The first time I came to C’s birthplace in the summer, I swore it would be the last.
C is originally from a small village in the province of Mantua, in the Lombardy region. This part of Italy is known as the Padana Plain (pianura padana), stretching from the Alps to the Apennines, with the River Po running through it.
It is an incredibly fertile land, with vast fields of wheat, grapes, apple trees, pear trees, corn, barley, beetroot and anything else you want to plant, which will grow. It is a land with a humidity I had never experienced before, which turns into thick fog in winter and a Dantesque scene in summer. I, who am from Valencia, never thought I would say this, but the summer in Mantua is the worst I have ever experienced. UNBEARABLE. Such is the situation that when the wind blows, it is worse than when it does not, and they call it Caronte, after the demon who ferried souls across the Acheron in Dante’s Inferno.
Going back to my first encounter with the situation at hand — the Mantuan summer — P was barely five months old, and it was so hot we only dared to take him out at nine in the morning. We would take him to a massive air-conditioned supermarket and walk around so he could take his first nap of the day, nice and cool, and then head back home with a bunch of stuff we’d found in the supermarket’s hidden aisles. Things we didn’t need but bought out of sheer boredom. That’s how we spent two weeks.
Despite my promise, here I am, ten years later, once again, to celebrate the wedding of M, C’s cousin, who, after forty years together with A —with whom she shares everything, including a 26-year-old daughter— has seen the light when it comes to bureaucracy, and, just in case anyone gets sick now that the years are speeding up to run each other over, it’s almost better to make it official, lest they not let them be together in the nursing home, or pretend that visiting hours apply to them like to any stranger. On June 21, the summer solstice, because weddings are better in June, right?
Lying on the sofa, with the languor of someone who expects nothing, I watch my mother-in-law moving around the kitchen. My mother-in-law must be made of titanium, because I can’t understand how she has managed to get her legs into those thick compression stockings.
I sit on the steps at the entrance to her house. The marble cools my bottom; I can feel the ischial tuberosities digging into my buttocks. I’ve been here for two days and the heat has reduced me to a muscle-less rag moving in the shadows. From my perspective, I observe the patterns that can be seen on the marble. All I see are silhouettes of naked bodies piled up, the same image that came to mind when I read Inferno, Dante again.
It’s ironic, or perhaps just inevitable, that Virgil was born in Pietole, just a stone’s throw from where I now lie in agony. In fact, it’s not surprising that Dante chose Virgil as his guide through hell, because the Mantuan poet was already acclimatised. I won’t tell you the coordinates of C’s birthplace because I can see you making a pilgrimage here, demanding that the town council turn the place into a house-museum. I can already read the bronze plaque:
‘Ana Bosch, martyr, spent every Christmas here since 2014, and the odd week in the summer. It was the latter that elevated her to the altars’.
I wake up from my nap. Funny, I think to myself, as I peel my tongue off the roof of my mouth, I could have sworn I drank water for lunch, not three litres of kalimotxo1. My head is spinning as I make my way to the bathroom, hoping to confirm that the creases across my face are the result of fluid loss following my afternoon slumber, not early-onset aging. Out of curiosity, I step on the scale to confirm that I’ve lost a kilo in the postprandial stupor.
I start applying concealer under my eyes. The window is wide open, but there’s no breeze. Smudges form as I apply the concoction. Since I arrived three days ago, my pores have quadrupled in size to allow the copious amount of water and electrolytes to escape.
Full-time dehydration.
I wash my face and, in an exercise of dignity, decide to just go with eye-liner and mascara. My bad mood is rising by the minute. The perfect mindset to celebrate eternal love.
Once at the banquet, I let slip in front of A how hard it was for me to show up at his party.
‘Ana’ he says affectionately, ‘next time we’ll get married in November, I promise.’
The first course arrives, risotto con funghi e radicchio. The prosecco is exceptional. A light breeze caresses us under the portico of the old farmhouse converted into an agriturismo-party hall, located here by an architect of yesteryear who must have known a thing or two about strategic orientation.
Right now, everything is burning a little less. Even in hell, one can get comfortable if the prosecco is served cold and the company is good.
This is my submission for the Soaring Twenties Social Club Symposium. We are a group of idlers who share ideas and companionship. Each month, STSC members create something around a theme, this month’s being ‘Touch Grass’. I decided to set it on fire.
Terrible and really cheap alcohol mix for college students. Bad wine and Coca-Cola. I recommend to stay clear off the stuff.
Some Spanish students I used to knock around with in University tried to turn me to kalimotxo. I didn't get it. I thought the two ingredients would somehow synergistically become a magical better-than-the-sum-of-its-parts elixir. But instead it just tastes exactly how you would expect. And I like both Cola and Red.
A very enjoyable read, perfectly capturing the oppression of the heat. And now I want risotto.