IL FATTO BELLO

Nutshells

by Linda Falcone (issue no. 90/2008 / November 13, 2008)
Il fatto bello della settimana. Moments from everyday Italy

Emma waters her houseplants with vegetable broth and always wants the fullest leaves growing toward her. Would you be a dear and turn the jungle in that direction?' she asks.

 

Certainly,' you say. And in exchange for your trouble, she'll provide you with a tiny truth that will set you straight once you finish bending. Never buy skirts cut on a bias,' she'll suggest. That one was a mistake.'

 

In response, you just smile and nod. The Italian eye easily sees through to the skeleton of a dress, and fashion counseling from an 89-year-old woman is unsurprising. Emma, however, does have a special knack for it. For her, fashion and dignity go hand in hand, and-bedridden or not-the day must always be welcomed fully clothed.

 

The first time I met my landlady, she had her care-giver, Sofia, take me next door to see the flat for rent. When I returned to tell her I'd take it, she looked me up and down the way only Italian women can and asked me why I was not yet married.

 

My future husband is arriving on foot,' I answered.

 

Emma nodded, Mine is arriving by walker.' I smiled and she saw that I meant it, which made her suddenly serious. Listen,' she told me, moving closer with her voice, if not her body. I will rent you the house, but you have to make me a promise.'

 

What's that?' I asked, not feeling at all eager. Pledges made to octogenarians carry more weight than I wanted to lift. Emergency pharmacy trips and quick-stop grocery runs ran through my mind at breakneck speed.

 

While you live in my house,' Emma started, I'd ask that you visit one art exhibition a month. And then, for you to come and tell me about it.'

 

Accepting her proposal turned out to be as easy as promising Santa Claus that you'll be a good girl the whole year through. And, probably, it was just as fulfilling. In fact, the feeling that had suddenly taken hold of my heartstrings felt pretty close to Christmas morning. It's a deal,' I told her.

 

Since I've moved in, we've walked through' three exhibitions, and early next month, I've promised to bring her Art Deco. As usual, I'll provide the catalogue, she'll supply the knowledge.

 

Sometimes-but nowhere near often enough, I stop by to see her between culture chats. Never once have I found her without ruby lipstick and a string of beads that look just as shiny. They come from places whose names decorate classroom globes but never quite find a space in people's homes. At thirty-five, Emma chose her first patchwork of foreign countries to visit. I held my head high enough and kept my views wide enough to make men assume I was not the marrying kind,' she confided. So I set off to find out if my suitors were right. And while I was at it, I saw the world.'

 

And were they right?' I asked, almost holding my breath.

 

Her own breath came out as a sigh, Oh, I don't know.' But then she waited for me to look her straight in the eye. I'll find out on my next big trip, I'm sure.' Then she winked and it squelched any desire to scold her. Emma loves to be cheeky like that.

 

Do you want to come over to eat on Saturday,' she asked when I stepped in for a hello, earlier this week.

 

Sure, I'd love to,' I accepted. Do you want me to come at 12:30 or 1?'

 

No-I mean for dinner,' she corrected. I'm having a few people over.'

 

Dinner?' I repeated, late in hiding my surprise. As far as I knew, bedridden 89-year-olds are not usually prone to throwing shindigs on Saturday nights.

 

Emma downplayed my ignorance. I've told the others to come around eight,' she said.

 

Great,' I nodded. I'll be there.

 

Then that makes four of us. Sofia's leaving everything ready before she goes. And you, Amy and Stefano put together are only slightly older than me,' Emma grinned, as if this pointed calculation provided additional proof of her innate naughtiness.

 

Amy, she explained, was also American and she apprenticed with Luigi Mazzega. But he is her master and not her lover. She's serious, that one. Unfortunately, her engraving hand is not as strong as her will power and she's been waiting for months for permission to etch poppies.'

 

Stefano, her great nephew, would be coming too. He is much more bald than he should be at his age,' she tsked. And he has not yet overcome his mother's hopes for him. That said, he's not ever going to be a lawyer. The day he can say it while pounding his fist triumphantly on the table, he will become a man.'

 

I listened to Emma's nutshell descriptions and wondered what big or small secret she'd seen flitting in and out of my own eyes.

 

What would you tell them about me?' I wanted to know.

 

She shrugged. I'd say that you need to wear more jewelry.'

 

Two days away from the soiree, I stepped out of my front door to find a plastic grocery bag tied around its handle. Inside, was an African band of ivory wrapped in a teatowel. It gave me a chill as I slid the bracelet over my wrist, utterly taken with the smooth, solid click of its clasp.

 

Wear it a week, return it in two,' her note read.

 

Wow. The woman, it seems, will never quite tire of living and giving. Emma's legs don't have the strength to face two flights of stairs, but that doesn't mean she's unaware of how many places there are still left to see. Perhaps she even knows the way to most of them.

 

I, for one, am game to go. And I hope she leads us to a place we can more fully become fine, fist-pounding, gem-clad folk who revel in etching delightful and difficult flowers. If Emma has her way-and we're lucky, it's all going to happen by week's end, come eight o'clock, Saturday night.

 

 

Teacher by profession and writer by necessity, Linda Falcone is celebrating her fifteenth year of Italian living. Author of Italians Dance and I'm a Wallflower and  If They Are Roses, she delights in experimenting with both poetry and prose. Only the grocery list should never be written.

 

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