mile later. I detect only three humans—two women and a man in a field, carrying large bundles of hay on their backs. Otherwise I meet just horses, sheep, and a herd of donkeys. The herd, ears hanging, is gathered under a leafless tree, and I wonder if they’re longing, just as I am, for a dry place and a bowl of soup. Maybe not for the soup.
I only notice the truck when it stops directly next to me. It’s a panel van, mottled yellow and brown, as if someone poured a bucket of dung over its ecru paint. The driver leans over and winds down the window.
“Signora! You need help?” he asks in broken German. Is it obvious at first sight where I’m from? Warily, I step closer. Paolo Conte’s “Via Con Me” wafts out with the sharp smell of aftershave and sweat. I wonder if it’s possible to recognize by their appearance psychopaths who sew coats out of women’s skins. The man, who seems to be well groomed, is wearing a black Sunday suit. “Saw your pretty car on side of street.”
I nod cautiously and glance at the faded direction sign. “Montesimo 6 km.” That’s almost four miles too far to be skeptical about strangers. Obeying Cartone’s advice, I answer in Italian. “I’m on my way to Montesimo. Is this on your way, by chance?”
The man’s face lights up, and he straightens and opens the door. “Of course! Get in. I’ll bring you there. No problem.”
Sometimes I actually believe there’s a God, even if his angel, on this occasion, wears a toupee.
“It seems you like Italian music.” The man, who introduced himself as Ernesto, smiles at me. Embarrassed, I stop tapping the beat of “Siamo Soli” on the dashboard. I can’t help it—the seat is pushed forward so far that my arms don’t fit in my lap. With my feet tucked up on my suitcase, which Ernesto crammed between the seat and the dash, I feel like a canned sardine.
I nod and check out the back of the truck. Envelopes and packages fill the Ford from top to bottom.
“I am the mailman of Montesimo,” Ernesto says when I look at him questioningly, and pride tinges his voice. That explains a lot. I smile politely when Ernesto fishes a dark-blue cap from the side panel and points to its sewed-on logo. “It’s my favorite job. I do it three times a week: Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday. I’m late today because we had a funeral this morning and then the testament was read in the community hall. Such public proclamations don’t happen often.” He grins as if it had been deliciously funny.
“How interesting,” I lie. We rumble over a pothole and pass a direction sign that says “Montesimo 10 km.” What? I start to perspire. Did Ernesto make a turn that I didn’t notice? Why wasn’t I paying attention?
“Trust me, signora. We are taking a shortcut.” The mailman steps on the gas, and, although the van replies with a scary noise, it does accelerate obediently on the dirt road. I slump down. So I’m going to end up as a coat—or dead in a ditch.
“This way is longer, but Carlo won’t take snapshots of us with his new toy. We can drive faster, so it’s shorter.” Ernesto pats the steering wheel as if the postal van were a Ferrari.
“Who’s Carlo?” My tongue feels furry.
“Our village policeman.”
“You only have one policeman?”
“Montesimo is a small place.” Ernesto shrugs. “But we have lots of good pasta.”
“Oh.” I look at him, confused.
“Do you like pasta?”
“If it’s cooked correctly . . .”
“We’re in Italy, signora. The only pasta you’ll taste here is good pasta or better pasta.”
The conversation is telling me I still have a lot to learn about this country and its inhabitants. Ernesto seems to be an especially weird specimen.
“And what’s the difference? I mean, between good pasta and better pasta?”
The mailman snorts as if I just asked the difference between a fast-food joint and a Michelin-starred restaurant. He watches the road silently for a while, pondering his answer.
I only notice the truck when it stops directly next to me. It’s a panel van, mottled yellow and brown, as if someone poured a bucket of dung over its ecru paint. The driver leans over and winds down the window.
“Signora! You need help?” he asks in broken German. Is it obvious at first sight where I’m from? Warily, I step closer. Paolo Conte’s “Via Con Me” wafts out with the sharp smell of aftershave and sweat. I wonder if it’s possible to recognize by their appearance psychopaths who sew coats out of women’s skins. The man, who seems to be well groomed, is wearing a black Sunday suit. “Saw your pretty car on side of street.”
I nod cautiously and glance at the faded direction sign. “Montesimo 6 km.” That’s almost four miles too far to be skeptical about strangers. Obeying Cartone’s advice, I answer in Italian. “I’m on my way to Montesimo. Is this on your way, by chance?”
The man’s face lights up, and he straightens and opens the door. “Of course! Get in. I’ll bring you there. No problem.”
Sometimes I actually believe there’s a God, even if his angel, on this occasion, wears a toupee.
“It seems you like Italian music.” The man, who introduced himself as Ernesto, smiles at me. Embarrassed, I stop tapping the beat of “Siamo Soli” on the dashboard. I can’t help it—the seat is pushed forward so far that my arms don’t fit in my lap. With my feet tucked up on my suitcase, which Ernesto crammed between the seat and the dash, I feel like a canned sardine.
I nod and check out the back of the truck. Envelopes and packages fill the Ford from top to bottom.
“I am the mailman of Montesimo,” Ernesto says when I look at him questioningly, and pride tinges his voice. That explains a lot. I smile politely when Ernesto fishes a dark-blue cap from the side panel and points to its sewed-on logo. “It’s my favorite job. I do it three times a week: Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday. I’m late today because we had a funeral this morning and then the testament was read in the community hall. Such public proclamations don’t happen often.” He grins as if it had been deliciously funny.
“How interesting,” I lie. We rumble over a pothole and pass a direction sign that says “Montesimo 10 km.” What? I start to perspire. Did Ernesto make a turn that I didn’t notice? Why wasn’t I paying attention?
“Trust me, signora. We are taking a shortcut.” The mailman steps on the gas, and, although the van replies with a scary noise, it does accelerate obediently on the dirt road. I slump down. So I’m going to end up as a coat—or dead in a ditch.
“This way is longer, but Carlo won’t take snapshots of us with his new toy. We can drive faster, so it’s shorter.” Ernesto pats the steering wheel as if the postal van were a Ferrari.
“Who’s Carlo?” My tongue feels furry.
“Our village policeman.”
“You only have one policeman?”
“Montesimo is a small place.” Ernesto shrugs. “But we have lots of good pasta.”
“Oh.” I look at him, confused.
“Do you like pasta?”
“If it’s cooked correctly . . .”
“We’re in Italy, signora. The only pasta you’ll taste here is good pasta or better pasta.”
The conversation is telling me I still have a lot to learn about this country and its inhabitants. Ernesto seems to be an especially weird specimen.
“And what’s the difference? I mean, between good pasta and better pasta?”
The mailman snorts as if I just asked the difference between a fast-food joint and a Michelin-starred restaurant. He watches the road silently for a while, pondering his answer.
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