Big Cherry Holler - Adriana Trigiani [72]
“Hello, Cousin Ave Maria,” Chiara says to me, sounding like one of those learn-a-foreign-language-fast tapes.
“Ciao, Chiara.” I give her a hug. She’s a beauty, with her shiny black hair and wide brown eyes. Chiara is taller than Etta, but just as lean. She wears plastic rings on all of her fingers, a style that Etta has eagerly copied. They look like a couple of five-and-dime Cleopatras.
Then she tells my father in Italian that I am pretty and not too old. I tell my little cousin that she should have seen me before the va-va-voom haircut. Chiara looks at me like I’m crazy.
Chiara is full of mischief. In pictures, she comes off as serene and serious, but in life, her dark eyes constantly dart about, looking for excitement. She is very quick, instantly picking up English phrases from Etta. Etta is doing fine with her Italian too. Chiara is teaching her Italian curse words, which make my daughter laugh. She is the perfect foil for Etta, who tries to do the right thing even at the expense of fun. But I instantly love my cousin; I want her to help Etta test her limits. Etta needs to loosen up. She needs to run and get dirty and play. I just want them to be careful, but I don’t have to worry. Giacomina takes them under her wing like her own little summer charges, and they obey her without question.
As we drive through the mountains, Papa tells Giacomina about town business, something about tourist season come winter. Then, in a split second, he swerves off the main road and through a mass of vines and brush. We bump onto a gravel road that pitches us around like loose fruit. The girls laugh and hang on. Soon we see a clearing with tall lanterns on spikes stuck in the ground around a dance floor of portable linoleum.
I was expecting an indoor disco. When we say “disco” in America, we mean a dance club, a place where you would find John Travolta in an ice-cream suit. But here a disco can be any place there’s music. The music, which sounds like Italian covers of American hits, plays out through the black night. Folks are gathered around the bar (a table set up in the field), and the kids are drinking a dark red fizzy drink, which they throw back like shots. “Bitters,” Giacomina tells me. There’s a crowd. A big crowd. It seems that most of the mountain villages emptied out and came here tonight. Cars are parked haphazardly along the sides of the field.
Chiara acts sophisticated and points out all the particulars to Etta. I can hardly hold on to them as they bolt from the car and head for the dance floor. Papa and Giacomina see friends from town and stop to chat. I whisper in Giacomina’s ear that I am going to go exploring.
I love the way Italians look. Maybe it’s because I’m relieved that there’s a place in this world where I look like somebody. But I find their faces so interesting. I don’t know what makes the women so beautiful—you would never see any of them on a magazine cover in America—but they are striking. Here a strong nose is a source of pride. Most of these noses wouldn’t last in America, with their length and their regal breaks in the bridge—they wouldn’t be appreciated. Maybe these women are so attractive because they like themselves. They accept what they are born with; even their flaws are a source of pride, the very thing that makes them distinctive and alluring.
The men are beyond handsome. Even when they’re short (I guess height is an American thing), they have a strength that makes you believe they could take one of these Alpine boulders and roll it down the hill like a basketball. They live in their skin like kings; their mothers encourage that. A son is a prized possession, more treasured than land or gold. A son means continuity. A son can become a father, and a father is the center of wisdom and policy in the home. I see it in action, in the small pockets surrounding the dance floor. Of course, the men seem