Winter
Domestic noises. Marta cutting paper for some homework. The dishwasher at the start of its cycle, doomed not to be emptied. The wood crackling on the fire, an overlarge log taking its time to settle into regular burning. Giacomo and Davide outside with torches exploring in the garden in the twilight. I'm spoiling it rather by playing some music - Retriever, by Ron Sexsmith. "I'm a bit run down but i'm okay / just feel like calling it a day / you send me back to the start / you drive a hard bargain... you just can't seem to let me down / you drive a hard bargain" You have to hear it rather than see it written. Tremendously ugly man.
This morning was a walk along the river to where there's the 'Leonardo bridge/ferry'. 15th century obviously. Slowly, almost silently across a wide part of the Adda (which leads into the Po). Crossing was entirely pointless. When we got to the crossing I realised I really didn't want to eat at any of the restaurants there. We went into one, me feeling rather half-hearted about the potential experience as I saw all the Sunday-best families (we were very muddy-walking-types): there are four of us; have you booked? No. There's no space. But if I had booked there would be space (mastering a mixed conditional, but which went unnoticed by the ignoramus in front of me who could only just speak dialect), which means there is space. I'm sorry, that's how it is. Well, I don't care at all. We'll be happier eating at home and I'm sure we'll eat better too.
So we crossed to the bar at the other side, and had aperitivi. The ferryman is a rough-looking bastard whose face doesn't seem capable of smiling. You can ask him anything about the river though. He stood there pulling the thing into the pier and started talking to Davide: Are you cold? Yes. You can't be cold. What'll happen when it snows? When it's really cold? What'll you do? Look at the ducks - they're swimming. They don't think it's cold. And what about you? Eh, I don't know.
At this point Davide is laughing and the ferryman's face has sprouted a thousand laughter lines. We go for a drink with him. One of those drinks where you don't have to talk to each other, the good sort, where you just look at one another. />A husband and wife and a daughter-type turn up. We'll all go back to the other side together. The man is talking to the younger woman in English. As we cross he says that the scenery is very 'Leonardesque', like in various paintings. 'Hazy', offers the young woman, with the visual awareness of a Turner fan. Well, it's pretty foggy, if that's what you mean. You can't see the mountains at the other end of the river.
We head back home. I time the walk. 45 minutes. Their faces are pulled with exhaustion as we get near the end. They start recognising things that tell them we're nearly there, in desperation.
Then the house, the new skateboard, the fire, the pasta. They're happy, they're getting on with each other really well. I enjoy these things - I have to engineer more of them, get them used to walking so that they can enjoy this country for what it's worth, not the surface of image and design. Marta and Giacomo seem to be doing well at their horse-riding (Giacomo especially - his teacher cuts short Marta's lesson so that she can work longer with him; Marta's doing it just to be a bit of a princess; have I mentioned that Giacomo is my carbon-copy, all seriousness and dark effort?) so they'll be able to get right away from the crap; they can all ski; set up for life then.
Perhaps they're happy because they've had a comparative experience which has left them chastened, and glad that even if their mother is in America (she's actually at a conference in Disneyworld in Orlando and feels hugely guilty about not having taken them/me, though I'm very relieved) she's there for them.
The next part you won't believe; you'll tut and think 'you fool'. I invited Benny-downstairs to come with us this weekend. (And straightaway you can now imagine last night.) Well, she was there on Saturday morning, and we were all getting ready and my kids were all excited and happy. So I asked Marta if she wanted to ask Benny. Yes. Totally incapable of making even the simplest decision, Benny was still in her pyjamas when we came back from our errands to go away.
Are you coming or not?
She's there with her mother. Do you want to go, Benedetta? Yes. Well go. (Direct woman, Betta.)
So we leave, we get Giacomo his riding boots and trousers, we go for a pizza. We open the house. Everyone's having a good time. We go horse-riding. Benny gets a lesson, and she's really, really good. The teacher almost begs her to do lessons with him. We go home; I make dinner and everyone likes it. There's a barbie film on TV. Bedtime. I sit down in my vast, expansive armchair in front of the fire with a glass of Chianti and my notebook. Marta appears. Fuck. This never happens. Benny's crying. Ah.
I'll have to concentrate on the next four hours more carefully (well, it was all in a foreign language) later. But Benny was in despair about her parents' separation. Why can't they be together. Why can't they do at least something for me. It's all my fault. Why can't I be normal.
She phoned her mother. I'll come and get her after her brother's party at around 130.
I gave her the directions (never a strong point of mine). She phones at 130, just as I'm really thinking that it would be possible to lock a 10-year-old in an outhouse just to get some sleep. I'm in Trezzo. That's right, isn't it?
Not really, no. You missed a turn-off.
I spend the next hour and a half giving this very sexy, authoritative woman instructions:
No, that's wrong. Listen carefully. No, you've gone past where I told you to turn.
Strange, because normally I feel intimidated by her, but this time she was completely in my hands. As it were. Not at all. I've realised that women regard me as a 'saint' (cooking, baby-sitting, etc.) and therefore do not regard me as a potential shag. Ah well. I consign her daughter to her.
I now feel exhausted beyond my normal boundaries.
And the situation has changed: Giacomo lying in front of the fire doing his left-handed writing. Davide with one foot on the other rewriting his name at the table where Marta is absolutely concentrated on her 25 sentences. Time to go back home.
This morning was a walk along the river to where there's the 'Leonardo bridge/ferry'. 15th century obviously. Slowly, almost silently across a wide part of the Adda (which leads into the Po). Crossing was entirely pointless. When we got to the crossing I realised I really didn't want to eat at any of the restaurants there. We went into one, me feeling rather half-hearted about the potential experience as I saw all the Sunday-best families (we were very muddy-walking-types): there are four of us; have you booked? No. There's no space. But if I had booked there would be space (mastering a mixed conditional, but which went unnoticed by the ignoramus in front of me who could only just speak dialect), which means there is space. I'm sorry, that's how it is. Well, I don't care at all. We'll be happier eating at home and I'm sure we'll eat better too.
So we crossed to the bar at the other side, and had aperitivi. The ferryman is a rough-looking bastard whose face doesn't seem capable of smiling. You can ask him anything about the river though. He stood there pulling the thing into the pier and started talking to Davide: Are you cold? Yes. You can't be cold. What'll happen when it snows? When it's really cold? What'll you do? Look at the ducks - they're swimming. They don't think it's cold. And what about you? Eh, I don't know.
At this point Davide is laughing and the ferryman's face has sprouted a thousand laughter lines. We go for a drink with him. One of those drinks where you don't have to talk to each other, the good sort, where you just look at one another. />A husband and wife and a daughter-type turn up. We'll all go back to the other side together. The man is talking to the younger woman in English. As we cross he says that the scenery is very 'Leonardesque', like in various paintings. 'Hazy', offers the young woman, with the visual awareness of a Turner fan. Well, it's pretty foggy, if that's what you mean. You can't see the mountains at the other end of the river.
We head back home. I time the walk. 45 minutes. Their faces are pulled with exhaustion as we get near the end. They start recognising things that tell them we're nearly there, in desperation.
Then the house, the new skateboard, the fire, the pasta. They're happy, they're getting on with each other really well. I enjoy these things - I have to engineer more of them, get them used to walking so that they can enjoy this country for what it's worth, not the surface of image and design. Marta and Giacomo seem to be doing well at their horse-riding (Giacomo especially - his teacher cuts short Marta's lesson so that she can work longer with him; Marta's doing it just to be a bit of a princess; have I mentioned that Giacomo is my carbon-copy, all seriousness and dark effort?) so they'll be able to get right away from the crap; they can all ski; set up for life then.
Perhaps they're happy because they've had a comparative experience which has left them chastened, and glad that even if their mother is in America (she's actually at a conference in Disneyworld in Orlando and feels hugely guilty about not having taken them/me, though I'm very relieved) she's there for them.
The next part you won't believe; you'll tut and think 'you fool'. I invited Benny-downstairs to come with us this weekend. (And straightaway you can now imagine last night.) Well, she was there on Saturday morning, and we were all getting ready and my kids were all excited and happy. So I asked Marta if she wanted to ask Benny. Yes. Totally incapable of making even the simplest decision, Benny was still in her pyjamas when we came back from our errands to go away.
Are you coming or not?
She's there with her mother. Do you want to go, Benedetta? Yes. Well go. (Direct woman, Betta.)
So we leave, we get Giacomo his riding boots and trousers, we go for a pizza. We open the house. Everyone's having a good time. We go horse-riding. Benny gets a lesson, and she's really, really good. The teacher almost begs her to do lessons with him. We go home; I make dinner and everyone likes it. There's a barbie film on TV. Bedtime. I sit down in my vast, expansive armchair in front of the fire with a glass of Chianti and my notebook. Marta appears. Fuck. This never happens. Benny's crying. Ah.
I'll have to concentrate on the next four hours more carefully (well, it was all in a foreign language) later. But Benny was in despair about her parents' separation. Why can't they be together. Why can't they do at least something for me. It's all my fault. Why can't I be normal.
She phoned her mother. I'll come and get her after her brother's party at around 130.
I gave her the directions (never a strong point of mine). She phones at 130, just as I'm really thinking that it would be possible to lock a 10-year-old in an outhouse just to get some sleep. I'm in Trezzo. That's right, isn't it?
Not really, no. You missed a turn-off.
I spend the next hour and a half giving this very sexy, authoritative woman instructions:
No, that's wrong. Listen carefully. No, you've gone past where I told you to turn.
Strange, because normally I feel intimidated by her, but this time she was completely in my hands. As it were. Not at all. I've realised that women regard me as a 'saint' (cooking, baby-sitting, etc.) and therefore do not regard me as a potential shag. Ah well. I consign her daughter to her.
I now feel exhausted beyond my normal boundaries.
And the situation has changed: Giacomo lying in front of the fire doing his left-handed writing. Davide with one foot on the other rewriting his name at the table where Marta is absolutely concentrated on her 25 sentences. Time to go back home.
