Page 40 - WTP Vol. XI #6

Even this early, men were up in the branches, pruning for the season that was still months off.
Parsons drifted slowly for the pleasure of observing them, no traffic behind him on the small winding roads. Sunlight was never so mellow in his homeland at this time of year! It sifted through the trees where the men were busy working, bestowing its warmth on the dashboard of his rental and bathing in a gold glow the whole flank of the mountain. All the towns on this side, Assisi to Spoleto, but Trevi in particular, wore
a dense fur collar—the image came to him—of close cultivation, the trees though in the millions making a quilt of private holdings, each family tending to its own charmed preserve. It was one of the things he loved most about this country: the tight family unit, the individual’s importance. Almost perverse! But exactly, he considered, what lent to life its true drama.
He thought of the many times that friends of his in this region had given him their oil, sealed in second-hand bottles or even re-used tins, to carry home with him, pride glowing in their faces: è di nostra produzione.
Our production! And how, back in the U.S., he would treasure it for months, to be used on choice salads and in his finest cooking only.
There was this, as well, about his winter visits here:
the freedom with which he could roam to enter towns that saw few tourists from abroad at this time of year.
He might find himself lunching in a restaurant, say, in Norcia, in that high mountain valley, whose owners were surprised to have an American at table—an American, moreover, who spoke their language, and who clearly knew something about the history of their region.
That foreign visitors were few afforded leeway at such moments, room for easy conversation and the satisfying
of curiosity—what had drawn him out here at so quiet
a time of year? His answer, warm and simple: his long love of the country, his endless interest in it. Despite his lacking any roots here.
Parsons had not thought, at an earlier point in his life,
that any foreign culture, still less this one, would make
such a claim on his time and his heart. Married young,
a father early, it had all gone quite badly during the first
of his seasons in the adult world, and he had struggled
to make it right with his later-born children in a longer- lasting marriage that had also ended. But with less damage done. So he stood upon the verge, now, of life’s eighth decade, single and unencumbered, but still with rich ties
to his children and grandchildren. Plus a life of teaching
and writing that afforded him the freedom to do as at this moment: roam through the glories of the winter countryside, observing with pleasure the early pruning of the trees.
A Mysterious Evening
“ ... I’ve a story I could tell you,” Parsons said to the professor. “One also set in the Abruzzi. Nothing momentous—but a curious tale for all that.”
The silence in the room took Parsons aback. Centerpiece though he might be of this evening’s entertainment—his farewell dinner for this after-Christmas stay—it had not been his aim to draw attention to himself any more than could be helped.
Especially with the professor here as a second guest of honor. So engrossed had Parsons become in his exchange with the great man that he’d failed to notice the attention they’d attracted. The four younger guests had paused, mid-drinks, and Roberto and his family, together with the Contessa, were all expectation.
Acute embarrassment needled Parsons’ scalp. Instinctively he turned to Roberto for guidance. It was not so much a nod Roberto gave in reply; rather, just a subtle lowering of his eyelids.
“Well, then!” began Parsons. “What, indeed, if not a journey is Italy’s whole history? Adventure and travel! All the way back.”
Here the professor intervened with a chuckle. “Signor Parsons, if you please! Set for us the context.” In his keen anticipation, the distinguished man of letters appeared to Parsons’ eye, with his high domed forehead, thick dark eyebrows, and shock of white hair, very
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A Taste of Italy
Prologue
riCHard WerTiMe