Some Vignettes of Italy

(Excerpted from Falling Leaves, an anthology of memoirs by LC Arulpragasam)

I need now to recount my sailing adventures, or shall we say, misadventures. Although I had never sailed before, I did not think twice before I shoved off on my own. On my first effort, with the wind at my back, I unfurled my sails in goose-wing style and was soon hurtling along at a whistling pace. I cannot describe the exhilaration of being one with the water and the wind, with the wind at my back and the gurgle of water in my wake. After about two hours, I reached the other side of the lake near Trevignano, just as the sun was setting.

It was quite an achievement and quite a view. So I sat in the boat, smoking a triumphant cigarette, while watching the beautiful sunset. It was only then that I realized that the wind that had helped me to cross the lake would now prevent me from returning. How I managed to return home– is the stuff of story books. It was a dark night – and I could not make out which was land and which was deeper water! I had to spend the night, partly in my boat and partly in the freezing water! Needless to say, I returned home only in the morning.

I had other sailing mishaps too. I had promised my daughter to take her to the airport in time to catch her flight. This was the first time that she was leaving home – to go to College far away in another continent: it as a big day for the family. I thought that there was time enough to go to the lake and return. At the lake, I could not resist the temptation of taking the boat out for a small spin on the lake. But I had not bargained with the prospect of capsizing! In the end, I just made it in time to catch the flight (fortunately the plane was a few minutes late), but not without raising the anxiety levels of my family, and especially of my daughter!

My happiest days in Italy were spent by this lake; and our most treasured memories are buried there. First, it cast a spell over me: even when we approached it over its surrounding hills: its sight alone overpowered me. Second, the surrounding villages, with their old cobbled streets and quaint houses takes us back to a long-gone age, bringing the past alive before our eyes. Here, we were able to enjoy the company of the old paisani of the village, the baker, the cobbler, the blacksmith, as well as the owners of the small trattorias by the water.

Thirdly and sadly, it was the only place where we spoke Italian, because we otherwise interacted only with FAO’s English-speaking families, whereas the lake gave us the chance to speak Italian. Fourthly, for the same reason, the only Italian friends we made in Italy were by virtue of our weekends spent there. Fifthly, I learned quite a bit about horticulture and viticulture through the fruit trees and vines that I planted, pruned and nurtured there with my own hands. Lastly, and most preciously, I have memories of the lake itself in all its moods: its calmness in the morning, its brisk (sailing) winds rising around noon, its tranquil sunsets and the lulling lap of its waves at night. In fact when I think of the lake, a great sense of calmness overcomes me, followed by an acute sense of loss, for that part of my life which I lost with it. It is what I miss most when I think of our 30 years in Italy.

Italian Greatness

We lived in Rome, Italy, for 30 years from 1966 to 1997. We bow in appreciation of its great people. The Italians have a long history of greatness, from Roman times through to the Renaissance and beyond.

Mussolini in his grandiose manner built a new city, just outside Rome. Among others, he built a monument to the Italian people in grand fascist style. On the façade of the building, he inscribed in bold letters a paean of praise to the greatness of the Italian people. It claimed that the Italian people were a people of writers, of painters, of sculptors, of thinkers, of navigators, of scientists, etc. When I first read it, I dismissed it as more of Mussolini’s bombast. But later, thinking about it, I realized that it was all true. Of writers there was Dante Alighieri; of painters, Rafael, da Vincil and many others; of sculptors, Michelangelo and Donatello; of navigators, Cristoforo Colombo and Amerigo Vespucci; of astronomers, Galileo; of scientists, da Vinci and Enrico Fermi, etc. This is a real tribute to the Italian people. As individuals, they are unmatched. It is only that their institutions do not work!

Colour Conscious?

As far back as Roman times, there was no colour bar. In Caesar’s time, the Romans were more worried about the length of Cleopatra’s nose rather than about her colour. Besides, some of the last Roman Emperors were from the Middle East. In the ‘sixties and ‘seventies the Italians did not share the colour restrictions that characterized the northern imperial powers, such as Britain, the Netherlands and Germany. This was because the Mediterranean countries shared the mixture of ethnicities and cultures of their region. While the northern European colonizers frowned on miscegenation, making it a dirty word, the southern European colonizers even encouraged it, as the Spanish did in Latin America.

In the early days (1970s), when I had capsized (my boat) in a lake near Rome, I made my way to the road, clad only in my swimsuit. Competing cars screeched to a halt in order to give me a ride: they did not seem to mind my colour. After I reached my own car, I sped home on the autostrada, clad only in my swimsuit, with no money or clothes since they were all at the bottom of the lake, leaving me with only my dark skin. When I came up to the payment booth in the autostrada, I had no money to pay the toll. The uniformed guards who manned the gate, seeing my plight, contributed their own money to let my car through the automated gates. My colour proved to be a plus factor, not a minus one.

It all changed with unbridled immigration. One has only to go to the Termini now, the main railway station in Rome, to see the number of migrants from all regions of the world, hanging around until they could find a job. An Italian colleague, who was a communist and very pro-immigration, got fed up when she was accosted at so many traffic lights (12 times each way, to the office and back) by immigrants offering to clean her car windscreen. After months of encouraging this, she cried ‘Basta’ (enough!). A dramatic increase in the number of coloured immigrants without employment had morphed into a ‘colour problem’.

After a time, some newspapers carried lurid stories associating immigrants with crime. This brings me to my own story. Much later (in the 1990s), when returning from a supermarket, I saw a little old lady returning from the same store, staggering under the weight of two heavy bags in each hand. Since I was walking in the same direction, I went up to the old lady and asked: “Signora, can I help you to carry those bags?” Even I was not ready for her reaction: “No, no”, she shrieked shrilly, physically recoiling, as if I were a thief! I made off hastily like a real thief, since everyone was looking at me as if I was one! This is what unchecked immigration can do: it can easily change another problem into a colour problem!

Argumentative

In 1967, when we had just arrived in Rome, we were trying to reach some place in town. Having gone through the warren of old streets in Rome, we were completely lost. So we drew up to an ‘island’ between tramlines. We asked two gentlemen who were waiting there, directions to the street that we were seeking. One said: go straight to the next traffic light and turn right. The other contradicted him, exclaiming, gesturing with his hands: ‘No, no: go straight and then turn left’. They went on arguing hotly whether we should turn left or right, while we looked on impatiently, with cars honking loudly behind us. In the end, we had to move on because of the wild honking. Looking back in the rear-view mirror, I found to my amusement and amazement that the two had moved from verbal argumentation to physical assault! All this in order to help a stranger!

I was also to witness their arguments in the 1970s and early 1980s. At that time, the Italians had no third-party insurance for their cars. When there was an accident, it mattered most who shouted the most, arguing loudly in order to prove that the other party was at fault and should pay for the repairs. Once, I saw a lady with an infant in her arms, rocking it violently to the rhythm of her shouting. As she got more worked up, she put the infant on the ground, so as to better use her hands in the argument! All the shouting matches ceased when third-party motor insurance was made compulsory by law! Their institutions had failed them: so they had to shout at each other!

How to Talk: My Hands were Tied, No?

Once when walking, I saw a woman talking in a public telephone on the pavement. The woman was holding the phone in one hand, with a large handbag hanging over her shoulder and cigarette in her mouth. Soon she started using her free hand, while continuing to puff wildly on the cigarette. Seeing that it was not enough, she put the phone under her chin, so as to gesticulate with both hands. Since her handbag was slipping from her shoulder, she threw it on the ground, and also threw away her cigarette, so that she could use both hands better. The spectacle of her doing all this, sticks in my mind’s eye, even after 40 years!

You may have heard this joke before; but I repeat it as a caricature of Italians speaking with their hands. Three Allied soldiers were captured by the Germans in WWII: one British, one French, and one Italian. Each was tortured to extract information on where the Allied formations were camped. First, the British soldier was severely tortured, so that despite his renowned stiff upper lip, he broke down and spilled the beans. Second, the French soldier was treated to the same, and after repeated torture, he too broke down and spilled the beans. The Italian soldier was severely tortured repeatedly, but he would not speak. When he returned to the prison, the British and French soldiers asked him how he could have withstood such torture without divulging any information. To which the Italian replied: “How to talk: my hands were tied, no?”

Bella Figura!

In the 1960s and 1970s, it was ‘the done thing’ for Italians to go to the beach in summer. Some families who could not afford it also went on borrowed money, while others only pretended to do so. The latter would tell their neighbours and people living down their street that they were going to the sea. They could be seen packing for the beach, even loading their beach-chairs on top of their cars. They would leave at 5 a.m., as advertised. They would then smartly drive to their mother-in-law’s house at the other end of town, where they would lie low for the duration of their fabulous trip to the sea. At the appointed time they would return, full of stories of their fantastic time at the beach, cutting indeed a bella figura! (This happened in the 1960s. I do not think that it is happening now).

Italian Drivers

The Italians are the most skilled drivers in the world, flashing their headlights to signal that they are going through, avoiding accidents by a hair’s-breadth. However, this almost caused the death of my friend Reggie Arnolda, who was working in Rome at that time (about 1975). Reggie was driving his Peugot 404 Station-Wagon on a main avenue in Rome with many traffic lights. As he came to a traffic light, it was turning from amber to red. Naturally, Reggie came to a complete stop. The Italian driver just behind him, assuming that Reggie would speed through the traffic light, as Italians did in those days, stamped on his accelerator to speed through the light. This resulted in a big crash, with Reggie’s station wagon accordioning, so that the back number plate coming to rest on his neck. One inch more – and Reggie would be dead!

After many years in Italy, I too came to drive like the Italians – just in order to survive! Once, when my wife was driving, we came to a traffic light where the light was turning from amber to red. I shouted excitedly to her to speed through. But she came to a complete stop, with Italian horns blaring, throwing the whole piazza into confusion! I asked her reproachfully, why she didn’t shoot through the red light. She replied, “but the light was red, no?” She added with irrefutable logic: “Then what should I do when the light turns green?” I was stumped!

Cloak and Dagger!

One night, my wife and I were walking from the opera with an Italian couple. The man was an old-world Italian gentleman, who when introduced to a lady would bring his heels together, bow and kiss her hand. We were walking in the shadow of the ancient buildings of Rome, while cars and scooters were zipping past us. While my Italian friend was walking ahead with my wife, I noticed that he was walking on the inner side of the street, leaving my wife on the outer side, unprotected from the roaring traffic. Finally, my curiosity overcame me and I asked him why he was not following the usual practice of walking on the outer side of the lady.

He explained that he was following the practice of old Italy. When assassins or robbers wanted to attack someone, they hid in the shadows of the old buildings. So the gallant gentlemen of yore guarded their fair ladies by walking on the inner side, nearer the dark buildings, rather than on the outer side. My friend was just following the practice of old Italy.

Immigrant Tales

It is interesting to note the different levels and types of migration from poor countries to the more developed. Qualified professionals, like doctors, engineers and accountants migrated to English-speaking countries (like England, Australia and the USA) because they were already proficient in the language for jobs in their own professions. On the other hand, unskilled workers were prepared to go to any country (France, Germany or Italy), because knowledge of the language was not required for unskilled work. This was the reason for the great migration of unskilled youth to Italy. Sociological studies also show that the first migrants to unknown shores tend to be the adventurers or ‘ne’er-do-wells’, since persons with stable jobs would not risk a leap into the unknown.

My first story is in regard to an unattached man, who got a job as a domestic ‘do-all’ in a single-member family. In order to impress his family and friends back home, he sent a photo of himself. But first, he pulled his employer’s TV set, his employer’s music console and all the telephones in the house around his employer’s bed, to show how important he had become. He then wore his employer’s posh shirt and got into his employer’s posh bed. Then, while appearing to speak importantly on the phone, he had his friend take a photo. When the photo was sent home and did the rounds in the village, every young man was jumping to go to Italy!

In the ‘eighties and ‘nineties, middlemen had got into the act. The cost of getting into Italy had grown significantly. Migrants had to mortgage or sell their properties to pay the middlemen, while bearing all the risk and cost of failure themselves. One story sums it all. Three families decided to take the risk. They mortgaged/sold their properties so as to pay the middleman upfront. They were then taken to Hambantota, where the boat (probably a fishing trawler) was awaiting them. They embarked with much trepidation, because they knew that they had burned their boats back home.

After traveling for about seven days at sea, one night the captain showed them the lights of Italy. It was night when the boat reached the shore. When telling them to disembark, he warned them to hide in the bushes till daybreak. They should then walk cautiously in twos and threes into the nearby town. They followed his instructions to the letter. At dawn, they cautiously entered the town: only to find that they were back in Hambantota in Sri Lanka, the place where they had embarked! You can imagine their chagrin and dismay – to find that they were not in Italy but back in Sri Lanka! They had been literally taken for a ride! They now had to return to their villages – to face humiliation, indebtedness and despair.