Summers in Supino by Maria McLean

Author:Maria McLean
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: ECW Press
Published: 2013-11-15T00:00:00+00:00

On Thursday mornings there was a huge outdoor market in Frosinone, about half an hour away. Kathryn particularly liked the shoe vendors who arranged their shoes in towers by price — 10 euro, 15 euro, etc. — and all you had to do was find your size. We often went there early in the morning, just to browse. Sometimes we’d buy something for Angela: buffalo mozzarella from Salerno or pineapples from Sicilia that you’d never find in Supino. After the market, we’d stop at Rendezvous, the take-out pizza shop in Frosinone, where they displayed thick pizza baked on cookie sheets and the woman cut the pizza with scissors and weighed the slices on her scale. After that we’d go to the newsstand in the middle of the parking lot, where Bob would buy a Rome paper so he could practice reading Italian.

That Thursday morning, as we approached the autostrada, where we’d cross over into the city of Frosinone, I said, “Why don’t we drive down to Vietri sul Mare? It’s not that far.”

“I told Joe we were going to the market.”

“We’ll be back by dinner.”

“Hold on,” said Bob, and he made a U-turn onto the autostrada heading south. We left the windows open as we sped along; Bob had to shout to be heard. “I figure we can make it in about two hours. I wouldn’t mind spending a bit of time in Naples. Maybe next time we could spend the night.”

“Sure, if we got permission from Joe and the neighbours,” I said.

“They’re just watching out for us so we don’t miss any of the summertime activities. By the way, they’re closing the street in front of the three telephone booths and setting up chairs there. Joe said he and Benito are putting torches on the wall above the phone booths and stringing plastic flags. I thought I’d give them a hand if we’re back in time. There’s a jazz band performing tonight.”

“You don’t even like jazz particularly.”

“That’s not the point,” he said. “It’s important to go to these activities. We don’t want people sitting inside watching television every night. Even if I’m not a jazz fan, I enjoy being involved.”

“You know what, Bob? You’re becoming Italian.”

“Thanks,” said Bob, and he reached over and patted my leg. “Do you still want to buy those tiles for the kitchen?”

“Yes, and maybe I’ll look at their hand-painted dishes.”

I didn’t need dishes, but my mother had had a soft spot for china, and since her death I’d somehow picked up her interest and her habit of buying a pretty piece here and there. We drove past Naples and Salerno to my mother’s part of Italy. My mother had no happy memories of this place and her sad stories had rubbed off on me so that I’d never considered visiting her village. Her recollections of her childhood in Colliano were hunger and poverty, and even though that was years ago, her impressions were so negative that I too avoided the village where she’d gone hungry.

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