My friend Pasquale grew up in Naples. When he was a boy, he lived next door to his aunt Maria (Zia Maria in Italian) and his uncle Zio Celestino within a gated community. We went there because he wanted to visit his aunt and uncle and because he was obligated to visit them. In Italy, it's the same thing. It shows respect and it nurtures the bond of family. Love and respect go together like mozzarella and tomato.
I saw it a few years back, when Pasquale went to Rome on business and I bunked in with him in an IBM-paid suite. We had met some of his musician friends in a park where they played Neapolitan folk music late into the night. On the way back to the hotel at about 2:00 AM, Pasquale said, "Let's go through Piazza Navona. I want to see if Salvatore is there."
I asked him who Salvatore was and he told me they used to play music together in Piazza Navona. Since that was twenty years before, I assured Pasquale that Salvatore would no longer be there.
I was wrong. He was. In Italy, street singing is a career. We stayed until sunrise singing more street songs. (Well, I just listened and tapped my fingers on the table.) Around 6:00 AM, a young boy on a motor scooter brought hot croissants. We later went to a cafe for breakfast, sat in the sun for a while, and Salvatore left to go home and sleep. He needed to rest so that twenty years hence he could still be performing in Piazza Navona.
Since it was the first all-nighter I had pulled without having a college exam in the morning, I was happy to follow his example. Just as we dozed off in the hotel room, Pasquale got a phone call. Thinking it was his wife, he answered it right away.
It was Zia Philomena. Since Pasquale had not yet contacted her, she had tracked him down and was in the lobby. Pasquale thought quickly and told her he would visit her tomorrow, because right now he was not alone. Her silence made him realize she thought he had woman up in the room, so he quickly told her it was another guy. She hung up without waiting for more of an explanation. He visited her the next day, and she never mentioned it. Respect.
Anyway, back in Naples, when we arrived at Zia and Zio's apartment, we met an old woman unlocking the iron gate. Looking through the fog of decades, she recognized Pasquale. They exchanged a thousand words in a 100 seconds, kissed each other on both cheeks, and she let us in. Zia Maria was already peeking out from her balcony anticipating our arrival.
It was a modest apartment with marble floors and carved wood. It carried a hint of the art and architecture I had seen throughout Italy—a copy of the Roman which was a copy of the Greek, over many generations. Everything was just right, as if important company was coming.
They greeted their nephew with lots of hugs and me with lots of smiles. The three of them talked and talked while I took it all in and snapped a picture or two. When finally I said in my broken Italian how beautiful was Zia Maria and how much I would like to take her picture, she just smiled. I snapped the picture. She abruptly got up and left the room.
I waited for a pause in the conversation between Pasquale and Zio Celestino. I waited a long time. They don't pause when they talk.
Maybe instead of "beautiful" and "take your picture" I had said "in need of a beauty treatment" and "take your silverware." I was relieved to find out I was witnessing a ritual. The fine china and silver had already been brought out and cleaned, the coffee brewed, and she was off to the kitchen to get it. She brought everything in on an elegant tray. I declined a coffee and could tell from Pasquale's reaction I was breaking protocol. I asked instead for a cold drink and she graciously accommodated me. If I had offended her, I redeemed myself when Pasquale was helping his uncle log into Facebook and I carried the tray back to the kitchen. Her smile told me, coffee drinker or not, I was a good boy in her book.
There's nothing you can do with this story and these words that will match the photo to follow. I saw in her the epitome of goodness, of kindness, of love. I saw in her the look my mother used to give me, the look my Neapolitan grandmother had, and if my memory serves me right, it was the look my great-grandmother carried. It is one face of Naples. The face of a Napolitana woman's love for family.
Zia Maria.
Now, maybe now you've seen Naples.
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