tarantella
There was live music almost every night on a large stage, in the open air in front of the church: from the teeth grindingly twee bambini di Accadia through cheesy, Euro-pop divas to the utterly glorious folk band whose name, unfortunately, I didn’t catch. They were from Salerno, deep in the South of Italy and home of the Tarantella a dance with a glorious mythology.
It is named after Taranto in southern Italy, and is popularly associated with the large local wolf spider or "tarantula" spider (Lycosa tarantula) whose bite was allegedly deadly and could be cured only by frenetic dancing (see tarantism). One variation of the legend said the dancer must dance the most joyous dance of her life or she would die, another says the dancer will go in to the most joyous dance of her life before she dies. In actual fact the spider's venom is not dangerous enough to cause any severe effects. The spiders, far from being aggressive, avoid human contact. (from Wikipedia)
The music is extraordinarily passionate and guaranteed to whip you up. It’s impossible to listen to without at the very least tapping your feet; a huge portion of the audience was less shy than Mr Sangue and I and let go; alone or in pairs, free forming, nodding, jumping and turning, whirling, spinning in thrall to the wild violin and baying, gypsy vocals. At the front of the stage, a skinny little woman wearing a fringed scarf around her hips and waving scarves or playing a tambour danced as if she truly was being exorcised. Incongruously she wore little spectacles as she cowered, jumped, twirled and swept the stage and threaded her scarf through the air. At one point, a member of the audience leapt on stage to dance with her. They were in perfect symbiosis, hands on hips, chests close like mating birds, their unexpected communion almost erotic in its fit. He stayed for the whole number then disappeared back into the crowd. (videos are shot by Me Sangue)
A few minutes later I saw his girlfriend walking off in a strop and he chased after her, to reassure her that it meant nothing. Oblivious to this little drama and stoned on endorphins, the diminutive dancer, arched her back and bucked and kicked while the violinist attempted to chase the ‘demon’ out of her. Extraordinary.
There is school of thought that the tarantella was a socially acceptable way for women to work off their sexual energy. Maybe this was why I’d never heard this music in my house growing up; yes, there was plenty of folk music but not this bacchanalian wail.
In front of us, old ladies, children and more surprisingly, young people got on down to this ancient and traditional music. I was taken aback; years ago folk music would have played to tumbleweed in the square but, not before time, Italy has rediscovered her roots and the tarantella is experiencing a renaissance.
cimitero
Papa Sangue’s last resting place is in Accadia. The cemetery is a small, cramped and dusty site, filled with monstrous, marbled, early-seventies style mausoleums and giant walls full of coffin sized shelves in which the deceased are piled high, one above the other like so many rabbits in stone cages. I hate these things but Italians seem inordinately fond of them and the practice has now taken off in Market Town with its massive Latin population. I have made it absolutely clear that when I die I want to do down the Victorian route, thank you very much, horse drawn carriage, black feathers, priests and incense. Oh, and there has to be Mozart at the service and an angel on my grave. This is non-negotiable and if someone should see fit to cremate me I will come back and haunt them, so help me. Papa Sangue made it absolutely clear that he wanted to be brought back to Accadia and, at great expense, that’s exactly what happened.
I felt duty bound to visit him. What began as a chore on a very, very hot morning - spending any time with Papa Sangue has always proved stressful - turned out to be an exceptionally moving experience. I’d bought some Padre Pio candles on the way to make the experience feel ironic and hence manageable but, when I found that we couldn’t reach his ‘spot’ about 20ft up, I could feel the tears begin to well up.
A widow working on the block next to this one, brushed and wiped her husbands grave. In Italian I asked her what I should do. She put down her watering can,
“Put it there, on the ground in front. It doesn’t matter that it’s not right by him, it’s all the same, it’s what’s in your heart that counts. “
“Grazie, Signora…” I managed to choke and translated for Mr Sangue who lit the two candles - one for Papa Sangue and one for my granddad; I’d accidentally on purpose forgotten that Big Mamma Sangue was parked up there too – and positioned them way below them. Surprised by himself, and half-embarrassed, he muttered that he felt quite choked up,
“Yes, he always liked you.” I nodded. “Way more than he ever liked me.” I tried to chuckle but I just wanted to get out of there.
I told Mamma Sangue back home and included detail about the helpful widow.
“She stoopid cow. She there all day, every day.” Mamma said, ever warm hearted.
Fuoco
Italians love their fireworks and the display on the last night of the festa is always fantastic, with absolutely no regard for safety of subtlety every colour in the paint box is tossed up into the night sky and exploded at maximum volume. For days we’d been rudely awaken by three loud bombs much to Mr Sangue’s rage who almost suffered spyncter collapse,
“I bet it was supposed to be at 8 not 10 to…” he growled.
I wonder how all the domestic animals put up with it. Certainly by the end of the firework display they must have all had heart attacks unless they’d become entirely desensitised after years of exposure. I’m the one who holds all the anxiety genes in our relationship but even the sanguine Mr Sangue looked a little concerned as we followed the village to the outskirts of town for the essential, dark backdrop without light pollution which is necessary to the most satisfying pyrotechnic displays.
“I’m not being funny,” he said, taking my elbow, “but can we not watch it so close to the petrol station?”
The display was the opposite of subtle, the antithesis of classic, it was an unabashed display of Italian blingo that had you looking at your watch and wishing the pyrotechnician would come too soon. It put me in mind of that Truman Capote quote,
Venice is like eating an entire box of chocolate liqueurs in one go
By the 22nd of August, night after night of celebration. I’d had enough. See, the good thing about Christmas, there’s only one. The festa, on the other hand, at least every five years, probably goes on a bit too long and you find yourself fantasizing about a quite Sunday afternoon with the papers.
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