Happy ending, happy beginning 2018
It doesn’t matter that New Year’s is my most unfavorite event in the year — it occurs every 365 days anyway. But I couldn’t let the year get packed away in the back of the closet along with everything else without showing I’m still very much alive, and looking forward to unpredictable wonders in 2018.
And in conclusion, Lino and I wish everyone a resounding “Saldi in pope!” A very profound and Venetian wish which means to stay firmly planted on the stern of your boat regardless of motondoso, gusts of wind, other boats cutting across your bow without warning in the dark, and whatever else may befall the hardy navigator. I could go on, but I think you have grasped my point.
pitching in
Here is a new warp (or weft) to the fabric of life in LinoLand, otherwise known as the place where he has known just about everybody still left in Venice. Or in this case, not still left.
The case in point: A death notice we came across for a certain Gastone Nardo. Strangely, this is someone I also knew (a little, and very late. Like, I met him twice.) He was the gondola-maker at the Squero San Trovaso when I came to Venice, and I was invited to a boat-launching there one freezing February day. That’s the most I can say about him on my own account. But of course Lino knows more.
“Well,” Lino said, “he wasn’t always a squerariol (boatbuilder). He came from a family of pegoloti.” “Pegola” is Venetian for “pitch,” not as in baseballs but as in scorching hot tar, which was the immemorial way to water- and shipworm-proof boats until the middle of the last century. Knowing how to handle, and apply, boiling pitch to the hull of a boat is probably not something you’d learn as a weekend hobby; it was certainly an important craft. But you can understand that a pegoloto was several hundred rungs below squerariol, so I admire him intensely for having undertaken to learn how to build gondolas. Working your way up from chopping lettuce at Quiznos to chef at the Restaurant Le Meurice is one thing, but it isn’t much easier working up from a searing cauldron of pine-derived hydrocarbons to constructing one of the great boats of the world. But he did it.
But just because nobody uses pitch anymore doesn’t mean it has left Venice altogether — it lives on in a very common daily phrase which is almost as useful as the stuff itself. It’s a verb, actually: “impegolar” (im-pegh-o-YAR), to metaphorically cover with pitch, to cleverly entrap somebody in a way that a tiptoeing saber-toothed tiger at La Brea would perfectly understand.
I’ve never heard it used by someone admitting to having committed this act on someone else — it’s always been the person who has been deviously empitched who will say it. Life in Venice, and anywhere else, still offers far too many opportunities to use this expression. Generous, well-meaning, let-there-be-peace-and-let-it-begin-with-me people are fated to walk right into somebody’s loaded tarbrush.
A perfect example of this phenomenon happened to Lino years ago at the hands of his late brother-in-law, Sergio; they were two guys who have rarely, if ever, been known to block out a cry for help. Sergio, especially, was famed across campi and campielli as one of the best-natured men ever to walk the earth, so of course he was exploited. But he didn’t go alone.
One day he agreed to help some neighbor carry “a table and four chairs” downstairs and transport them to an apartment on what was virtually the street next door. Keep “four chairs” and “street next door” firmly in mind.
A boat was needed. Lino had a small boat. Would Lino help him fulfill this modest and glowing-with-goodness little project? Of course Lino would.
And of course Lino and Sergio found themselves “impegolai” in a gigantic moving project that lasted two whole days, schlepping chairs, tables, huge plants in massive clay pots, a divan, credenza, and all the kitchen furnishings including the stove down four, or maybe it was five, flights of stairs. Moving Day! Meanwhile, the beneficiary of this effort, the man of the house, lay peacefully sleeping in bed, and they were even cautioned to work quietly so as not to disturb him. Naturally this apartment was on the top floor of the building.
And all of this cargo had to carried into the new apartment, naturally, including the bed which was available after the man of the house had awakened (not because of any random noise by the trio of movers), and gone out to do something else, thoughtfully getting out of their way.
Do not think that finding yourself impegola‘ once means it will never happen again, because the trick is that these projects always start small (“four chairs”). So one time the parish asked Sergio if he’d carry away “a few packages” of old newspapers to be recycled. Yes, even in those long-ago days paper was usefully disposed of at a macero (a pulping mill) in Campo San Silvestro where a trendy little bar-cafe is now lounging around. Boat needed, with Lino, though only for half of the project.
By now I don’t have to say that the “few packages” turned out to be towers of stacked newspapers requiring many roundtrips. But these things never happen on a boring Saturday afternoon when you literally have nothing to do. In this case, it was the Saturday of the Redentore, which sort of a summertime version of Christmas Eve, if you want some comparison between the importance of what you’re doing and what the family expects you to be doing.
So instead of preparing his boat for the evening’s festivities (eating, drinking, hanging out with other boat-borne friends, watching fireworks), Lino was rowing his boat around half of Venice again and again to help out Sergio because Sergio said he’d help out the parish. Why that particular day and not the following Monday? Because otherwise it would have been convenient, and if you find yourself impegola‘ it’s precisely because the activity involved cannot be postponed and it must be at the least convenient moment and because only you can accomplish it.
To be fair, Sergio’s Redentore was also twisted out of shape, because that’s the world that people with hearts of gold inhabit. Beautiful, true, but completely tacky with pitch.
Just looking around some more
One of the best things about Venice is how, the minute you walk outside, you are surrounded by curious and beautiful and surprising and amusing things. It used to be that most people would notice at least some of them; now that 98 percent of humans spend all their time staring at or listening to electronic devices, I suppose most of the aforementioned curious, etc. things could just move away and live somewhere else, like Turkmenistan, and nobody would notice. “Hey! Where’d Venice go? I was just checking my email/Twitter feed/Facebook quagmire/WhatsApp” (by the way, nothing is app), and the city’s just gone.” Of course, for the same reason they probably wouldn’t notice in Turkmenistan that a World Heritage Site d/b/a “the most beautiful city in the world” had suddenly sprung up in their midst.
But I still wander around looking at things, and here are a few I came across recently:
Running across friends (again and again)
This morning we were walking home under the trees lining viale Garibaldi and, as more or less usual, we ran into someone Lino knows; a small, trim, grey-haired man with a pleasant smile and the most benevolent eyes. We have encountered him at various moments over the years here and there, and he never changes, except I think he’s lost a little weight.
“Ciao, Federico,” Lino said, giving him several warm pats on the cheek, as if he were a little boy. These pats are valid for anybody, at any age, and it’s almost unheard-of for someone to consider them strange, much less objectionable. Children grow up being patted and I, for one, am glad to see there’s no expiration date. In this case Lino has a lifetime pass, because they’ve known each other forever. In fact, they used to work together.
So, they exchange a few random comments about nothing, the sort of conversation that has no calories, sugar, sodium, trans-fats, and only the tiniest amount of carbohydrates, just to keep it going.
Lino made some remark about the atrocious condition of the world, and this was Federico’s opening: “Why do we not do what God tells us to do?” he asked, which is an excellent question. “You could read your Bible sometime,” he continued amiably. “It’s free.”
This suggestion didn’t surprise Lino or me — in fact, I was waiting for it, and so was Lino. Lino likes to needle him because Federico is a Jehovah’s Witness, and this morning he was even accompanied by a tall young man who just listened.
“Is this your apprentice?”, or “assistant,” or “disciple,” or “trainee,” or whatever Lino asked, even though it was obvious. They were both wearing neckties, an object which is so rarely seen in this neighborhood as to be almost an archaeological artifact, but is an admirable part of the uniform. I think they’d go without shoes before they’d leave off the necktie.
After a few more brief sallies — how old are you now (72) and where do you live (Giudecca), we all resumed our paths, we toward home, Federico toward whatever fields cried out for cultivation. So to speak.
“Ah, Federico,” Lino said affectionately. “He and his mother used to live in Cannaregio, but in the acqua alta of 1966 they lost everything. The Jehovah’s Witnesses helped them out, and so here he is, this is what he does.” I make a mental note that he would have been 21 at the time, an age when a major good deed coupled with some urgent explanations can have an effect. Not judging, just saying.
“So he keeps at it,” Lino continued, who is always a bit bemused by the man’s constancy and imperturbability, though if you’re not constant and imperturbable you’ll never make it as a proselytizer. Just ask Saint Paul.
Anyway, “He’ll be out ringing doorbells, any time — Christmas Day, New Year’s morning at 9:00 AM.” Lino stops to mimic a sleep-addled man going to a window and shouting down, “What? Who?” A pause to indicate Federico’s inaudible salutation.
“Just wait a minute,” the sleep-addled man says, then Lino mimics upending a full container out the window.
“He got everything — people would pour buckets of water on him. Even chamberpots full of piss.”
Excuse me?
“Ha! Just ask him about Murano that time.” Which I won’t. But I note that while Saint Paul was beaten and stoned, the record doesn’t show that that little joke was ever played on him, though it probably totally was.
“How do you know him?”
“We worked together at the Aeronavali. Me, Conte, the other guys, we’d all rag him all the time.” And what work did he do?
“He was the uomo di fatica,” the man of toil and exhaustion, the menial drudge which every company has, the guy whose job is the heavy lifting, shlepping, the hewer of wood and drawer of water.
Which means that Federico long ago made his peace with his modest place in the world, in and out of Kingdom Hall, and as we walked off I found myself dwelling more than usual on his embarrassingly simple question. Why don’t we do what God says? (That’s a rhetorical question, so hold off on the comments. I know the answer.)
While we’re on the subject of ex-colleagues from the Aeronavali, a while back we were hanging around the Arsenale vaporetto stop (I can’t remember why). It was early evening and the light and the air were calming down. A very nicely dressed older couple got off and were walking towards us. They appeared to be going to some sort of party, or special gathering. “Ciao, Marco” (not his real name). “Ciao, Lino.”
And that was…..? “That was Marco. He started as an apprentice at the Aeronavali the same day I did,” Lino recalled. By the number of colleagues he keeps running into, it would seem there had been thousands.
“We were working on T-6 Harvard planes” — of course Lino would remember that; I throw it in for any aviation fans who might be reading. He likes to set the scene and I respect that.
After a few years of this, Marco began to go to night school. “He was studying to become a surveyor. We all knew this, and we knew he would sometimes go off somewhere to study during working hours. Maybe everybody knew it, anyway, somebody might come looking for him and we’d be all ‘Gosh, I don’t know, he was here a minute ago, any of you guys seen Marco?’…..”
Eventually he went to take his final exams, but cleverly went to an institute somewhere in Italy’s Deep South, where the grading was known to be much — make that MUCH — easier. He passed. But that wasn’t the end of the story.
He registered at the University of Venice to take courses leading to a degree in business administration. Armed with that diploma, he returned to the Aeronavali as the amministratore delegato, or chief executive. Eventually he married a woman who owned some factory, Lino says, and he became director of the factory. I’m supposing that was the lady who accompanied him.
“I remember the day I gave my notice,” Lino recalled. “Marco said to me, ‘Come up to my office a minute.’ And we talked about my reasons for leaving, and then he opened his desk drawer and took out a small pin shaped like a swallow. That was the emblem of the Aeronavali, and it was made of gold. One day I lost it, somewhere out on the street. You have no idea how sorry I am not to have it anymore.”
I must have five or six single earrings, their mates lost forever, which annoys the hoo out of me. But that doesn’t make me anywhere near as sorry as he is.
Tomorrow, no telling what unforeseen encounter awaits.
