Hunting Truffles

Chapter 4 Roots in the Vineyard

Chapter 4

Roots in the VineyardBy morning, most of the vineyard work had been completed, and Dito called Paolo out to the field, ostensibly to check the wires supporting the vines, and one last cut through the rows to make sure everything was in order. Paolo knew that his father would be back nearly every day, and he surmised that Dito's real purpose was more personal.

So when Dito and Paolo started out that morning for the vineyard, they loaded a few tools into the truck and drove the few miles to their farm. There was something oddly reassuring about the creaky old truck that Dito refused to replace. The suspension was nearly gone, and it took more than a single turn of the key to fire up the engine, especially as the air cooled in autumn, and for all his misgivings Paolo smiled at the spirited debate his father had with la macchina while man and machine battled for dominance.

They pulled up to the fringe of the vineyard and la macchina came to a stop, almost as if it was annoyed by the braking action. Dito pushed the door open and turned sideways before lowering himself to the ground, a reluctant submission to a sore back weakened by years of farm labor. Paolo had more energy but silently stepped out of the truck, not wanting to aggravate his father's condition by showcasing the vigor of youth.

The old man stepped between two rows of vines as if these were his true family. Shy of a smile, his face nevertheless lit up as if he was more at home here than anywhere else in his existence.

Through most of the summer, Dito's hands were his closest connection to the soil. He watched, dug into it, pulled a handful toward his face to sniff it, and from this communion was able to discern the mystical fate of the vines under his care. He tended these vines and the earth, using his hands to get a sense of how things were going. It was this tactile connection to the earth that Dito seemed to love the most, as if his hands were translating the meaning of the soil for him.

But after the harvest when the grapes were gone and the leaves were turning yellow and brown on the vine, Dito relied more on his eyes, and that day he stood at the head of one vineyard row and surveyed the leaves rustling in the breeze. He stared off into the distance as the row climbed a rise, then disappeared over the hill. Paolo noticed the change in his father at this time of year, and it seemed that Dito was looking beyond the vines, beyond even his own life, peering into the future and the past at the same time, using his imagination to meld the two into the seamless totality that was life for Italians.

Then, he stooped and lifted a handful of dried earth, and smiled. Someone unfamiliar with vineyard work would have thought the dusty handful to be proof of a barren plot of land. But grapevines produced the best wine when their roots had to dig deep to find water. “Like our people,” Dito sometimes said, “the best ones come from struggling to survive.”

He didn't have to repeat those words to Paolo that day; he just looked at his son. And Paolo realized that his father's glance was his first response to the son's plea to go to America.

After only a short time in the vineyard, they climbed into the truck and drove back to their home in Sinalunga. Italians cherish the extended family and live among relatives throughout their lives. This concept of communal living even extends to the neighbors and villagers around whom many Italians shape their lives. So, unlike American farmers who build a home in the middle of a vast farm, miles from the nearest neighbor, Italians live in villages that are, themselves, surrounded by farmland. Many of those who own and tend the fields live in these villages and walk or ride their trucks out to the farmland and vineyards in the day, returning to their neighbors, friends, and family in the village at night.

Arriving home, Dito put the tools away and Paolo dutifully spent his afternoon cleaning the large garage that doubled as a farmer's shed. Each man was left to think about what each knew was uppermost in his mind.

That evening, the three sat at the table for dinner. From her small but functional kitchen, Catrina produced meals that would headline restaurants in other countries. But even in rural Italy, such exalted flavors were the hallmark of local cuisine. Fresh ingredients and local produce were the key, as well as simple cooking techniques that neither baked the flavors out nor blanketed them with sauces. Catrina had grown up in the kitchen and learned her many skills from the woman who bore nine children, all hungry, and all expecting to feast on the memorable foods of their homeland.

Evening repasts, called cena in Italy, were eaten earlier in the countryside than in the cities. Farmers began their work early in the day and tired early in the evening so, unlike their urban cousins, they would have their final meal of the day around seven o'clock then drift into a well-deserved sleep by nine.

After the vegetables were eaten, platters of meat would arrive. Tuscan kitchens were renowned for the luscious meats and fowl that emerged from them, broiled, boiled, roasted, grilled, and sometimes simply salted and dried. That night, Catrina brought out a steaming roast of pork, surrounded by links of cinghiale sausage, a regional favorite made from the meat of the local wild boar. The aromas of rosemary, sage, and garlic rose from the platter and Dito poured another glass of wine as if to toast the feast.

Dito, Catrina, and Paolo ate in an unusual silence, unusual because Italians consider mealtime to be the happiest and most convivial of social interludes. But tonight all three knew they were thinking about growing things, both grapes and children, and about America.

“Why do you want to…” Dito began, but before he could finish the sentence Catrina knew was coming, she interrupted him.

“Paolo,” she said softly, and Dito immediately deferred to her. “When was the last time you saw Zia Rita?”

“Rita? Your sister?”

“Of course,” Catrina said, loading more meat onto Dito's plate to keep him out of the conversation for another minute. “How many aunt Ritas do you have?”

“It's been a couple of years, I guess,” Paolo replied. “Why?”

“Well, the grapes are in, and you're developing a bit of wanderlust, and I just thought that a trip to Genoa to visit your aunt might be just the right thing.”

It wasn't that Paolo was that close to his aunt Rita, but he hadn't been the Genoa, “the City of Ships,” since he was a young boy. He had learned more about it in recent years, and the city's reputation for ship-building and exploration, so maybe a few days – or more? – on Italy's Mediterranean coast might be exciting.

Dito continued chewing his dinner, but looked silently at his son, waiting for an answer, or at least some sign that Paolo was considering the idea. Dito didn't necessarily agree with Catrina's suggestion, he didn't even know it was coming, but he immediately understood its purpose, as a way to delay Paolo's broader ambition to travel.

“You could work in her restaurant,” Catrina said, to fill in the silence and keep them on topic. “What do you think?”

“Si,” Paolo conceded finally, “that would be a good idea. Papa, it's true the grapes are in. Do you need me here? I would only be gone a week, maybe two.”

Dito had already decided to agree, but hid that fact under a guise of nonchalance. Waiting just a few seconds for effect, and to establish that his approval was the only one that really mattered, Dito raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders, without stopping the mastication of the morsel of cinghiale sausage and without speaking any words. But with that gesture, he gave his consent.