Mac was invited for Christmas Eve dinner at the DeFelice home. A feast of fishes, from linguini con le vongole, linguini with clam sauce, to a whole branzino, a sea bass, to calamari fritti, fried calamari, to polpoe patate, an octopus potato salad, to fried dough with alici, anchovies, inside, along with all the trimmings. Mac and Carla exchanged presents in Alberto's den, while Teresa subtly lured her husband into helping her in the kitchen. Mac went first, reading the homemade card Carla had made for him, which she signed “with love.” He tore at the newspaper-covered box, opening the lid ever so slowly, to peek inside, with a childlike smile on his face.
“It's not a snake, Mac. Just open the box, already. It's just a little something I thought you could use.”
Mac finally opened the box to find a beautiful Italian leather briefcase, with his initials embossed on the top flap.
“Carla, it's beautiful. Oh my God! I love it. Thank you, sweetheart. How did you know I needed a briefcase?”
“Oh, good, I’m glad you like it. Teresa told me that you run out of the office with your papers flying everywhere,” she laughed. “Now, you can look more professional,” she continued, laughing.
“Thank you, Carla. You are very thoughtful. I love it. Now open yours!”
Carla pulled at the white silk ribbon, and then on the shiny red wrapping paper, pulled tight over the book-sized box. She too opened the box slowly, losing her breath at the sight of all the diamonds and sapphires inside.
“Oh, Mac, it's beautiful! So beautiful!”
“Oh, I’m glad you like it. I went back to get the matching necklace this morning. I couldn’t leave it. They all live together.”
“It's too much,” said Carla, thrilled that it was, as she pulled the necklace out of the leather case, holding it up to her chest. “Help me put it on!”
The diamonds and sapphires were modest, but shined brilliantly against her olive skin, causing Mac to smile, happy he went for the whole set.
“Sei bellissima!” said Mac, as he looked at the necklace on her chest, and the earrings dangling from her ears. “Here, put on the bracelet, too.”
“Teresa, come see what Mac got your sister,” yelled Carla giddily, across the house. “You are going to want to borrow it!”
“Oh Carla, it is beautiful! Alberto, come see your sister. Sei bellissima!”
Alberto smiled when he came into his den, with a tear in his eye. He kissed his sister's cheek, and he gave Mac a big hug, like a brother.
“The next ball you can wear your own jewelry, Carla,” said her brother. “Mac, they are very nice. They must have set you back a bundle.”
“I’m glad you all like it. I love my briefcase. I really needed one desperately.”
They all laughed, opened their presents, and hugged each other like the family they now were. They sipped on Alberto's egg nog, while they sang Christmas carols, before going together to midnight mass at Trinita dei Monti. Carla kept her jewelry on all night, occasionally looking at Mac while touching her necklace, with an expression of love in her eyes.
They kissed on the front steps of the church, each going their separate way for the night. The spotlights on the church despite the blackout, it being Christmas Eve, were breathtaking.
Christmas Day, a large Plymouth was waiting for Mac at the Inn, as he walked out into the cold, crisp air of Piazza di Spagna. He got behind the wheel, deciding to forgo any driver on Christmas day. He was dressed for a day in the country in his white button-down shirt, his heavy tan corduroy trousers, his trusty worn penny loafers, along with a tweed overcoat, which he put in the trunk, with his grey felt hat. He was nervous, it being the day that he would meet Carla's parents and introduce Carla to his own Italian family that he mostly had never known. He drove to DeFelice home, parking in front, and he went to knock on the front door. All three DeFelices came bounding out of the house, carrying presents for the family, with kisses for Mac. They loaded up the trunk, with Alberto in the front passenger seat, the girls seated in the rear of the car. Mac took in Carla as she got into the car, in her green velvet Christmas dress worn just below the knee, showing her shapely legs, and her black ankle strapped shoes, and her new diamond and sapphire jewelry.
“I have to pick up flowers on the piazza before we go,” announced Mac, as he stopped the car by a flower wagon at the foot of the Spanish Steps.
He purchased two large bouquets of winter blooms, as the old lady selling flowers wished him a Buon Natale, Merry Christmas.
“I cannot show up at your house, or at my family's, empty handed.”
“We better get going, Mac,” said Alberto. My mother will have our heads if we are late for her dinner. It's a little over an hour, but who knows, with the Christmas traffic.”
Palombara Sabina is an ancient town of about thirteen thousand people in the heart of the Lazio region of Italy, just to the northeast of Rome. As they approached from the south, they could see the twelve-hundred-foot hill covered in ancient dwellings, intermixed with more newly built homes, particularly on the lower grade of the hill. It looked like someone had taken a child's building set and mushed all the houses together into a hill in the middle of a grass, farmland carpet.
The ancient streets and alleyways of cobblestone, with travertine and concrete buildings built on each side, were eclectic. Doors here, windows there, old, new, small, large, yet just charming in its disarray. Arched walls over alleyways, gas lights hanging from the sides of buildings, brick, stone, and concrete walkways. The view from the Savelli Palace at the top of the hill was magnificent. The farmland spread before them like a massive quilt below.
Mac was not totally prepared to see where his family was from, at least the oldness of it, despite his having seen pictures of the town before.
“My people could have lived in these same houses five hundred years ago,” he offered. “My dead ancestors could have been carted away during the Plague, down these narrow alleyways, this city is so old.”
The church had stained glass windows with his family name on it, yet those relatives had long been forgotten.
This is where I am from, not Poughkeepsie. This is where my people lived, where they married and had children, and where they died.
Mac was awe struck as he drove up the curved roadway, round and round, up the prodigious hill, towards the crest, and its tower.
“This is it, Mac,” said Alberto, as he pointed to a set of three steps, topped with brick, sided with concrete, jutting out into the narrow cobblestone street itself.
Ancient wisteria crawled upon the stone arched doorway, over which a precariously hung cement balcony with a wrought iron railing was ready to greet any unwanted guest with falling mineral debris. The ancient wooden doors were much older than the doors leading to the balcony, almost as if the balcony was added on hundreds of years later. Neither door had any modern lock, a skull keyhole the only protection against the outside world. The home across the alleyway stood no more than six or seven feet away, their doors and windows looking directly into the ones of the DeFelice family across the way.
“This is where we grew up, Mac,” said Alberto. “Is it any wonder why we all moved to Rome?” he laughed. “Here, park over here, Mac, by the wall. Just pull up as close to the wall as you can. But let us out first,” laughed Alberto.
Carla grabbed Mac's open hand, the one not holding a bouquet of flowers, as he got himself out of the parked car, while Alberto and Teresa grabbed the presents from the trunk.
“Come, Mac!” said Carla. “Come meet my family!”
Carla opened the door at the top of the three steps into a white stucco covered eating room, which is all you could call it, as a huge, distressed wood dining table, benches, and chairs, filled the entire room. The terra cotta tile on the floor was covered with a grass carpet upon which the table and eclectic collection of seats stood. On one wall was a distressed buffet and hutch, which held the DeFelice family dishes. The other wall featured a picture of Pope Pius XII, all decked out in his Papal Robes for his Elevation, and of Benito Mussolini in his ribbon festooned uniform.
“Mamma!” yelled Carla, as a middle-aged woman entered the room, dressed in a silk print dress, an apron tied around her waist, her hair up in a bun, with a simple, gold necklace over her substantial bosom. “Mamma, this is Tommaso Martini! We call him Mac, Mamma. Mac this is my Mamma, Chlorinda DeFelice. I look like her, no?”
“It is nice to meet you, Signora DeFelice,” said Mac, a little overwhelmed as the relatives started to pile into the eating room. He handed her the bouquet of flowers, which she threw on the distressed wood buffet, without comment. Mac looked at Carla, shrugging his shoulders at her mother's apparent disregard for the gift.
“This is my father, Telesforo! Papa, this is Tommaso!”
Signore DeFelice was a little older than his wife, graying at the temples, a little bit of a middle-aged paunch. He had on his Christmas grey wool slacks, a white short sleeve shirt, and a pair of new, Christmas slippers. He had been a government clerk in town for many years, where he still worked, when he felt like it.
“Welcome, Tommaso,” said Signore DeFelice. “We have heard a lot about you.”
“Mamma! Papa!” yelled Alberto and Teresa, as they entered the room, with armfuls of presents. “You met Mac, already, I take it?” asked Alberto, setting the gifts in the corner, under the Christmas tree, while the little children dove in front of him, hugging his legs.
“Mac, Tommaso? Which is it?” cried Telesforo, in broken English, laughing.
“It's Mac, that's what we call him, Papa,” said Teresa. “He is a nice boy. And be careful, he is my boss,” she laughed, along with everyone else.
“Nonna, Nonna, this is Mac, my boyfriend,” said Carla for the first time, causing Mac to smile. “Mac, these are my grandparents, Elvira and Luigi Sorge.”
Grandma Sorge was a short lady, grey hair, in her eighties, neat and tidy in her appearance. Her silk dress was colorful, particularly next to her husband's dour outfit, which looked like Telesforo's, only bigger. Grandpa Sorge was a butcher by trade, but his hands were soft and nice-looking, except for the one missing finger on his left hand.
“It is nice to meet you,” said Mac, not even attempting to get by the children running back and forth, to get over to shake their hands properly.
“This is my sister Anna, and her children. You will get to know their names as we go along,” laughed Carla. “Her husband is in North Africa fighting for what, we do not know.”
Anna was the eldest, still beautiful like her mother and sister, but tired looking from chasing her children.
“His name is Domenico, her husband,” Carla continued. “And this is Roberto, my youngest brother. He is still too young to fight, thank God!”
Roberto was fourteen years old, blond, handsome, and strapping. Mac could understand the concern.
“I think that is everyone,” laughed Carla. “Mamma, it smells wonderful, the dinner, and the tree, it is beautiful!”
“Lasagna,” said Chlorinda, “your favorite. Papa cut down the tree. He is lucky he didn’t get shot.”
“Tommaso, come, sit, in the living room,” said Telesforo. “Kids, out! Give our guest some room. How about a glass of wine?”
“I would love some wine, Signore DeFelice. You have a lovely home, sir. My grandparents live here in Palombara as well.”
“So, I’ve heard,” responded Signore DeFelice, as he poured himself and Mac a glass of wine. “You are a Martini. They live not far from here. Of course, there is nothing in this town that is far from here,” laughed Carla's father. “They live up top, by the Palace. We have been to their home, but it was years ago. I think that we met your parents, at that time. They were here from America, as I recall. Funny, no? Who knew that their son would be here now, looking to take my daughter, Carla? Such a small world, no?”
“I am going to see them later. I have not seen my grandparents since I was a little boy, when they came to stay with us in America. I would like for Carla to meet them.”
“Sure, sure!” said Telesforo, “after we go to the cemetery. You brought flowers to put on our mausoleum? That was very kind of you. Thoughtful boy.”
Mac smiled to himself, now understanding Mrs. DeFelice's unappreciatively tossing the flowers he brought on the buffet.
“You love my daughter, Tommaso?”
“Yes, sir, I do, very much. We only know each other a short time, but we just knew.”
“Yes, yes! It happens that way. Amore! You will take care of my daughter?”
“Of course, Signore DeFelice. I would die for her.”
“Oh, Tommaso, let's hope it does not come to that,” laughed the older man. “She is such a good girl. She will make a man very happy one day. Maybe it is you, Tommaso, if you treat her right.”
“Papa, leave Mac alone,” said Carla, as she came into the room to save Mac. “Look at the present he got for me, Papa. Aren’t they beautiful?”
“Bellissimo, Carla, just like you,” said her father. “Tesoro mio, my treasure. Mac is a good boy. I approve. Welcome Tommaso. Welcome to our family.”
“Let's eat!” yelled Chlorinda from the eating room, “before my lasagna gets all dried out!”
The DeFelice family squeezed in around the huge table, Mac and Carla sitting next to each other by her papa. No one touched a thing on the table until the youngest in the family, six-year-old Lisabetta said grace.
“This is incredible, Signora DeFelice,” said Mac, “the best I ever tasted!”
“Oh, thank you, Mac. You like my lasagna, so you can call me Mamma, and you get another piece.”
The DeFelice family ate tray after tray of lasagna, followed by roasted chicken, potatoes, and green beans. The wine flowed, the bread was broken, and the family fought and loved like all families. Mac was not only impressed, but he also fell in love with them all, separate and distinct from his feelings for Carla. He felt at home, and he was wishing his parents could be here to feel the warmth around this table.
After dinner, while the women did the dishes, the fruit and nuts came out for the men to enjoy, while digesting, both the food and each other's opinions. Grandpa Sorge started it off with his wish that Domenico, Anna's husband, was home from North Africa.
“What are we doing in North Africa?” asked Luigi rhetorically, in Italian. “Our boys must die somewhere we will never get to see. For what? Does it pay? Il Duce, il culo! He is an ass!”
“Papa,” said Telesforo, “we have a guest. Please!”
“Tommaso, what do you think about sending young men to their deaths in foreign countries?” asked Grandpa Sorge. “For what?”
“That is why we in America try to mind our own business. Our president, Roosevelt says he does not want our boys to die fighting fights that are not our own.”
“See, smart man, that Roosevelt,” said Grandpa Sorge. “Il Duce was a smart man at one time. He brought this country together. Gave us something to be proud of! But now he is drunk with power, he, and his fascist friends. They want to conquer the entire Mediterranean, bring us back to the days of the Roman Empire, like it is our birthright, or something, to rule what the Romans did. Bullshit! What does North Africa have to do with Palombara Sabina? What does Greece have to do with us? Albania, for Christ's sake? Who cares about these places? I say it's enough already! Now, this Hitler wants to drag us into something we will never be able to control. That's when the Americans finally come in, Mr. Roosevelt on his white horse, to send us back to the dark ages. Who needs it?”
“You are right, Grandpa,” said Telesforo, “but what choice do we have? This man, this Mussolini, he rules the country with an iron fist. He crushes any dissention, and if you don’t watch out, he will send the Squadristi here to crush you, and all of us, because you open your mouth too much.”
“You cannot be afraid to stand up, Telesforo,” said Grandpa Sorge. “What kind of man does not stand up for what he believes in? Alberto, tell him, tell your father. You work for those fascists, but you do not follow blindly, do you? You have God given brains, and balls, and you use them, no?”
Mac kept his mouth shut, as did Alberto, but Mac was taking it all in. Each of them had a point, as the argument raged on, but none of them was able to do anything anyway. Yet, Mac was taking mental notes for his next report back to the States, as this was clearly representative of how the Italians felt.
The ladies finally saved the men from themselves, coming back to the table with strong coffee, a bevy of beautiful desserts, and some common sense. The laughter returned with their dresses, as the men knew not to discuss politics at the table with the women around. The ladies did not want to hear it, nor did they want Christmas Day ruined. Carla put her hand on Mac's, smiling at him, as her mother looked on beaming at the happiness of her daughter.
“It's getting late, Mac,” said Carla. “We should visit your family. We can do the cemetery when we come back.”
Mac and Carla said their goodbyes, and they drove off to Mac's family's home, at the top of the hill. Mac knew his grandparents, as they had visited America, but the rest of the family he had never met. Mac's family home was not much different from Carla's, which Mac had known, as he had seen photographs from the trip his parents had taken to Palombara Sabina years ago.
Mac and Carla were welcomed inside, much as they had been at Carla's house, only reversed. Grandpa Alex and Grandma Carmella fussed all over Carla, and their grandson. Grandpa Alex was a house painter, his forearms like Popeye's. He was dressed as Grandpa Sorge, but his clothes were more tailored given his physical shape. Carmella, Mac's grandmother, was a rather big woman, also still strong and energetic. She wore a silk print dress, as seemed to be the style among the Palombara women, along with a Christmas apron, sensible shoes, and simple gold jewelry. Mac's Uncle Francesco and Aunt Alberta also fawned over Carla and their nephew, who they had never met, as their young children Stefano, Roberto and Teresa played under the dining room table, while the adults ate leftovers from dinner, and drank anisette afterwards. Francesco and Alberta were younger than Mac's parents, more stylish, and more cosmopolitan than most Italians from the country, as Uncle Francesco was an accountant for the national railway service, located in a suburb outside of Rome.
Mac's great grandmother, Rosario Iscaro, was getting ready for bed, but she too came out to give her blessing to the young couple beforehand. Rosario was old beyond her years, dressed all in black, with a black net over her gray hair, just like many older Italian ladies who were always in mourning over somebody. She spoke only Italian, as did her husband, Domenico, who said nothing but “bourn giorno,” repeatedly.
Alex and Carmella walked the young couple to the cemetery, with the entire family behind them, so that Mac could pay his respects to his dead ancestors by putting the flowers he had brought in the bronze vase built into the mausoleum for that purpose. Carla and Mac walked back hand in hand, with his family following, smiling at the young love they had once all enjoyed. Alberta had all the dishes done shortly after they had all returned, while Francesco was outside with their children, kicking around a soccer ball.
“I’m afraid we have to be getting back, Grandma,” said Mac. “But I would like to come back and spend more time with you, and with Grandpa.”
“That would be great, Tommaso. I am so happy you came to see us. It has been a long time.”
The couple said their goodbyes to the Martini clan, as Grandma Iscaro pinched Carla's cheek, saying “Quando sei bella!” meaning literally, “how beautiful you are.” Mac and Carla went back to her house and re-did the cemetery thing with her family. On their way back, Carla put her arm through Mac's, with her parents walking behind them, and she whispered in his ear, “I love you!”
“I love you too, Carla,” said Mac, loud enough for her parents to hear. “Potrei guardarti tutto il giorno!”
“You have been looking at me all day, Mac. I see the way you look at me, you bad boy,” Carla whispered. “I want to give myself to you,” she whispered, as her parents tried to hear, “only you!”
“I live for that day, amore mia!” said Mac.
“As do I, amore mio!” replied Carla.
As the day wound down, the two couples had to say their goodbyes, and get back to Rome before dark. There were no headlights permitted on public roads after dark. Carla's mother cried at her daughter's happiness, and she gave Mac a big hug and kiss. Her father, he clearly wanted to do the same, but he held back, just shaking Mac's hand vigorously with both of his hands.
“Take care of my baby, Tommaso,” said Telesforo. “You are a good boy. I know you will. Thank you!”
“Thank you, Signore DeFelice. I will. Always!”
The four jumped into the car, and they took off down the hills of Palombara Sabina.
“You did real good, Mac,” said Alberto, laughing. “Real good. I’m impressed. You should be a diplomat, or something.”
“Thank you, Alberto. You have a wonderful family,” said Mac. “I love all of you.”