The Other Language(76)
How has this lack of wilderness affected us? It has given us an innate friendliness, an open heart, and maybe a lesser talent for extreme adventures. The Italian System is a mix of civilized demeanor, and domesticity, coupled with the spontaneity deriving from our connection to the natural (we are not the hunters of the world, we are the happy foragers!) with its secret ingredient: lightness. Yes, we are a deeply superficial people. And by deeply I mean that our lightness has complexity and layers. La leggerezza, as we call it, is the necessary quality to execute the flawless dive, the effortless pirouette. The nature of anything truly enchanting has to be as light as a whiff of air.
During the summer holidays she flew to Rome to visit her mother. As soon as she got off the plane the first thing that greeted her on the A91 were gigantic billboards of naked women advertising all kinds of things that didn’t require nudity—a luxury handbag, a hardware store, a double-dark-chocolate ice cream. From the taxi, once in the city, she noticed cracks in the asphalt, where wild grass had sprouted and bloomed, potholes and cigarette butts strewn on the pavement. At the traffic lights she spotted several men in shorts and baseball hats, riding their mopeds. Some were middle-aged and wore slackened tank tops, which showed drooping shoulders and flabby underarms. Most of the women on the streets had a flat, opaque, orangey tan, the kind that can be acquired only in a salon. Their slutty tops and boa constrictor jeans had nothing of the elegance and formality she had conjured up in her notes. The taxi driver kept the radio full blast on a local station where a rowdy and drunken group of males were having an argument about a football match. The sulking driver pretended not to hear when she asked if he could please lower the volume because she needed to use her cell phone. He swore without restraint for two solid minutes when a driver swerved unexpectedly in front of him. He overcharged her.
When her mother heard she was on her way home from the airport she was caught by surprise.
“You are here already? Oh my God, I’m still in my nightgown!” she said.
“It’s almost noon, Mamma! How come you’re not ready yet? I’ll be over in twenty minutes.”
“I know, I know, but it’s Sunday, and I’ve been taking things slowly on a Sunday.”
She heard her mother rummaging somewhere, the sound of drawers opening and closing.
“Santo Cielo!” her mother said, in a frantic tone. “I have only frozen peas in the fridge. I totally forgot to shop for food last night. I could put together a pea omelette for lunch, though. Would you be happy with that?”
Lately her mother had become forgetful, and the smallest change of plan confused her.
“A pea omelette? I never heard of it,” she said. “I think we should go out to eat and celebrate instead. I have so much to tell you.”
The corner restaurant had changed owners and now was serving only fixed-price meals for tourists. Since they were sitting outside in the sun her mother had insisted on wearing a straw hat and a strange pair of polyester workout pants with a stripe down the legs, an article of clothing she’d never seen her mother in before. The waiter, after taking a look at the old lady’s outfit, had addressed them in English.
“We are Italian! We are from around the corner!” she said, glaring at him with reproach.
She had a soggy plate of microwaved lasagne but decided to contain her resentment. When they were finished eating she raised her glass of Pinot Grigio.
“Mamma, we need to make a toast. I have something very important to tell you.”
Her mother raised her Diet Coke. Apparently she was no longer drinking any wine.
“Did you find somebody, over there?” her mother asked, hopeful.
“No. It’s much better than that. I’ve got a publisher. A big one.”
“A publisher?”
“Yes, for the book I told you about, the one that I’ve been writing all year? They love the idea. They’ve given me a pretty nice advance.”
Her mother’s eyes lost their focus for a moment. Then she came back and smiled.
“That’s wonderful, tesoro. I am so happy for you.”
They touched glasses and each took a small sip.
“It’s like a manual. How to become an Italian sort of thing. My editor says it has a lot of commercial potential. She loves the title.”
Her mother seemed lost in thought again. She said, “I feel like having something sweet. How about you?”
She nodded distractedly. “The book is called The Italian System, Mamma. What do you think?”
“The Italian System?” the mother asked while engrossed in the dessert menu. She closed it and stared at her with the blank expression she wore when she wasn’t really listening.
“Yes. Il Sistema Italiano. Don’t you think it would work?”
“Do we have a system? I never knew we had one, actually.”
Before she could say anything her mother raised her hand toward the waiter.
“The ginger-basil-walnut ice cream sounds very tempting.”
It didn’t matter that everything looked different. Maybe it had always been this way, a sort of uglier version of what she had recalled. But this is exactly what matters, she thought: it’s the imprint that makes us who we are, no matter the land we’re born to, or on what soil we walk.
“I’ll have the same,” she said.