I spent my youth very close to my maternal grandmother . Loreta was a saint to me, and to everyone who encountered her. She was beautiful, loving, strong and kind. Her legs had been badly burned in a religious bonfire back in Italy, but she gave no sign of the pain that lingered in them, preparation perhaps for the courage with which she faced a painful death.
I could do no wrong in my grandmother’s eyes. I was her first grandchild, coddled and cosseted, and made to feel like I was being groomed for some special destiny. In the evenings, after the dinner dishes had been put away, she would sit in a soft chair in the corner of the darkened dining room. Only the light from the dial of the radio would cast a sepia nimbus around her face. It was 7:30PM and Fr. Ciccignioni, from Sts. Peter and Paul was leading the nightly rosary. If I happened through the dining room, which connected the parlor to the kitchen, she would summon me:
“Jeemee, Jeemee, vene qui , vene qui, mio caro. ” I would climb up on her lap for a few “Hail Marys” until I squirmed too much and she would release her embrace. My memory can still summon her earthy scent, and soft, warm flesh. Loreta was the Madonna incarnate.
Loreta Corona Bianchi
Too many years ago now, Patty and I were on a train from Venice to Florence. The only compartment that had space for the two of us was occupied by an elderly Italian woman in classic “widow’s ware,” the black dress, hair in a bun, the severe look, even the stockings rolled into ankle doughnuts. It was our first trip to Italy and we were a bit timid. It was also very hot and humid weather. The lady sat by the window, facing in the direction the train was moving; we sat, a trifle timorously, opposite her.
I could see that Patty was a little intimidated by the old woman. She said nothing to us, not even a greeting, and mostly stared directly ahead. But she was so much of a presence that we decided against eating the lunch we had bought before boarding the train.
The window was closed and we both would have liked to open it and get some outside air circulating as the train moved along. However, the wind would have blown directly into the face of the woman. Since she had entered the compartment ahead of us we could only assume that she preferred having it closed.
It was Patty who got up and went to the window. She mimed to woman that she would like to open the window just a little. The lady just looked back at Patty, expressionless, and then looked over to me and motioned me to come to the window and open it. I complied, and we noticed that she turned her face to accept the breeze now coming in through the window.
She seemed to nod off for a few minutes. When she awoke she began rummaging through her purse, after some time coming up with a cellophane-wrapped piece of candy. She motioned for me to come and retrieve it, but also gestured that I was to give it to Patty. After I delivered it she caught my eye and said, “bella ragazza, bella, bella.”
She wasn’t going to get an argument from me. “ Si, si, d’accordo.” I replied.
A few minutes later she was again rummaging in her purse and this time came up with what looked to be one of those little booklets of identity papers. She motioned for Patty to come over and sit beside her. With only slight hesitation Patty went to her and the woman started telling Patty about herself. I did as best I could to translate, calling out the English for any words that I recognized. The lady brightened some and began to smile. She then pulled up the hem of her dress to her knees and began talking about her legs. They were heavy and seemed swollen and discolored. All I could make out was that she was one her way to Rome to see a doctor about her legs. Then she went quiet and closed her eyes. We reckoned that she was in some discomfort. She seemed to doze and Patty returned to our seat.
A couple minutes before the train was to arrive in Florence the conductor came round, calling “Firenze, Firenze ” into each of the compartments. The lady opened her eyes and motioned for Patty to come over and sit beside her again. This time she found a small religious medal in her purse and pressed it into Patty’s palm. Then, to my surprise she took Patty in her arms and held her, holding Patty’s face beneath her chin as though she were comforting a little girl. She held on to her until we were nearly stopped in the station. I could see Patty’s eyes and they were neither surprised nor frightened and her arm rested gently on the woman’s thigh. Something very ‘womanly’ was being communicated that inverted pieta that was incomprehensible to me.
Could the lady somehow had a premonition that in a few years Patty would be mortally ill? That Patty was already experiencing some symptoms of the disease that we did not know then would take her life? I could have no such thoughts at the time; they came several years later when I pulled out my notes from that trip and began putting this piece together with my reverie of that curious day. What I was thinking at the time was that this lady reminded me of my grandmother, Loreta, who I had deeply loved and used to grab me and hold me just like this nonna had held Patty. Loreta died before Patty came into my life, but I had often spoken of her and of my regret that Patty never got to know her.
The train came to a stop in Florence and the lady relaxed her hold on Patty and took her face in her gnarled old hands and kissed her on the cheek. “Molte grazie, mia bella ragazza,” she said softly, her eyes wet and a sad smile on her face, “molte grazie. Arrivederci.” She released Patty as though she were entrusting me with someone with whom she had formed some bond, fixing an almost admonitory gaze on me as she did.
“I wonder what that was all about?” I said to Patty when were out on the platform and the train began to pull out. But I could see that she was quite moved. She didn’t respond. Perhaps she thought I would not comprehend her answer. I don’t think we spoke of the incident again, so I am left to wonder.
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©2004, James A. Clapp (UrbisMedia Ltd. Pub. 11.15.2004)
Excerpted from my travel memoir, The Stranger is Me.