The Christmas Mystery, Two Big Macs

Wind rattles the windowpanes all night. Closing the wooden shutters doesn’t begin to reduce the commotion. A fierce shaking like this in California would be the signal of a huge earthquake—we would be running for our lives. But tonight we are snug and secure in our basket-bed, no one can get inside our bolted door, no one can enter our shuttered windows or climb to our roof terrace. The mosquitoes, who earlier made their unwelcome visits here, are now, in the cold of winter, finally vanquished.

I feel safe in Italy. I have been healthy here, undepressed, busy, energized, living moment by moment for the moment, without excessive reflection upon the human condition and the certainty of death.

Even the old don’t seem truly old here—as they walk arm in arm along the river front, care with obvious delight for their grandchildren, and climb with their heavy packages upon the buses. Perhaps no one dies here—but lives forever in view of the hillsides, the cypresses and palazzi, the racing clouds, the vast arena of hill and sky and riverbank. (And perhaps those who do die become “The Incorruptibles”—those saints whose bodies never decay, but to the contrary, continue supple and fragrant—an inspiration to faith—unto eternity.)

We had wanted to do one last thing, rent a car and drive into the country to see Lucca, Pisa, The Isle of Elba, Ischia, Bologna, Orvieto, Vallombrosa—names that roll like jewels on the tongue. But the weather has turned bitter, we have much to pack up and organize for departure, we will simply have to leave certain hillsides undiscovered, certain views unseen—until we come back again.

I already have a list of things I meant to visit and never saw: Elizabeth Browning’s apartment near the Pitti Palace, La Specola, the museum of medical wonders that features—in wax—the human body and all its organs, with special attention given to the more diseased and grotesque formations. In pictures I have seen of the wax models, they are all beautiful, full-size sculptures of men and women lying on their backs, with forms and faces as beautiful as Michelangelo’s creations, yet each one of them is split open from neck to pelvis and his (or her) insides are revealed to show the reproductive, or the skeletal or the circulation system and disease processes within.

I have other regrets: that I never climbed to the top of the Duomo, never visited the home of Dante, never went into the Palazzo Vecchio or Casa Buonarroti, where Michelangelo lived. I missed the Bargello and the Medici Palace. In fact, what was I doing all these months? Did I see anything at all?

I appeal to my husband. If there is one more thing we can see—what shall it be?

We decide on a practical course of action—tomorrow afternoon we will go to a Christmas concert at the American Church, where our student Marta is singing a solo. The American Church is another place I meant to visit, especially their thrift shop, but I never got to it. Millie Materassi had told me it was an excellent place to find bargains as well as baby-sitters, a bake shop, an exchange place where one might locate a partner with whom to practice Italian (while the partner practices English), and a place where an Alcoholics Anonymous group meets on a weekly basis.

Not being in need of any of these services at the moment, we still would like to see where Americans who live in Florence gather for social and religious events. St. James Episcopal Church, as it is formally named, is located on Via Bernardo Rucellai, not far from the station, and also close to Le Scuderie, where our group met for Thanksgiving dinner. By checking the map, we determine that it will be a simple matter to get to the church: bus #14 to the station, and, because it’s Sunday, there will be no crowds to battle.

The bus, to our delight, is empty when we board it. Within two stops, however, it is standing room only, and, within four, people are pressing in the doors with the crushing weight of a steamroller.

What could be going on?

We start our old guessing game. A soccer match to which everyone is going? (But wasn’t there one just yesterday?) A festival we haven’t heard about? A parade? An exodus from Florence because the river is about to overflow its banks as it did in l966? We have no clue. When there is absolutely no more room for even one person on the bus, the driver stops, the doors open, and fifteen more get on. People are now nearly sitting in our laps. I begin to feel claustrophobic. I gasp for air. I don’t understand this hellish crush, and no one is about to enlighten us.

“Let’s see if we can get off at the next stop,” I tell Joe.

He concurs, but the possibility is academic—there is no way we can exit the bus till fifty other people get off first.

I try my various methods of panic control. I unbutton my jacket and breathe deeply of air that was trapped inside it from the vicinity of our apartment, my theory being that it is fresher air than the exhaled carbon dioxide in the atmosphere around me. I try visualization: a peaceful seashore idyll, where I trail my toes in the delicately unfurling waves.

“God, I have to get off!” I cry to my husband. I leap up from my seat, step on the toes of whoever is in my way, and begin to claw my way toward an exit. Fortunately, the bus has just reached a designated stop, and I and a hundred others have the same idea: we shove and push and dig our way to the bottleneck and then pop out through the door.

We find ourselves downtown, at the stop just before the station. Where on all other Sundays the shops are closed and the streets deserted, today every shop door is open, every sign is lit, every window is draped with merchandise. Music is playing in the streets, the vendors are selling roasted chestnuts, the gelato shops are open for business, and the pizzerias are crowded to their doorjambs.

“Am I missing something?” I ask my husband, once I have had the good fortune to locate him in the crowd.

Just then we pass a large downtown department store—(another place I haven’t visited in Florence)—and are pushed inside by the crowds behind us. People are milling about like sheep, examining the merchandise, looking at the price tags, (making copious notes on slips of paper!), trying on hats, scarves, gloves, smelling perfume samples, holding sweaters against their bosoms as well as dresses still on their hangers—but not many people seem to be buying anything. The cash registers are silent; the clerks who man them are idle or chatting with other salespersons.

When we manage to escape back to the street, there are even more people milling around than before. There is an air of almost wild hysteria, high spirits; the store with sports equipment is full of young men picking up rugby shirts and checking their labels, or examining soccer shoes; the store with handbags is filled with women counting the compartments in the purses, trying the zippers, clicking the latches. I think I have found myself in a dream.

“Let’s go in and look at handbags,” I tell Joe. “I think it’s an Italian custom.”

He takes my arm, kindly but firmly. “I think we’d better get to the church if we want to see Marta’s concert.”

In the entry of the church is a bulletin board where a small sign is tacked up beside the photo of a beautiful young woman with long dark curls. Joe and I both step closer to read the message:

My name is Caterina Fellini, I am twenty-two years old,
I am Catholic and I live in Florence with my family, we are active in our church.

I can speak and write English very good, that was
given by the help of intensive courses at the British Institute
and by periods of permanence in England where I had the
possibility of working as a babysitter, too.

I can speak and write German very good, that was
given by long periods of permanence in Germany where I
worked as a cat sitter.

I can speak and write French quite good, that was
given by long periods of permanence in France, where I
cared for dogs. My only desire is to continue specialising
English not to forget it by making conversations with old
dames or handsome males and helping them at home.

Joe studies the announcement.

“Too bad we’re leaving. I could have practiced Italian with her and she could have improved her skills with me.”

“Which likely would have resulted in long periods of permanence in Italy for you…without me.” It is both a joke and not a joke. It has not been easy for me to live in Florence among the Botticelli maidens so plentiful here. But Joe—though hardly blind to the boundless beauty in this city—has been prudent and tactful in his appreciation of it. Even now, he takes my hand in order to end my teasing, reassure me, and lead me toward the chapel.

Inside the church, the concert has already begun. We are handed a program with forty-two songs listed on it, all of them Christmas songs, nearly all of them familiar to us. Our student, Marta, is listed as the very last performer on the program. Up front a choir of six-year-old angels is singing “O Little Town of Bethlehem”—with a noticeably out-of-tune piano accompaniment.

Though it’s bone-cold in the church, an ingenious electric heater is installed in the pew just under the Bible rack in front of us. All we need to do is push a button and the wires in front of our seat turn red, and warm our hands and knees. In a very short time, however, the air becomes hot and stuffy, so the device must be turned off. On and off, hot then cold, I am kept busy operating the heating system.

We sit through eight songs: between each one a group of children must march off the stage, the next group of children must march on. I begin to make a little paper boat of my program. Fold the paper in half, fold the edges down into triangles, fold the bottom edges up—and I have a paper hat. Now, open the bottom of the hat, fold again. Pinch the sides and pull the ends and voila, a little boat. Now I need somewhere to sail it.

Joe sits listening respectfully to Jingle Bells, Deck the Halls With Boughs of Holly, and once again, O Little Town of Bethlehem. I wonder if it would be rude to stretch out and lie down in the pew. I am suddenly very hungry.

I notice that many of the families attending this concert look astonishingly American—a sight I have not seen in some time. In fact, their faces appear weak to me and without character. I am not ready to confront America or Americans yet. If I am in Italy, forced to witness a Christmas concert, it should be of Italian songs, all sung in Italian. Pavarotti and Bartoli should be up there.

“Do you think we could leave in a little while?” I whisper to Joe.

“What about Marta’s solo?”

“It’s thirty songs away!”

“Maybe we can go out and then come back later.”

“Yes, good idea!”

“Maybe get something to eat.”

“Wonderful.”

At a convenient moment between numbers, we tiptoe out of the pew and march up the aisle. Once outside, in the night air, we rush along the street toward the lights of downtown. Joe says, “I think we have time for a quick dinner, and still can be back for Marta’s song.”

“Where shall we eat?”

“How about McDonald’s? They just opened a new one in the station. It’s nearby and bound to be faster than anywhere else.”

“We can begin our decompression there. We have to start making the transition to home in some fashion. The Golden Arches are as good a way as any, I suppose.”

The shops in the underground corridors leading into the train station are just as busy as the shops on the city streets. The crowds are not quite as thick, but there’s a lively flow around the merchandise, yet I don’t see people carrying parcels or bags.

At McDonald’s we have a decadent dinner of Big Macs and large fries and medium Cokes. This time, American style, they offer plenty of free ketchup packets. As I watch Joe remove the pickles from under his bun as he always does at home, I realize we have begun the long initiation to becoming American again.

When dinner is over and the paper cups and cardboard wrappers have been tossed, we emerge from the station refreshed, rested, and ready for more punishment. Back at the American Church we observe that Marta is still ten slots away from singing her song. But we are patient, blood sugar restored, mellow now in the certainty of an end in sight. As the world turns, Marta will sing, the concert will end, we will take the bus home, we will sleep, still in Italy, still in our Italian bed, safe from our own country for yet another few days.

When Riccardo comes the next evening—his last time—to practice English with Joe, our good Italian friend solves the mystery for us: “In Florence, on the Sunday three weeks before Christmas, all the stores open and stay open late. Every Florentine rushes into the city to look at the merchandise and choose the Christmas presents he wants to buy for others. (He also makes note of some things he hopes to get and where his family can find them.) He may not buy things right away—there are other stores to look at, prices to compare. But yes, that’s why you were caught in such a crowd. And perhaps why you didn’t see anyone buying things in the first hour or two.”

While Riccardo and Joe retire to the living room to converse in Italian (and to make plans for us to have dinner together so we can meet Riccardo’s betrothed, Angela), I take the suitcases out of the bedroom wardrobe and begin to contemplate how I might arrange our belongings for departure. How will I possibly fit so much volume into so little space? This is something akin to imagining how I can gather all my experience of Florence into a small area of my brain known as “memory” and cart it of to America without having to leave some precious things behind.