Marcellino

Into the hills we ascend, the wind strips through our hair as we cut the curves like a couple of  bees.  On the back of Marcellino's vespa I hold on  to what would  be the ride of my lifetime.  We're just a couple of kids going up and down life's road,  on a journey discovering and finding out who we are.   I am back in Italy again with my new friend  Marcellino it's the summer of 1986. We pull up to a cafe bar, I being the green horn don't know what to order,  juice sounds refreshing to me.  Marcellino  grinning, suggest in a mischievous  whisper,   I order succo di cazzo.  He thinks it would be really funny if the new American girl orders COCK JUICE from the young  male barista.  This would be the beginning to a string of jokes and fun times we would share together.

Marcellino Bonuccelli, is the bread maker in the town of Camaiore Italy.  For the most part he lives a nocturnal life preparing bread by night to be fresh and ready for the town's people in the morning.  A labor intensive job,  he has his task down to a routine.  Sometimes, me and a few of his local friends  would hang out at night and watch Marcellino prepare his bread.  I remember watching thoughtfully, as this young man worked with his white cotton apron wrapped around tightly.  I thought every single loaf of bread has a part of him in it, what a wonderful gift to share  and put out there ~ bread for the people.  We would joke and laugh while Marcellino mixed his flour and water.  It was a physical job with a lots of noise, slinging pounding and kneading, puffs of flour settling.  Piles of doe smacked against the wood counters were left to rise. Finally the ovens were set and the bread baked to golden perfection.   Sending out aromas that waft scents of fresh baked bread down the neighboring streets.

I was the new kid in town,  an American girl ready for adventure.  I explained one night at the bakery to a small inquisitive crowd Perla, Kathia and Lucia I had seen a bat.  Of course I had forgotten the proper italian word for bat and was saying something like suck bird in Italian.  I knew how to explain that it was in the bedroom with Sandra and Renzo.  I think they all thought I was talking about various  sexual acts  that went on upstairs in the bedroom.  The correct word for bat is pipistrello and it helps to flap your wings  and show your teeth when you say it.  I was always getting myself into trouble like that.

 Out of all the kids I met in that town I felt closest to Marcellino .  Even though he spoke absolutely no english we seem to relate and understand each other on an artistic level.  He painted pictures, a trait he learned from his mother. We both have mothers who are artists and we share the same names Marcello and Marcella.   Being a budding artist myself I found a friend and a companion I could relate too.  Besides that Marcellino was truly kind to me.

He had me over for lunch one day.  He lived with his mother and sisters, they shared a small apartment  above the local grocery store and bakery where he worked.   He seemed nervous that day and complained his stomach hurt, there was something vulnerable about him that made him endearing and most of all approachable.  His smile still remained, his round expressive eyes sparkled with laughter but behind the shiny surface was something deeper.  I could feel it but not fully understand the debt of what lay beneath him.  Does anyone truly understand another person's feelings?  He made me lunch,  a good cook he prepared pasta and meat sauce with a side dish of cauliflower.  He joked and told me it was horse, cauliflower in Italian is covalofioure and  horse is covallo.  I fell for his antics always.

His mother sat on the couch while Marcellino prepared me lunch she looked at me suspiciously.  She seemed sad and withdrawn. Yet somewhere  behind all her darkness she seemed slightly amused and was perhaps a little happy to see her son with  with a women.  She said very little but I knew she was full of passion and had many thoughts inside of her.  I could tell by her paintings that were all over the apartment. They expressed a life of pain yet colorful and dream like.  Exotic in nature with  bright green leaves, red and yellow flowers, birds in a fantasy landscape.  There were paintings everywhere  that hung  and lay up against the walls.  I wanted to see them all,  curious by nature these works of art were in a language I could understand.  Art is like that... if you're lucky  it can take you places.... beyond a verbal language, transcending towards a universal visual language.  My mind swirled with the images, I could see the soft brush strokes had been tenderly applied. The subject matter was bold with daring colors.  How ever beautiful I understood the dramatic intention and swooping motions they were like an exotic bird in chaotic flight.

Marcellino asked if he could show me his studio.  If there's one thing artists love to do is see another artist's  studio.  We dream about the perfect studios a  huge white room with plenty of great space to spread out, tall ceilings and large plate glass windows to let all the natural light come in and shine upon your lovely objects of art.  He opens the door- and it's a closet.  The size of what would be a janitors closet deep with a tiny window at the end.  From the center of the room a lone light bulb hangs from the ceiling with a pull down cord.   Just wide enough to reach your arms out  and touch your fingers tips from wall to wall.  Piles of canvases are lined up on either side of the walls and in the center sits a non assuming wooden chair in front of an easel.  I soak it all up in one breath.  He proceeds to show me his work.  Flipping through his paintings frantically, he chats  in local dialect. I most likely understood  next to nothing. It's like Charlie Brown's mom.  I look and study his paintings one by one.  They are so beautiful and allegorical.  His brush strokes are carefully and ever so delicately applied in a smooth, even, soft and controlled manor.  Just as  his mother before him,  he has taken her technique and applied it to his own stories.  His stories unfold in colorful images.  I see a boy, a man, a suit a briefcase, he is naked he is clothed again I see the vulnerability.   The colors are bright  the pallet is something out of a spring bouquet, vibrant and  full of life. We talk a lot I understand very little of what he is saying but in my heart I feel so much. He mentions to me that his mother suffers from psychiatric problems, she is disturbed.  I know this has to be hard on everyone. I go away that day with my heart weighing heavy,  I respect the art I have seen and  feel  guilty for all the education and art space that I have been so privileged  to have.  Marcellino, makes art in a closet and was taught by his ailing mother, on top of that he bakes the bread for the town!  I don't know how he does it all.  I feel much closer to Marcellino now that I have seen his studio and his mother's paintings. It's been a good day, I leave his apartment never knowing when I will see him again but I always do.

The door knocks,  I am home alone up stairs in the bathroom.  It's Marcellino he has decided to drop by. I am caught off guard but happy to see him.  I fluster around in my broken Italian and he ask me what has happen to my finger.  I have blood soaked toilet paper and masking tape wrapped around the end of my right index finger.  I try to explain but he keeps asking me if I had recently hit my finger with a hammer because I had been carving marble with a hammer and chisel.  I am a novice but I explain no, I had recently gotten on an old outdated train and flipped down a side chair in the aisle that was on a spring and it flipped right back up and smashed my finger up against the inside wall of the train.  This was all extremely complicated to explain.  There was a lot of hand motions and me flailing around with my bloody finger.  On top of that I had to explain only just minutes before Marcellino arrived  I had been looking for a band aid in Sandra and Renzo's bathroom it was extremely hot up there and I opened the window and some how  the dam window came flying back down and smashed my already injured finger again!  There were no band aids and this is why I had toilet paper and masking tape wrapped around my still bleeding finger.  We just laughed what else could we do.

Marcellino was a good friend to me,  many times we would go off on little adventures. We would explore remote towns by vespa and sit at cafes and sip our cappuccinos out of real ceramic cups,  walk the rivers edge and skip rocks and travel by train to Florence and visit famous works of art.  I fell asleep  once on the train ride back from Florence.  Tired, I suppose from all the walking in the sun and trying to talk Italian. I am known for being able to fall asleep anywhere.  Marcellino makes fun, mocking me with my mouth wide open as my head bobbles  back and forth to the motions of the train. A strange man sits next to me.  Marcellino sits across from me his eyes sparkle in delight as I catch flies with my mouth wide open.  At least I didn't fall asleep on the strange man's shoulder, I have done that before.  I never could figure out when Marcellino slept.  He had a nervous, artistic energy, his personality was so colorful, bright and witty. He was my eccentric and vulnerable friend.


Eventually the States were calling me home.  I had exhausted my funds and seen the seasons change several times. It was December  the streets were cold, drab and dreary.   I longed for the warm comfort of home  and family. I was homesick for my parents and wanted to spend Christmas with my sisters and brother again.  Marcellino and friends had prepared a going away party for me.  We gathered in a family style restaurant where the tables were long and had wooden benches on either side.  The air smelled of roasted chestnuts and pizzas baking in the wood burning forno. We ate and laughed and everyone made me feel very loved.  They gave me a super huge pink and white soft teddy bear as a going away present.  I carried this carnival sized bear on the plane with me home along with marble polished spheres and other souvenirs.  My bags were heavy with memories and a pile of  letters that were from anyone that ever wrote to me while I was away.  All of these mementos I would carry on  the plane, along with  a bottle of grappa.  Needless to say I looked rediculous with  my pink straw hat on in the middle of winter, people were staring at me.  What I didn't realize was what I was leaving behind me was a wonderful warm bunch of friends that would all go their separate ways just as I was.  Some would marry then later divorce others will have their own kids that are now married. Then there are those I would totally lose track of and forget their names completely.  I will always remember my friend Marcellino.  A talented  young artist and baker, who showed me the country I  so dearly love ~Italia. He made me laugh, smile and feel comfortable about who I was.    Over the next few years we would correspond very little I would receive notices of art shows with a  little scribbled un-legible note attached. I sent him a collage I made of Sophia Loran in an antique  marble bathtub with a burning house in the background.  Eventually the letters tapered off completely.  We had our own separate lives and the miles set us apart.  The computer age would finally take off into a full blown house hold fixture and cell phones would become the norm, not that I ever knew what to do with either one of them.  Regardless the times they were a changing... I slugged on with various jobs and tried to keep myself a float.  My romantic dreams of being a famous artist took to the back burner as the reality of paying bills and just making a living were at the for front. I had made a life for myself staying creative but mostly being domestic in my new little cute old house in Waldo tending to my garden and hanging out with my fluffy cat Pooky.

I would eventually return to Italy, but not for another 12 years.  This time I  brought a friend with me Amanda.  After plenty of sight seeing, we found our way back to Camaiore.  The streets and the people look familiar, but I am removed- too much time has passed. I am once again the foreigner, stranger (straniera).   I go to the bakery and anxiously inquire about Marcellino.   His sister runs upstairs and in a few minutes Marcellino appears smiling as if I had never left we are talking, hugging and carrying on like old times.  I introduce him to my friend Amanda and tell him where we are staying.   He has a cell phone now which is all the rage. He gives me his number,  we make plans to get together soon.  There is a big religious festival coming up, where the town  of Camaiore literally carpets the streets with colored sawdust and flower petals.  Magnificent tapestries are laid out by the towns people.  They stay up all night preparing each one more dramatic then the other.  It's a tradition that has been going on for centuries and will most likely continue.  The carpets of colored sawdust (Pula, in local dialect)  are applied with elaborate stencils.  That night, Marcellino and I go grab an ice cream, we stop for a quick photo in front of one of the stencils.   Camaiore is celebrating the birthday of Corpus Christi.

The groups of citizens tappetari have competed during the night to deliver the most beautiful rugs that can be seen during the morning and then be erased by the passage of the procession of Corpus Domini.

The streets are full of people we walk around the tapestries.  Everyone is pumped and excited the town is alive with creative adrenalin. Late that night Marcellino and a group of his friends gather at his apartment.  He is going to make his friends,  Amanda and I a feast.  We don't actually eat until around Midnight, I am glad I ate that ice cream cone before dinner.  Every thing was wonderful our faces are beaming from all the excitement, it feels so good to be back in Italy again with my good friend Marcellino and to share the fun with Amanda.

Like so many vacations Amanda and I spent our time rushing from one awesome spot to the next.  Soaking it all up in a whirl wind if time.  In all actuality we could of dedicated our time sketching and pondering the many angles of even a not so famous work of art or just one spot and still not have done it justice.  Regardless the days flew by and are now faded snap shots tucked away in a box.  Towards the final days of our trip Marcellino asked me one Sunday if I wanted to go to the ocean with him.  I replied yes as going to el Mare is such an intricate part of the Italian culture.  Being a midwesterner that knows nothing but the prairie, I never could relate.  Maybe it's my Aries fire sign that keep me at bay.  I asked Amanda if she would like to join us.  She has opted not to go.  She is nursing a bad case of the cramps and has a broken heart that is weighing heavy over yet another unrequited love.  I can relate and don't push the subject.  Besides that we had been spending a lot of time together virtually every minute of the day and night.  Sight seeing,  breaking bread  and even sleeping in the same bed together.  I thought she could use a break.

Marcellino and I head off  in his little beater red hatch back. Up the coast north and then into the hills.  He explains it is a remote beach that not very many people know about.  It will take some time to access the beach but will be well worth our efforts.  I agree nodding what ever....  Forty five minutes later we arrive at a non assuming dirt parking lot, there are but a few cars parked there.  We take off on foot along a dirt path, we are climbing along the edge of a hillside zig zagging our way up,  I can smell the ocean and know it to be near but still I cannot see it.  The climb is strenuous but Marcellino assures me that we are close to our destination.  Some thirty minutes later we reach the summit and peer down below.  There in front of us like  some kind of cheesy, Lost Paradise  movie (but this time it's for real)  the great big sky opens up reflecting on the blue ocean that  greets us with a roar as it slaps up against the sandy shores.  We are totally secluded with a back drop of  rocks and moss. There are no cabanas or snack bars, no need to have money here because there is nothing to buy. I look off into the distance toward the  west  homeward  there are  miles and miles of clear blue ocean laid out in front of me. We stop for a moment to look and  listen.   I take a photo of Marcellino pioneering the landscape.  We head down a rugged path with  rocks jutting out.   Marcellino slips,  his feet go out in front of him.  He lands smack down on his ass.  I feel so bad for him like in some way I am responsible.  I wonder if he has had enough sleep or when exactly does he sleep. I ask if he is ok.  He tells me in a pathetic boyish way he needs to "far la caca."  Make a shit.... go to the bathroom  OH... I am not sure what to do.   Some how he manages and in a few minutes the warm sandy beaches are at our feet.  We plunk down and all is well.

There under the sun we laid out with just a few other topless sun bathing women. As the tide rolled in for the umpteenth, billionth, infinitesimal time Marcellino confides in me and tells me he's gay.  My reaction was like he just ordered a pepperoni pizza, it just wasn't that big of a deal to me.  I already had my suspicions anyway.  He then encourages me to get into the ocean, I felt intimidated by it's great enormity, like it could swallow me up.  I never was too keen on water, partly because I have  this recurring dream that I am with  large bodies of water.  It's different every time but there is always water.  I wonder what the meaning is behind these dreams.  Reluctantly  I go with him into the cool waters, we begin to frolic. I pretended I  am a  dolphin, then a mermaid.  Marcellino playfully picks me up into his arms and throws me back into the ocean.  I giggle like a nervous school girl.  After a while I tire and am ready to go back to the beach and lay out.  Marcellino continues to splish and splash without a care in the world he is in heaven.  I watch happy to see him in his element.  It's good to be in your element and to know what it is. As for me that would be the forest deep dark and enchanting the scent of dirt below and the dappled light above.

After a while we decide to take off and head back to town.  On our way back we stop off in the famous marble carving town of Pietrasanta.  Marcellino has told me of a fountain tucked away up a winding road next to a park.  It's called Michael Angelo's fountain,  here is where one of the greatest artist that ever lived drank the sweet spring water that runs down from the mountain above.  At one time this was his town, where he did business sculpting such masterpieces as the Pieta.  If you drink from this ancient marble fountain where the likes of Michael Angelo and many other greats have drunk, you will return to Italy. Don't we all want to return to Italy?  Italy is full of many little superstitious places where if you rub the brass nose here or caress the doors there you will be granted this...  We find our way up the steep, cobbled  street and reach a park that over looks the town's square below.  There at the park are several local men, workers they are wearing the signature blue Italian coveralls.  There must of been three or four of them all hunkered down, nose to the ground looking and searching in the grass of this small quaint  park.  I am feeling anxious to drink the waters from Michael Angelo's fountain but am curious as to what these full grown men are doing.  Have they lost something valuable?  Marcellino explains they are looking for four leaf clovers!  How funny is that, I just remember before I left for Italy I had asked my mother what she wanted me to bring her back from Italy.  She replied very matter of fact, " I don't need anything just bring me back a four leaf clover."  I along with these men am now hunting for the proverbial good luck four leaf clover.  We giggle and meander around for a while, it's late in the afternoon the sun is starting to set.  Exhausted and tired I know Marcellino needs to get going he has to start work in a little while.  We both drink from the fountain and take a couple of photos  as proof.   I am satisfied to no end knowing I will return yet again to the country my grandfather called home ~ Italia.

Once again we head off down the road, as we are heading out of town Marcellino pulls over to a cafe.  He wants to grab a quick expresso before he goes to work to bake the bread that night.  As we are walking towards the cafe I look down and there is a terra cotta planter out on the patio.  It is over grown with weeds, there is a clump of bright green clover hanging over the side.  I scan the leaves for one quick second and EUREKA!  I scream, Marcellino jumps he thinks I have been bitten by a bee. Quattro fogli I found a four leaf clover.  I pluck the clover  triumphantly and place it inside my wallet pressed safely for the return home to give to my mother.  It's been yet another great day, I go home and tell Amanda all about it.  Marcellino heads to work to bake the bread that night.  While he is  diligently working Amanda and I lie asleep together in our bed dreaming of large bodies of water. 


Like so many other vacations it was time to head back to reality.  To go home to our cats and jobs and resume life at it was.  Amanda and I had one last blow out good time in Rome. We stayed up all night hanging out at the Colosseum with a couple of guys named Ignatzio and yes Fabio.  With no sleep, we barely made our flight back to the states.  Exhausted we slept the whole way back in the plane.  As we slept the plane soared westward across  massive large bodies of water,  the atlantic ocean.  


Years later I would finally (sort of ) learn how to use a computer.  I would google Marcellino and find him on myspace. I would friend him but hear no reply.  There is a slide show of his work on his myspace page it feels good to see his work again, but still no reply.  Several weeks ago I found  out very inadvertently through a mutual friend that he died.  She thought I knew, I was shocked.  She explained that it was a mountain climbing accident, the weather turned bad there was ice, he slipped and fell to his death.  I search the internet for more information, there are photos of a helicopter carrying his body through the air.  There are so many things about his tragedy  I wonder about.  I fall back to wondering  if he had gotten enough sleep that day.  I don't know what to think I am grief stricken. 


I think back to  the last time I saw him it was was when we went to the sea.  I loved that day.  I remember before, standing in the bedroom with Amanda as she tells me she doesn't want to go.  I wish that I would of said here's a bunch of Ibuprofen for your cramps.  Life is too short to waist on a broken heart, this might be the last time you ever see him.  Then I realize with great humility I need to take my own advise.  I am guilty of so much more. How many times have I wallowed in my own self pity and wasted what could of been a beautiful day.  Squandered away my time here on earth in self doubt or negativity.  My heart goes out to Marcellino, his friends and his mother.  I wish I could of said good by to him.  I want to send him one more letter and tell him thanks for all the good times.  I wonder if there is a God and if so would it be too much to ask for a clue a sign sent from Marcellino. 


I miss him and wished that I would of told him I love you. 


 Ti amo....  Marcellino from Marcellina.