Dad’s an active guy who doesn’t do so well when he has to sit around. So, rather than have him be held captive by my mother and Maria as they spent the afternoon talking we went for a walk on Lungo Mare. There wasn’t much to see or do there, the notable exception being the transvestite walking “her” dog who had done a poor “tucking” job. The beach was essentially empty save for a handful of families and a number of labourers who were dismantling structures intended purely for the summer, which in the Italian culture ends precisely on August 31st. The end of summer: it’s a hard cut off over here no matter how hot it remained. The children were back at school and the adults were back at work after taking quasi mandatory national holidays in August (“fer Agosto”).
Dad and I walked the strip and I noticed a few people turn their heads when they heard us speaking English. A helicopter flew overhead making repeated trips to the sea every few minutes to pick up water to dump on a brush fire; the Devil’s work likely caused by a menefreghista tossing their cigarette butt onto the parched roadside. The smell of smoke hangs heavy and often.
We returned a couple of hours later to find mom and Maria still talking. The topic of mom’s "bambola" (doll) had come up. When looking at the old family photos during our visit with mom’s cousin Paolo near Milano, mom got emotional over a picture of her with her porcelain-faced doll. Looking back on it, I think it’s kind of scary, but to mom it was everything at a time when they had relatively little. For years she carried that doll with her everywhere. When it came time to move to Canada the doll was left behind because they only had space for the essentials. They would get it the next time they came back.
Next time…next time. Eventually, next time leads to never. Lots of things were put away for ”next time”. An oak chest with a dowry typical of the time was left behind, its contents to be given to my mother when she got married. Towels, linens…biancheria as they call them here; all was left behind.
While dad and I were at the beach, Maria had made mention of a doll she and the other girls in the neighbourhood used to play with. Mom probed deeper and after hearing a description realized that it was her doll; her bambola. Maria was remorseful, apologizing over and over to my mom; she had no idea who the doll belonged to.
But Maria did have an idea of where my mom’s oak chest might be now. If mom wanted, they could try and find it. Mom thought about it for a moment and then said that she had no use for fifty year old biancherie. But what about the oak chest? It was hers and she should have it. “Next time” she said, “next time”.
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