RANDOM ECHOES – ITALY 1/11/05

The Festival of the Dead.

National holiday. Bells ringing early morning, after night rains, tolling insistently out there beyond the railway line, beyond the drainage dykes with their shy herons
– to Passignagno: lakeside town, eerily quiet today, a few families in almost empty cafes; children waiting, kicking heels, aimlessly gazing out of windows; like something is about to happen or should be happening but nobody knows what; a small crowd gathers on the embarkation pier waiting for the single ferry across to the island Isole Maggiore (a vague shadow out in the middle), each of them wearing coloured puffa coats and parkas bright against the uniform lake water and the mist; jetties again (something has come full circle – see entry dated 15/10) out into grey waters, hazy air obscuring any landmarks beyond, the opposite shore gone, a walk into effective nothingness - metal frames and structures, poles and lights that simply cease there at the edge and taking you where? In the municipal park running along the waters edge a sculpture of a dignitary looks down with eyes that appear drunk, painted whites there and dodgy gaze almost cross-eyed, but what else was there for him to do here today except get wasted?
– on toward the other side of the lake, a car drive over silent railway tracks; contemplating the Italian alphabet which has no ‘j’ in it; memorizing the singular faces out on the streets; and wondering where my friends are and what they are doing back in the hubbub of the metropolis while here we are in the hiatus of this mid-week holiday that has the rhythm of a dream about it
– up to the older town with it’s rising castle and church on a promontory over the lake, its streets older, more inviting - lonely shopkeepers stood on their doorsteps offering small tidbits to try to attract the last tourist of the year, that almost mythical creature – in the square, with its center fountain turned off for the day, the village idiot sits on a doorstep next to the police station on one of the rare days he is allowed out alone, though he is of no threat people don’t like to be reminded too often that he exists; he wears a badly fitting pair of tracksuit trousers (is he related to the nighttime scavenger of 10/10) that sag away from his arse and a thinning beige jumper with a black and white chevron pattern at the hem; his grey hair is slicked back from his face with grease, but he has a tan that many would pay to get, a result of sitting in the sanitarium garden for days on end through the summer; he smokes, his toothless mouth sucking on the fag with his bottom jaw stuck out from under to give him some purchase on it and to allow him to bellow the used smoke out – occasionally he strokes his face in an agitated manner as if some hugely urgent and important thought has crossed his mind and he has no way of letting anyone know, that he must not forget it and at a loss with what to do he reclines on the step almost supine, fag finished, and watches the families and visitors moving through the square (some interested in the fountain without water); but he cannot rest for long, his body twitches and tics constantly and eventually he rises and wanders over to the café diagonally opposite where he lingers at the doorway until the girl serving waves at him and gives him a brief greeting; he enters timidly, walks round the interior not knowing where to put himself, turns a single handle on the table football then leaves and walks off down a side street to reappear in the same spot beside the police station five minutes later but from a different direction, with another cigarette he has either cadged or found in his brief journey
– at the other end of the street closer to the medieval wall with its arched entrance, a prostitute stands waiting for late afternoon business; she tries not to be too obvious and so lingers inside the junk and antique shop there, talking and looking at some of the items, then methodically steps outside for a cigarette; she wears a black leather jacket with silver studs on, not a bikers jacket, something a little more classy than that, Euro trash style; tight black denim jeans and her dyed black hair back-combed and lacquered in place; her face, now showing signs of age (she must be in her mid to late 40s) is a little sour and uncomfortable, particularly at the edges of her mouth; she steps away from the shop and tips her head back to exhale a long stream of blue smoke, a sigh given shape, surrounded there by brass objects, bowls and basins, stokers for wood fires, and paintings of tree-lined avenues; she watches a middle aged couple bicker in a parked car and smiles to herself that at least she does not have to contend with that; eventually, seeing that no trade is evident, and with the clouds rapidly darkening prior to a storm, she makes her way up to the square where she spies the idiot in his usual place who rubs his crotch a little when he sees her but never says a word; and she walks over to her pimp who is sat under an umbrella on the little terrace outside the Hotel Miralago drinking a coffee and laughing with his young girlfriend who chain smokes a strong brand billowing thick plumes across the windows and the potted plants and the tourist family sat at the next table; the pimp nods at the hooker and that means she can clock off for the day, go and pay her respects to the dead – past the town hall and its view across the lake where today men hold cameras and digital recorders and photograph their kids covered in chocolate; where American tourists roam looking for the place they parked their car
– out to the cemetery, close on 3.30 in the afternoon; where the well-dressed residents and citizens have gathered on and off all day, their best clothes prepared and paraded, proud and unafraid, and are now unfurling their umbrellas as the rain starts to spit; moving here and there either singly or in small groups, finding the plot they have come to look for, the name and dedication on the wall there, where each has been interned not under the ground but in the cremated fashion with a place alongside others in two long walls on either side of the cypress-lined pathway leading to a mausoleum at the far end; each memorial filled with flowers and glowing red candles shimmering in the gloom of the oncoming storm, its own city of the dead; there is no dour taboo of death here, this is the most alive place seen all day, and oddly the most comfortable - beyond the cemetery walls, the constant chattering and song of birds in the nearby aviary fills the early evening; the cafe just beyond that, at the entrance of the access lane, is full of laughter and warm faces, the big bearded owner making a mint today where almost every other day he is quiet (except Sundays of course); as the rain begins to thicken and harden people start to scatter to the shelter of the bright orange awning there, or else under the huge cypress trees within the cemetery itself and wait for the downpour to pass; one young woman runs for her car but before she passes through the entrance gate she stops, turns and crosses herself with one hand whilst the other holds a small bloom to her chest
- then the storm arrives (to wash the living souls out perhaps, give them a good cleansing); the darkest clouds and a tumult of rain and phosphor lightning (forked and sheet combined) clearing the cemetery of people, leaving the dead to themselves; driving home is slow progress through torrential rain, and a yellow darkness; the storm then circles for hours, bouncing back over the hills, fettered to each, flickering and booming close then receding toward Citta della Pieve and Mount Amiata before returning overhead again twenty minutes later; out in the garden the vines become spectral, revealed momentarily in the strobe-like flashes; the rain hammering onto the thick foliage covering the pergola outside the front door, an awesome sound of watery clicks, taps, whispers and sighs; the scent of autumn rises: rotting leaves akin to ammonia, musty where the grapes are washed through and their juice sluiced into the earth; streams of clay-filled water run down through gullies to the irrigation ditches below; the loudest cracks of thunder come over Le Coste where we spent our days painting. I sit overwhelmed and watch it all from just inside our cottage door.