www.italymag.co.ukProduced by Italy Magazine

Copyright Italy Magazine 2012

Introduction 2

Wabi-sabi 3

About the author 10

Other novels 11

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Introduction

Whether you are celebrating by the seaside, where the sun shines through the chillywinds, in the mountains covered in snow or in busy cities around Christmas marketsand nativity scenes, Christmas in Italy is magical.At this very moment, there are thousands of parents and grandparents excited abouthugging their adventurous nipotini and surprise them with those small or big boxesunder the Christmas tree that make both children and adults curious and excited.In this spirit, we also prepared an Italy Magazine present for you, just a way to thankyou for the support. We chose a short story entitled “Wabi-sabi” by best-selling authorNicky Pellegrino who takes us back to that special end of summer atmosphere in Italy.We would not be surprised if you will start planning your next holiday to Italy afteryou read it.

Buon Natale from Italy Magazine Team

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Wabi-sabi

By Nicky Pellegrino

For ages I’ve been a winter person. I like long boots and lots of layers, lovely chunkyknit scarves. Summer doesn’t suit me, although I suppose it must have done once.I remember years of bare legs and flimsy fabrics: yes even a striped blue bikini. Butthat was back when I woke up every morning to a flat stomach and smooth thighs.Nowadays I prefer to cover the bits that wobble and dimple. Most women my agehave them don’t they? Well, I like to keep mine hidden. So when Shelley said ‘Italyin August’ and ‘divine villa near the coast’ and ‘why don’t you come Kath, you coulduse a break’ I wasn’t tempted at all. I gave her a whole smorgasbord of excuses: ‘busytime at work’ and ‘credit cards maxed out’ and ‘bloody hot in August isn’t it’.Shelley never has been one to take no for an answer. She forwarded me a link to thevilla and I had to admit it did look stunning. It was built from honey-coloured stoneand surrounded by cypress trees; terraced gardens fell towards the sea; it even had atower for goodness sake. ‘We need one more person to make up the numbers,’ Shelleye-mailed. ‘Come on, Kath, you’ll love it. Nothing to do but relax, eat yummy food,read books.’It had been a long day at work and I was slumped on the sofa, my laptop on my knee,idly Googling. I had no intention of going anywhere but still found myself checking afew websites and reading up on the area. There was a food tour in the nearest townand a church with some interesting 13th century frescoes. There were picturesquewalks and panoramic views. There was a market with local crafts and a restaurantfamous for doing amazing things with truffles.Perhaps it was the thought of waking to another day just like all the rest. Maybe itwas the truffles. Pouring another glass of wine, I e-mailed Shelley back. ‘How much?’The rental deal was amazing and it turned out flights from Stansted were really cheaptoo. I looked back through the photographs of the villa. It was gorgeous. ‘You’d bemad to miss out,’ Shelley had told me and I suspected she was right. ‘OK,’ I conceded.‘Count me in.’I packed cleverly for that holiday. Wide-brimmed hats and loose long-sleeved kaftans;lots of sarongs and linen pants; and one old swimming costume chucked in at the lastminute just in case.On the flight over I heard all about the Villa. It was a palazzo really and the ownerwas a local winemaker who must have been feeling the squeeze financially because hetold Shelley the place had been in his family for 300 years and this was the first timeit had been rented out. ‘I still can’t believe we’ve got it. What a score,’ she enthused.It was dark when we arrived. The minivan trip from the airport had been long, steepand twisty so all of us were tired. We found some wine glasses, toasted the holidaywith a bottle of cheap bubbly then headed early to our rooms, planning to exploreproperly in the morning. My bed was made up with vintage linen, slightly yellowed butcharming, and I fell onto the cool sheets gratefully. With the shutters closed the roomwas dark and I slept better and far later than usual.When I opened my eyes the first thing I noticed was the ceiling. It was crazed with

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cracks and sagged alarmingly. Next I realised there was something not right with thefloor; it seemed to be sloping. A damp and musty smell hung in the air; everythinglooked old and worn.

Throwing open the shutters, I took a proper look around. The room was dilapidated;paint peeling from scarred walls, woodwork soft to the touch. The plumbing com-plained with a series of creaks when I turned on a tap and the water that emerged wasfaintly brownish.Putting on my dressing gown, I went down to the kitchen, observing more signs ofneglect on the way – spotted mirrors, tattered cushions, a splintering handrail on thestairs, broken tiles on the hallway floor.‘Hello,’ I called, pushing open the heavy wooden door. The kitchen smelt of coffeebut no one was there.They had left me a note next to a box of pastries. ‘Gone to the beach,’ it read.‘Decided to let you sleep. Come to join us when you’ve had breakfast.’I made myself a double espresso, took a custard-filled pastry from the box and wan-dered out to the terrace. There I found a wrought iron table painted with rust, atangled garden of herbs and a rather remarkable view. Standing beside an old rockwall, looking through the olive trees and right across the vineyard, I sipped my coffee,reflecting on the now obvious reasons the rental deal for the place had been such abargain.‘Buongiorno signora.’ The voice was so hearty and near, I gave a little squeak of

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fright. ‘Oh my apologies, you were relaxing, enjoying this beautiful morning and I havestartled you.”‘Yes. . . I. . . I’m sorry who are you?’ I stammered‘Excuse me I am Francesco your host. I have come to make sure you all arrived safely,found the key, that the place is to your satisfaction and everyone is happy.’I stared at him for a moment. He was a heavyset man, round in the belly and perhapsa little jowly but still very handsome, with a thick head of greying hair, almond eyesand skin the sun had turned caramel.‘Is everything to your satisfaction?’ he prompted.

‘Well the thing is. . . ’ I looked back at the house. Ivy climbed lazily over old stoneglowing gold in the morning sun. A white muslin curtain billowed from an open win-dow. Suddenly I could smell jasmine. “It’s rather rundown isn’t it?’Seeming surprised, he turned his eyes to the house.‘A lot of the stonework looks like it needs attention,’ I pointed out. ‘And the plumbingtoo, I think.’Francesco looked at the old palazzo and then back at me. He smiled. Holding out hishands, palms turned upwards, he said with a shrug, “Wabi-sabi.”‘I’m sorry. . . what?’‘Wabi-sabi,’ he repeated, smiling again, then turned and walked away.The heat of the day was building but still I wasn’t drawn to join the others at thebeach. Instead I went to find my guidebook and the list of possible activities I’d jotteddown. It might be the perfect day for an ancient crypt or a wall of frescoes; lunch atan outdoor cafe if I could find a shady spot; then an afternoon of shopping.

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I’m a person who likes my own company so I spent a pleasant few hours exploringMarina Della Roccia. I admired the medieval architecture, toured a marble works andfound a food market where I bought a lump of Parmesan and some fresh peaches.In the afternoon the shopkeepers hung ‘Closed’ signs on their doors and so, once I’deaten lunch, there was nothing to do but return to the Villa.

I was struck again by how shabby the place was. If the palazzo had been in Francesco’sfamily for generations I could only assume he didn’t number any handymen amongsthis ancestors. He had managed a few pleasant touches – urns of red geraniums weredotted along a wall, coloured lanterns had been strung in the branches of a tree abovethe wrought-iron dining table. But if you looked closely it was apparent the wholeplace was crumbling.‘Wabi-sabi’, Francesco had said but I hadn’t a clue what it meant. Perhaps it was anapology.Someone had left two dusty bottles of red wine on the kitchen table. Their labelshowed an old woodcut illustration of the palazzo beneath the words ‘Castello DellaRoccia’. There was a loaf of sourdough bread and some fat red tomatoes; prettilyarranged as though someone were about to make a painting.I was at least two glasses into the first bottle by the time the others appeared, all salty,sandy limbs and damp hair. ‘The beach is fun, the sea’s so lovely, you should havecome,’ they chorused.

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That evening we cooked lamb with rosemary on the wood-fired barbecue and ate dinneroutside by the light of candles and lanterns. Shadowed by night, the palazzo lookedsofter and very nearly perfect.In the next few days I ticked off almost everything on my holiday To Do list. The foodtour was fun and the walks worthwhile. The only thing left was to see the church fres-coes in the town’s main piazza. ‘Naturalistic paintings in the style of Giotto depictingthe legend of St Francis’ said my guidebook. If nothing else it would be cool inside achurch.To my mind those frescoes were long overdue for restoration. The colours had losttheir lustre and one or two seemed smudged. I didn’t stay in the church for long.Coming back outside, blinking in the light, I heard a hearty greeting. ‘BuongiornoSignora!’‘Oh Francesco it’s you, hello.’‘You’ve been to see our beautiful frescoes,’ he remarked. ‘They are in the style ofGiotto, some say they may even have been painted by the artist himself.’‘In that case you’d think they might have taken better care of them,’ I remarked.He looked surprised, then shrugged. ‘Wabi-sabi,’ he said and made to turn away.‘Wait Francesco. What does that mean? Wabi-sabi?’‘You’ve never heard of it?’I shook my head.‘Truly? Come let me buy you a drink and I’ll explain.’Francesco was a fascinating man. We talked about all sorts of things: the history ofMarina Della Roccia and his family palazzo, the difficulties of the winemaking busi-ness, the best recipe for spaghetti alla carbonara. We finished our drinks, ate lunchand ordered coffee, forgetting all about Wabi-sabi.

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The next day was so stinking hot I gave in and went to the beach with the others.Draped carefully in thin layers of flowing cotton, I followed them on to the sand. Itwas a Sunday and so extremely crowded. I found a place on a lounger beneath abright striped umbrella and prayed for a breeze. All around me were families, playingin the sand and sharing food. The women caught my attention: Italian Mammas thatlooked like great brown seals basking in the sun. They didn’t seemed to care if theirbikini bottoms dug into flesh that spilled out everywhere, if the fat of their thighswas dimpled and folded, and their breasts hung to their stomachs. Stretched out ontowels with their children climbing over them, or splashing into the waves, they wereoblivious.‘Come in for a swim,’ Shelley urged.Gingerly I peeled off my layers, revealing my old swimming costume. My legs lookedpasty so I held onto my sarong almost to the water’s edge then plunged in quickly.The water felt cool and the sun baked my shoulders.Then I spotted Francesco, belly bared, striding down towards the shoreline, all smilesand calling out to me. ‘Signora, signora.’‘Damn,’ I muttered.He dived beneath a wave, his swimming shorts slipping perilously, and swam up besideme. ‘Buongiorno Francesco,’ I said when he surfaced.I cowered in the sea for as long as I could, until the tips of my fingers turned whiteand wrinkled, and my nose started to run and I couldn’t stand it any longer. When atlast I walked out of the waves, I was aware of Francesco looking me up and down.Hastily I lunged for my sarong, wrapping it round my waist. ‘I’m so pale,’ I muttered.‘It’s best I cover up.’He took me to buy gelato and together we walked the tideline, kicking through the

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shallows. ‘Oh Francesco you meant to explain to me yesterday, what is Wabi-sabi?’ Ireminded him.‘Ah yes. Well a faded fresco is definitely Wabi-sabi. So is the twisted trunk of an oldolive tree, a shrivelled autumn leaf, a ceramic bowl with a flaw, and yes an old palazzo.Wabi-sabi is the beauty of things that are imperfect. The Japanese thought of it andI have embraced it.’ Francesco patted his belly and grinned. ‘I suppose even this isWabi-sabi in a way.’No, I didn’t rip off my sarong. I wasn’t about to leap about the beach half-naked, glo-rying in my own Wabi-sabi or anything like that. But when I got back to the palazzo,still quietly crumbling as it had been for centuries, I thought about what Francescohad said. If its walls were freshly painted and everything was mended or new wouldthe Castello Della Roccia be more beautiful? Or would it be less? I wasn’t so sureanymore.And that night after a delicious restaurant dinner for two and a couple of bottles ofwine, as we sat out on the balcony of Francesco’s apartment and he lit candles so thateverything seemed softer and nicer, and then he sat close to me and then he, well youknow. . . I wondered if I might not be a summer person after all. . .Nicky Pellegrino is the author of The Villa Girls (Orion)

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About the author

Nicky Pellegrino was born in Liverpool but spentchildhood summers staying with her family in south-ern Italy. A shy, tall, gingery child she never reallyfitted in with her exuberant Italian cousins and had atendency to stay quiet and observe things.When Nicky started writing fiction it was her memo-ries of those summers in Italy that came flooding backand flavoured her stories: the passions, the feuds butmost of all the food.Nicky now lives in Auckland, New Zealand with herhusband Carne (and yes she does find it slightly oddbeing married to a man whose name means “meat” inItalian), her large poodles and her even larger chest-nut horse.She works as a freelance journalist, has weeklycolumns in the Herald on Sunday newspaper and theNew Zealand Woman’s Weekly and her novels aredistributed in the UK, Australia and New Zealand, and have been translated into 12languages.She loves cooking for friends, drinking red wine, walking on New Zealand’s amazingbeaches, riding her horse through the forest and lying in bed reading other people’snovels..For more info check out her website www.nickypellegrino.com.

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Other novels by Nicky Pellegrino

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