Toni’s 60th


How many times have I landed here in Bari, Italy? Probably at least twenty times. Yet I am always surprised when I see the new modern terminal. When did that little one room building get replaced? When did all these walkways and hustling boutiques get built? I am still wondering how all this came to be as Aldo and I exit baggage claim and look around for Toni. Toni is always the one waiting for us when we fly in--quiet, smiling, hospitable Toni. This time, however, we don’t see him. Maybe for once we have beaten him!  But no, here he comes. I notice his grey and white hair. Aldo’s hair turned white years ago, but Toni’s had stubbornly remained black. Now it’s finally turning white and that still surprises me. “The arrival board said the plane was not yet here,” he explains, “So I went for a coffee.”

We hop in the car to start the familiar ninety-minute drive to Martina Franca. On my left I catch glimpses of the sea in between the buildings that seem each year to extend further and further south. On my right groves of olive trees line the highway. After about an hour we see the haphazardly placed little sign for Martina Franca and turn off the freeway to head up the gentle climbing hills. Soon we pass Zoo Safari where many years ago camels licked our car windows sending our four kids into screams of delight. We pass the restaurant where one Sunday we spent more than four hours dining with my mother-in-law, two of Aldo’s brothers and their families and our good friends from Seattle. At the next curve we see a house which reminds me of Toni’s ex-wife’s house. Even after all these years my stomach tightens a little even though the marriage had lasted only a year. Soon we’re leaving the white hill-topped town of Locorotondo and see stretching out before us the Valle D’Itria. After crossing this green fairyland spotted with hundreds of conical-shaped stone trullis, we climb the last hill to enter Martina.

Tomorrow is Toni’s sixtieth birthday and his wife Gisela has organized a surprise birthday party. I’m sure Toni must know something is up because, for one thing, Aldo and I don’t normally fly in for his birthday. Yet we play along saying we had a bit of free time so just flew down for a visit.

Gisela and Toni have been married seven years. I was thrilled when she entered the picture not only for Toni but also because her arrival as newcomer made me an old-timer. Suddenly I was not only part of the family history that Gisela was learning, but finally I knew more about them than someone else did. In Martina everyone knows everyone even before they are born. Ask “who?” and immediately an oral history of the person in question is thrown at you: his parents, children, relatives living and dead, homes, jobs, schools--a whole web of connections that place her squarely in their history and in their midst. Even if I could grasp all these connections, at least a dozen more new references have popped up that I am left wondering about. I could clearly see this vast organic web of connections but I didn’t really feel an integral part of it until Gisela arrived. Then I shifted into old-timer and it felt good.

Plans for Toni’s 60th officially started in September when I was here for my last visit. One day Gisela and I slipped away to Park Hotel to reserve the banquet room and discuss the menu. Gisela sat across from the respected owner and told him in good Italian that she wanted a simple cena, not a pranzo, as this was for a birthday, not a marriage or baptism. There would still be five courses plus wine and champagne but each course would offer only one plate, not two, as a pranzo would. She asked if I thought that was OK. “Fine,” I said. No matter what it was called I knew we wouldn't leave the table hungry! She reserved the banquet room for November 2nd, made an appointment for the following Wednesday to return and finalize the menu, and mentioned that probably thirty-five people would attend.

Every now and then over the next two months I’d get a phone call from her when Toni wasn’t home. “Should I invite so-and-so?” she’d ask me. I’d immediately think, “Waste of time,” but aloud would respond, “Why not, can’t hurt? Give it a try.” A few days later, “I invited this relative. She said she’s coming! Do you think she will?” “Not a chance,” I’d think, but then I’d say, “Well, you never know. She might.” Gisela was too new to the family to understand the entrenchment of the family quarrels and the rock-hardness of certain divisions. She’d only been around seven years and there were injuries and wounds that went back decades. She’d call again, “Niece called to say only she is coming. I told her, ‘Your family has four people. I’ll put down four places. If one comes, OK, but I have you down for four places.’” She kept the same line with everyone. “I’m inviting everyone. If they want to come or not, it’s their choice, but they’re invited. A family needs to be all together.” This Albanian was preaching to the Italians!

Last week Gisela called me again. “I haven’t slept all month worrying that it will go OK. Toni doesn’t suspect anything. Now everyone but Rosetta is coming. Says she can’t leave Benito alone. Do you think so-and-so will say something and spoil the dinner?” “Could happen,” I thought. But I said, “I hope not. I hope she behaves. Just limit the wine.”

November 2nd arrives. All Souls’ Day, Day of the Dead. Toni always thought he was unfortunate to have been born on the day when everyone went to the cemetery where his mother would cry copious tears. He would have cried, too, he wrote in a poem, if he had understood the reason behind the tears but he was too little to understand. Eventually, however, his poem goes on to say, he came to see that November 2nd was not such a bad day after all for it was on this day that everyone, the living and the dead, came together to pray. On this day the division between those he loved who were living and those he loved who were dead disappeared. They were all united.

On Monday, the big day, Aldo, Toni, Gisela, Zia Lina and I sit down at noon for the day’s main meal. With good wine we toast Toni, give him his present and light a candle on one of the local sweets. We sing Happy Birthday not once but twice.

During the afternoon several people call to wish him auguri (best wishes) but no one comes by to see him. We hope he doesn’t find that strange. Finally at 6:30 p.m. Gisela tells him to put on the new suit he had received from a niece a few days ago. I say I’m going to go dress, too, as I’m sure we’re going out although I don’t know where. Once Gisela and I are ready we announce we’re going to take Zia Lina home and will meet up with them a bit later. We’re off! I think Toni really believes we’re going to drop Zia Lina off at her apartment.

We go straight to the hotel. The banquet room looks lovely with large candles wreathed by autumn flowers and fruit on each of the seven tables. A piano is ready. Tables are set out for serving. The empty room is a bit chilly. Gisela tells me she is expecting about fifty-five people depending if everyone shows up. Fifty-five! Back in September it was thirty-five; now it’s fifty-five! I worry a little that if some people don’t show up, the empty tables will be glaring at us, but I put that thought firmly aside. Gisela is still attending to last minute details when I hear laughter. The first guests have arrived: Julia, Roberto and eight-year-old Roberta. How appropriate—seven years ago it was Julia who had introduced Toni to Gisela.

Soon Sandro from Rome arrives even though he doesn’t feel well, then Pina and Peppino with their two girls and Maria’s three boys and Martino on Lino’s side with his wife and girls and now Roberto with his family. They keep coming and coming. Some of the little kids I’ve only seen once or twice so I have to ask them their names. But as I look at the faces of the teenagers, I see the babies they once were. Gisela is counting who is here, who is missing. All the ones I thought would not come are in the room! By 8:30 p.m. we’re only missing Rosanna’s three teenage sons, Pierpaolo, and Vito of Maria who is sick. Everybody else is here kissing each other on the cheeks, talking, laughing, catching up. The room has warmed up.

At 8:45 p.m. Toni walks into the room and looks around. “Even though I might not look like it,” he says, “I am moved. I knew Gisela was planning something, but I never imagined it would be at this level. I thought maybe a small dinner, but nothing like this. I see everyone here, all of you. I am very happy.”

His friend Gianni then takes the microphone and sings. Toni and Gisela dance. The uncle who has trouble getting out of bed in the morning dances with the niece I haven’t seen in ten years. The seven-year-old chases the two-year-old. A few go outside to smoke. Another course is served. More music, more dancing. Halfway through the evening Gisela stands in front of everyone to read in perfect Italian a love poem she wrote for Toni. His face beams.  He takes her hand to dance the tango while all the relatives look on.