Loving (and Losing) Patrizia
It was all looking so promising. The flight from Madrid to Bologna carried almost only grumpy Europeans; masks covered their mouths and nose but their furrowed eyebrows, thick and dark, betrayed Mediteranean roots and little enthusiasm for their journey. The airport too was just as I’d hoped; groomed men with tight blazers and exposed ankles clutching Prada carrying cases. There were hunched grandpas with pot bellies, gold teeth and Marlboros in their breast pocket. Even the taxi to the guest house was stubbornly Continental, the scary man with big hands setting off with such confidence to find 29 Via Capo di Luca only to stop on a busy street, roll down the window and shout at his passing taxi comrade “CAPO DI LUCA??!?!!!!!” for directions. I couldn’t understand their hearty exchange but it clearly got him going. He kept huffing and mumbling and gesticulating for the rest of the way, searching his rear-view mirror for my response.
“I’m sorry, I know not a lot of Italian words,” I say, with a sugary smile.
“Vaffanculo.”
“I do know that one, actually. Sorry.”
I arrived at the gates of the building. Fabrizio, the landlady’s brother in law, was to let me in. That’s the Italians for you, I think. It’s always a family affair in Italy. Everyone pitching in, doing their bit. Loyalty. The bedrock of Italian society. La famiglia, I think. Adorable, I think.
And Fabrizio was adorable for the 2 minutes and 29 seconds we shared together. He shuffled about and gestured to my bed. “Bed.” Thanks Fabrizio. Then he ushered me through the hall, throwing his hands at the lamps that illuminated the long corridor. “Light.” Quite right, Fabrizio. We entered the kitchen. “Fridge.” Smashed it again, Fabrizio. I smiled and thanked him as he handed over the keys. A pause. A final gesture. “Patrizia,” he said, and vanished like a pantomime witch in a puff of smoke.
She stood in the doorway. The illuminated hall picked out the silhouette of her stout body sharply. Her face was in shadow. Her little legs. Like trunks. Still, solid foundations, essential for the hours she spends standing at the sink, peeling vegetables. Arms soft, but thick and strong, no doubt from all that pasta dough she kneads to make her famous tortellini, bless her. A rounded middle, her badge of honour gained after baring little Costanza, Mario, Francesca and Roberto (quadruplets) right on the terracotta tiling back in ’76, her low bosom boasting maternity. Patrizia. O, Patriziaa. You have no idea how long I’ve been searching for you. I see our life, Patrizzia. You and me. Io e tu. I see us scooping starchy flesh from steaming potato skins to make gnocchi. I see you tying my apron at the back with your sausage fingers before the same bare fists pound a veal cutlet to smithereans. Beloved Patrizia. Beautiful Patrizia. Together we will stroll to the butcher, the same one you’ve visited weekly since you were but a girl, because he saves us the best shanks for Ossobuco. Together, my Patrizia, we will gossip at the kitchen table over cantucci and torta di riso whilst the sofrito softens over low flame. You will tell me my skirt’s too short. You will tell me your grandson has his own car! You will cup my chin in your callused palm and you will tell me not to worry, not to cry, and to eat some more.
“Ciao! Mi chiamo Ella.” She steps into the light.
“Howdy. I’m Patty.”
Howdy? Patty? That’s not like my Patrizia. Maybe she spent time in America or something. Maybe that’s how she learnt such good English. And a Southern accent. (Heartbreakingly, I don’t mean Sicilian.)
“Oh! Hi, there. Where are you from?”
“Texas.”
Balls.
I sit at the table. Patty is off like rocket, yabbing about her new flat in Ahh-brew-so (I gage she means Abruzzo) and how helpful google translate has been for communicating with local plumbers. She talks about her work for a famous oil company. My mind conjures an image of her in high-vis garb, safety goggles and ear-muffs driving a sky-scraper sized drill into the ground. She assures me her role was strictly administrative. She talks about her noble switch from coke to diet coke, although she has now arrived back at regular coke for health reasons. She talks about how on Fridays she wears her cowboy hat to the language school. She says she has some “hamburger meat” to use for dinner to which I reply “It’s 2022, it’s about time we stop killing hamburgers.” No laughs from Pat.
In a parallel universe the moka would be seething by now; immense heat from the stove forcing water to rise through ground coffee. Thick liquid, black as liquorice, would stream into tiny white cups. But Patty made tea. Early grey. Nice of her, I suppose. But not what Patrizia would have done. Patrizia also wouldn’t have made an extra litre to chill in the fridge for Ice Tea, having not “had a glass of water since 2009” by choice.
“So Patty. Have you eaten anything good since being in Bologna?”
“I had a quesadilla yesterday. So good.”
I’m going to fucking kill myself, I thought.
