Four cats. That’s how you’d describe our group even
if, technically, there were more of us. Italians say quattro gatti to mean ‘few’ and the expression usually holds a
twinge of disappointment.
In this country, there is safety in crowds and
pleasure to be had amidst the buzz and clatter of anonymous noise. For me, our
New Year’s soirée was the perfect size, for I far prefer the quiet midnight clink of buon
anno to the razzmatazz of citywide cherry bombs.
But that might be because I’m a rather tame cat. As it
were, ours was mix of domestic gatti and incurable
strays, and happily, one could observe that two-thirds of the group had found
their match based on the age-old premise that opposites attract. Giancarlo came
from Rome and Roberta had driven down from Ferrara. Riccardo works for a
textiles firm in Florence. Each came with their coppia, but we four had been university friends and still make it a
point to meet once a year in our various cities.
This year we celebrated Capodanno together. So, on the night before 2011, it was my turn
to host.
The evening progressed as expected.
Roberta called the bingo numbers and Giancarlo tried
to cheat us. I was not the one to catch him. Bingo cheaters do not show up on
my radar, although I know him well enough for victory to merit suspicion. My
friend is a born bandit and the group’s most interesting stray.
‘Predictions for
2011?’ I asked as he helped me clear the dessert dishes.
‘No predictions. It
will be the same as always.’
‘So then, what are
we celebrating?’
‘The fact that
things will remain the same. Italians don’t change things unless it’s
unavoidable.’
‘I wasn’t asking
about Italians,’ I answered, shrugging. ‘I was asking about you.’
‘Me? I believe
Giuseppe di Lampedusa: “Bisogna
cambiare tutto, per non cambiare nulla.”
We must change everything so that nothing changes.
This year is going to be very much like the last: Our
politicians will continue selling aria
fritta and people will buy their promises as if they were donuts. We’ll all
split ourselves into four pieces trying to make the rent each month. And next
year, if we’re lucky, we’ll have this very same conversation.’
I shook my head. ‘Giancarlo! I don’t want to have this
conversation next year. And based on what you’re saying, I don’t even want to
have it this year!’
He was far less animated than I, absently cracking the
bingo-chip peanuts that should have been saved for our next round. ‘We’re not a
mobile people. In fact, it’s a miracolo we’re still in
touch,’ he mused. ‘Things and people they don’t move-they stand still here. Not
that it’s bad. Some say conservatism is optimism in its purest form.’
I thought a moment, still expecting somehow that he
might say something hopeful. Perhaps changing the question would help. ‘Well,
what’s la prima cosa bella you’re going to do
in the new year?’
It was on the tip of his tongue and I saw it. He was
going to ask why I still haven’t given up on these ‘around-the-table’ questions
that proved so popular at American dinner parties. Lucky for him, he changed
his mind. Lucky for him, Giancarlo put his hand on my shoulder and answered
with a song released more than four decades ago.
‘La prima cosa bella, che ho avuto nella
vita, è il tuo sorriso giovane, sei tu.’
His singing caught me off guard, and the
unexpectedness of it succeeded in making one of us more beautiful than
before-either him or me, I can’t be sure. ‘I hate it when you turn charming
without warning,’ I scolded.
Perhaps Giancarlo has never met a woman who can resist
an improvised ballad, but even if he has, I was not one of them. He grinned,
debonair. ‘I love it when you pretend to be unmoved.’
He was the same as always.
‘Someday,’ I joked, ‘are you going to stop being
smooth with women who don’t belong to you?’
‘Courting is a way
of life. You ought to have learned this already.’
‘Okay, but you know
what really gets me? Ti salvi in corner
tutte le volte. You always save yourself in the nick of
time.
The second I want to strangle you, you do something to
win me over.’
He nodded, pleased, but unsurprised.
‘They say we have a
special talent for it.’
Indeed. The revelation that followed was this: The
beauty of Italy is not, in fact, its beauty. The country’s true loveliness lies
in its citizens’ ability to apply their charm strategically. Change is not
certain, but courtship is. For here, the term implies an ever-present attitude,
not the personal prerogative of lovers. It is the art of appeal. Any time you
get worked up and are tempted to leave in a huff, something appealing appears
and blocks the whole threshold. No matter the list of shortcomings you’re
hoarding, a saving grace always shows up-and it’s never a second too early.
So, happy New Year, amici miei. In Italy, change is idyllic, untrustworthy and rare.
Everyone will confirm it: da quando mondo
è mondo; there’s nothing new under the sun. And there’s
nothing-simply nothing-that a wee bit of charisma can’t cure.
