Wedding II

That evening in Mario’s family home we prepared the confetti or sugared almonds which were to be given as thank you favors for the presents. Good luck symbols, five sugar-coated almonds wrapped in a white net bag, tied with a silver cord and with an orange blossom, to be laid in a porcelain dish, or a decorated wooden box. Sugared almonds seem to go back as far as Roman times. And Boccaccio says they were also thrown at the wedding couple. They still do at some country feasts, which seems to me a slightly more dangerous custom than throwing rice. Children often hunkered down under the table to catch the almonds that had missed their mark. As we were in the midst of tying and cutting, a knock called us to the door. There, sitting all by itself, was a gas range, the gift from the several families who lived in the apartments below. How Mario and I tensed with each new offering – imagining it to be all sorts of horrible things such as a set of gilt and flowered coffee cups, or a painted vase, or a lamp with ribbons and curlicues. But although no one seemed to understand that something without gold or a raised design could be beautiful, we were lucky and could truly say thank you for all the presents we were given.

The next morning the cold wind that had lain in ambush at each street corner the night before seemed to have worn itself out, and the sun shone peacefully through the window. But it was still cold as I carried a pitcher of hot water to the bathroom and washed and dressed and in lieu of a sweater wrapped a pink wool shawl on top of my dress – a simple chartreuse colored dress. I draped the veil trimmed with egret down my mother had worn at her wedding around my shoulders. While Mario finished shaving, I helped his sister Andreina spread a great embroidered tablecloth and prepare snacks for the friends and relatives who would accompany us.

Pierina, the little old woman who came every day to help in the kitchen and who could stow away an unbelievable mountain of spaghetti, bobbed in and out, saying that it wanted the wedding of the young Signorino for the weather to change.

The doorbell kept ringing, bringing a new batch of telegrams or another bunch of flowers. A Romanian painter who lived in Assisi and was one of Mario’s best friends put into my hand a ripe pomegranate, a great heavy globe, the ripe seeds glowing like garnets through the rifts in its shell. I slowly ate two seeds, feeling them somehow to be symbolical. Persephone and the Orient and the Virgin with the Child Jesus.

And then suddenly it was time to go to the city hall – through the sun-blown square with the fountain by the Pisanos (the most beautiful medieval fountain, not in Italy, but in the world, say the inhabitants of Perugia), past the griffin and lion watching and alert up high over the entrance, under the forest-like vaulting and up the stone steps. Then – no one knew where to go. The members of our party went scurrying as messengers to find out. Finally, they came back and led us to a small red tapestry-walled room where a rather insignificant round-faced man, presumably the mayor, with a tri-color sash around his middle, read us the rules and regulations from behind a big wooden desk. We were to agree where to live at a single address (that might sometimes be a problem when one lived in another town due to professional requirements), and of course promise to nurture and take care of any forthcoming children. I’m sure I hesitated a moment before saying yes, for I wanted terribly much to add a ‘but’. The rules seemed much too “man is lord and master” to me, much too medieval Italian, and I felt it quite unfair that no one had warned me. But it was yes, and after the signing of the register we were man and wife. Ten minutes and it was over, and something new had begun. Out in the square the pigeons wheeled and returned to their perches in the niches of the Duomo. Babbo, or Dad in the Umbrian or Tuscan dialect, now my father-in-law, handed me a letter from my parents. It had just arrived and contained a pressed gentian they had picked just a few days earlier near the village where they had spent their honeymoon. I took Mario’s arm and he self-consciously put on his glove to cover his

Then, neatly packed into two hired cars, we were driven to Trevi, a small hillside town an hour and a half away that was known for its good food. in particular their vincisgrassi. I had been told the dish was named after an Austrian general active in the Marches at the time of Napoleon. Much more than lasagna it is an extremely rich type of layered pasta with various types of meat and chicken giblets in the sauce and is typical on festive occasions. You do need a good stomach and it is best washed down with one glass of wine after another.

Since we had no official photographer, I did my best to get a few shots. The little girl in the picture was evidently not all that fond of her grandmother. The banquet was a gift from Mario’s uncle. I suppose all wedding dinners are more or less alike. Wonderful food, more than one can eat, wines both red and white, champagne or spumante for those never-ending toasts to the bridal couple, and for dessert sweet wine with a perfume of roses and ending up with grappa. The sunlight and a view across a valley dotted with olive trees, each one cradled in its shadow, may not always be part.

Nor was the blessing of the Romanian artist. “He who knows how to suffer and wait” he said “shall not only approach the Light but shall enter into it.” Come to think of it a rather strange blessing. A marriage does of course include suffering as well as joy. And Mario had waited quite a while to get married.

The time passed unawares and we suddenly realized that we would have to hurry if we didn’t want to miss the train in Perugia and be on to a friend’s villa along the coast, not sure where the light switch was, or the water, or maybe even the villa