Gerolamo & Lucia

This is a recounting of an adventure I had with Marty Miklusek in Italy in 1988.  Some years after the actual event, Marty asked me to help him write the story down. We agreed that each of us would write our version without hearing the other person's version and then we would trade and re-write. We never got to the second part because Marty was behind schedule turning this experience into a performance theater piece which was performed in Baltimore by the Larval Trading Company.  Marty's version is much shorter than mine and is included after mine.

Gerolamo & Lucia

Dear Marty

The story is actually a simple one.

On a grey, wet February afternoon in Florence, I was reading the classifieds in three different papers, looking for a job, a vespa, a situation, a mission, a guitar- anything, some crack in the wall to get a hold on to in order to stay in Italy.  I did not want to go home.  Partially to cure a broken heart, partially because I had never been anything, well, just anything, and I needed somehow to find my center or the “me” that I could live with,,, I needed to stay

I was sitting in the piazza by the Duomo which was obscured from the waist on up be the misty fog, wondering how I could become part of the life going on around me when I was “him”

He was passing purposefully through the square at an oblique angle about 50 yards away.  I watched my presence occur to him.  He looked up from his thoughts and present mission, swept his gaze directly to me through the crossing forests of people and in moments was standing next to my bench.  In Italian he began, "excuse me but you look-" changing immediately to English- "like someone who is looking for a way to stay here or perhaps you are trying to figure out how to have a different experience than what you are doing presently?  It seems this way to me."

"oh my God, its God," I thought, "Now what?"  Luckily, I was cynical enough to possibly chalk his perception up to "typical-opening-lines-of-insane-homosexuals".  Of course, everyone wants to stay in Florence and here I am, a solitary figure reading the classifieds.  But, I didn't look like a tourist as I was working in Florence at the time.  In fact, I was reading the classifieds in the square as a temporary escape from my present occupation.  I was grooming cats in exchange for room and board from Jerry Weaver, a 53 year old, German, homosexual, cat breeder and ex-patriot who raised cats and gave piano lessons in his apartment near San Martino.  Despite what I thought was overwhelming and overstated clarity about accepting the position, Jerry relentlessly attempted to coerce, seduce, connive and manipulate me into "the position."  But I digress.

I found out that God's name was Gerolamo and that he was an artist who lived on a farm 30 miles hence.  He was here (in Florence) presenting drawings for a proposal for a grant or public art.  (I can't remember).  Gerolamo was Dutch, but lived in Italy.  His curly blond hair seemed to radiate out from his blazing blue eyes and emulate (as best it could) a Byzantine halo.  His beard, which was also curly, gave him the overall impact of a lightweight, racing Santa Claus.

for some reason I can't remember, the time was not good for a visit, either he was away for a few weeks or I needed to do something (doesn't seem likely) or that there was more work to do in the summer (probably).  He gave me his address and went away and I did... many things, including finding that center I was looking for (really!) and explaining the "whole thing" to a desperate friend.  But that's not this story.

Five months later, I met up with my friend Marty, that's you.  And likewise, we did many things that were not part of this story, perhaps learning to be off-center for vacational purposes, perhaps hanging the center on the clothesline and beating the dust out of it, perhaps we were acting beyond our own wills as monkey wrench toting dervishes to shake up the locals, confounding them with simpleness.

Owing to our simpleness and/or lack of shame, we were busqueing in Sienna -a classical jewel of a town known for chamber music where string quartets practice in the squares- trying to earn our keep and trying the patience of the splendidly clad gentry, (no doubt on their way to an outdoor picnic concert).  Although we enjoyed playing together, (experimenting in harmony, dissonance, cooperation and antagonism) we had learned that people enjoyed us better playing apart, as more coin fell into the case when "we" were but "he" or "I".

And so, Marty left to paint in Piazza Campaignola(?), a lovely amphitheater-like commons in the center of town.  I had been playing (shamefully, though at least I received pity in the form of contributions for a finer bowed instrument... or a train ticket) for a few hours to my kindly offended moving audience when I saw "Him" walking along through the crowd.  As though I had yelled to him, he looked up from his thoughts, looked straight at me and traversed the lanes of pedestrian traffic.

"You" he said smiling, "have managed to stay.  I am happy to see you.  I was thinking of you just now because I just met someone.  I was crossing the big square and .. I was drawn to his concentration, yes, he was painting with.. with love and attention.  And I remembered your sketchbook which you carried when we last met.  He is an American, like you."

I told him that I knew of whom he spoke and what a funny coincidence it was that he would, of all people, pick two people who knew each other to introduce himself to individually, in different towns, six months apart.  (As I found out later, he ventured out away from his home very rarely, in fact, he had met me on his last excursion).  "Well," I said in parting, "At least we'll feel more comfortable visiting you together, since you've invited us both."

Marty returned later with all the shadows of a building in the square painted.  It was beautiful, orange and blue shadows surfacing out of a black/brown ground.  While I was examining it, Marty suddenly snapped his whole body and slapped the back of his head.  "I," he began.  "met Jesus Christ today." I finished

"Yes."  he said.

    Well, that's part of the prologue, which will suffice as the fork for this necessarily-disentangled-portion of the pasta we call history.

Chieti, Toscana, Italy, September 1988

Originally, we had planned to pick grapes in northern Italy where the vendemia comes earlier. Marty rode to Alba on the vespa and I took the train to the closest city, Asti, and hitchhiked there.  No one had ever heard of our contact person and we had no luck finding other work so we returned to Florence.  I vespa’d and Marty took the train. We got another contact name from a girl from Montalcino and went to visit Herr Schwarz.  We were hired, but we were a week or so early.  We decided to visit Gerolamo who was only 60 or 70 kilometers from there.  Me, Marty, two backpacks, two tents and the guitar –all on the vespa, the French vespa with the yellow headlight.  And we only had one helmet since the other had been stolen in Rome.

Skip over the Police in Chieti, but it follows that we pushed the vespa up the driveway to Gerolamo’s little house.  It was a long driveway which went steeply up at first, but fairly quickly decreased its angle, as though you were walking onto the top of a dome.  The driveway went between the house on the left and the chicken pen on the right and ended  in front of a shed.  The house, the shed and chicken coops and other outbuildings had the feeling of the “rural compound”.  All somehow connected; if not actually, then by fence, if not by fence, by the aesthetic and building practice of the solitary builder.

I believe Gerolamo was doing something with his diesel generator when we arrived.  He stopped and exuberantly (an adverb he was good at) welcomed us.  I think it was around 2 or 3 in the afternoon.  He introduced us to Lucia, apparently his wife, and the two kids, Dimitri and ?.  We talked for about 20 minutes about how long we could stay and how lovely it was to be here and maybe had some water but it was obvious that there were things to get one on this little self-sufficient farm.  It just seemed as though we had interrupted “the flow” of a fairly well oiled machine and it was awkward “just” talking.  So we found ourselves with our first little chore in no time which was to snip off the bunches of grapes hanging from the roof trellis which shaded the lower side of the house.  I had to stand on a chair to reach them with the pruning shears.  Marty was either gathering the lower ones or hanging cherry tomato plants under the eves of the house facing the driveway.  Once the grapes were picked, I hung a peck or two in a drying frame that Gerolamo had made of old widows.  The majority of the grapes, however, had to be hung from the ceiling of the little room on the low side of the house, the doorway of which opened to the area covered by the trellis.  This little cave-like room became Marty’s and my bedroom.  Each little cluster of grapes had to be hung with a piece of twisted wire from slats of wood that also needed to be affixed to the ceiling.  Anyway, we were eager helpers and we liked their house and overall “situation”.  It was obvious that they tried to live off the land and be frugal and creative in using everything.  So we got our chore done and wandered around the house to where Lucia was preparing dinner.  They had a small “kitchen” which seemed to be mostly a place to store food, pots and pans, and do the dishes.  Right outside this kitchen area was a long but narrow terrace.  There was a short retaining wall about 8 feet from and parallel to the west wall of the house, which bounded the terrace.  It was 2 to 3 feet high near the kitchen area and had a short hedge growing on top of it.  There was a long wooden table, maybe 10 feet long where most of the food preparation and eating was done.  Sitting snuggly between the stucco wall of the house and the retaining hedge, the table had a very intimate atmosphere, especially considering it was outside.  It was here we found Lucia and soon I was peeling pumpkin and Marty was chopping onions.  Lucia was tall and straight with sharp, noble features.  Though I knew that both she and Gerolamo were Dutch, it was only obvious in her.  I kept tying to figure out which of the old masters’ paintings she had fallen out of.  That is not to say she was beautiful, rather, she was handsome, with the straight nose, piercing eyes and cleft chin one expects from a musketeer.  But while she was pleasant and smiled occasionally, she lacked mirth, something Gerolamo did not, like the stereotypical overly introspective, older sister who doesn’t have the natural openness and charm of the younger sister (I don’t know where I got this one or where I’m going with it).  So we’re preparing dinner and talking about how nice it is here; a beautiful view to the south out over the Tuscan hills, its a warm September day, etc..... and Gerolamo returns and gives us a tour of the house and his studio-where he is carving a 7 foot venus of willendorf (chubby wubby) out of marble-  and the premises; the chicken coop, the goat pen, the outhouse, etc.  Gerolamo explains about the outhouse, that it is like a big concrete funnel, which he “flushes” once a day since there is no running water on the premises.  We return to the table and have pumpkin/onion stew, zucchinis and brown bread that’s made in a pan, like brownies.  This is particularly hearty bread, it has real body and strength.  “This is because we get whole grain flour, they grind it up the road,” Gerolamo explains.  “Of course we cannot make everything ourselves, a few things we must buy, but the coarse grind flour they make for livestock, oh, it is very inexpensive.”  And the first piece was good but it was not thrilling to eat, but who’s complaining?

So, over dinner and afterward we found out about them and they about us.  They were not married but Gerolamo described meeting Lucia, as a revelation in his life.  He had turned from his life of sole ambition and unitary strength and realized that they were a team, and that giving and taking, reliance and responsibility was real (its too confusing if I say strength) virtue.

Marty and I explained our situations also.  I had started my trip to re-win my ex-girlfriend, Liz’s heart.  I had figured the surprise attack was the best strategy and had shown up at her place in Venice, to surprise her.  She was surprised.  Now I was traveling “till I felt better” and “figured it all out”.  So I was a bit of a wandering raincloud.  Marty was just hip to travel and was slowly working his way to Rome, where Tyler School of Art had a campus.  Liz and I had met there one and a half years before, which started my traveling career.  Mary, Marty’s girlfriend, Marty and I went to Tyler.  Liz went to Wesleyan.  Whoa, where am I going?  Oh, Marty is slowly working his way down to Rome to visit Mary.  He’s having the time of his life, traveling, painting, looking, busqueing(sp?) and had already, on one occasion, spontaneously started crying and cheerfully confessed, “Oh John, I just love Mary so much I can’t stand it!”  And there we were.  Telling why we were traveling together.  Of course, in writing this, I realize now that in many ways we mirrored Gerolamo and Lucia.  She, somewhat cautious and reserved, He, with the expression of barely controlled ecstasy, like he’s just seen god, laughing and rolling his head and tugging at his beard.

“You know,” says G, “it is interesting, in this way, to meet you.  When I meet Marrrrty, ahhh, Marrty, I feel so easily drawn to him.  This is because he is weak!  Not the bad kind of weak, that is not what I mean, he is Weak and this is Good!  John, oooooh, john.  You are strong. You are so strong john.  People feel your strength, john, and then they try to be strong, too.  But this is not good, John,  not good.  I was strong,  LIKE YOU JOHN, oh, I was so strong.  Marty is weak, ahhhh, Marrrtyhe is sooooo weak.  You see this, I think.”

“Well, I think I see your point, “ I say, and I do because Marty has always been someone who’s easy to meet and talk to and, try as I might, I wasn’t really.  I had always been shy and thought that showing someone you liked them was, if unreciprocated, a burden placed on them.  “But isn’t that just the way it is?  Some people aren’t as easy to get to know, but maybe it’s more rewarding when you do.”  I said something like that and we were all off on the weak/strong discussion, what it implied, what it meant, was there hope, etc.

Gerolamo says, “You see, we do not wish to upset you by this talking, but you will be here only for a few days and then you will go.  If we talk about the weather then you will not really know us, I think you understand this?”  Oh, of course it was fine with us, it was more interesting and it was amazing how intuitive they both were about us.  They always hit it right on the head.

“You know, John, I was strong, like you, john, I was very strong.  I thought it was good that I was so strong.  I could do everything myself, I could take care of myself but I was not living.  I was using all my power to be strong.  I was very strong, john, like you.  Then I met Lucia, and Lucia, Lucia is weak.  Because she is weak, she gives all.  Do you understand this?  Lucia gives all, john!  She is very weak.  She showed me how to be weak.  Do you see this?  I had to trust  Lucia, which I did not want to do because I was so strong, but I had to trust her, and now I am more living and not so strong because of Lucia.”

“Yeah, I suppose its true I should be more weak, I guess, but I think I just seem to be extra strong because I’ve been dumped and I don’t feel all that great about it” I said.

“No, You are too strong, John, too strong!  You are sad and you make yourself stronger.  Why? You feel weaker because you are sad and you make yourself stronger, I think this is fighting against yourself and others, john, do you see this?”

“I totally know what you’re talking about,” says Marty, “Its true, you just have to let your emotions out.”  And I’m sure he goes back to dreaming about Mary and how wonderful emotions were; having them, letting them out, having more emotions about letting emotions out, dream, dream, dream.

“You see? Marty is weak!  He gives to us and also, he trusts us because he is weak, he can listen.  Ahhhhh, Marty, Marrrty.”

“Yes, John, it is very strange for me to have you here,” says Lucia. “I can feel your distrust and your distance... and yet, I am drawn to help you because, like Gerome(“nickname”), you are strong and it brings me toward you.”

“I don’t distrust you,” I reply, “it’s just that, well, I just met you and it takes...”

“Because you are too strong,” says Lucia.

And so the conversation continued for a while with occasional distractions about how nice it was to live the way they did.  “Living like Kings”, I or Marty had said during our simple dinner.  “You believe we live like Kings?” said G, looking out the corner of his eyebrow. 

“Good food, beautiful home,” I said.

“That you live the way you want to is the thing,” Marty said.

“Ah, I see, yes then, we live like Kings,” said G, mow assured we weren’t kidding, “and you like this way we live?”

“Oh yeah”

Eventually, G and L went to bed leaving Mary and I at the Table, Marty having his last cig.  “Pretty sharp,” I said.  Mary shook his hand, palm down, the one does after someone makes a triple combination shot at pool.

“Wheeeew, their antennae are up.  You know, the amazing thing is, they’re right.  They just pegged you right off the bat.”

“I’m sure this is lots of fun for you, Marty-ahhh-Marrrrty, maybe not so much fun for me.”

“Oh, totally,” says Marty, “I mean, its just interesting the things they point out and the way they describe it.  Is like a whole new philosophy.” We joked for a while and went to bed.

G woke us, as promised, at 4:30 am.  Little sponge bath, fetch some water from the spring and get a few hours of work in before breakfast.  Standing up the hill (west) of the house, the sun came up reaching us before the valley between us and the sun.  The flock of fugitive mist creatures drifted out of the greenery, up the hill and dissolved into the day.  Our project was to dig a 16-foot by 16-foot flat spot in the side of the hill, for a ciement (chee ment) water tank.  So on the low side of the hill we had to dig down only far enough to level it from side to side, and then proceed to dig straight into the hill, which would leave a 3 or 4 foot wall of dirt in front of us when we were done.  G brought some odd digging utensils, none of which I had ever used successfully to dig earth.  G took the “ostrich foot” tool and quickly and expertly removed a swath 6 feet wide and a foot long.  I tried it.  It was like trying to use a car antenna to cut a turkey.  Mary tried it, looking equally foolish.  “Hmmm,” said G, “I do find this to be the best tool for me.  Maybe you must get accustomed to it or maybe another instrument will work better for you.”  He demonstrated again, deftly removing another 6 square feet of rocky earth and then leaving us to our own devices.  By breakfast time, an hour later, we had removed almost as much dirt as he had.

More brown bread for breakfast, and fruit and coffee with goat’s milk.  G poked fun at our digging speed, good-naturedly and decided that he should dig with Marty and I should help L for a while.  Then I could come up and dig.

While washing last nights’ and the mornings’ dishes and cookware, L said, “You know, John, We don’ t mean to trouble you with our observations.” “Oh, its no problem,” I said, “besides, its partially true.” “Yes, it is true, John, you are too strong.  So strong that you cannot trust us, even though you know we are right.”

 “I didn’t say I didn’t trust you.”

“But you won’t let me give to you, John, I am weak, you must trust me completely, and I can give you all.”

“What do you mean by trust you completely?”

“You see? You don’t trust me, you can’t, you are too strong!”

“I mean, I trust you in what you say, I believe that you are right about many things.”

“But you don’t trust me completely.”

“Okay, maybe I don’t but I trust you as much as I would..”

“You don’t trust me, I don’t know if I can speak to you.”

“What? Look, I didn’t mean I don’t trust you like I’m afraid of…”

“John, You are water, John, and I, I am fire!”

“Oh.”

“I am fire, John”

“And I am water? Okay, well I am a cancer, after all and I’ve always been pretty steady, slow to…”

“John,…………. I am in love on you.”

“Oh,.. that must be because you’re fire but I’m only …”

“John, I am in love on you and you don’t trust me.”

“Well, love is a good reason not to trust someone, NO, I’m just kidding, okay well, look you don’t even know me.”

“You know I know you, John, and you know you should trust me but you can’t let yourself.”

“No, you don’t know me, you know some things about me, and if you’d relax a little, maybe we’d each know more about each other instead of…”

“I don’t know if I can stand this not trusting me any longer. Is there something wrong with me that makes you hate me?”

“I DON’T HATE YOU!”

“YOU DON’T TRUST ME, AND THIS IS LIKE HATE TO ME.”

“You say I don’t trust you.  There are degrees of trust, its not black and white, just because I don’t want to sleep with you doesn’t mean I don’t trust you.”

“I did not say I wanted to sleep with you.”

“OKAY THEN, WHATS THE PROBLEM?”

“You don’t trust me.”

“What would I do if I trusted you?”

“You would know, if you trusted me.”

“LUCIA, this is like a catch twenty-two…”

“John,….. I am FIRE.”

“Yeah, I know that.”

A little while later, I’m digging with Marty.  “How ya’ doing, Strongman?”

“Porko Miseria, Lucia is in love on me.”  Lots of snickering.  “How’s diggin’?“

“Once you get over the embarrassment  of it being a spectator sport, it’s okay, “ Marty says, “I just shovel away what G has dug up and take lots of cigarette breaks and talk a lot.  Actually, … I’m exhausted.”

“That’s because you’re weak.”

“I love being weak.”

“I refuse to accept any emotion I feel about being strong.”

“John, how did she say it?”

“She is in love on me.”

“On you?”

“It’s a language thing; ‘on me’, she’s in love on me.”

Marty is crying, laughing, digging and intoning, “Oh, John, I am in love on you.”

“Watch it Mart, Antennae are all around, they’ll just know.”

“So what are you gonna do?”

“In what way?”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“Well, I’m not going to sleep with her.”

“Did she ask you to?”

“Well, that’s a funny question, it’s peculiar when someone picks up a knife and asks you to trust them.”

“She picked up a knife?”

“No! well actually we were doing the dishes so she probably did, but I meant it metaphorically, she  picked up the, uh, coital dagger, as it were.”

“How did she say it?”

“Well, she didn’t actually say it, but she meant it, trust me.”

“I cannot trust you, John,” Marty mimics, “you are too strong.”

“Should we be nervous, Mart?”

“Nah, what could happen, except you losing some of your strength,… and your honor, Ahhh, losing your essence, its all clear now.  You’ve just got to tap  off some of the old essence and you’ll be weak.”

“Marty,” I mimic

“Yes, John,” he mimics

“I am not in love on her.”

“Marrrty, John, how are you doing?” G inquired, approaching.

“Getting better at using this fine instrument,” I said, regarding the ostrich foot. 

“Diggin’ it,” says Mart.

“What?” says G.

“I’m diggin’ it, its slang for liking something and it’s a pun on what we’re doing.”

“Ah, yes, I think that I understand, ‘diggin it’ “ muses G.

“We’re much better at diggin’ than actually digging, I’m afraid,” I say, digging.

“What?” says G.

“OH, sorry,” say I, “ We are better at diggin’-enjoying- than digging –moving dirt around.”

“Ahhh, yes, I think that I, too, am good at ‘diggin’, Yes I think so, I enjoy everything, even things I don’t like, sometimes I enjoy.  Maybe this is crazy, but maybe I enjoy being crazy,” G speculated.  G started digging again, really enjoying it, of course, and bringing the project into the realm of being done today.  “John, maybe you should help L with dinner and Marty and I well finish this.”

“Sure,” say I.

Lucia was blustering around, not talking to me.  I cleaned up some of the dishes, put others away, occasionally smiling at L to spite the fact that she was ignoring me.  I played with Dimitri (or whichever was older) till he got hurt or tired, I could never tell which, it was just time for his nap when he became indestructible.  In the quiet of his absence, L’s silence was becoming absurd.

“Are you okay, Lucia?”

“Why do you ask if I’m okay?”

“Because you’re stomping around the house making a point of not talking to me.  Seems like a lot of work.”

“If that’s why you’re asking, why should I answer.  You talk to me because my silence bothers you, not because you care about me.  Why should I make you feel better if you hate me?”  Stomp, stomp, stomp into the kitchen.

“Lucia, let’s get this clear, I don’t hate you, I think you’re a nice person.  If I have reacted badly to something you’ve said, I’m sorry, Some things make me uncomfortable.”

“Like me saying I’m in love on you?”

“Yes, I met you yesterday.  That’s pretty quick to … be in love on someone.  And it seems like the only reason you choose to be in love on me is because I’m here and, of the two of us, Marty has a girlfriend.  It’s not really very flattering to be picked when you’re the only fish in the bowl.”

“So, you think I act too quickly?”

“Well, yes, it usually takes me a long time to feel… so strongly about someone.”

“But how long will you be here?”

“Oh, a week, I think we’ve gotta leave Saturday.”

“So you will not know me that long?”

“Well, yes, that’s true, but…”

“So, you have, in a final way, already decided that you cannot be in love on me.”

“No, wait, I haven’t decided that, exactly, I’m just saying that…”

“John, you are very frustrating to me.  You know that I am drawn to you and you keep me away.  You say you have not made a decision but you have, you say you trust me but you don’t, what am I supposed to do?”

“Maybe chill out.”  -look of confusion- “I mean, something between the two extremes, you’ve either got the flame on the stove on High or Off.  There is an in between.”

“I am fire, John”

“I know, I know, but water needs time to change.  If you know I’m water, you should expect me to act the way I do.  I like you, I don’t love you, I don’t hate you, okay?”

“You like me?”

“Yes.”

“You think I am a nice person?”

“Yes, a little nutty, but, just kidding, yes, you’re nice.”

      That seemed like enough for that “session”.  We worked and talked about other things and then, after visiting the outhouse for the second time that day, I went to checkup on the digging.  I passed Marty on his way to the outhouse.  G was carrying some bright orange steel beams up to the sight.  He explained that they were the frame for the walls of the cistern and that he had gotten them cheap at an auction.  It was something like a steel inner structure with corners that got concrete poured into it after boards were bolted to it, and then you take the boards off and ‘viola’ (I mean ‘Ecco”), cistern.

“How’s the digging coming?”

“Oh, hmmm, well, it is very nice to work with Marty, usually, I am working alone.  You know, it is interesting to me because of this; when I am working alone, I enjoy getting work done, you see?  And now, I am working with Marty, and I am enjoying doing the work, you see this?”

“You mean you are not getting anything done, but you are having a good time?”

“Yes, yes, yes, that is one way to see it.”

“I know that ‘dog-fence’ feeling,” I replied, in the habit of making up false american expressions.

“Dog-fence feeling,” G repeated quietly to himself, learning.

Marty arrived back and we finished the last foot or so of digging.  G left to tend to the animals.  Marty and I rattled the tools around for a while, leveled out the pad and joked about our strange situation.

“Been to the outhouse, lately?” I asked, deadpan.

“Only a dozen times –today!”

“Man oh, man, I’m not usually one to talk about this sort of thing, but, shit, it’s just amazing!”

“It’s just amazing, or the shit is amazing?”

“In this case, both! It’s amazing to shit such amazing shit.”

“Shiiiiiit!”  “And then 5 minutes later, ditto.”

“I thought it was just me, but it has seemed like the seat’s always warm.”

“It’s smokin’ that seat, tssssss (the hot sound)”

“I feel great though, I don’t think I’m sick.  I’m losing weight, I’m gonna wither away, the ratio is like 4 to 1”

“1 to 4,” Marty says, illustrating the dominant direction, “it’s the miracle of the loaves.”  Etc, etc.

Before dinner that night we made cheese out of the goat’s milk.  It was done by heating the milk in a large (LARGE) pot and letting it cool.  While it was cooling, they added an enzyme (I think) to the pot.  After some time they scooped all the thick cream off the top and poured it into a colander with a cloth in it, letting the excesses run back into the pot.  That was the “first” cheese.  Once, all the “cream” was gone and only skim milk was left, a different enzyme was stirred in.  After some time we took clothe and dragged it through the pot, catching all the string cheese bits.  After you got a fair amount, you’d wring the cloth out with the cheese in it, to get rid of the water.  While we were making the cheese, it occurred to me that there was no refrigerator.

“It would be nice to have one, but we cannot power it.  We have just the 6-volt lights if we need them.  Besides, for 4 or 5 months a year, we do not need one, the earth takes care of this.”

“I guess if you have a goat, you don’t need a fridge,” I mused, thinking of cream in my coffee, my only real refrigeration need.  I wonder what animal would give just enough milk for two cups of coffee?”

G wrapped up the cheese in the cloths and put them up in the rafters.  He took down one that was already up there and unwrapped it.  Examining it, he found a hole with fly larvae in it.  He cut these out with his knife, tasted the cheese, rolled his head from side to side and decided it was good.  I would like to dip them in wax, but our bees are sick.  They have the blight.  Poor bees.  But I got some treatment for them from the beekeepers council, I think it is working.

We had zucchini, rice, brown bread, chicken and cheese for dinner.  Marty caught my eye and peered (or leered) knowingly at the highly fibrous, whole grain bread.  G suddenly popes up, “Oh, I must tell you, I am flushing out the latrine with water today and I think, Oh, I must be living with horses, that is what I said to myself, I cannot believe it, I am glad I did not wait any longer.”  Marty and I are a mixture of amused, apologetic, embarrassed and, who knows, maybe even proud?  “

“I think it’s this fine bread.” I point out.

“It’s cleaning me right out,” says Mart, “I’m usually a once a day kind’o fella.”

Gerolamo is laughing in his beautiful, childlike, Santa Claus-like way.  “You might know this, this is not a job that I enjoy a great deal.  Usually, I am not thinking about it, but this time, because it was maybe more awful, it was kind of wonderful, you understand shat I am saying?”  Marty and I are laughing and nodding and G goes right on, “You know when sometimes you make a smell, and it is so strange and terrible and then you  must keep smelling it.”  He takes a few long sniffs, “And I think, ‘I made that!’”   G is downright merry (as usual) at this point,  “You know what I am saying?  I say to myself, how did I do that?  Where did it come from?  It is so terrible, I keep smelling as if, as if I cannot believe it, I keep checking, it is very awful and so, in some way, I am enjoying it.”  G is crying with laughter now.

“Pass me another piece of that bread,” says Marty.

“The more you take, the more you give,” I incant as I pass the pan.  G has meanwhile given up talking, silently streaming gallons of water down the side of his face, rocking and reflecting.

I notice, while we are eating, that G does not eat any meat.  I know he raises and slaughters the animals, but he does not eat them.

Somehow the subject of  “Richard” came up.  I don’t remember if it was because we were talking about the windmill and he helped with it or maybe I reminded them of Richard, I can’t remember.  My impression was that Richard had been living there for a while and helping them considerably, but I don’t know if he knew them from Holland or what.  Anyway, it was something along these lines.  “Oh yes, it is very nice talking with you two.  I like very much talking after dinner.  Lucia and I, sometimes, we are working so hard here, that we can forget about everything else, and sometimes we do not need to talk, because we know , we just know and we sit very quietly.  But it is nice to have new conversations, to NOT know.”

“That’s funny,” I say, “I always get the feeling you know anyway.”

“Sometimes, we do know,” says Lucia quietly, “like with Richard.”

“Yes, this is true,” G reflects, “Richard was here and helped us a great deal, and it was a good time when he was here.  We would sometimes start talking after dinner and forget to go to sleep,” G says smiling, ethereal.  And then he frowns and lowers his bushy eyebrows, “but then one day, he said something, something small, and I knew, I knew and when I saw Lucia, I looked at her and she knew.  We knew that Richard had changed his mind about us.  He no longer believed in us.  He was leaving.”

“And he left?”

“Yes, but for us, it was like ‘our friend Richard’ had died right then, and we mourned him as if we had lost him to death, we had to bury ‘our friend Richard’.”

“So you never heard from him again?”

“Our friend Richard is dead, we cannot hear from him.”

Just the type of pause you might expect.

“So, was Richard strong or weak?” Marty offers out.  I roll my eyes.

“Well, he was funny, he was sometimes strong-“ G says, head cocked one way, “-and sometimes weak,” head cocked the other way, “more like a....”(doing an impression)

“Seesaw,” Marty posits.

“Yes, more like a seesaw than....”(a minimalized version of the same impression)

“A balance?” I suggest.

“Yes, yes, more like a seesaw than a balance, yes, this is it.  When he was weak, oh, he was very open.  But sometimes, then, he would gather up much strength and close himself off and work alone.”

“But I could always know how he was,” said Lucia, “I always felt just what Richard felt, even if he was being alone, I would always know.”

“Even when he was strong?” asked Marty.

“Yes, even when he was strong, just like John, I could know.”

“You see this, John?  Lucia can know, even when you are strong, isn’t this good?  Lucia can know because she is weak.  You do not need to be so strong, you must learn to Not be so strong or you will be so rigid you cannot move to take apart the wall you are making.  You are proud you can build such a strong wall but you are wrong to be proud, I think you KNOW this!  Lucia knows this, you must ASK and you do not want to ASK, you see this?  John, oh, John, I was like you, maybe I was stronger than you, John.  I was so strong, John.  But Lucia, Lucia knew and Lucia is weak.  You must learn to be weak, John, You could be FREE!  When you are weak, you are free, do you understand this?  You can have a house but if you cannot come outside, well, then it is a different kind of house, yes, it is a jail.  If you cannot go outside, John, you are not free.  Marty, ahhh, Marrrty!  Marty is free, he is weak, he can visit others and they can visit him, because he is weak.  When you visit someone, you do not need to lock your door!  Of course you do not, they have welcomed you through an open door, and you have come to see them.  Why lock the door?  Marty’s door is open and when people meet Marty, they feel that he is weak, you see?”

“I understand what you’re saying.  And you’re right in many ways, about Marty and about me,” I reply, “But I think that its not so...”

“JOHN!” Lucia breaks in, “You heard what G said and you are fighting.  It is good that at least you are listening because you know then.  I know that you know, but you are still fighting.  Who are you fighting, John?  We are not fighting with you, and so, John, you are fighting yourself.  Don’t fight yourself, John, shat will happen if you win?”

“I’m not fighting myself,” I said, “I’m even trying to give you credit... Look, I admit that you are right about many things, okay?  I just don’t think its such an extreme situation.  I think I should be a little weaker...”

“You see, John,” Lucia said, “You are fighting.  You want to trust but you cannot. You have no faith and so you are trying to make bargains with yourself so you can stay strong and not change.  This is what it means to be strong.”

“But,” I begin, exasperated by the inevitable path this is going to take, “is it completely impossible to work on this on my own, maybe a bit at a time?”

“Ohh, John,” G, shaking his head, “you are soooo strong.”

“You go on arguing with yourself,” said Lucia, “You will do anything not to take down your wall.  John, You are upsetting me!”

“Well, imagine how I feel,” I say.

“I am FIRE, John, I am FIRE!”  Lucia says.  Marty nearly swallows his tongue trying not to laugh.

I sigh, “I know that.”

“She continues, “I told you I was in love on you, John.  And I know that you are in love on me!  But you are fighting, John, desperately fighting to keep your walls.  Maybe I should let you keep them, maybe I shouldn’t try to help you!  But I am in love on you, John, and it upsets me...”

“I’m sorry to upset you,” I say.

“But I cannot help myself,” she says, “because I am fire.”

“Lucia is very upset,” says G, “She wants to help  you, John, do you see this?  Lucia can help you because she is weak.”

“I’m trying,” I say, “but I’m a little slower to move than most people.”

“I see this,” says G, “It is very difficult for someone who is strong.  I know.”

As I stare up at the dark bunches of grapes hanging over me in our little cave room, I contemplate the absurdity of the situation.  Should we run for our lives honor?  Should I just sleep with Lucia even though I have no desire to? A quote my brother often uses comes back to me, “Never sleep with anyone crazier than yourself.”  Previously, I had only thought of this in terms of denying ones own desire, but the present situation threw a new curve into the equation.  I had no desire so how could I deny it?  Maybe the quote just held, straight across the board.  I was sort of in awe that I was even considering having sex with someone I thought was crazy, who I wasn’t attracted to and who made me nervous, just to relax the situation.  Hmmm, this would not relax the situation, it would just escalate it to the next step.  Yuk.  Funny, I hadn’t even considered the joy of ejaculation into the whole thing.  Hmmm.  It didn’t count I decided and it may not even be possible.  But suppose it was.  Pregnancy? the implications were unthinkable.  But what else might she do with my little homunculi? Voodoo?  If there was a god, this would certainly be a test of just how weak my character was. Okay, we’ve  taken out desire, biological need, attraction and the thrill of doing something wrong.  Al you’re got is a little peer pressure.  And just in case, we’ll throw in a little fear to help you make the right choice.  Umm, I’ll fuck her, next test, please? – not in a million years.

“Good night, Fire,” whispers Mart and chuckles till he whimpers and, finally, snores.

We actually took it, relatively, easy the next day.  Up at 4:30, leveled the digging site, had some breakfast and we all took a walk through the goat pen out into the north side of the property.  After a small uphill jaunt, the trek was downhill, sometimes steeply.  Babies, carriages, L, G, M and myself followed a path, then an old road, then a trail and came at last to the bottom of the valley which was, perhaps a glacier dropping (?)  It was all large rocks.  We explored around awhile and then returned. [1]  The next day G would get the cement (chêment) mixer and we would pour the pad and the cistern.  So today we needed only to get ready for a full days work tomorrow.  A truck came and dropped off some supplies.  We attached the steel beams and some wood planks.  During lunch we got into the whole strong/weak thing again, otherwise known as “my problem.”

“I do trust you, but does it necessarily mean I have to sleep with you?” I said for the xxth time.

“It is you who decided that that is what it means for you to trust me.  Why did you decide that?” L asked.

“Am I wrong?”

“You are the one who decided, I do not know if you are right or wrong.” She answered.

“If I was to trust you, what would you do, or even, how do I go about trusting you?”

“I would know if you trusted me, but you do not trust me, John”.

“Well then, it seems hopeless, doesn’t it?”

“You are too strong, John.”

Marty and I are walking down the driveway after lunch.  “This is becoming aggravating,” I say,  “Its a big circular argument that is a whirlpool into Lucia’s bed.  I mean, I think they’re right on about a lot of stuff but the implications are a little odd.”

“Hmmm,” answers Mart.

“Well, what do you think?” I say.

“Well, you are a little strong.” says Mart.

-Oh great-  “MARTY! What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, I mean, well, they’re right, you never tell me how you’re feeling, what your hopes and fears are.  You’re kind of... strong.”

“Okay, wait a minute, this is crazy.  Just reassure me here.  You don’t think I should sleep with Lucia.”

“Well, she is Fire...”

“Cut it out.”

“Okay, No, I don’t but I think they are right about you being too strong.”

“Okay, Okay, Look, If I don’t tell you how I’m feeling, its only because it doesn’t occur to me that you don’t know.  You know I’m really down about Liz and I don’t feel that great about myself and I wouldn’t want to subject you to how I’m feeling all the time because I’d rather not subject myself to it”

“But see, that’s just it, you don’t ever really open yourself up to me,” he says.

Okay, I’m thinking, if it’s true – and I believe it is- that I’m too strong and I’m going to change it, it’s going to start here, with Marty, who I love and admire. 

“Allright, Marty, I’ll try, Its just not my nature.  You know,...no, I’m telling you, I have really been enjoying traveling with you.  I’ve learned more about painting from you this trip than in 4 years at Tyler.  And with music, I love your songs and I think you’re a great guitarist.  I’ve learned a lot from you and I’m a better, lousy guitarist for it.  But, I already feel pretty bad about myself and to travel with you, who I consider a better painter, a better more creative artist, an accomplished guitarist, a person people love on sight, while I can’t talk,  who cries occasionally because he’s in love with a really cool woman who he has a strong relationship with, is sometimes a rough comparison to swallow.  But it’s not the kind of thing I want to say to you whenever I think of it.  It might make you self conscious.”

“See?  I never knew any of that, I just felt closed off from you when you’re quiet.”

“Well, sorry, Mart.  I didn’t think you’d want to hear such a broken record.  Besides, little by little I’m feeling better.”

“I’m taller, too,” Mart says.

“Oh, that’s right, now I feel worse.”

In the middle of the night I wake up in pain.  I was about to explode.  Barefoot through the chicken pen to the outhouse.  Just made it. God I felt awful.  Shivers, Nausea, am I feverish?  After sitting awhile, I felt better and went back to bed.  An hour later, I was back, throwing up, too.  I went back to bed.  I went back to bed.  I felt a little better.  I took a big drink of water.  Five minutes later, waves of nausea, off to the outhouse, back to bed.  I felt okay again.  I remembered this feeling from before. I was thirsty but decided not to drink any water and fell asleep.  I woke up feverish and thirsty.  Drank some water.  Five minutes later, in the can.  I placed the feeling.  Food poisoning, no refrigeration here, something a little old.  I remembered the last time I had food poisoning, that every time I drank water, it seemed to “float” all the toxins in my system and trigger the expulsive reactions.  I took tiny sips of water, much better.

I don’t know what went on the next day, I was up for awhile and then back in bed shivering, sweating, sipping.  I told everyone what I thought it was and how I had gotten food poisoning not too long before, just like this.  I was back in the cave, punctuated regularly be trips to the outhouse.  I don’t know if it was afternoon or evening or midnight when I woke up to see Lucia, just inside the door, near the foot of my bed, looking at me.  “Hello,” I croaked.

“John, why are you doing this to yourself,” she asked.

“Lucia, I have food poisoning, I know what it’s like.”

“You are fighting you are fighting yourself, John, stop resisting me.”

I tried to imagine myself in this state, giving in to Lucia and hopping in bed.  Headache, stomach-cramps, intestinal gas, dizziness, nausea, leaking at both ends....   how about an erection?  I fell asleep again.  Marty checked in on me every now and then with tea and an occasional song on the guitar.

“Fire thinks I’m fighting myself>”

Marty snickers.

“I’m resisting her and its making me sick.”

“You are too strong,” intones Marty.

“Yeah, I’m feeling extra strong.”

“Good, chê ment tomorrow, gotta mix some chê ment!”

And so we did, the next day.

I’ve gotta finish this damn thing so...

During the day on Thursday, L and I had been arguing, as usual, but, perhaps because of my previous sickness, I was feeling zen-like and had circuitously brought L around to, just possibly, seeing my point of view.  So, when the inevitable dinner discussion began, L and G were out of synch and we ended up arguing syntactical meanings and such.  The whole argument was based on the shifting meaning of the word “trust.”   That trust was linked with expectation and expectation linked with how well you know someone.  And even then it was complex and based on experience.

“I know Marty very well,” I explained, “I would trust Marty to hold the rope while I climbed over the side of a cliff, would I trust a stranger I don’t know?  -particularly if they volunteered?”

”Of course,” said G, “but I don’t see the connection.”

“Well,” I said, “I wouldn’t trust Marty with a bag of garbage, if it meant he had to remember to wake up and put it outside before 7:00 am for the garbage man.”

G laughed, having much experience with trying to wake Marty up.

“So,” I continued, “I don’t trust you, Marty.”

“Do you hate me?” said Marty.

Lucia bristled, G cocked his head.

“But no one is asking you to trust them with your life or with your garbage!” Lucia said.

“And John’s not asking anyone be trusted with his life or his garbage,” Marty put in.

“There are a lot of things between life and garbage on the scale of importance,” I said.

“And on either side,” added Marty.

“Thanks for reminding me.  But since you don’t know many things about me, you can’t know what is close to my life and what is close to garbage, and it would be wrong for me to trust you in ways you cannot fulfill, just like I can’t trust Marty to wake up.  But I know Marty cannot wake up, so I accept that and do not unfairly ask him to.”

G and L were musing.  My God, I might just talk my way out of this, so I added, “And incidentally, in some ways I do trust you with my life.  Of course I trust you not to murder me, that is obvious.  I trust you to cook food for me that won’t have broken glass in it.  Of course.  I got food poisoning from something here but my trust in you is unaffected, look at my clean plate.”

“John, you are still protecting yourself and your beliefs from opening your mind.”

“That is true in part, but I am willing to listen, look how long I’ve been listening, and I’m willing to trust you little by little.  But if you ask me to give over all my trust, it makes me not trust.  It is not helpful to you or me.”

“But you do not give at all, any trust.”

“If you don’t ask for all of it, I may be able to trust you in my own time.  After all, what is this about, helping me or helping yourselves?”

“I think he is right about this, Gerome, trust is changing from one place to another,” L says.

“I am listening to what he says,” says G “but John will believe what he must to stay strong.  We are talking about words but the truth, the ‘it’...”

“But isn’t it true that we are.....”  In the middle of the discussion they slip into Dutch, gesticulating more and more wildly.  I look at Marty, diagonally across the table.  He starts rolling a cigarette.  One of the kids, let’s say Dimitri, starts crying. L and G don’t notice, they are talking faster and faster.  L occasionally Turns sideways and looks down.  She is flushed and twitchy, opening and closing her hands.

I am  leaning back against the hedge on the back legs of my chair.  With the change in language, I start regaining my peripheral vision.  As the clamor increases, I detach further and further.  Watching these two argue, earnestly, passionately, I can’t believe it all has to do with me.  The other kid starts crying, unnoticed.  I am completely separate, looking at these two I can see the bigness of the situation from within, and it’s unimportance from outside.  I am eating another grape out of the small bunch in my lap.  They are still urgently discussing today’s problem.  The two kids just fill in the background noise; a transistor radio and a creaky wheel, they could be anything.  I just want to say ‘Hey, stop, could we get some perspective here?’ or ‘Calm down, you’re such nice people, we’re all nice people, let’s take a deep breath, vow to be nice to each other and have dessert.’  But I’m quiet. Instead, my hand detours away from my mouth with the grape.  I lob the grape into the center of the ring, imagining it will break their concentration, like a butterfly in front of a crying baby or something like that.

I’ve let go of the grape and it slowly travels its high arc.  G and L haven’t seen it.  I’m surprised, after all, they’re usually so perceptive.  They argue on.  The grape is still flying.  Marty sees it and tries to calculate, in mid match strike, whether I’m insane.  The kids see it, but they’re  still crying in slow motion.  Upon hitting Lucia noiselessly in the center of the forehead, the grape returns to normal time and drops quickly and obediently onto the table.       Silence.

For one half of a second you can hear the spurting crackle of Marty’s match with perfect clarity.  And the place exploded.  The kids screamed, Lucia went up two octaves.  Gerolamo went into a low moan, tears pouring into his beard.  I was loudly apologizing, trying to explain, uselessly, that my intent was good.  Only Marty was silent, smoking,     distance.

Lucia stormed inside sucking the children in behind her.  I tried explaining to Gerolamo, but he just cried and said things like “now this” and “I cannot believe it.” Etc.

Believe it or not, we eventually went to bed.

On Friday, after more apologies, things were okay and they seemed to let up on me, maybe because I was so hopeless, maybe because they understood me better.  Anyway, in the afternoon, Marty wanted to get away a little, so we decided to get some ‘cino in the town.  We told G and L where we were going and set off down the driveway.

“I think it’s time to get the fuck outa’ here,” says Marty, flatly.  He said it in a tone he seldom uses, serious, disdainful, final.

“What’s up?” I say, “Lucia’s not in love on you now, is she?”

“No.”

“Gerolamo’s not in love on you is he?”

“No, they’re just crazy.  It was fun for a while, but it’s time to go.”

“Fine by me,” I said, “Tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Marty said, ”Time to pick some grapes,... and make some scratch.” 

As he talked about leaving, his humor returned.  It was dark when we reached the cafe.  For some odd reason, neither Marty nor I wanted coffee.  We always drank coffee.  We always drank too much coffee.

“I’m gonna have some lemon zinger,” Marty stated.

I had cranberry tea.  We pondered our future, how much money would we make.

“I’ve heard 85 dollars a day, times three weeks is, well, probably around $1500.”

“Cara said she made $60 a day,” I said, “and I think it’s only 2 and a half weeks.”

“Still, that’s probably $1,100,” Says Marty, “At least a thousand.”

“Then where to?” I ask.

“Turkey, Yugoslavia and Greece,” says Marty.

“I want to go to Israel or Morocco but I’m afraid of getting stuck there.  Probably not a good place for busqueing,” I say, and then imitating a Moroccan friend, “But Morocco, Marty,.. Marty, come to Morocco.  The people are sooo beautiful and the sun shines all day.  MARAKESH, MARTY, MARAKESH, it is an OASIS (OH-AHH-SIS) it is so beautiful, you will cry.”

Anyway, as we head back, it is so dark, we can’t tell where the road is and one side has a very steep drop.  It’s so dark, that for a while we feel around with our feet every few steps.  About half way home, a car comes up the hill toward us, illuminating two figures a hundred yards away, walking toward us.  When we reach them, they make no mention of the dark or whether they knew it was us.  Of course they knew it was us.

“How was it?” asks G.

“It was,” says Mart, thinking, “a cup of tea.” –relying on the American expression routine.

“A cup of tea?” repeats G.

“It’s an expression,” says Mart, “Just what you needed, a cup of tea.”

“Ahhh,” says G.

Later, around the table, we tell G that we would be leaving tomorrow.

“Ah yes, I knew you would, Marty wishes to go.” He says.

“Well, we’ve got to go pick grapes,” says Marty.

“Yes, but you changed your mind about us today, Marty,” G says, “I can feel it and Lucia can feel it.  When you said ‘a cup of tea’, well, then I knew.  When you said “a cup of tea” I knew, Marty, that you no longer believed us.  You cut us off, Marty, when you said that.”

Marty said nothing.

“John is even, he is slow moving, he is strong but now he is a little weaker, he lets us in, but you have slammed the door, Marty, I can see this.  Just like Richard, we must take you out in the field and bury you.  Oh, Marty, this makes me sad, it is like this, we must bury you, like Richard.  We will dig a grave and cry that we must bury you.”  G goes on crying.

We finally go to bed.  “Goodnight Richard, I mean Marty, sweet dreams.” I said.

“Thanks,” Marty mumbles.

At 5:00 a.m. L and G are pleasant and more cheerful than usual, as though it was all a game or a play and now, they can relax and be normal.  They give us some old coats and a butterscotch helmet with a yellow shield which sits way up on Marty’s head.  We say goodbye and off we go.  Away from town at 7:00 am, I figure it’s safe, we won’t see those same police.  Half a mile down the road there is a line of cars, waiting to get through the scene of an accident.  We hunker down behind the car in front of us and don’t look toward the police officer directing us as we pass –the same one that was going to deport us a week ago.

“Step on it, Mart, and don’t look back.”

Almost the end.

While working in the vineyard a week later, 45 miles away, one of hundreds of vineyards, Marty and I are picking fast, looks like rain.  The sun breaks through the clouds in golden rays, the way it does in the Renaissance, the way it does now, in Toscana.

“John, Marrrty, I have found you!”

We freeze.  Coming down the hill between the arbors, backlit with golden sun and thunderclouds, is Jesus, trench coat flying.

“John, I have come to tell you that Lucia is coming to see you tomorrow, if that is okay.  She would like to tell you some things.  I think the rain is waiting for me.”

“Uh, okay, but I do work all day.”

“This will not be a problem, Good-bye friends, Lucia will come tomorrow, Good-bye.”

Off he went and when he left, the rain came, and we scrambled around like nuts.

Lucia did come the next day and talked for some time, maybe, a little more personally, outside the world of the farm.  We only argued for a while, and then she said she would like to give me a massage, I must be sore from work, after all.  I consented and she gave me her famous “attack of the geese” massage which consisted of short firm pinches delivered randomly all over the back.  It was the most un-relaxing experience I’ve ever had.  The fire burned down, the geese subsided, and I tucked her in on the sofa and went to bed.  She left in the morning.  I got a letter from her months later, in the US, threatening to visit in the spring.

I’ve been water ever since.

---

[1] It seems almost unbelievable that I forgot that the reason we trekked all the way down there was to gather up sacks of rocks for the cement, and carry them back on our backs.  We made several trips.  Marty’s version reminded me of this.

Marty's Version

A warm greeting.  Girolamo down the hill, arms outstretched.  “John, Marty,” laughing.  Lucia at the top of the hill, still.  One of the dirty little kids at her feet, quietly at play.  The other, smaller, in her arms.  Invitations to lunch.  Bread, cheese, water, some overcooked vegetable. 

“How did you find us?  What is next for you?  How long can you stay, or is this a short visit?”

“We begin the vendemia in 10 days...etc”

“Okay, if you are to stay, we ask that you work four hours a day.  We will feed you and you will have time to relax and enjoy yourself.”

You went off to the garden with Lucia?  I went to the cellar/bedroom with Girolamo.  He was welding a rack onto the ceiling so they would be able to dry their grapes.  The generator on loan from some German ex-patriot artist.  G unsteady on the springy cot, sparks filling a close space, small fires popping up on the furry quilt.

“Marty, step on those.  You must put the fires out” continuing to weld, bouncing from bed to bed, securing the grid where needed, joyfully.  Fruits and jams, vegetables, honey canned on the shelves: tobacco hanging from the ceiling; cheeses curing, wrapped in cloth.

The bathroom in the goat pen, chickens under the door.  G, after rinsing down the day’s waste once remarked, “What do we have? A couple of horses staying with us?”  Close fecal odors, cool autumn breezes.  A muddy walk to and from the outhouse.

Dinner.  Bread, cheese, water, vegetables.  They don’t eat meat. G said, “One day, I start to chop off the head of the chicken and I thought, No, I cannot do this.”  A bottle of wine, their last.  Talk of art.  “Yes, I too, am an artist.  I am working on a sculpture that I will show you.  Every morning, for an hour, Lucia models for me.  We ask that you not come around to that part of the house while we are working.”  We look through our sketchbooks together.  G and L attentive as we recount our adventures recorded in pictures.  G says, “The drawings are interesting and it looks as if you enjoy fooling around with them, but they are not serious.  The strength of the drawing is in the line which encloses the subject.  The fluid out-line,” which he illustrates with his own drawings.  We disagree, and talk about that later in bed.  G said something that reminded me of my dad.  I said as much and we started laughing, uncontrollably, as I am wont to do- to the point of dropping to the floor.  For quite a while, we laughed, teary eyed.  When we finished, we looked up to you and Lucia, not amused by our joke.  G suggested that he and I turn in for the night, “Lucia and John will talk.”  I went to our room and wrote to Mary- “So much to learn, such a simple lifestyle, such hard work, blah, blah, blah...  “  When you came back, I can’t remember what you and L had talked about, we admired our good fortune at having found such a neat place to while away the interval before working the vendemia.  Cozy in bed, under blankets.  Hadn’t we spent a rare night in the tent the night before?

Up early.  5:30, 6:00.  Daybreak.  Door swings open to G’s silhouette against the rising sun.  Groggy cigarette on the misshapen stairway.  I went to work with G digging out the hill for the water retainer.  Tool handles, misshapen.  Two hours of drudgery before breakfast and coffee.  G said I wasn’t digging right and grabbing the spade/hoe, said, “always forward, you must always move forward.  Use the tool.”  With accompanying demonstration.  Breakfast.  Talk of the house and its construction, half-down with most of the roof gone when they moved in –big storm the night of their first child’s birth.  The hose, four rooms, none of which connects internally, out-closets and sheds.  A visit to G’s studio –9 foot marble statue of Lucia, rough hewn and heavy bulbous.  Marble from the quarry where Michelangelo got his.  Delivered to the property, but moved by G from the bottom of the hill to his studio- pulleys and logs and such.  Drawings from the quarry where Michelangelo got his.  They stay to draw.  We go back to work?  G then off in his bee keeping get up- a peasants armor, Don Quixote up and over the hill, rickety determined.  Lucia and I walked to town so she could mail a letter.  On the way, she asked, “Is there a jealousy between you and John?”  There was.  I was jealous of your inventive capabilities when it came to traveling in the world.  The way you found opportunities or just made them happen, aware of your needs and finding interesting ways to meet them.  I learned so much.  I was jealous of your chess skills and all of the wacked out stories about living in Greece, on the beach, on the boardwalk.  I felt boring sometimes, and that certainly fueled the way I felt about Mary and you, Jealous of your relationship.  Continued digging into the hill.  What were you doing with Lucia?  Preparing meals?  Working in the garden?  Up early, to work, breakfast, drawing time.  We took a walk (to the river?) with Lucia and the kids.  I think that’s when she said “John, you and I should go lay down naked in the field.”  Something distracting happened – one of the kids fell and cut themself?  We went back to the house.

Dinner.  “Lucia and I have developed a philosophy together.  You see, 10 years ago I was very angry.  I lived in the woods by myself, very unhappy with t he ways of the world.  All of my strength was focused in hatred.  My sculpture was full of anger, hatred, and I beat on the stone as I beat on life.”

Lucia- “at that time, I was living with a man.  It was not my choice to be living with him.  When I was 14, I was sent by my family to care for him.  He was a cripple.  He was very mean, but I stayed with him out of respect for my family’s agreement.  4 years I stayed with him.”

Girolamo- “When I met Lucia, she saw that I was strong, but using my strength in the wrong way.  She showed me that I could use my strength to build a good life for myself, and for us.”

Lucia-  “One night I just left the man I was caring for.  I walked out, on him and on my family, and joined with Girolamo and we came here.”

You/me? -  “There’s a maggot in my cheese.”

Girolamo-  “Oh, I’ll cut it out.  Now it is fine.  You see, John, I was strong, like you, but I kept it inside of me and it ate away at me, like the maggot in the cheese.  10 years it took me.  10 years of working with Lucia.  She is weak, as I am strong, but not as you understand ‘weak’.  She listens, like you, Marty, and she takes her time with her decisions.  We, John, you and I, are strong, in that we act boldly and with conviction.  Our philosophy is based on this; this pairing of the weak with the strong.  That is why you, Marty, work with me.  And you, John, work with Lucia.  Weak and strong, together.

Morning.  Girolamo, against the rising sun, “John, Marty, It is time to get up.”

Oops.  The night before, we heard something outside of the door.  Footsteps?  And in our silence we heard them scamper away on the gravel.

“John, Marty, its time to get up.”  I, as per usual, rolled and lit a cigarette.  Girolamo whipped past me, “Marty, when you are done relaxing, we must finish the digging.  Today we get the cement mixer so we can pour the foundation.”

Breakfast.  “Lucia and I were up all of last night, talking about you.  Were you talking about us?  What do you think about our philosophy?  Maybe, it will be clearer if we would translate from our book.  Lucia has already begun, and will finish some sections today for you.” 

Drawing time.  We were mashing blackberries.  I was saying how I thought they were pretty accurate in their descriptions of us and wondering if it would be so horrible if you were to ‘lay down naked in the field’ with Lucia.  You were getting angry and that culminated in your slamming the blackberry pot on the table.  Girolamo &Lucia were at the door, “You see how strong you are, John.  10 years.  10 years, John.”  You said, “Shit!” or “Oh my God!” and stormed out.  “You see how strong he is, Marty?”

Girolamo and I went to get the cement mixer, hauled by tractor back to Cancellcino (? The town’s name was Chieti, jr).  We stopped on a hill overlooking the Sienese valley.  We sat under a fig tree eating fresh figs.  “Marty, you are an artist.  You look at the Renaissance paintings and you say, ‘No, this landscape cannot exist.  It is too beautiful.’  And now you look out and see that it is too beautiful.  This is romantic, yes?  Bright, cold October day eating figs.  Ah, this is romantic, yes.”

Return to the house.  More digging.  Dinner- two day old fish, bread, cheese.  “Yes, a few other people have come to visit us.  One girl left after one day.  She did not like it here.  A priest cam once and stayed for two weeks.  He thought that our philosophy made much sense and he thought it a good practice, for us to learn from one another.  When he left, he gave us much money, practically all he had, and he was not a wealthy man.”

Lucia-  “One man cam to visit and we became lovers.”

Girolamo-  “Yes, and our relationship allows that.  Lucia has had more success than me at finding lovers.  I am not handsome.”

Lucia-  “He stayed for one month, but he did not like it that Girolamo was so involved with the two of us.”

Girolamo-  “Yes, every morning I would say ‘How was your love?  What did you do last night?’  I was very interested.  We are husband and wife.  This was part of our philosophy.  He did not like this, so he left.  You, John, and Lucia should go lay down naked in the field together.”

Lucia-  “You are in love on me.”

This built to hysteria.  Lucia screaming and Girolamo crying ‘You must listen to her, John.’

Lucia-  “You are in love on me!  You are in love on me!”

Then you picked up a grape and hit her in the forehead.  Everything stopped until you got up and threw up in the garden.  Returning to Girolamo sobbing. “Your body tells you so, 10 years, John.  10 years.”  Repeating it over and over.  You went to bed and we finished eating in silence.

The next day, you slept all day and I hand-cranked the laundry (?)  - 200 turns this way, 200 turns that, etc.

Lunch.  Girolamo-  “Marty, you must help us on our path to John.  You saw how he reacted to Lucia’s love.  You are his friend and you are our friend, you trust us.  I know this.”

I said, “I don’t know what to do.”  They kept at it, saying that you needed to trust Lucia.

More laundry.  More of same at dinner, which I think you, joined us at, but didn’t eat.  After dinner we walked to town and went to a cafe.  Dark on the way home as I told you about their wanting me to get you to get with Lucia.  You told me to stop worrying, “Two more days till we leave for the vendemia.”  I wanted to leave either right then or the next morning.  We decided to stay to finish the cement foundation.  Completely dark by then, following the stripe on the road to keep us on course.  Headlights around the hill revealing them 30 feet in front of us (I remember that image exactly as you painted it).  Huddled together in the middle of the road, Girolamo asked, “Marty, what were you talking about?”  I said, “We just popped up to town for a cup of tea.”  We all walked home.

The next day was the grueling day of rocks up from the streambed, cement up the hill to the foundation, over and over and over again.  Exhausted at dinner and I can remember it being very normal.  Talk of making bread, the windmill, their not wanting to send the kids to the town school.  Then, Girolamo said, “Marty, last night when you said ‘cup of tea’, you lost all faith in us.”  I got up and threw up in the garden.  Returned to the table to “your body tells you so. Your body tells you, Marty.”  To bed.

Did we leave the next day, or did we stay another night?  Packed up our things and went to say goodbye to Girolamo.  He was smoothing the cement and keeping it wet.  We said goodbye.  He said, “OK, goodbye,” and turned back to his work.  Lucia and the kids walked us to the bottom of the hill.  Tears.  Off we went.