“Tabu”

Professor Mario Materassi who teaches American Literature at the University of Florence invites me to speak to his class. It seems extremely lucky for me that he is an expert in Jewish American women writers, since I happen to be one. I’m especially flattered to be invited to talk about “Tabu,” a story of mine that he has photocopied from one of my books and distributed to his class. But he cautions me that his students are not like the Italians in my story.

Italians in my story? I have no recollection of this. Since I have with me in Italy the collection of my stories, Chattering Man in which “Tabu” appears, I look it up and leaf through it until I find what must be the relevant paragraph. To my dismay I read:

“Five Italian boys I recognized from the lunchroom at school were there in Ruthie’s living room, slouched on the couch and slumped in the two armchairs. They looked as if they didn’t belong on furniture, but should instead be on leashes or in cages.”

So much for tact and my effort toward good Italian-American relations. I will have to make my apologies to the students and explain something about the context of my insults.

Professor Materassi has a university office on Via San Gallo that must once have been a room in a great palazzo. The elaborate ceiling, high above a gilded border of engravings, is three dimensional; various creatures (cherubs and satyrs) peer down from above. The paintings on the walls, separated by great arches, depict dramatic events: two shepherds, one holding a great wooden club, look upon a felled enemy who lies bleeding on the ground while in the background two sheep and a black-faced lamb lie nearby watching. If these are depictions of allegorical tales whose stories I should know, I don’t. Yet I am quite willing and able to marvel at their grandeur, their awesome size—and to think: all this in a “mere” university office.

The professor tells me he has prepared my class for two days for this discussion of my story (and mentions, offhand, that from the beginning of the academic year, the class has been discussing Faulkner’s The Sound and The Fury). Of course I am pleased by his serious attention to my work.

When he leads me to his class, I do my best to speak in slow and precise English that the students seem to understand quite well. They are attentive, respectful, and look much as students do in an American university: blue jeans, book bags, and their radiant young faces (especially here! So many beautiful young Italian men and women). I try to communicate how this story of mine came to be, based as it was on a party I was forced to attend as a thirteen-year old. The villainess was a sexy beauty who lived across the street. Her mother insisted that she invite me, a neighborhood kid, to her birthday party.

I’m tempted to apologize to the professor’s class for how the Italian boys are viewed in the story (also to explain how Italian boys, in our neighborhood, were reputed to be the most handsome, sexy, and dangerous!) The students have already read the other passage in the story about Italians, which I hope they will take in the spirit intended:

“We were in the first year of high school that winter. Ruthie had begun traveling with a different crowd. Dark, handsome Italian boys, who wore the top three buttons of their shirts undone and sported large crucifixes that gleamed aggressively from the swirls of their black chest hair, circled about her in the lunchroom. As if witnessing a miracle, they hopped about and genuflected as she delicately dipped potato chips into a swirl of mustard that she had dabbed onto the center of the cellophane bag.”

“I hope you understand,” I tell them, “that when I was thirteen years old I desperately wanted an Italian of my own.” They are kind to me and laugh.

When class ends, the professor introduces me to one of his students, Emanuela De Carlo, who has asked him if she may translate several of my stories into Italian for her graduation thesis. She is a dark-eyed, dark-haired beauty who speaks English carefully and profoundly. I am touched that she would want to spend months bringing my words into the music of the Italian language. When we talk for a while after class, I realize she has already read all the stories in my book that Professor Materassi has loaned to her. She knows them better than I do, she can quote phrases to me. “I will send to you my thesis when I have finished it,” she tells me.

When we part I can’t stop myself from hugging her. I have been away so long from my daughters! This young woman is so sweet and warm-hearted that I love her already. In all the ways that Italy has become part of me in these weeks I have spent here, I’m thrilled to think that, with Emanuela’s help, I will—in some small way—become part of Italy.

When the students have departed, Professor Materassi takes me to a small cafe on Via San Gallo where we are joined by his wife, Millicent, who asks what I would like to eat. I defer happily to her to choose my food. She orders us each a small panino of salty ham and cheese, followed by an eclair filled with custard and iced with chocolate. “The salty first,” she says, “and then the sweet.” And always the cup of espresso to add richness to the tongue and energy to the body.

(This is not lunch, she reminds me, but a mere mid-morning snack. I am invited later to their apartment for an Italian pranzo—to share pasta and other delights.)

Professor Materassi must return to his teaching duties and Mrs. Materassi offers to take me with her on various errands and to show me more of the city. Near the hospital of Santa Maria Nuova, on Via della Pergola, she points out the ticket windows of Amici delli Musica which is in the Teatro della Pergola—a grand old l8th century music hall where concerts are performed. We must not miss seeing one; she will arrange for tickets for us at the earliest opportunity.

We take a bus across the river to the Red Cross shop, where Mrs. Materassi leaves off a bag of donations and I buy a wonderful pink sweater (to go with my Chinese acrobat coat); the sweater has a floral design on one half of each sleeve and a geometric design on the other. “Very Florentine,” Mrs. Materassi assures me—and for only 5,000 lire, a bargain. Another good place for bargains is the thrift shop, open on Wednesday morning, at the American Church on Via Rucellai, not far from the station.

I almost cannot keep up with her—she maneuvers the streets with speed and expert knowledge: (“Better to walk on the other side on this street, the sidewalk isn’t as narrow,” and “This is the finest gelato place in Florence, the owner has lemons shipped in from Sicily because their taste is the best.”) Mrs. Materassi, who invites me to call her Millie, is extremely accomplished, knowledgable about all things in Florence that I yearn to know, expert in literature, film and art, in food, and in all necessary practical matters. The daughter of a Korean ambassador, she speaks Italian with perfect fluency (as does Cornelia) while I can’t imagine myself ever getting beyond “Buon giorno. Sono stanca.” There is something about my mind (stubborn? lazy?) that cannot seem to retain verb-forms, although Joe says that isn’t true, that I just haven’t tried hard enough or practiced long enough.

“When we come back to Italy to live here in our retirement,” I tell him, “I’ll learn how to speak Italian.”

But not now. For now I will happily trail after Millie Materassi, listen to all her tips, recommendations, and bits of advice, and follow her back to her house to share lunch with the professor, their beautiful daughter, Luisa and their impressive cat, Figaro.