Chapter 20

A cobalt blue Fiat 500X wove through the Italian countryside. Alfeo has driven this trip before. He avoided the highways and stayed on the country roads and avoided the towns because the countryside was so beautiful. Florida was so dreadfully flat and if you want to go enjoy a forest, you had to drive up to Georgia. His Lufthansa flight from JFK in New York to Marco Polo Airport in Venice took 10 hours. Then from Venice he took the E55 northeast to Portogruaro, where he turned northwest toward Azzano Decimo.

He turned off the main highway and up that narrow winding road that ducked under the ancient Roman aqueduct that still carried water into Pordenone and headed to a small villa halfway between Pordenone and Aviano. Just outside of the village of Nogheredò was the ancient Gronchi family villa. It was still inhabited by his uncle Giotto, who was a judge in the Friuli-Venezia Giulia region of Italy.

Alfeo drove up the single lane road, avoiding bicyclists and sheep until he got to the Villa. He pulled in and looked at Uncle Giotto’s prized possession, an actual Roman column. It was beautiful, and it was one of those things where saying, “Where did it come from?” could be dangerous to your health.

“Hello Alfeo,” said Fiore Baldini, Uncle Giotto’s housekeeper. “How long will you be with us?” Her tone of voice expressed little joy at seeing Giotto’s stupid American nephew.

“I don’t know Signora Baldini, I needed to get away. The head priest of the church I was deacon at died during confession,” Alfeo sighed sadly. “I had to get away to clear my head.”

“Shouldn’t be hard, there’s not much in that head to clear,” Fiore muttered under her breath.

“Pardon? I didn’t hear what you said.”

“I said give me a few moments to get your old room ready for you.” And the old woman shuffled off.

When she had left, Alfeo found an empty wine bottle and a half pint glass, and grabbed a cork from a box of corks in the kitchen, then stepped out back. Just outside of the kitchen was a 200 liter barrel of wine. Uncle Giotto and his guests and staff would drink that in a year, which was not unusual. In this region, water was for washing and for goats, wine is what was drank. Alfeo topped off the bottle he carried, corked it, and sat at a café table and looked at the distant Alps and sipped his glass of wine.

“Welcome Alfeo, what brings you this time?” came a familiar voice. He turned and saw Uncle Giotto shuffling up to his table. Uncle Giotto looked older and frailer than ever before. It won’t be long before one of Alfeo’s cousins will be the lord of this villa. The man was impossibly old, frail, and bent. His gray hair was spread out in all directions like Einstein, and his nose was impossibly large.

“A friend died,” said Alfeo. “I just had to get away for a while and calm my nerves.”

“Sometimes the mountains can cure the heart,” said Giotto. “Do you have any plans?”

“I was thinking of looking for employment at the air base in Aviano, and if they don’t need me in the work force, maybe the base chapel needs a catholic deacon.” The base was very close to them, maybe a seven-minute drive, and working in the chapel would give him access to a civilian phone line back to the states so he could make calls without raising concern with the military.

Giotto nodded. “What trouble could you get in at the chapel, eh?”

“Not a lot, so what news is there Uncle Gio?” asked Alfeo.

“Ach! So much! Our Scimudin is fabulous! And our Caprino is famous throughout the province. They thought I was a fool for switching to goats milk cheese, but I could see the writing on the wall!” Uncle Giotto went on and on about the new cheeses they were making at the villa and the more he spoke the more Alfeo realized he needed to get a job so he could get an apartment in the village.