The Reluctant Tuscan by Phil Doran Read Free Book Online Page A

circumstances been different, could have enjoyed a flourishing career in public relations, given her fondness for throwing in flattering soubriquets for each person she introduced us to. Thus, the dour, cantankerous old man muttering to himself in the corner became the “irrepressible” Uncle Carmuzzi. The hulking, barrelchested guy stuffing his face with crostini was the “urbane” Cousin Aldo. The three black-shrouded old women huddled together like a scene out of Macbeth were the “convivial” Nina, Nona, and Nana. And finally, the pompous aesthete holding court on the sofa was introduced as the “genial” Dottore Spotto, with his wife, the “pious” Monica, and their “mythically gifted” children Leonardo, Rafael, and la bimba Artemisia.
    â€œPiacere, piacere,” Nancy and I said with each introduction, our heads bouncing like a couple of bobble-head dolls.
    â€œCousin Faustino will be here later,” Dino said, taking us aside. “He’s still in the olive groves, such a hard worker. And the best part is: he is my cousin, so if he screws up I can strangle him.”
    â€œSo he’s bonded,” I said.
    Dino beckoned over a small, chinless man who had been staring at us from under his continuous eyebrow. “I want you should meet Cousin Spartaco.”
    â€œAh, piacere, Spartaco. Apprezziamo molto la sua bellissima casa.” Nancy shook his hand and told him how much we appreciated living in his beautiful house—the one whose walls, it must be remembered, had been covered with alternating images of Jesus Christ and naked women.
    Nancy kept addressing him, but Spartaco seemed incapable of speech because his eyes were riveted on her chest.
    â€œA-hem.” I cleared my throat.
    Cousin Spartaco realized I was staring at him. He clutched at the crucifix hanging around his neck and slinked off, either to pray or masturbate.
    Nancy joined the group of women oohing and ahhing over la bimba Artemisia as Dottore Spotto came over and poured me a glass of home-bottled Chianti. I took a sip and felt the fullness of the Sangiovese grapes permeate my palate like a long, slow seduction. I held the taste in my mouth as long as I could and then swallowed. I raised my glass in appreciation. Il dottore gave me a celestial smile and went off to dispense his ambrosia to the other guests.
    No sooner had he left than Uncle Carmuzzi approached. Swooping his weathervane of a nose uncomfortably close to my glass, he made a face as if I had been drinking raw sewage. He then produced his own labelless bottle and poured me a glass of garnet-red rosso . I took a sip while he stared at me in anticipation. The wine was so lush, it was like holding the liquid essence of a Tuscan forest in my mouth. I twisted my index finger into my cheek where a dimple might have gone, using the Italian gesture to describe something too delicious for words.
    Dottore Spotto strolled past and, seeing me delight in another man’s wine, grabbed Uncle Carmuzzi’s bottle and swirled it around, disturbing the sediment. This caused much agony for Uncle Carmuzzi, who had been handling his wine with the delicacy of one carrying a vial of anthrax. Il dottore peered at the billowing clouds of sediment and clucked as if he were examining a tumorous kidney. Incidentally, I have no idea what kind of dottore he was, the Italians being so lavish with that title, they often bestow it on anyone who’s knuckled their way through four years at a university.
    Sneering at the sediment as proof of the wine’s inferiority, Dottore Spotto retrieved the wine I had started and refreshed it. Then, standing arms akimbo in a stance vaguely reminiscent of Mussolini, he stared at me until I began drinking. Uncle Carmuzzi glared angrily when I showed pleasure in the dottore ’s home brew, and the good dottore ’s lips twisted in rage when I gestured that I liked Uncle Carmuzzi’s as well.
    Both