaria Martinalli and Francesco Pezzini for finding the right photo for the book cover.
Also thanks to Cristian Colturri, Angela Rossini and Dino Pensa who helped me out with dialect and terminology alien to a foreigner.
Thanks to Julie Schindler who gave me moral support when I needed it over litres of coffee in our favourite Bar in Morbegno.
Lastly, I must thank my husband, Michele for his patience in having to wait for his meals when I’d done something wrong for the umpteenth time and was going ballistic in the study instead of preparing his food in the kitchen.
To one and all, I say “Thank You.”
Prologue
Intent on polishing the table, I didn’t hear the door of the disco open, but the sharp clip of footsteps on the newly laid tiles made me look up. Two tall men wearing expensive dark suits and sunglasses strode purposefully into my vision.
‘This is like a scene from The Godfather ,’ I thought as laughter bubbled up in my throat. ‘Where’s the violin case with a rifle?’ Then I noticed that one of them carried a briefcase and suddenly it didn’t seem so funny.
I tried to attract Michele’s attention but he’d already seen them. Carefully replacing the records he’d been sorting through in the DJ’s corner, he made his way towards them, gesturing to them to take a seat around one of the modern blue tables. Exchanging looks, they refused. Then the one carrying the briefcase laid it ceremoniously on the counter of the bar.
‘I wish Pietro was here,’ I thought. ‘Why on earth did he have to go to Morbegno this afternoon?’
Worried about Michele and too far away to see or hear anything clearly, I inched forward in the shadows until I almost tripped over a table. With adrenaline pumping through my body and my heart thumping loudly, I sat down where I was, deciding that maybe I shouldn’t interfere after all.
Peering round a chair, I saw Michele offering the Men-in-Black a drink. Fortunately, just at that moment, as they put down their glasses, Pietro arrived. The conversation became quite animated as clipped voices grew in volume and I caught glimpses of gold cufflinks and gold watches when they gestured towards the interior of the Rendez Vous discotheque. These strangers exuded wealth but their body language emanated an element of danger. Both Michele and Pietro shook their heads repeatedly and I almost jumped out of my skin when one of the men slammed his hand down on the counter, the noise echoing around the walls like a warning. I shivered.
They left as quickly as they’d arrived and following them quietly, I just had time to see a sleek, black Mercedes purr down to the bottom of the road. Who were they and what did they want? Deep down, though, I knew the answer.
Michele and Pietro still had their heads together, talking in dialect and didn’t hear me when I walked up behind them.
“Have we just had a visit from the local mafia?”
“They’re from somewhere near Lake Como and they came specifically to ask if we wanted to pay them protection money ,” Michele explained, as beads of perspiration appeared on his forehead.
“And…?” I had never seen him so apprehensive before.
“And we refused their kind offer but now we ‘ave to be careful nothing ‘appens to our disco… or us.”
“Oh.” As the significance of what Michele was saying sank in, I realised that this was for real. My days of boredom in a sleepy mountain village in northern Italy had ended but what would happen now…?
1
1977 – Goodbye England, Hello Italy
‘This is it,’ I thought to myself as I settled back in my seat next to Michele and fastened my seatbelt. After a delay of two and a half hours spent wandering idly around the shops at Gatwick Airport, we were more than ready to say goodbye to England. As the engines roared in our ears, the plane lurched forward and before we knew it we were above the Sussex coastline.
Michele took out his Gazzetta dello Sport and scanned the pages for news of his beloved Fiorentina. Meanwhile, I looked out of the tiny window and had a last view of the English Channel before flying into the clouds. I closed my eyes and daydreamed about snow-capped mountains, spectacular lakes, chalets with verandas furnished with patio chairs and tables laden with cool drinks and snacks.
A heartfelt round of applause from the Italian passengers as we landed woke me from my reverie and brought me back to the present.
“Why did everyone clap?” I asked as we jostled our way off the plane.
“It’s just an Italian custom to show we are ‘appy for arriving safe and sound,” Michele explained with a smile.
Walking across the tarmac to the bus waiting to take us to the terminal, I found myself gasping for breath as the heat roared through the darkness.
“What’s the temperature here?”
“Oh, I think the pilot said it’s 35°,” Michele replied, glad to have left behind the cold English climate he was forever complaining about.
Feeling as though I’d just walked out of a sauna, with my hair and clothes sticking to my body, I now understood why the majority of female passengers had skimpy tops under T-shirts and were busy stripping off. Dressed for a typical British summer in jeans and a thick, long-sleeved T-shirt, I had little option but to suffer in silence.
As we made our way to passport control, I realised not for the last time that queuing and waiting your turn didn’t apply to Italians. Bodies pushed and shoved in front of us, attempting to be first in line and elbows proved to be an effective means of eliminating any obstacles, as I painfully found out. Rubbing my ribs where an immaculately dressed woman had found her target, I tried without much success to stand up to the surging mass behind me. Conversation grew louder and more animated.
“Why do Italians seem to shout when they open their mouths?” I whispered to Michele.
“We don’t shout. It’s you English that speak quietly.”
‘Oh,’ I thought to myself and just as I was going to say something else, a middle-aged couple trying to reach friends at the head of the queue literally propelled us out of the way.
“ Scusate, ci fate passare? ”
“ Prego ,” Michele replied, stepping aside.
“What did they say?”
“They asked if we could let them pass and I said ‘please’. That’s what we say instead of ‘certainly’.”
“Aha.” I stored ‘ prego’ for future reference.
The fact that I could understand no Italian whatsoever apart from the standard: sì, no and grazie , did not deter me. With Michele beside me, I felt confident enough to believe that I would learn the language easily and quickly.
“I need a coffee, an Italian one,” Michele said with feeling while waiting for our cases. We headed for the nearest bar.
The strong and bitter espresso almost scolded my tonsils as I swallowed the contents in two gulps. Twenty minutes later, as we took our seats on the coach to take us to the station, Michele looked worriedly at his watch.
“I ‘ope we don’t miss the last train from Milan to Morbegno.”
We did, but whereas Michele couldn’t wait to get home, it meant I had a few more hours to prepare myself. I felt excited but also scared. After a cappuccino and a brioche from the only kiosk open at that late hour at Milan’s Central Station, we had no alternative but to wait for the first early morning train. In those days, wasting money on a hotel room was not an option. Although I hadn’t expected to spend my first night on Italian soil lying on top of our cases on a noisy platform in the company of bored cleaners, passengers waiting impatiently for their trains and hungry pigeons, with Michele’s arms protectively around me and his promise of a new l