White Moth

Camilla Calhoun

Description

The White Moth is an intimate, riveting portrait of life at a farm villa in Tuscany, from the challenging times of fascism and foreign occupation in the 1940s to the idyllic farm-to-table times in the 1970s. A generational saga of longing, loss and displacement, the book is also an American woman's tribute to her Italian husband and mother-in-law. While championing Alda's courage, optimism and resilience despite heartbreaking loss, the author also celebrates her own idyllic times spent harvesting and falling in love with her friend at his farm villa in the 1970s. The book explores the interconnected stories of three generations of women who marry into the Rafanelli family and reveals the importance of place and the tender relationship between women. It is also the story of the changing roles and status of women and challenges the stereotype of the often maligned role of a mother-in-law.

Sujets

• Philosophie et théologie
• Tuscany
• Central Italy
• Memoir

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 28 octobre 2018
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781789012750
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 4 Mo

Extrait

Copyright © 2018 Camilla Calhoun

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 1789012 750

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Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

In memory of beloved Aldo, who shared his family, his friends and the beauty of rural life in Tuscany with me, and who, throughout our years in America, always reminded me to celebrate simple pleasures. I am forever grateful for his love, his generous spirit, his insight and wit. And for Alda, his mother, whose courage, resilience and optimism inspired this book.
Author’s note
Before this work expanded into a three generational saga that includes my own years in Italy, the intention was (and remains) to honor the life and courageous spirit of my mother-in-law, Alda Innocenti Rafanelli. Many decades have passed since I sat with Alda taking notes. Over the years I learned additional details about the family from Aldo and from his elder sister Anna, whose memory remains astounding. While for the most part my story is scrupulously based on these personal accounts, at times narrative momentum required taking liberties regarding the specificity of time and place. Memory is often subjective, but in good faith and with much love for the living generations of the Rafanelli family, I have attempted to tell the true story of their forebearers within a larger historical context.
Contents
Prologue
Summer 1986
The Wheel
Florence, 1978
New Home
Florence, 1916
Another Departure
Florence, 1918
Meeting Floro
Tuscan Countryside, 1923
Stars Align
Rome, Summer 1973
Meeting Aldo
Carrara and Fiesole, 1973
The Picnic
Florence, 1925
The Patriarch
Tuscany, 1925
Barge Dance
July 1926
An Unexpected Voice
Grassina, 1926
A Meandering Way
Summer 1973
Meeting Alda and Flora at the Villa
Summer 1974
Venice
Summer 1974
Absent Floro
Florence, 1926
The Ruse
Autumn - Winter 1927
Expectations
Florence, 1928
Life and Death Collide
Florence, 1929
Expansion
Winter 1930
Good Times
September 1936
From New York City to Grassina
September 1975
Grape Harvest at the Villa
Autumn 1975
Light and Loss
1936-1937
Songbirds
September 1975
Hilary’s Sojourn
Villa Rafanelli, 1975-1976
The Notebook
Winter 1976
Springtime and the Red Brigades
May 1976
Invasion
The Villa & Florence, 1939-1940
The Madonna’s Miracle
1940
A New Life amidst War
1941-1942
Grassina Refuge
1943-1944
Il Duce Resigns and Germans Occupy
1943-1944
Exodus
1944
Americans Occupy and Floro Departs
1944
Engaged
1976
Flower Shop and Wedding
1976-1977
Pietro and The Sniper
Florence, 1944
Mario and Pietro’s Rescue
Florence, 1944
Linda at the Villa
1977-1978
Bringing back Floro
Spring 1945
Crumbling Vaults and Dreams
1978
Chestnuts
1947-1948
Floro
May 1948
Seaside Close Call
Summer 1955
Generation Four at the Villa
July to September 1978
Epilogue
Westchester, NY, 1986
Alda’s Florentine Recipes
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Summer 1986
Tonight my husband left for his mother’s funeral in Florence. I stayed home with our two little boys – who are finally asleep. As I sit in bed listening to magnolia branches scrape against my dark window, stubborn thoughts pursue me. If only we’d granted my mother-in-law’s wish of living out her days in her treasured cinquecento villa where she’d nurtured her family for fifty years. Closing my eyes, an image of Alda emerges: wise matriarch holding court in her parlor, doling out advice to adoring friends and neighbors. The villa was her village. We took that away from her. Our newborn son briefly ushered in a fourth Rafanelli generation there. He was only three months old when we left. Should we have ignored the crumbling vaults, the leaky terracotta roof and the idea that moving to America held more promise?
Eight years have passed since my mother-in-law moved in with her daughters and we moved to New York with our baby, closer to my family and friends. Since then we’ve returned to Florence often, but elderly Alda only made one trip to our suburban New York home. She came, brimming with enthusiasm for America, enchanted by our large trees.
I pick up the letter Alda wrote just a few weeks before she died. Searching for signs of rancor, I find none. She thanks me for loving her son and asks me to remind our boys of her from time to time. Her final salutation makes my throat close: ‘Che Dio ti benedica.’
“God bless you too, Alda,” I whisper, imagining her gentle voice prodding me from remorse, encouraging me to sleep – “Vai a letto! Dormi.” Before heeding her advice, I peruse two photographs on my bedside table that span her life: here’s the gentle white-haired grandmother that our sons still recall; and here’s an unrecognizable, skinny sixteen-year-old with black hair, sitting next to her uncle Angelo by the sea, wearing a classic early-1900s’ bathing suit. Tomorrow I will show the boys this teenage version of their Nonna .
As I turn to switch off the light, a large white moth fluttering by catches my eye. Mesmerized by its gossamer wings, I watch it land on the lampshade, as if searching for warmth and safety. A moment later it escapes and flits about my hand, perching on my pinky finger. Breathless, I observe the nocturnal creature slowly open and close its wings, like a hand waving ciao . I shiver, suddenly remembering something Alda told me eight years ago, on that final day at the villa: “If a white moth appears after someone dies, it’s the spirit of that person coming to visit.”
“Alda?” I whisper, surprised at myself. The moth takes flight again, dancing above the light, a whirling, incandescent spirit. Did you really cross the Atlantic to find your final home with us? Getting out of bed, I open the lowest drawer in my dresser. Under old clothes I find my neglected Italian notebook, a treasure of Alda’s memories she generously shared with me when we lived together at the villa. Thinking this winged creature is my muse, I wave the notebook towards the white moth. Alda, it’s time to finally share your story with others.
The Wheel
Florence, 1978
Living in Italy, surrounded by so many layers of history, transformed me into a time traveler. Every time I passed under the arched doorway of my flower shop across from Piazza San Marco, I was called to remembrance. Nearly five hundred years ago my Florentine workspace had been Lorenzo de Medici’s sculpture garden – a training ground for Michelangelo and other nascent sculptors. While arranging flowers or tending plants in the greenhouse, I often imagined the young genius sitting here, observing marble figures, quietly sketching their muscular torsos. Because of the location’s history, the city refused any commercial signs, which made attracting customers challenging.
One morning, while day-dreaming of centuries past, as I reached up to water a maidenhair fern cascading from its macramé cradle, a somersault inside my womb startled me back to the present. Dropping the watering can, I placed my hand on my bulging front, hoping to feel the occupying force shift again. My fingers followed a poke and a swish. Astonished, I glanced around and smiled. Inside the humid, warm greenhouse, where seeds incubated and saplings yawned, my pregnancy seemed germane.
“ Calma, ” I urged my active fetus. A moment later I sensed the rising nausea that was to have abated at three months. Digging in my pocket for salty crackers, I exited the greenhouse, stuffing one in my mouth. Peering out onto Via Cavour, I heard the metallic clatter of a bandone being pulled down, a sign that shops were closing for lunchtime. I grabbed the skeleton key in my office and locked the enormous wooden door.
“ Che bella giornata, ” I said, patting my front; “let’s take a walk.” I needed to feel better before driving the twenty minutes home to the villa, a feat which required navigating narrow Via Benedetta Fortini in my minuscule cinquecento Fiat, often squeezing past cars or backing up so another vehicle could pass. Inevitably I stalled, experiencing that stick-shift grind. A short walk in Florence might clear my head, trick my hormones, or whatever it was that made me throw up several times each day.
Moving briskly past the church and museum of San Marco, I walked down a long, narrow street towards Piazza Santissima Annunziata. There I stood immobilized in front of the Hospital of the Innocents , the orphanage designed by Brunelleschi, illustrious architect of Florence’s Duomo. I’d first seen this foundling hospital four years earlier, as an art history student on my junior year abroad. Then, the graceful loggia , with its repetitive arches, had felt li