“Rita, You Are The Girl I Have Loved…”

Looking for the post office one day, Joe and I take a street north near the open market, pass under the railroad tracks, and find ourselves almost in the foothills which—when we see them from our roof terrace—seem a great distance away. We walk past rows of ordinary apartment houses, cross some fields where new construction is taking place, and beyond that we find ourselves in pure country: unpaved roads, overgrown grassy fields, and the smell of the sun hot on vines and vegetable gardens. Behind a fence some chickens scurry about, clucking and scratching for feed. A rusted sign says “Privato” but we continue on, crunching over the stones and dried clumps of dirt.

On our right is a large villa, but bigger and more official seeming than a villa, more like an institution. A plaque on the side of the building says “Sordomuti” which Joe tells me means deaf-mute. We look for signs of movement or people, but see nothing. Are the deaf and mute inside? Is it a school? Living quarters for the students?

So much of life in a foreign country has to be guessed at, surmised, imagined. How they do things here, what they think about the smallest matters, is an issue of constant discussion between us.

For example, each morning at 8 AM as we have breakfast, we hear a great commotion from outside: the bleep-bleep of emergency horns growing in volume till the walls shake, the beeping of car horns, the roar of motorcycles, the shriek of an ambulance. Each morning we rush to the window and see an impressive entourage coming into the city from the autostrada: motorcycles, police cars, a military truck with armed soldiers, automatic weapons at the ready and pointed from the windows. Overhead there is a helicopter hovering, and following all this, escorted by the weaponry and doomsday warnings, is a big black bus with blackened windows. Whoever is inside is hidden, apparently either of great importance or extremely dangerous.

Once the bus is gone, followed by its tail of noisy protectors, we forget it and go about our day’s work. However, at six in the evening, the same cacophony alerts us to look out the window from which we see the return trip of the parade: police, ambulance, armed soldiers, big black bus. While ordinary traffic comes to a halt, the caravan races along at high speeds and zooms onto the autostrada. We always watch till the line of vehicles disappears in the distance.

In the days following we ask people we know: could it be the President of Italy? Could it be royalty? When I ask Cornelia she says it might be the defendants involved in a big Mafia trial (taking place in a hidden venue). She is certain the cortege travels fast so no one can assassinate the criminals or the pentiti (the ones who have spilled the beans to save themselves) before justice is done.

But still, we never learn what it’s all about. The procession takes place every weekday, and at breakfast and at dinner, we wonder about it. Joe jokes that our terrace is the perfect place for an assassin to situate himself. He would have ample warning of the approach of the black bus and could take clear aim. But of what or whom we will never know.

Now, after we pass the deaf-mute building, we continue along the country road, discussing the apartments we have seen under construction. We’ve heard stories about the shortage of housing for young people in Italy. A young man named Riccardo who has begun coming to our apartment once a week to practice English/Italian with Joe has told us he and his fiancée, Angela, have been waiting for ten years for their house. The two of them, now in their thirties, each still live with their parents, and each year the red tape surrounding their hoped-for apartment gets more dense. In spite of the fact that years ago they put a large down payment on a yet-to-be-built apartment house, there now seems to be doubt as to whether or not it will be completed. There is also a lottery involved—as to who gets the apartments as they are built, who gets the ones on the upper floors with views, or who gets any at all.

The Mystery of Italy. We are infants here, barely comprehending what goes on about us.

At the end of the long “privata” road, a nailed-together wood and tin shack lies hidden in an overgrown grove of trees and vines. As we approach it, a German Shepherd rushes out at us, teeth bared, growling. I can almost feel his teeth sinking into my leg.

“We should have paid attention to the sign!” I accuse Joe. We have lived our entire lives by the rules. I want to ask him how come we decided to stop just now.

Joe just says to the dog, “Shh, shh,” as if he is calming a restless baby. The dog halts in his tracks, looks at us, and begins to wag his tail. From somewhere in the forest of green growth, a woman emerges, wearing an apron over her dress, and calf-high rubber boots. She is holding a shovel. Her hair, long and blonde, is tied back with a barrette. And she greets us with a smile.

Joe says, “Permesso, Signora…” and then he begins to speak to her in Italian that seems impressively smooth and confident to me. She answers in a gracious tone, apparently not angry that we have trespassed upon this private property. In fact, she seems quite appreciative of company and conversation. With half an ear I listen to them speak, Joe asking questions and the hearty-looking woman answering in long, musical sentences. The Italian language comes from her lips like a song.

I walk a little way from them and kneel down to make friends with the dog. There is a hush upon the woods, a sun-lit quiet that weighs down the foliage and makes space even for the buzz of small insects. Though we are not so far from the streets full of motor scooters (or even the autostrada with its black bus and police cars), we are in another world here, insulated, fragrant with the tart smell of ripe tomatoes on the vine, and rustling with the movement of the wind.

I imagine what it might be like to live here, to live in that little cabin (not a villa, not an apartment, but almost a tent), to step outside into this ocean of stillness and lie in the grass with my face to the sun. For that moment, I almost cannot bring to mind a picture of my home in California, its many rooms furnished with years of accumulations, the closets full of old photographs, the file cabinets full of writings and tax forms, the kitchen cupboards bursting with old and new pots, salad bowls, blenders and coffee-makers, and the pantry holding a hundred cans of beans, juice, soda, soups, vegetables, and fruits bought in another world, in another time. I experience the amazing certainty that, should I—at this moment—be given the news that my entire house in America had vaporized into thin air and vanished, I would greet the information serenely, go on with my walk in the country, my arm linked in my husband’s, and never grieve the loss.

I am here and nowhere else. This is life, now, on this little country road. We are on the face of the earth and alive. And only this matters.

Who knows how long we stand there with the farm woman? As we walk back along the road, Joe tells me what he learned from her: that this whole private country road and the property on either side have been sold to a contracting company that will build apartment houses here. That if we followed the road we were on further up into the mountain, we would eventually arrive at Fiesole. (But a warning—there are dangerous German shepherd dogs that guard the passage.) That the contadini (the peasants) who live in the shack have permission to stay there and farm until the ground is broken for construction.

Joe says, “She spoke in that beautiful Florentine way, did you notice?”

“I noticed she was beautiful,” I tell him.

We are not going back toward the post office, but further east, parallel to the railroad tracks, hoping to find a crossing that will bring us back to the main street—and from there we will reckon how to get home. The road is narrow; each time a car passes, we flatten ourselves against the high stone wall. From time to time we pass an iron gate and look between its rungs to see endless rows of olive trees, and in the distance a villa with its tile roof and green shutters.

I am beginning to be thirsty; we have been walking for hours, but where are we? I begin to wonder if we could be lost, if we will be here after nightfall, if the dangerous dogs will find us…

Joe knows there will be a crossing soon. “All these cars, they have to have a way to get across the tracks.”

We walk on, hand in hand. I love this little adventure; even my small fear that we could be lost is exhilarating. When did I last experience this sense of discovery, that every step ahead of us will bring sights we have never seen in our lives?

We cross a running stream (on its bank, nearly in the water, is the chassis of an old motor scooter), we pass what seems to be an old age home (in the open courtyard there are two dozen old men, at tables, playing cards or talking), and, just when I feel I can walk no longer, we come to a cross road that leads under the railroad tracks to the other side. This passageway is blocked to cars by steel pipes implanted in cement, but bikers and pedestrians may cross.

A beautiful young woman, long black hair streaming behind her like a comet’s tail, flies past us on her bicycle. As Joe and I enter the overpass, I see, written on the wall, high up, in blue paint, a thrilling bit of graffiti:

RITA SEI LA RAGAZZA CHE HO AMATO DI PIÙ IN TUTTA LA VITA

BY

SAMU

Though I know what it must say, I ask Joe to translate for me.

“Rita, you are the girl I have loved most in all my life.”

If this poetry is graffiti, then let the world be covered with it.

“Will you write my name somewhere in Italy before we leave?” I ask my husband.

In reply, he takes a ball point pen from his shirt pocket, draws a little heart on the wall of the overpass, and inserts our initials in its center. I take the pen from him and add an arrow to pierce the heart.