Under the Tuscan Sun (21 page)

We've seen enough for the day but can't resist a walk through
ancient Sorano, also poised on an endangered tufa mass. There seem
to be no tourists in this whole area. Even the roads are empty.
Sorano looks the same way it did in 1492, when Columbus found
America. The last building must have gone up around then. There's
a somber feel to the narrow streets, a gray light that comes off
the dark stone, but the people seem extraordinarily friendly. A
potter sees us looking in and insists that we visit his workshop.
When we buy two peaches, the man rinsing off his crates of grapes
with a hose gives us a bunch.
“Speciale!”
he tells us.
Two people stop to help us out of a tight parking place, one
gesturing come on, the other gesturing stop.

We're dusty and worn out as we pull into our parking spot
near Acquaviva's garden. Before dinner, we shower, change, and take
glasses of their own white wine, a Bianco di Pitigliano, out to the
comfortable chairs and watch the sun drop behind the hill, just as
two Etruscans might have in this exact place.

Montemerano is only a few minutes away, a high castle town,
beautiful and small.

It has its requisite fifteenth-century church with the
requisite Madonna—this one with a difference. It's entitled
Madonna della Gattaiola, Madonna of the Cat Hole.
The
bottom part of the painting had a hole to let the cat out of the
church. Everyone in town seems to be outside. A few local boys and
men are playing some jazz right in the center of town. The woman
running the bar slams the door. Apparently she's heard enough.
Absolutely everyone stares when a tall and gorgeous man in riding
boots and a tight T-shirt strides by. But he's aloof,
takes no notice. I see him check out his image in the shop windows
he passes.

We're ravenous. As soon as the magic hour of seven-thirty
arrives and the restaurant opens the door, we rush in. We're the
only ones in Enoteca dell'Antico Frantoio, a former olive mill, now
remodeled to the extent that it looks like a reproduction of itself.
Although it has lost its authentic feel, the result is rather like
an airy Napa Valley restaurant, so we feel quite at home. The
menu, however, reveals the Maremma roots:
Acquacotta,
served all over Tuscany, is a particular local specialty, the
“cooked water” soup of vegetables with an egg served on top;
testina di vitella e porcini sott'olio,
veal head and
porcini mushrooms under olive oil;
pappardelle al ragù
di lepre,
broad pasta with
ragù
made of hare;
cinghiale in umido alle mele,
smoked boar with apples. In
trattorie
over most of Tuscany, menus are almost
interchangeable: the usual pastas with
ragù,
butter
and sage, pesto, or tomato and basil, the standard selection of
grilled and roasted meats, the
contorni
usually consisting
of fried potatoes, spinach, and salad. No one seems interested in
varying the classics of the cuisine. In this less settled, less
travelled region, the cuisine of Tuscany is closer to its origins,
the hunter bringing home the kill, the farmer using every part of
the animal, the peasant woman making soup with a handful of
vegetables and an egg. Usually you do not find the above items; nor
do you see
capretto,
kid, or
fegatello di
cinghiale,
boar liver sausage, on menus. The Frantoio has its
more delicate side, too:
ravioli di radicchio rosso e
ricotta,
ravioli with red radicchio and ricotta, and
sformato di carciofi,
a mold of baked artichoke. We start
with
crostini di polenta con pure di funghi porcini e
tartufo,
polenta squares with a purée of porcini and
truffles—rich and savory. Ed orders the rabbit, roasted with
tomatoes, onions, and garlic, and I bravely order the kid. It's
delicious. The wine of the region is the Morellino di Scansano, black
as the wine of Cahors, a discovery for us. This enoteca's own is the
Banti Morellino, big and accomplished. Now I'm really happy.

In the morning, I have one of the favorite experiences of my
life. We get up at five and go to the hot waterfall near Saturnia.
No one is there at that hour, although the hotel manager warned us
of crowds later in the day. Pale blue but clear water cascades over
tufa, which the falls have hollowed out in many places, forming
perfect places to sit down and let the warm water flow over and
around you. When I first heard of the falls, I thought we might
emerge smelling like old Easter eggs, but the sulphur is mild. The
current has enough force so that you feel massaged, not enough to sweep
you away. Bliss. Where are the water nymphs? Whatever it is
supposed to cure, I'm sure it does. After an hour I feel as though
I have no bones in my body. I am utterly relaxed, limp, speechless.
We leave just as two cars pull up. Back at Acquaviva, we have
breakfast on the terrace: fresh orange juice, nut bread, toast,
something like pound cake, and pots of coffee and warm milk. It's
hard to leave. Only the lure of the Etruscans stirs us to pick
up our map and go.

Tarquinia is out of Tuscany, a few miles into Lazio. It gets
ugly along the way, industrial and crowded. I'm less able to
visualize the Etruscans here than in the green and dreamy Maremma.
Traffic annoys us after so many empty roads. Soon we're in the busy
town of Tarquinia, where hoards of items from the tombs are exhibited
in a fifteenth-century palazzo. Staggering, amazing, fantastic, and
worth the trip alone are two terra-cotta winged horses from the
fourth or third century
B.C.
These were found in 1938 near the steps leading to a temple, now just a two-level base of
square limestone blocks. The horses must have been ornaments. I
wonder about their connection to Pegasus, who started the flow of
the sacred Hippocrene with a dash of his hoof, who always is linked
with poetry and the arts. These are fabulously vigorous horses with
muscles, genitals, ribs, perky ears, and feathered wings. The
chronological arrangement of the museum is useful for sorting out
when there were Attic influences, when they began using stone
sarcophagi, how design changed. Everything from cinerary urns to
perfume burners makes you feel the creative energy and spirit
behind these objects. Several tomb paintings have been brought here
to prevent deterioration. The tomb of the Triclinium, with its
prancing musician and young dancer swathed in what looks like a
chiffon throw, would melt the heart of a stone. In almost any
museum, I fade after a couple of hours and can wander by with a
glance at something that would have stopped me for minutes when I
first arrived. We resolve to come back, though, because there is so
much to linger over.

The field of tombs could be any field, the necropoli like
outhouses attached to sheds. The structures built over tombs open
to the public are simply entrances with a flight of steps leading
down. The tombs are lit. We're disappointed to find that only four
a day are open. Why? No one seemed to know; they're on a rotation
system, that's all. Now we know we'll come back because the Hunting
and Fishing Tomb is not on view today. We see the Lotus Flower one,
with decorations that have almost a Deco style, then the Lionesses
one, famous for the reclining man holding up an egg—symbolic
of resurrection, as in Christian belief, the shell like the tomb
broken open. Dancers cavort here, too. I notice their elaborate
sandals with straps crossed and wound around the ankles just like
the ones I'm wearing—did the Italians always love shoes?
We're lucky to see the Jugglers' tomb, rather Egyptian looking,
except for what appears to be a Middle Eastern belly dancer about to
go into her act. In the two-chambered tomb of the Orcas remains,
amid much faded scenes of a banquet, a startling portrait of a woman
in profile with a crown of olive leaves.

After a quick bite, we drive the few kilometers to Norchia,
which we've heard is the site of many recent finds. It does not
appear that anyone has been about in decades. The broken sign
points up to the sky. After we wander about, a farmer points us in
the right direction. At the end of a dirt road we park and set out
along the edge of a wheat field. A few meters down the path, we
encounter a severed goat head covered with flies. Here, indeed, is
a sign—a primitive one of sacrifice. “This is getting
spooky,” I say as we step around it. The terrain becomes
precipitous. We're climbing down and all I can think about is
the climb back up. A few rusted hand railings indicate we're going
in the right direction. The declivity becomes sharper; we're
skidding, holding on to vines. Haven't we seen enough of these
tombs? When it levels out, we start to see the openings into the
hillside, dark mouths, vines, and brush. We venture into two,
breaking through impressive spiderwebs with sticks. Inside, it's
as black as, well, a tomb. We see slabs and pits where the bodies
and urns lay. Vipers must coil here now. We walk about half a mile
along this level. The tombs are more numerous than at Sovana and
poke into the hillside at various levels. There's an oppressive
feeling of danger I can't identify. I just want to leave. I ask Ed
if he thinks this is a weird place and he says, “Definitely,
let's go.” The way out is as awful as I expected. Ed stops to empty
dirt out of his loafer and a sliver of bone falls out. We come to
the place where we saw the goat head; it is no longer there. When
we get back to the car, another one is parked near us. A young
couple is kissing and rolling around with such intensity that they
don't hear us. This dispels the bad aura and we head back to the
hotel, saturated with Etruscan voodoo.

Ah, dinner, the favorite hour. Tonight it's Caino, which we
expect to be the gastronomic highlight of our trip. Before driving
into Montemerano, we take a little detour to Saturnia, perhaps the
oldest town in Italy if Cortona isn't. It would have to be if, as
legend has it, Saturn, son of sky and earth, founded it. The warm
waterfall, legend also tells us, first poured forth when the horse
of Orlando (Roland in English) pawed the ground with his hoof. A
town on Via Clodia has to be older than anything I can grasp. I
practice saying “I live on Via Clodia,” imagining a life on such
an ancient street. The town is shady and active, not at all lost
in time. A few highly bronzed people from the expensive hotel near
the falls seem to be looking for something to buy but the shops are
plain. They settle at an outdoor café and order colorful
drinks in tall glasses.

Caino, a jewel: two gracious small rooms with flowers on the
tables, pretty china and wineglasses. With glasses of
spumante,
we settle into the menu. Everything looks good
and I have a hard time deciding. They, too, have a combination of
sophisticated choices and the rustic Maremma specialties, such as
zuppa di fagioli,
white bean soup, pasta with rabbit
sauce,
cinghiale all'aspretto di mora,
boar with blackberry
sauce. For our
antipasti,
we're attracted to
flan di
melanzane in salsa tiepida di pomodoro,
eggplant flan with
tepid tomato sauce, and
mousse di formaggi al cetriolo,
a mousse of cheeses and cucumber. We both want
tagliolini
all'uovo con zucchine e fiori di zucca,
egg pasta with
zucchini and squash blossoms, for first courses. After that, it's
roast lamb for Ed and duck breast in a sauce of grape must vinegar
for me. We take the waiter's suggestion for tonight's Morellino,
the Le Sentinelle Riserva 1990 by Mantellassi. Praise Allah! What a
wine. The dinner is superb, every bite, and the service attentive.
Everyone in the small restaurant has noticed the young couple at
the table in the middle from the moment they were seated. They look
like twins. Both have that curly, magnificent black hair and hers has
jasmine flowers caught in its ripples. Both have the sultry eyes my
mother used to refer to as “bedroom eyes” and lips like those
on archaic Greek statues. They're dressed out of Milan or Rome
boutiques, he in a somewhat rumpled tan linen suit and she in a
yellow puckered silk sundress that was melted onto her. The waiter
pours champagne for them, an oddity in an Italian restaurant. We all
avert our eyes as they toast each other and seem to disappear into
each other's eyes. Our salads look as if someone picked them from
a field this afternoon, and perhaps they did. We're falling into a
deep relaxation and exhilaration by now, just what a vacation
is supposed to be. “Would you like to go to Morocco?” Ed asks out
of nowhere.

“What about Greece? I never intended not to go to Greece.”
Seeing new places always brings up the possibility of other new
places. We're riveted again by the beautiful couple. I see the other
diners discreetly staring, too. He has moved from his chair across
from her to the one next to her and has taken her hand. I see him
reach into his pocket and take out a small box. We turn back to our
salads. We will have to forego
dolci
but with our coffee
they bring a plate of little pastries anyway, which we manage to eat.
This is one of the best dinners I've had in Italy. Ed proposes that
we stay a few more days and eat here every night. The lustrous girl
now is holding out her hand, admiring a square emerald surrounded
by diamonds I can see from here. They both smile at everyone, who they
suddenly realize has followed this engagement. Spontaneously
we all lift our glasses in a toast and the waiter, sensing the
moment, rushes in to refill. The girl shakes back her long hair and
little white flowers fall on the floor.

When we leave, the village is dark and silent until we get to
the bar at the end of the street, where the whole town must be
playing cards and having a last coffee.

In the morning we drive over to Vulci, another
ancient-sounding name, with a humpbacked bridge and a castle turned
museum. The bridge is Etruscan, with Roman and medieval repairs
and additions. Why it's so highly arched is impossible to know
because the Fiora, little more than a mighty stream, runs far below
in a gorge. But humped it is. Whatever road it once joined has
disappeared, so the bridge has a strangely surreal aspect. The castle
fortress at one end was built much later. A Cistercian monastery
surrounded by a moat, it now serves as a museum, like Tarquinia's,
full of astonishing things. Too bad the glass separates us from
the objects. They are extremely appealing to the touch. I want
to pick up each little votive hand, fawn-shaped perfume bottle, to
rub the monumental stone sculptures, such as the boy on the winged
horse. Here's the real news about the Etruscans—their art
is fortifying, the remains of people who lived in the moment.
D.H. Lawrence certainly caught that—but who could not,
having seen as much as he did. Rereading him along the way, I'm
struck often with what an
ass
he was. The peasants are
dullards because they do not immediately see to the wishes of this
obnoxious foreigner. No one is just waiting to take him miles into
the country to see ruins. No one is equipped with candles the minute
he asks. What an inconvenient country! The train schedules are
unlike those at Victoria Station; the food is not to his liking. I
forgive him now and then, when he totally disappears from the text
and just writes what he sees.