The man was a retired symphony
orchestra musician that had played with of the major orchestras in America. On
this particular Sunday afternoon in May he was with his family attending the
annual pig festival in the small village of Impruneta just a short distance
outside of Florence. The picturesque piazza was alive with booths selling
everything from miniaturized icon replicas from Mueso
Del Tesoro di Santa Maria Dell'Impruneta e Basilica, to the excellent
terracotta pottery that was Impruneta’s specialty. There were also booths for
food and drink including the Impruneta pig festival specialty, panino di
porchetta, a fresh pork sandwich made from juicy meat just cut from the pig
which roasted on a rotating spit; the booth was easy to find, all one needed to
do was to follow the mouth watering aroma. There was wine, beer and grappa and
at the very next booth there was the vibrant red Sicilian Spremuta, the freshly
pressed rich sweet orange juice as red as the Chianti served at the wine booth.
And there was cenci, a greasy thin crisp deep fried wafer dipped in powdered
sugar, that was far more detrimental to ones health than any doughnut anywhere;
cenci are wonderful and are a part of any village festival anywhere in Italy.
The whole experience was nothing
new to the family, they had lived in Toscana for several years and been to many
of the festivals that were frequently celebrated in similar villages throughout
Toscana and throughout Italy, rabbit festivals, snail festivals, turkey, chicken,
garlic, onion, tomato, zucchini, olive and grape festivals; they were always a
very particular kind of fun and the family’s enjoyment was only enhanced by
their experience.
There were young girls who were
desperately trying to find their place in the rich world of Italian fashion,
usually with strikingly grotesque results, but with the occasional exceptional
appearance of an angelic, budding Sophia Loren who would make a grown man
quietly gasp at the potential. Similarly, there were the boys either reaching
for or having reached puberty, testing there manhood potential by flexing the
decibels of their motorinos and flaunting their undeveloped street wisdom and
worldliness.
The man and his family found
seats on the terrazza
just behind the band that was about to begin their concert. The family ordered
a bottle of prosecco and three dishes of sorbetto al lamponi from the bar that
many people thought made the best ice cream in Italy.
For several years the man could
not sit through any concerts played by any ensemble, it was just too hard for
him after playing several concerts a week for thirty-five years, plus the added
dimension that these village band concerts were particularly difficult because
they all had the common denominator of being overtly terrible. But time had
mellowed the man’s phonophobia and he was able to relax and enjoy the rural
naïve sonic event that was about to begin, he was even looking forward to it,
to him it seemed like a caricature of an Italian comic opera and he found it amusing.
What always confused the family
though, was that this festival in the beautiful piazza on a lovely spring day,
had no visible joy, no laughter not even smiles. Many of the Toscana festivals
were like that; they were somber and austere. The family didn’t know why but
they expected it to be that way and they were not surprised nor affected by it
in the same way they were when they first arrived in Toscana six years before.
Perhaps it was that same dark nature that might explain the creation of the Mafia.
The concert was ready to begin
and the family prepared themselves, but the piazza remained unchanged; the
people continued doing whatever they were doing and almost no one gave any
attention to what was about to happen on the small bandstand. Most people,
young and old, male and female were more concerned about the image they
displayed as they showed themselves in their village, as if posing for some
imaginary magazine cover. There’s an Italian phrase to describe that, it’s
called “Fare un Bella Figura”, making a good figure; it’s as Italian as
Spaghetti.
As the retired musician took his
first sip of prosecco two men passed their table and headed for the bandstand,
one was tall, powerfully built and wore a black leather coat, the other was
about 6 inches shorter, walked in a very strange way and had a towel around his
neck, their faces were not visible. They walked to the stairs that lead to the
platform that was the bandstand, and without stopping proceeded to the
conductor’s podium. The tall man helped the shorter one get on the podium; they
were now the same height. When they turned around and the family saw their
faces for the first time, they were momentarily repulsed.
The tall man, about fifty,
muscular and mean looking, was well dressed and well groomed, he wore expensive
sun glasses and the fine black leather jacket made him look like the kind of
man no one would want to disagree with. He stood next to the podium, looked
straight ahead and held a blue towel in his hands.
The younger man as far as they
could tell was about thirty and was clearly and severely disadvantaged; put in
less politically correct language, the young man was severely retarded,
severely retarded and the guest conductor for the afternoon’s concert.
The muscular tough looking man
in the expensive leather coat with the bodyguard demeanor would take the towel
every couple on minutes, wipe the drool from the retarded maestros face and
clothing, then the guest conductor of the day would begin waving his hands. The
band members knew what piece they were going to play and within seconds the
music became recognizable. Sometimes they could finish the piece without the
drool needing to be wiped but most of the time the mean looking man would reach
over and wipe the drool while the band played.
In the piazza no one broke
character, there were no smiles or whispers of how sweet it was to let the poor
disadvantaged boy have this wonderful experience. And certainly there were no
hints of laughter at the bazaar scenario. The few listeners in the seats that
were placed there for the concert were largely expressionless and the public
throughout the piazza maintained their pose of “Fare
un Bella Figura.” The mean looking man motioned to someone in the band
and a fresh towel was immediately brought.
The American was getting
uncomfortable, what was happening on that bandstand touched his memory in a way
that was just too painful. He leaned over and said something to his family and
when the piece the band was playing finished they quietly got up and left the
piazza.
On another continent in another
time zone the executive director of a famous symphony orchestra was preparing a
young conductor to go on stage for his début concert. Facing the young man he
straightened his white bow tie, pushed a portion of his hair into place, took a
small towel that always sat on a table by stage entrance and wiped away
something from young conductors face. Putting his hands on the young mans
shoulders; the executive director paternally adjusted his tails coat and sent the
debutant maestro out on stage to start the concert with a traditional “Toi
Toi.”
December 10, 2006, Tokyo
Revised August 27, 2012, Tokyo
