Under the Tuscan Sun by Frances Mayes Read Free Book Online Page A

for the place for thirty
years. Ah, the five sisters of Perugia I imagine in their narrow
iron beds in five bedrooms, all waking at once and throwing
open the shutters. I don't believe in ghosts, but from the
beginning I sensed their heavy black braids twisted with ribbons,
their white nightgowns embroidered with their initials, their
mother with silver brushes lining them up before the mirror each
night for one hundred strokes.
    On the upstairs terrace, he shook his head. The bricks must
come up, then an underlayer of tarpaper and insulation installed. We
had a feeling he knew what he was talking about. The central heating?
“Keep the fire going, dress warmly, signora, the cost is
formidable.” The two walls? Yes, it could be done. Decisions
are irrational. We both knew Primo Bianchi was the right man for
the restoration.

    IF THE GUN IS ON THE MANTEL IN CHAPTER ONE, THERE MUST be a bang by
the end of the story.
    The former owner had not just affirmed the bounty of water,
he had waxed lyrical. It was a subject of great pride. When he
showed us around the property's borders, he'd opened a garden
faucet full blast, turning his hands in the cold well water. “This
was a watering spot for the Etruscans! This water is known to be the
purest—the whole Medici water system,” he said, gesturing
to the walls of the fifteenth-century fortress at the top of the hill,
“runs through this land.” His English was perfect. Without doubt,
he knew about water. He described the watercourses of the mountains
around us, the rich supply that flowed through our side of Monte
Sant'Egidio.
    Of course, we had the property inspected before we bought
it. An impartial
geometra
from Umbertide, miles away
over the hills, gave us detailed evaluations. The water, he agreed,
was plentiful.
    While I am taking a shower after six weeks of ownership, the
water slows, then trickles, then drips, then stops. Soap in hand,
I stand there without comprehension for several moments, then decide
the pump must have been turned off accidentally, or, more likely,
the power has gone off. But the overhead light is on. I step out
and rub off the soap with a towel.
    Signor Martini drives out from his office bringing a long
string marked with meters and a weight on the end. We lift the
stone off the well and he lowers the weight.
“Poca
acqua,”
he announces loudly as the weight hits bottom. Little
water. He hauls it up, black roots hanging off, and only a few inches
of string are wet. The well is a measly twenty meters deep, with a
pump that must have ushered in the Industrial Revolution. So much
for the expertise of the impartial
geometra
from Umbertide.
That Tuscany is in the third year of a serious drought doesn't help
either.
    “Un nuovo pozzo,”
he announces, still louder.
Meanwhile, he says, we will buy water from a friend of his who
will bring it in a truck. Fortunately, he has a “friend” for
every situation.
    “Lake water?” I ask, imagining little toads and slimy green
weed from Trasimeno. He assures us it's pure water, even has fluoride
in it. His friend simply will pump umpteen liters into the well and
it will be adequate for the rest of the summer. In fall, a new
pozzo,
deep, with fine water—enough for a swimming
pool.
    The swimming pool had become a leitmotif while we were
looking for houses. Since we are from California, everyone who
showed us a house assumed that naturally we would want a pool first
thing. I remembered that years ago, while visiting in the East,
I was asked by the pale-faced son of a friend if I taught my
classes in my bathing suit. I liked his vision. After owning a pool,
I think the best way to enjoy the water is to have a friend who has
a pool. Dealing with overnight neon green transformations of water
is not in my vacation plans. There is trouble enough here.
    And so we buy a truckload of water, feeling half foolish and
half relieved. We only have two weeks left at Bramasole and paying
Martini's friend certainly is cheaper