Something was in the air. We could all sense it. For weeks giant clouds sailed teasingly passed the island without shedding a single drop of water.The earth was so dry that even the cactus began to wilt. When the storm broke, it hit us with such ferocity that we thought the end of the world was upon us. High winds and torrential rain caused an instant black out across the island. For once, there was no point in going out to the disco. Huddled together by candlelight, all we could do was wait for the elements to see reason. Next morning, we went into the garden to check the damage. Surprisingly everything was ok. The house was still intact and the sea was flat calm. There was not a cloud in the sky. Brilliant sunshine blessed us like a joke, as if to say, “Storm…What storm?”. The only evidence being the damp earth which steamed beneath our feet bringing with it the wonderful smell of new life.Freshly washed lizards, flashed brilliant green slithered their way across the rocks and darted into cool crevices. The light was different too. Crisp and clear. So clear in fact that what was usually hidden by haze on the horizon, now appeared crystal clear like a mirage. Sicily and the snow-capped volcano of Mount Etna.Breathtaking.
The storm marked the end of the season. My beloved Alex had since departed and the discos were full of lonely men. The sense of feeling trapped was impossible to ignore and quickly gave way to frustration: “I’m fed up with this bloody rock” I announced. For once I got everybody’s attention. “Yes, bloody rock” my family repeated in chorus.We all felt it. After three years of going round and round in circles, we had outgrown the island. We knew every road, every path, every beach and every stone and above all we knew every face. We had heard every rumour, every bit of gossip, every joke, every lie, every scandal and every fart.In short, remaining on the island, would have been intellectual suicide. We were nomads by nature and it was time to move on. The question was, where to next? We all looked at my father as he inhaled deep on his cigarette. “Don’t worry children, I have an idea” he said. Of course, it would have been silly of us to worry. He had never failed us before.
The procedure was straight forward and as if history was repeating itself, he left the house, got into the car and headed straight for the nearest pub.
Six weeks later
Darkness fell like a knife. Malta no longer visible except for a pin point of light coming from the lighthouse. Fair well bloody Malta. It felt right that we should be now crossing the straits of Messina to mainland Italy.
As we crossed the curvature of the globe, that too extinguished like a dying star. The sea played innocent. Not a ripple in sight. Plankton danced in the wake of our ship and stars twinkled in the sky. Wrapped in a ships blanket, I lay on deck and tried to sleep. The air was damp but I was warmed occasionally by a draft of dirty hot exhaust fumes coming from the ships funnel. Later in the night I heard voices.The deck was suddenly milling with people and there was a glow in the sky. I got up to see what the fuss was all about. Fireworks? Yes. Only this time not a pompous religious feast so typical of Malta but something far more awe inspiring. As we sailed passed Sicily, Mount Etna erupted. Violent bursts of magma exploded high into the night sky. We watched in stunned silence as the veins of lava glowing a deep red drained into the sea like blood.
Next day we stepped onto terra ferma and into our new life. The car stuffed to bursting with our habitual banana boxes and my sisters and I crammed in the back like sardines. Dad drove, while Anja chain fed him cigarettes and Tuna fish sandwiches made from the last loaf of Maltese bread. By late afternoon, we were north of Rome and already entering Tuscany. My three sisters were fast asleep, exhausted from singing non-stop for the last hundred miles. Not wanting to miss anything, my head was permanently stuck out of the car window. What I saw pass by was an enchanting naïf painting. Wood smoke rose from little stone cottages which dotted the hilltops. Orange sunlight caressed their roofs. There was a hint of autumn in the air. We were greeted not by Cactus but by olive trees and lush green pastures that I had long forgotten existed. I breathed it all in with an insatiable thirst.
By late afternoon we reached the small town of Montelupo, perched picturesquely on top of a hill like a postcard. Two more bends and we pulled up at our destination: Ristorante Da Marcella. It was time to get out the Edwardian Phrase book. “Greetings honourable countrymen. We bring tidings from our amico Maestro Italico Rota”. At the mention of Italico’s name, our Italian hosts Rocco and Rosetta welcomed us like long lost friends.
Villa Detti was situated two hundred yards up the hill behind the restaurant. An ugly building which dominated the hamlet of Poderi di Montelupo. It was a poor substitute after the magnificent fortress we had lived in back in Malta. The walls were wafer thin and the terracotta floors bounced up and down like a trampoline. The beams were bowed and caused all the furniture to lean dangerously inwards like the Tower of Pisa. Before unpacking, my immediate task was to secure the furniture to the walls before my baby sisters got accidentally crushed to death.
At sundown, we were gripped with hunger. Left overs from the journey looked so unappetizing that we decided unanimously to put Rocco & Rosetta’s restaurant to the test. It was a good decision and after having tasted my first platter, I knew, Maltese tomato paste sandwiches would never cross my palette again.
The first weeks were spent exploring the countryside in our brand-new, second-hand Alfa Romeo. Considering Dad was not particularly good at bargaining, he acquired it for a remarkably good price. On closer scrutiny, it was probably due to the graffiti scratched on the driver’s door. After consulting my Edwardian phrase book, it appeared to translate into, “I am a happy cuckold”.Although the statement appealed to our British sense of humour, it was not the case with the Italians. Rocco was shocked and strongly urged us to have the car re-sprayed. In this part of the world, adultery was considered a serious issue. No Italian would be seen dead driving such a car. We also understood that the locals might think the graffiti referred to my father. A logical assumption, considering my stepmother, Anja, twenty-five years younger and a Scandinavian beauty, meant she would have been a good target for most hot-blooded Italians. In our ignorance, we dismissed the idea as nonsense and got on with our new life.
In spite of our geographical proximity to England, communications turned out to be poor. Phone calls had to be booked 24 hours in advance and ordinary mail from England could take anything up to six weeks to arrive. But Dad was not bothered.The advance payment due from Warner Brothers Books was bound to arrive sooner or later.
As his novel progressed, the tip tapping of his typewriter echoed through the walls of his office. A comforting sound and as long as it kept on tapping, we all felt safe.
Rocco & Rosetta’s restaurant became the centre of our lives. We had become addicted to their wonderful cuisine and ate there on a daily basis. After one month of stuffing ourselves, we managed to eat through the entire menu and would have repeated the experience, if money had permitted and if extra holes had been punched into our belts. The only other excuse for visiting the place was because Rocco was the official caretaker of our house. The man’s good nature and willingness to be of service, went way beyond the line of duty, as we would discover in due course.
Rent was paid punctually to Rocco’s mother, Marcella, a wicked old lady in her eighties who controlled all financial matters. It was also under her command that Rocco ran the tiny post office from which he made his daily postal deliveries to our community of thirty residents in his fiat 500.
With summer in full swing, life slowed to a snail’s pace. The olive groves sizzled by day and by night swarms of fireflies dusted the hills. Even the lizards appeared lethargic. Most locals were down at the coast in their rented beach huts and few visitors ever came up into the hills. It was a different lifestyle compared to what we had been used to in Malta. There were no disco’s here and no girls but come September, we were blessed with an almighty thunderstorm. The intense heat dropped and sun-tanned locals crept back up into the hills from the coast. One evening music filtered across the valley. The first sign of life I had heard in weeks. “Are you coming to the “Ballo” a familiar voice shouted. I looked out onto the street below from my bedroom window. Rocco was back! It was good to see the old rogue. There was a side to him we all loved dearly. Namely, his talent for having fun.
The Summer Ballo turned out to be exactly that. We arrived at 9pm all dressed up. I wore platform shoes, flared trousers and a purple and orange feathered shirt. When my sister and I entered the village hall, it felt as if we had stepped into a Breugel painting. The scene which met our eyes was a bustle of old folk. suckling babies, toddlers crawling across the floor, dogs barking, children running around and farmers waltzing about the dance floor, pumping their arms up and down to the sound of an accordion. Where was Led Zeppelin and Deep Purple you might ask?Obviously light years away in some distant galaxy. It was impossible to turn the clock forwards but then after a few glasses of red wine, we didn’t really want to.
Dad finished the last chapter to his novel. Instead of sending it to Warner Brothers by postal service, which was notoriously unreliable, Dad had a much better idea.
Why not dictate the final chapter of his masterpiece from a public coin box? The secretary at the other end of the line could easily copy down his words in shorthand. Yes, why not indeed?! No sooner said than done. My job was to push small coins into the slot while my sisters played on the swings outside. After just fifteen minutes, I noticed a long queue of people outside and tension was rising; “Dio Santissimo…stealing the box like that”. “Think you own it, do you?”. A lady knocked angrily on the glass and looked at me. “’Ere, tell your Papa to ‘ang up!” Dad poked his head round the door apologetically; “Terribly sorry Signora, only another fifty pages to go. Soon finished”. At the back of the queue; “That’s what the man said twenty minutes ago. Incredible!”. The mood was in danger of turning hostile and I prayed to God Dad would hang up before the crowd decided to hang him up! Happily, my prayers were answered;” E for Erik, N for Nicholas and D for David, The END,” said Dad. The line went dead and swinging open the door, we made our getaway. “Awfully decent of you” he said.
If curiosity had not killed him first, then my dad would have done the job for him. The pot was our pride and joy. A magnificent funerary urn, discovered in a field nearby and delivered to us one fine morning by a local farmer in a potato sack. Etruscan art at its best. A perfect specimen, thin walled, and standing a good fifteen inches in height. Priced at 100,000 Lira, it was a bargain. Unfortunately, we were only able to enjoy this treasure for a few weeks. After the tragedy, Dad took a while to cool off.At the time we had been sitting around the kitchen table eating spaghetti. When we heard the crash, my heart missed a beat and there was a very uncomfortable silence. A second later we stampeded across the landing into Dad’s office, in time to see our cat, escape from the scene of the crime. On the floor lay two thousand shards of what seconds earlier had been a two-thousand-year-old Etruscan pot.We stood there in a state of shock.
The silence was pierced by two sounds: firstly, my father’s roar of “fucking bloody cat “followed by a terrible scream. The cat, sensing she was in deep shit, decided to leap from the window and in so doing, used up her ninth life by impaling herself on the wrought iron railings just ten feet below. Suicide or wrath of the Gods? It was hard to tell. One thing was certain, the incident left us all deeply depressed and it was difficult not to interpret the incident as that of a bad omen.
If there is one thing, the British find hard to shed, it’s their blind love of animals.
This soppy, sentimental behaviour of ours is so deeply embedded in our DNA that plain common sense, more often than not, falls by the wayside.
Things began with the stray dog we rescued on the side of the road whilst on a tour to discover the Tuscan countryside. We should have ignored the temptation but of course we didn’t. The creature was half starved and with those irresistible puppy dog eyes which say “Have pity on me, I’m starving”. “Africa” we called her, an odd but suitable name bestowed upon her by my new little sister Amik. During the first two weeks, we kept her indoors and fattened her up lovingly. The moment she reached a satisfying weight, we let her out to play in the garden but stupidly without a lead. Result: She shot off over the garden fence and vanished. Several hours later a neighboring farmer paid us a visit and informed us to our horror, that our black African devil had managed to chase his prize pregnant sheep into a ditch, causing her to break both front legs. The tragedy cost Dad a whopping 100,000 Lira! It took more than a few shots of whisky to drown our sorrows. No more pets! That’s it! Dad ordered. You really believe that? Perhaps a normal person would have pulled the reins after such folly, but did we? Not bloody likely! On the contrary, as if this tragedy was not enough, we wanted more and decided to adopt a second starving bastard from Africa, also rescued by the wayside. This new adorable beast was baptized “Fleur”. And yes, as you have already guessed, she too ran off after just one week of being fattened up. The difference to the story this time, was that when the farmer arrived on our doorstep, he brandished three dead chickens in one hand and our beloved bitch, Fleur, covered in excrement in the other. “Is that our dog?” I asked stupidly.
“Fifty thousand lira, or else,” said the farmer. The shotgun under his arm was meant as a warning and Dad was forced to get out his cheque book for the second time!These were expensive lessons from which we learned nothing, except that we needed to replenish the whisky cupboard.
“Uno doppio whisky per favore” After two years in Italy, this particular phrase (practiced to perfection) was the only Italian Dad ever learned to speak. But it was all he needed. Driven by an insatiable appetite for stimulating conversation, he possessed an undeniable talent for picking up people from our local restaurant and bringing them back up to the house.
On those occasions, Anja and I did the catering:I decanted wine from the cellar, while Anja created snacks with anything she could lay her hands on. As was customary, by late afternoon, everyone would be drunk.
It was during one such occasion that we met Armando, a tall, handsome and well-spoken Northern Italian from Milan. Charmed by Dad and by Anja’s beauty, he happily accepted the invitation. On entering our house, he at once noticed the Etruscan pot I had painstakingly glued back together. After explaining the tragedy to him, all conversation turned to archeology, a subject which Armando obviously knew a lot about. For the rest of the evening, tales of adventure went flying back and forth across the kitchen table. Dad’s “Lost City” that he claimed to have discovered while snorkeling off the coast of North Africa during the war, (which of course nobody believed) at least spurred our enthusiasm even more and was sufficient reason to open a second bottle of whisky. At 11pm a darker side of Armando’s character surfaced. In a conspiratorial tone he began telling us about the bronze Etruscan chariot he had unearthed down the road and for which he had served eight years in prison for attempting to smuggle into Switzerland. According to him, Tuscany was one gigantic archeological site overflowing with priceless treasure and we happened to be living right at the epicenter. “Dig a hole anywhere and you will find treasure. “He said.
At that moment, I then remembered my own archeological escapade 20 years earlier as a boy in England. I still had the Roman coins as proof and now I decided, was the right time to show Armando.
“Wow, those are amazing Nicola, where did you find them?” he asked. Dad interrupted unexpectedly “Oh I bought them at an antique shop in England”. He said. Then there was silence. My shock was impossible to hide. Was I hearing right? Was Dad suggesting I had not found the treasure after all? Was he implying he had actually bought the coins in a shop and buried them himself for me to dig up? The idea was scandalous. My whole world began to crumble. Worse than that, I was being ridiculed in front of a true professional. All my short life I had considered myself a natural archaeologist and now in a matter of seconds my reputation was in tatters. Anja broke the silence. “You bloody fool Tony, you’ve ruined everything”. Dad looked at me apologetically. “Sorry old boy… Here have a drink, “He poured me a large whisky. I was speechless but took the liquor anyway and I knocked it down in one. Armando sensed the tension and came to the rescue: “It’s alright Nicola, “he laughed. “You have every right to be angry. Your Father is a scoundrel I agree!But you must forgive him! I can see you have the true spirit of a Tomberolo…!”. I took a second shot of whisky and let the stranger’s words calm me down. The man was probably right. The thought of my dad stumbling through a paddock in the dead of night searching for a hole was actually quite farcical. And then the thrill he must have had when burying the coins was endearing.Undoubtedly, the adventurous spirit I now possessed had a lot to do with his actions.My anger began to subside but I was not about to show it.Feigning profound offense instead,
I decided to let him suffer. I held out my glass: “Give me another shot Dad… Now!”
2nd June
Today we met a film director at the restaurant. Marco Vicario from Rome. It’s the most exciting thing that has happened since we got here. He came with his girlfriend Giovanella. A super model and really very pretty. Dad invited them up to the house for drinks. We spent the whole afternoon in the garden talking about films. When it got dark, I hung a sheet between the olive trees and projected my prize-winning film onto it. Lots of irritating insects but Marco was really impressed. So, impressed in fact that he gave me his card. and said I should visit him in Rome some time.
June 10th
Marco came down again this weekend. We all had lunch together at the restaurant. He’s planning a new movie called “Wives and Lovers” with an actor called Marcello Mastroianni and Laura Antonelli. He wants me to come to Rome for a screen test. Yes, that’s right, a screen test! He’s looking for a young man to play a small part, It’s unbelievable. Ever since he left, I’ve been practising my expressions in front of a mirror. He says he needs some photographs too. So, I spent the whole weekend taking self-portraits on the tripod with the self-timer.
June 23rd
Today I sent off the photos. I called Marco and he said he’s going to call me next week about the test.
June 30th
I waited all week. Marco didn’t call as promised. I rang back again on Friday. His secretary said he’s in New York on business. Must be patient I suppose.
It was a pity the down payment from Warner Brothers had still not arrived because had it done so, we may well have been spared the unpleasantness which ensued. After six months in Italy, we found ourselves low on funds for the first time in four years since we left England and Dad was suddenly unable to pay the rent. It was an embarrassing state of affairs. Forced into a corner, it was clear we would have to ask Rocco for a loan, to tie us over until Warner Brothers coughed up. As the only family member speaking near fluent Italian, I was obviously the man for the job. I didn’t think twice about helping my family, so off I went to pitch the request to Rocco. 500 thousand Lira should be enough, I told him. Happily, Rocco showed compassion and later in the day delivered the desperately needed funds in a brown paper envelope. What hadn’t been discussed, was if, or how much interest he would charge us on the loan. We presumed, the answer to that was none. What fools we were!
The kids were at school. Anja was painting the kitchen and Dad and I had gone into town to get supplies. No sooner had we left when Rocco puttered up the hill in his Fiat 500 to make a special delivery.
Unfortunately, it was not the long-awaited cheque from Warner brothers. Instead, Rocco’s Etruscan blood rushed to his head and he lost leave of his senses. There was a scuffle in the kitchen and the floor bounced up and down dangerously. Luckily for Anja, Rocco had underestimated her Viking blood and in a devastating attempt to nail her to the floor, our friendly postman slipped. The floor opened up beneath his great weight and he was swallowed up to the waste in a pile of terracotta tiles. His lower quarters, protruding grotesquely into the wine cellar below. At that point, Rocco lost his inclination and was forced to accept Anja’s helping hand. Thus, he extracted himself and left the premises with his tail between his legs, like a dazed bull. One thing was now clear, our banking arrangements would have to change. The interest rate Rocco expected on his loan was unacceptable. And, the “Happy Cuckold” graffiti on our car door no longer seemed so funny.
On our return from town, Dad and I were more than surprised to see the giant hole in the kitchen floor. Anja explained the circumstances under which it had been created and between us we contemplated what should be done about it. The plot thickened, because in Rocco’s very own words, it was our duty to report to him any problems regarding the house. It would be his greatest pleasure to be of service, day or night he had told us.Acting on his wish therefore, I went down to the restaurant to report the emergency. Rocco did not seem too thrilled. And when he arrived next day, the entire family stood round the hole in silence. “O Dio Mio, what ‘appened ‘ere? he asked. The man was not a good actor. Beads of sweat formed on his brow. After an agonizing but calculated silence I explained the details of the incident. After mixing chemicals in my laboratory there had been an explosion and I had escaped death by a hair’s breadth. Feigning horror, Rocco crossed himself, thanked the Holy Mary I was still alive and promised to get the hole fixed at once. For a while at least, peace was restored and above all no mention of the overdue rent was made.
August 2nd
Armando visited today together with is very pretty wife Gaetana. She looked at me and winked, at least I think she did?
“You are all invited to lunch”. Armando announced. “My friends in Montalto di Castro want to meet you”. We climbed into our car and followed him down to the coast. An hour later, we crossed beneath the highway and turned up a dirt track. “My friends are officially Fishermen, although none of the family has ever set foot in a boat, let alone cast a net” He laughed as we pulled up in front of the caravan.
Wood smoke billowed out of one of the other caravans. Armando sounded his horn twice. His smart appearance and smooth manners seemed out of place in this Gypsy camp. The only other thing that seemed out of place, was a brand-new BMW parked nearby.
A door opened and out stepped Ferrucio, a tall wiry man with black eyes and a rugged face. He greeted Armando and eyed the rest of us with peasant mistrust. Armando gave a sign for us to wait outside while he followed Ferrucio into the caravan. We did not feel very welcome and I was beginning to wonder if it had been a good idea? Minutes passed and out they came, this time with “La Mama”. Concetta was a weathered old lady and in contrast to her husband, she had piercing blue eyes. She came over to where we stood and examined us one by one, just the way a General might inspect his troops. She had a cast in one eye, which made it difficult to know which eye she was looking at you with. It was an odd experience. I had the feeling she could see right through me. Moments later, the ordeal was over and her scary demeanor transformed itself into a warm smile. “Come in, come in”, she said. As we were herded into the caravan, Armando whispered to me, “Concetta is the boss”.
Once inside, what met our eyes can only be described as surreal. The walls of their humble abode on wheels were lined with hundreds of plastic dolls of all shapes and sizes.
They were everywhere. Stuffed into cabinets, perched on shelves and grouped together on tables like families. We stood there speechless and it took several minutes to know what to say. Concetta enjoyed our reaction and informed us she had been collecting dolls for forty years. She loved dolls and her sons loved pots.
Indeed, the second most extraordinary sight, were the Etruscan pots with Barbie dolls peeping out of them. Greek and Roman antiquities, priceless amphora, Greek vases, bronze statuettes and painted cylix’s of all shapes and sizes. The sort of thing you would only expect to see at the Villa Giulia Museum in Rome. The collection must have been worth a fortune. This is what Armando had wanted us to see. I realized that we were privileged guests and that this was a once in a lifetime honour.
Ferrucio introduced us to his burly sons, Aristide and Valentino. As the day progressed, we were fed wine and prosciutto. Then the area was cleared and a sack was brought in and emptied unceremoniously onto the table. We gathered round and marvelled at the contents. The “Mornings Catch” said Aristide and laughed. But his brothers were disgruntled. They had found nothing of significant value that morning. Nothing at least that was worthy of a trip to Switzerland. The puzzle began to fit together. Armando was their front man. The link to their elite Swiss clientele of bankers and lawyers. But they wouldn’t pay much and everybody knew it. “Better luck next week”, said Armando. Never-the-less, to my eyes, this was real treasure. Bronze Fibulae and broken shards of Greek pottery, some with traces of painted birds.
Ferrucio snapped his fingers and Concetta left the room. Minutes later she returned with a pink plastic bag. I watched in disbelief as she pulled out a priceless Greek vase painted with Harpies.
We realized that this was being offered to us. “Only 500,000 Lira, a bargain” said Ferrucio. We were very tempted but Dad didn’t have the money. “Not to worry, Antonio, you can pay later, my friends trust you,” said Armando. To my delight, Dad agreed, justifying his decision by still counting on the famous “cheque” expected from Warner brothers, which was due to arrive at any minute. It was amazing, I thought, how far one could travel on the basis of an invisible cheque.
Several months passed, during which we were able to enjoy this magnificent object, strategically placed on the desk in my fathers’ study. But the cheque never came and each time I passed through the room, I found the pot harder and harder to look at, knowing that we didn’t really own it. After six months, the inevitable happened. Ferrucio and his sons arrived one morning on our doorstep. “Your money or the pot” was the offer this time. The deal could have been worse, “your money or your life” I thought. But these were men of honour. We were friends of Armando and in spite of the no sale they were disappointed but not angry. With no choice and a great deal of sorrow, we handed back the treasure. Ferrucio must have sensed my sadness and on parting as a gesture of goodwill, he whispered into my ear “If you want to come on a job with us Nicola, you know where we live”.
August 25th
Two months have passed. Still no news from Marco. What can be taking him so long? I can’t wait much longer.
September 2nd
My stepmothers Birthday is coming up. Can’t think what to get her. Dad says he’s got an idea…I just hope to God it’s not going to be another wretched stray to add to the collection. Dads got more sense than that, hasn’t he?
The crackpot idea took us to the wild boar reserve at Capalbio. A small town just thirty miles from where we lived. Baby wild pigs are the cutest creatures you have ever seen. They have yellow stripes and pink snouts. Having selected what, we deemed to be the sweetest and cuddliest piglet of them all, the creature was then put into a sack and bundled into the boot of the car. Back home, the ceremony was short. We watched as Anja untied the pink ribbon on the kitchen table and then everything happened very fast. The creature shot out of the bag and promptly bit Anja ferociously on the arm. Blood spurted everywhere and as she screamed; the demon creature leapt from the table and hid itself under a wardrobe where it remained for the next twenty-four hours.
The rest of Mother’s Day was spent at the local Hospital in Manciano receiving Tetanus jabs.
Several days passed before our controversial gift became approachable. But on a diet of chickens’ feet and spaghetti (or just about everything that pigs are not supposed to eat) our new family member decided that we were ok after all. By the end of the first week, she came out of hiding and allowed us to throw her scraps. By the end of the second week, we were able to caress her and by the end of the month we could cuddle and kiss her.
What we had not considered in depth was the fact that our new pet would grow. Her modest two kilos turned quickly into six, then eight, then ten and then finally into a whopping seventy-five kilo’s. The speed with which she grew might well have had something to do with her splendid diet. Regardless, we loved her dearly and accommodated her to the best of our ability. As well as being incredibly strong, she was also highly intelligent and in a short space of time I was able to teach her basic tricks: Heel, Sit and fetch were child’s play. In the long term the lessons proved to be an excellent source of entertainment for our guests.
Sunday drinks at Villa Detti were particularly entertaining. Given the go ahead from Dad, I would call Tarquinia from the garden. The guests smiled with curiosity expecting to encounter a Labrador or some soppy mongrel that we had picked up by the wayside. But when they heard the thunderous sound of trotters galloping up the stairs, their expressions turned to that of alarm. And with good reason, because when seventy-five kilos of solid bacon gallops around your coffee table, it causes all drinks to fly into the air and the guests to scramble up to higher ground screaming with terror. Out of respect I was careful not to let things get too out of hand and at the right moment like God himself, I commanded our beloved creature to “Sit! “Much to the relief of everyone. Regrettably, the shows became fewer and fewer. Complaints of heart flutter and other psychological trauma suggested it might be more appropriate to conduct future circus acts out in the garden.
August 5th
Still no news from Marco Vicario. I’m Fed up. I’ve decided to go visit him anyway in Rome next week.
It’s been a long day. Just got back from Rome. A four-hour bus drive there and four hours back. Walked miles up the Via Flaminia in the stifling heat until I found Atlantic productions. Marco’s office is stuffed with Etruscan pottery. He wasn’t there of course. “Still in New York” said his secretary “Must be patient”. Then she gave me a glass of water. I had no choice but to return to the bus station.
My demeanour plummeted when I saw the film poster being pasted to the wall. “Wives & Lovers” it read. Starring Marcello Mastroianni and Laura Antonelli. Then at the bottom, printed in large letters, the words, Directed by Marco Vicario. For a moment I thought I was going to be sick. As if someone had stuck a knife in my back. The man's last words came to mind. “Trust me Nick. I will call you”.
I set off at five in the morning and took a short cut through the forest. I had flimsy protection against the cold and in the valleys the temperature dropped dramatically. With one hand on the throttle and the other holding the collar of my jacket, I pushed on into the darkness. After 15 miles, a family of wild boars crossed my path, frozen in the beam of my headlamp but as I got closer, they ran off frightened by the noise of the engine. After that the road deteriorated dramatically, washed away in places by heavy rain. It was so bad that I was forced to get off and push the moped through the mud and potholes. It was eerie and still black as pitch.Then as dawn approached, a friendly glow above the tree line appeared. The road improved and I gathered speed. I didn’t want to be late because Armando said they would set off at 7am sharp.I was in good time and after reaching the highway, the rest of the way was easy. Up the dirt track, Left at the bridge and across the field to the stream. As expected, their dog rushed towards me when he saw me coming. He barked at my heals. I opened throttle and tried to lose him.
The fog was still thick and I got a shock when Armando suddenly appeared out of nowhere. He stood there with a 12-bore shotgun under his arm. “Ciao” I said warily. He was obviously surprised to see me too, not thinking I would really act on his invitation. He grunted in reply and was then joined by his son Aristide who came out of the caravan. The awkward silence was broken when Concetta poked her head through the window and called us in for breakfast. Inside we sat round the kitchen table in silence, watched over by 300 plastic dolls.
After coffee, the men pulled on boots and grabbed their coats. This was the moment I had been waiting for. We went outside and climbed solemnly into the BMW. After a ten-minute drive, Armando turned up a country lane and stopped the car. The fog showed no signs of lifting. To our advantage I thought. We marched in silence and in single file across a newly ploughed field. My boots were not at all practical and soon got clogged up with mud. My feet became heavy.At the back of my mind something else bothered me too. Why did they not bring any tools, like a shovel or something? Surely, we were not going to dig with our bare hands, were we? No sooner had I popped the question when I knew the answer.We reached a ditch and there under a pile of leaves was an old sack. Aristide pulled it out, untied the string and distributed the tools. It was now eight o’clock. The fog was still thick and I prayed it would stay that way.
We stopped halfway across the field. The men surveyed the area and within minutes, Armando raised an arm and pointed.“Here, this is a good place” he said. I looked at the ground and saw nothing. The muddy field looked identical everywhere. “Why here?” I asked.
Aristide, resting on his spade explained. He pointed to a rock. “See that? It’s not from here” he said. I looked closely at the rock in question. Indeed, it was different from the rest. “Not all tombs are fancy. he said. Sometimes the Etruscans just marked them with a rock to let others know someone is buried there.
We dug for more than an hour and the hole got deeper by the minute. At first the soil was wet and muddy but the deeper we dug, the drier the earth. Then came the moment we had all been waiting for. Aristide struck metal. He handed it to Armando who brushed off the dirt. It was green in colour. On closer inspection, I understood it was bronze. Possibly part of a mirror, said Armando. The excitement rushed to my head and Aristide, who had done most of the work till now handed me his shovel. I climbed down into the hole and under his instruction, continued to scratch away at the surface with caution. Suddenly, a red and black shard of Greek pottery surfaced, at which point Armando began to pray.
Oh, Holy Mother of God,
Blessed are the souls beneath our feet, who have so graciously allowed us to relieve them of their worldly possessions.
Oh, Holy Mother, guide us in our search so that we may continue to feed the family.
Oh, Holy Mother, Blessed be to Chief Inspector Bonello for his loyal protection. For now, and forevermore, Amen.
It was a touching prayer which was answered immediately by the sound of a car engine.
Everybody’s reaction was to freeze and crouch down on our knees. I realized, panic stricken that the fog had lifted completely. Across the field a police patrol car had just pulled up. The driver was looking directly at us through his binoculars. This was just about the worst thing that could possibly happen. I was mad to have accepted the invitation. Our luck had run out and we were all about to be led away in handcuffs.Should I run and get shot in the process or would it be better to bury myself in the tomb?
During those tense moments, Armando remained surprisingly calm and passed his own binoculars to Aristide. His son took a second look, then stood up boldly and waved. To my utter disbelief, the patrol car flashed its headlights in acknowledgement. “Ah, Chief Inspector Bonello,” said Armando. At which point, the car simply drove off. All tension dropped and everybody laughed. It was good to have friends in the Mafia I thought.
By late afternoon I was in a merry state. My small collection of Etruscan artefacts bundled neatly together in a paper bag stored under my saddle. After the dig, I’d stopped off for lunch in a little Trattoria. I had stupidly drunk too much wine and now recklessly turned up the throttle of my bike and headed towards home. The acceleration was wicked. On reflection I had been up to a lot of wicked things lately and I knew also that robbing Etruscan tombs could get me eight years in prison! Regardless I pushed on and negotiated the curves ahead. Sometimes they were gentle, sometimes they were sharp and dangerous. I liked those ones best. The adrenalin rushed to my head. It was at that moment I began to think about Armando’s wife Gaetana. Gaetana’s curves. They were particular sweet. However hard I tried; I could not get her out of my mind. A wink was a wink, was it not? Before I knew it, I had changed course and was now well on my way to the town of Vulci. The fantasies steered my path. The idea of committing adultery never crossed my mind until that moment. Perhaps Armando would stone me to death. What the hell? I knew he was away on business in Switzerland, so who cared? The fact was, my urge was stronger than any common sense I might have had. From day one, Gaetana’s beauty haunted me and ever since the fatal “wink” I was convinced she held a secret affection for me and it was high time I proved my assumptions to be correct. I arrived at three in the afternoon. Siesta. There was nobody about. I found the apartment block and slipped into the building and climbed the stairs. It was a grim and run down sort of place. Not at all what I expected and quite contrary to the smart business image Armando presented. But what did I care. He was the last person I wanted to think about. I mounted the stairs in bounds, three steps at a time until at last I reached the top floor in a sweat.I rang the doorbell and a lifetime passed. Should I ring again? On the verge of giving up the door opened and there stood Gaetana. The woman of my dreams. She had obviously been asleep. Her hair was in disarray; she was bare footed and looked more beautiful than ever. “Ciao Nicola, what a surprise!” she said “Yes, isn’t it?” I answered. She stepped back and let me in.The shutters were closed and I followed her down a dimly lit hallway.Passing her bedroom, I caught a glimpse of her un-made bed. Gaetana led me to the kitchen and showed me a chair.
My opening line was that I wanted to see Armando. “Away on Business” she said. Of course I knew that. “Coffee?” she asked. No, I didn’t want coffee, I wanted more wine but was afraid to ask. So, I smiled and got coffee.
I had no intention of leaving, not yet anyway. When the coffee came, I drank it slowly.I looked at her properly this time, longing to caress her olive skin. Gaetana was beautiful and slender with dark brown eyes which betrayed a sort of melancholy. She wore a loose cotton dress that fell just above her knees. It was hard to know what she was thinking.My 23 years on the planet had not taught me much about women and deep down I felt clumsy and hoped she would make the first move.
Then as she leaned across the table, I caught a glimpse of her breasts. Taking my empty cup, she went back to the sink and rinsed it. She was chatting non-stop about something but what she said meant nothing. It was just a sound in the distance, like children in a playground. I was drugged with longing.
Several minutes passed, she stopped talking and looked at me. My prayers were answered. Eyes transfixed. She knew why I had come. She came over to the table. My heart missed a beat and the scent of her body aroused me. Then she spoke, “Close your eyes Nicola”, I did as I was told and she took me by the hand and led me away. I could hear the rustle of her cotton dress as we walked in silence down the corridor towards her bedroom. Then unexpectedly she let go.
I heard a gentle click as she undid her bra and her cotton dress fell to the floor around her ankles. “You can open your eyes now Nicola.” She said and obediently I did just that. But my vision was blurred. It was difficult to focus. I thought I saw a letterbox. Yes, it was definitely a letterbox and two gorgeous eyes were peeping at me through it. The awful reality dawned on me. I was not in beautiful Gaetana’s bedroom and she was not lying there naked on the bed waiting for me. The click I had heard was not that of her bra, it was the click of the door closing on me. I was locked outside the flat in the corridor. Her beautiful muffled voice filtered through; “Go home Nicola, you are drunk”
Riddled with humiliation, I ran down the stairs and out of the building onto the street. I jumped onto my scooter and raced off as fast as I could. With my hand at full throttle, I drove like a Devil taking each curve at breakneck speed. Nothing romantic about them this time. My mind went blank.
It was only when I reached the notorious Ditch of Hell that I came to my senses. My bike skidded off the tarmac, miraculously missing the ditch itself and halted 50 meters off the road at the base of an olive tree. The engine stopped abruptly and hissed. A right mess you’ve got yourself into this time, said Mr. Hardy. I pulled myself out from under the bike, miraculously unscathed and wept.
Our total lack of common sense, lost by the wayside, decided to haunt us. The first sign was a tunnel excavated under the garden fence through which our beloved celebrity entertainer had escaped. Fact was, our pig was now on heat. There were a lot of trigger-happy hunters in the Tuscan outback who would be only too happy to turn her into sausage meat. Alarmed, I immediately called my step mother and sister for help.We needed to act fast. Then we spotted her in the neighbour’s paddock.This time, my party trick of “come” and “sit” failed. The joke was now on us. We became the centre of comedy while Tarquinia forced us to run around the paddock like fools, much to the amusement of our immediate neighbours. Her great strength and streamlined body made her almost impossible to catch. Unlike dogs, who can easily be collared, evolution had designed these prehistoric creatures to slip easily through thick undergrowth. After an hour prancing around like an ape, I was finally able to grab her round the waist bare handed and return her to her stable. The question was, for how long? Unless her maternal needs were met, we all knew she would escape again. Short of constructing a barbed wire fence around the garden, it would be impossible to contain her. After much discussion, Rocco suggested we return her to the wild boar reserve in Capalbio from whence she originated. We were not over thrilled by the idea but could think of nothing better.
Following day, we delivered her by truck and prayed to God she would fulfil nature’s call as soon as possible. As the keeper closed the gate, she looked at us through the wire mesh fence with contempt wondering why we were being so mean. During the ride home, nobody spoke. The overwhelming sense of guilt we all felt, was impossible to ignore.
“Telegramma, Telegramma!”. Rocco roared up the hill bearing the news. It was the news we had all been waiting for. Dad ripped open the telegram from his agent and read the contents out loud; “Warner Bros backed out, STOP, manuscript too chauvinistic for publication, STOP, sorry, STOP. Regards Harvey STOP. It took several minutes to absorb the awful truth. Six months of hope and hard work flushed down the toilet. There were no words to describe our shock but there was still a bottle of whisky on the kitchen shelf to dampen it with. If that didn’t work, then it would be a question of minutes until the dreaded tell-tale signs would manifest themselves. The heavy breathing followed by ever quickening gasps for air. Asthma! Probably the worst attack my dad had ever experienced. Certainly, the most alarming attack I had ever witnessed.
“Tutto bene?” inquired Rocco, who up till that moment had been watching the drama unfold with concern.“No, not tutto bene” I replied.
It was time to call the doctor. On arrival, the man found it hard to hide his irritation. Firstly, because he had been summoned late at night, and secondly because he was convinced Dad was putting on a performance. “You should win an Academy award Signor Steven, “he said sarcastically as he gasped for breath. Only when dad went blue in the face did the Doctor decide to take action. Under his instruction, we carried him into the car and I drove like hell to Manciano hospital where he was at last connected to an oxygen cylinder. We sat at his bedside for nearly two hours, listening to the roaring of his lungs until eventually the sound turned into a gentle purr.
In my dads’ own words, by the time he woke at five next morning, he was convinced he was dead and had reached the pearly gates. Heavenly chanting echoed round the room. He opened his eyes in anticipation of being greeted by Saint Peter. But instead of which he saw an archpriest in ceremonial dress swinging incense through the ward. An acolyte escorted him followed by three choir boys. As the priest approached, he thrust the Holy Ostia into the patients’ gaping toothless mouths one by one. Then it was Dad’s turn. The priest offered him the portion of Christ’s body only to be revoked with lips tight shut like a naughty baby. Somewhat irritated, the Priest continued his rounds where he found more grateful customers. Had Dad realized this was breakfast, he would most certainly have accepted the offering. The atmosphere in the hospital was so grim, that after three days he decided not to die but instead to make a swift recovery.
In spite of which, back home, the cloud of depression still hung heavily over us. The lack of forthcoming revenue turned into a serious issue. After seven years exile, we were now totally broke.
Our farming neighbours did their best to help by giving us pasta, vegetables and eggs, but they too were poor, which only made matters worse (we were not supposed to be poor). In the end, there was little choice but to visit Rocco to borrow money.As the only family member speaking Italian, I was the one chosen for the task. The first time I asked Rocco, he obliged graciously. The second time I asked, two weeks later, he obliged us with another hundred thousand lira note but I sensed slight withdrawal symptoms. The third time I asked was plain embarrassing. He held on to one end of the note for several seconds before letting it go. My repeated promises of Dad repaying our debt sounded less and less credible, not to mention what interest rates he might charge. The signs were there because slowly, Rocco didn’t come to visit us anymore. We had run out of ideas and our diet of spaghetti made us lethargic. Not only had it got thinner but now we were eating it without sauce. We fell deeper and deeper into the abyss, caught in a terrible vacuum. We could not pay the rent and the Electricity department was about to cut us off.
October 1st
From bad to worse. There are no words to describe our sadness. Our beloved pig, Tarquinia has succumbed to a terrible death. She has been murdered by the other pigs. Torn to shreds in a terrible battle during the night. It was a bloody massacre! All as a direct result of our own stupidity. Francesco, the keeper, explained it was because she smelled different. The other pigs didn’t accept her. If only we had listened to our gut instinct, we would never have taken her there in the first place. Three hours passed before the man was able to enter the compound, for fear of being attacked himself. In a friendly gesture, he retrieved what he could of the meat in a sack and brought it with him.“Just hang it somewhere to dry for six months, or better still, smoke it” he said. We declined his offer and let him keep the remains, much to his amazement. Anja has been crying non-stop ever since. Dad is in a sedated state most of the time and doesn’t say much. Oh God!
October 15th
Nothing short of a miracle can save us. Everybody is depressed. Today, Anja and I rummaged through kitchen drawers and trouser pockets. We found enough coins to buy ourselves a beer at the bar. It looks as though our ship is about to sink. I wish I could do something…but what?
We watch as the other guests stuff themselves in the restaurant. At least we have a drink. Then our mood brightens up slightly when an aristocratic lady enters escorted by an ever-so-humble Rocco. Instinctively I know our treacherous course is about to change.
“This is the famous English writer I told you about Countess.” said Rocco proudly. We all looked up intrigued. Dad pulled himself together, stood up and smiled. “A pleasure to meet you Countess…May I offer you a drink?” He kissed her hand and winked his command to Rocco. Secluded as we were in the outback of Tuscany, it was obvious news of our predicament had travelled across the hills to the coast and reached the noble lady’s ears. Acting on a profound sense of duty, she had decided to pay us a charitable visit. Two hours later, satisfied that our cause was authentic and after at least six more shots of whisky, her motto of the day must have been, “Give them cake” because that same afternoon, she invited us all back to her chateau on Monte Argentario for lunch.
Throughout the afternoon, Dad entertained the countess like a twentieth century Dostoyevsky. Reciting a succession of war stories that brought tears of incessant laughter. During those few hours, happiness was restored. By the end of the day, our bellies were filled to bursting point. Shortly before leaving, the countess waved her magic wand for the second time and on the doorstep to her chateau she presented us with a parting gift; Three plastic bags of discarded garments that her children had grown out of. Accepting the gift graciously, we did our best to show humble gratitude. As Dad drove home, we scrutinized the contents on the back seat, which revealed a collection of frilly frocks, balloon knickerbockers and straw hats. My sister Pascale, found it hard to hide her disgust, announcing that she would not be seen dead wearing any of it…even if it belonged to the Queen! Anja agreed that the clothes were not exactly trendy.
“Ungrateful bunch” was all dad could say and reminded us that considering we were totally broke, we had managed to get through another day rather well.
In spite of the good intentions and excellent meal, the situation did not improve. Our treacherous course heading for the cliffs loomed closer.
Little did we know, the countess was not about to abandon us so quickly and next day, just before foundering completely, she called Rocco to say she had a splendid job for young Nicholas”. I listened with interest as Rocco explained the details: A wealthy German lady, who bred horses, was looking for a stable lad. Loyal as I was to the family cause, and innocently dreaming of perhaps riding horses, naturally, I accepted.
A meeting was set up and two days later, we drove twenty miles to the secluded ranch where I would meet my patroness. On arrival, Gertrude Von Lederhosen received us. A riding crop under one arm, which she used to usher us into the sitting room.There we perched on the edge of monstrous red and green leather armchairs that might well have been deco straight out of Hitchcock’s “Psycho”.The atmosphere was icy. Dad attempted light conversation by mentioning his award-winning role on The Forsythe Saga. “Never heard of it, “she retorted with a crack of her whip and we were forced to shut up and listen to her requirements without so much as being offered a drink.First and foremost, a leather uniform would have to be measured up for young Nicholas and secondly, I should know that the day commenced at 5 am sharp. The stables would need mucking out and the 16 horses fed and groomed. Breakfast was at 10am and there were no days off except one weekend every third week. Having absorbed all this in stunned silence, Dad hastily said his goodbyes and left me in Frau Lederhosen’s clutches, perhaps thinking the experience would be educational. But I was not prepared to find out. Leather couture and brass buckles made me wary of my new Patroness’s true intentions. There were too many whips in the place and I did not like the idea of being treated like a slave. When I ran away three days later, I was welcomed home like the prodigal son. Dad was delighted to see me in one piece and never once suggested I go back.
The countess might well have been irritated by my ungrateful behaviour but if she was, she didn’t show it. Her charitable nature was tougher than expected. Somewhere along the line she must have understood that in order to put our chaotic family back on track, radical action would have to be taken. Two days later, Rocco puttered up the hill in his Fiat 500 and delivered a cream-coloured envelope. On the back, the countesses’ family crest. We all gathered round the kitchen table and watched as Dad slit it open and extracted the contents. The cheque floated gently to the table like a feather. And as the wording became legible, a gasp of overwhelming surprise echoed round the room.
“Pay the bearer, ONE MILLION LIRA” As a result the dog barked, the duck quacked, my sisters screamed and Anja poured us three large whisky’s.
Our seven years exile was at an end and from that moment on, things moved quickly. However unpalatable the prospect, a return to England was inevitable. There would be friends and relatives to receive us and an opportunity for Dad to get some desperately needed writing commissions. He accepted the Contessa’s loan with gratitude and all debts were paid.Within a week our bags were packed and ready to go. After tying up business with the countess, she then invited us all to share a last supper at the restaurant. The wine flowed, emotions ran high and Rocco and Rosetta embraced us warmly like old friends. Even Rocco’s wicked old mother gave us a toothless grin, happy at having received her long overdue rent. The locals also brought gifts of wine and dried sausages for the journey which we crammed into our already stuffed-to-breaking-point luggage.
When the taxi for the airport arrived next day, everybody climbed in except myself. Now with my destiny in my own hands, I had other plans. My compass pointed south, beyond the hills, towards Rome, where I knew my road must lead.
“Good luck old son,” said Dad. We embraced, followed by Anja and my sisters. “Be good girls” I said. They hugged me so tight; I thought they would never let me go. As the taxi vanished round the bend, it occurred to me that my parents were abandoning me. At the age of seventeen, should it not have been the other way round? I held back my tears like the man I now was and took a long deep sigh.
After my family’s departure, there were many loose ends to tie up.Dreary remnants of our belongings; a sewing machine, an ironing board, a toy pram, a bicycle and old clothes that wouldn’t fit into the luggage. I shared out what I could amongst the neighbours. I still had the Alfa Romeo but with only half a tank of petrol and practically no money to speak of, I knew that it wouldn’t take me far.
Alone in the house, our duck greeted me with a lame “Quack” probably wondering where everybody had gone. I picked him up and stroked him. After careful thought, I gave him and our notorious dogs, Africa and Fleur to our neighbour Pietro next door. He promised me he would not turn the duck into pate and also keep the dogs out of mischief. With little choice, I decided to believe him. Our beloved pig, I presumed was in heaven, so there was nothing else to keep me here.I lit a great bonfire in the garden where she used to sleep and watched as the remains of our household burned to dust. The abandoned walls now echoed. It was sad to walk through an empty house where so much laughter, tears and drama had taken place. Brushing aside these thoughts, I closed the gate to the garden for the last time and climbed into the car.
