frequently in the stalls at flea markets. Moreover, it was also without powder. That does not mean that the message wasn’t still disturbing: a hand grenade, “pineapple-type,” placed in the construction site for the building of a new sports center of the Parterre, already the focus of a thousand arguments. This particular rift has divided Cortona. The construction of the pool seems to be connected to the discovery on Saturday. It was the carabinieri who discovered the bomb, which was lying next to a threatening handwritten sign.
The surveys conducted by the carabinieri have just started and may continue: The fact is that someone made a serious gesture, someone who has decided to continue the battle against sports center by other means, other than mere words, from mountains of paper that have been filled in recent months, the mountains of speeches, pros and cons, which characterize since the beginning of the year the controversy in the city.
We couldn’t help but laugh. Our very own grenade transferred to the pool site . Discovered not by me in my summer party clothes but by the carabinieri . Not against us but against them. Oh, mamma mia!
Who managed this and why?
T HE SUMMER RESUMED . I reclaimed the centro of my heart for my own.
What became clear over the ensuing months was that our relationship to the town changed. From the day we arrived, we were overwhelmed by friendliness and hospitality. We’d always felt totally welcome. But while we’d felt a belonging before, we got the sense that the people just now knew we really belonged, that we were here to stay, and that since we knew the worst, we could become not just residenti elettivi , elective residents, but familial. “Cari, siete cortonesi.” My dears, you’re of Cortona. Two people gave me a corno , the coral horn-shaped ornament that even tiny babies wear to protect them from the evil eye. One barista said, “I thought you only had good luck.”
Previously, I’d often been pulled aside and told a personal story. “You can write about that,” the teller would say proudly. Always there was plenty of news of liver problems, adultery, the secret nicknames that bounce around town, occult tumors, family histories, proud moments, and jokes. After —the level of confidences didn’t double, it cubed. I didn’t even know I was on the outside looking in until I was suddenly on the inside looking out.
W ILLIE HAD A fine summer. Ashley was wary of every car that passed. Me, too. Ed was reluctant to leave us alone, even to go out with Placido and the falcon. We spent more and more time at the mountain house. I began my wanderings on paths in the chestnut forest, emulating the followers of St. Francis. I often thought of Neruda’s lines:
I have to go much farther
and I have to go much closer …
Ed devoted himself to cooking. He bought me a dark red helmet and we explored back roads, bumping along on the Vespa.
Someone handed me another minute newspaper article. A large stone was heaved at night onto the vinyl bottom of the new pool, ripping it. Later, there was a false rumor that a girl was raped there. The drama continued without us. I found the clandestine workings-out of the situation very disturbing. Miss Insomnia was my permanent houseguest.
L ONG AFTER—THE pool was a flop. Too small. Too chilly under the majestic cypresses. I liked to think that the memorialized World War I soldiers cast a cold spell on the whole project. Mainly, too out of town, too scomodo , inconvenient. Ah, Sherlock Holmes, what a discovery. Ditto the pool restaurant and plans for theatrical events. The damage was done to the dreamy hillside. What everyone must live with: horrid lights like an airport (and electricity is exorbitant in Italy) and an ugly gash of turquoise on the hill that formerly resembled the landscape behind a Signorelli Crucifixion. We can’t see the site from Bramasole, but many can.
As the failure grew more apparent two summers ago, the desperate
The surveys conducted by the carabinieri have just started and may continue: The fact is that someone made a serious gesture, someone who has decided to continue the battle against sports center by other means, other than mere words, from mountains of paper that have been filled in recent months, the mountains of speeches, pros and cons, which characterize since the beginning of the year the controversy in the city.
We couldn’t help but laugh. Our very own grenade transferred to the pool site . Discovered not by me in my summer party clothes but by the carabinieri . Not against us but against them. Oh, mamma mia!
Who managed this and why?
T HE SUMMER RESUMED . I reclaimed the centro of my heart for my own.
What became clear over the ensuing months was that our relationship to the town changed. From the day we arrived, we were overwhelmed by friendliness and hospitality. We’d always felt totally welcome. But while we’d felt a belonging before, we got the sense that the people just now knew we really belonged, that we were here to stay, and that since we knew the worst, we could become not just residenti elettivi , elective residents, but familial. “Cari, siete cortonesi.” My dears, you’re of Cortona. Two people gave me a corno , the coral horn-shaped ornament that even tiny babies wear to protect them from the evil eye. One barista said, “I thought you only had good luck.”
Previously, I’d often been pulled aside and told a personal story. “You can write about that,” the teller would say proudly. Always there was plenty of news of liver problems, adultery, the secret nicknames that bounce around town, occult tumors, family histories, proud moments, and jokes. After —the level of confidences didn’t double, it cubed. I didn’t even know I was on the outside looking in until I was suddenly on the inside looking out.
W ILLIE HAD A fine summer. Ashley was wary of every car that passed. Me, too. Ed was reluctant to leave us alone, even to go out with Placido and the falcon. We spent more and more time at the mountain house. I began my wanderings on paths in the chestnut forest, emulating the followers of St. Francis. I often thought of Neruda’s lines:
I have to go much farther
and I have to go much closer …
Ed devoted himself to cooking. He bought me a dark red helmet and we explored back roads, bumping along on the Vespa.
Someone handed me another minute newspaper article. A large stone was heaved at night onto the vinyl bottom of the new pool, ripping it. Later, there was a false rumor that a girl was raped there. The drama continued without us. I found the clandestine workings-out of the situation very disturbing. Miss Insomnia was my permanent houseguest.
L ONG AFTER—THE pool was a flop. Too small. Too chilly under the majestic cypresses. I liked to think that the memorialized World War I soldiers cast a cold spell on the whole project. Mainly, too out of town, too scomodo , inconvenient. Ah, Sherlock Holmes, what a discovery. Ditto the pool restaurant and plans for theatrical events. The damage was done to the dreamy hillside. What everyone must live with: horrid lights like an airport (and electricity is exorbitant in Italy) and an ugly gash of turquoise on the hill that formerly resembled the landscape behind a Signorelli Crucifixion. We can’t see the site from Bramasole, but many can.
As the failure grew more apparent two summers ago, the desperate
Similar Books
