Tonight I try a new recipe, and it turns out remarkably well. When he gets home from work I suggest my idea I have been thinking about all day. After we are stuffed from dinner, we head towards the Trattoria for a glass of wine and dessert. Finally, formal celebration for my new job. These, the kinds of activities we will be able to do more of, instead of killing time doing temp work and searching for requirements on food stamp qualification. We walk down our narrow passage way towards the lit street behind our wrought-iron gate. It makes the familiar sounds on unlocking it and locking it again, firm sturdy sounds reminding us we are protected.
Outside our building on the street we realize what a perfect night it really is. The moon hangs in the middle of the sky, large and bright white. It isn't a moon out of a fairy tale, the kind that awes onlookers with its size or color, but it is beautiful. I have come to appreciate seeing the moon at all during this summer in the city, when it is more likely it will be blocked out by high-rise buildings or a new housing project across the street, or clouds, or pollution. Also, the air is breezy and perfect for a tank top, my bare arms aware of the feeling of the night. The small Italian woman who lives on the other side of our landlord's building stands in a floral housedress and speaks to a younger woman. We begin to pass by, holding hands and heading down the hill, saying good evening quietly so as not to disturb the conversation. When we have passed the women, we are called out to. "Do you like peaches?" the older woman asks. "Yes," I reply, laughing a little. I had my last peach for breakfast.
It is the answer to this question that seems to unlock a new world for us. We are introduced to the grown daughter, who tells us she used to live on the street where our college sits and now lives in Northern Westchester. She chats with us before she heads out while her mother goes back into her alcove to find peaches. The pretty leafy tree that grows against the fence on the street is a peach tree, and I am surprised that it grows here, in the Northeast, next to a parking lot and a cracked sidewalk. Next we are beckoned through the gate, and I see that behind the tree and the deep red roses that I had glimpsed before while passing are more plants, like tomatoes, and more flowers. She invites us into her garage and shows us where her husband and son make their own wine in a back room. Then we are offered seats on a little concrete patio.
The air is still cool and breezy, the trees and flowers darkly outlined against the sky and the white moon. To be polite, I try to make conversation. I find that I have a million questions for her. She answers them willingly, congenially. She has lived here since 1963. She was born in a small town, more like a village, in the middle of Italy. After the war she lived in Venezuela, and she speaks Spanish as well as Italian. She still calls it Italiano, and I notice a similarity between her speech and that of my landlords. While she is able to converse in English, she holds a heavy accent that is somehow comforting and familiar to me, although I have never even been to Italy.
It is a testament for the richness of the neighborhood, Belmont, that she has lived in this spot in the Bronx for this long and not even begun to shake her accent. It is thick to the point that I find myself leaning in, struggling to understand her. Sometimes I miss words, or even a whole phrase, and so I just nod and smile, something I learned to do long ago in the South. I see a black and white cat with its little face pressed against the window. Soon another cat appears on the concrete wall above the garage. She tells us it belongs to the neighbor above and calls it a long silly name in Italian beginning in a G. She tells it to me several times, but still, it is lost on me.
I remark on the beauty of her garden, this little Oasis in the middle of the city. She shows us the tree behind us, and when I look closer I realize it is a Magnolia tree, something I didn't even know grew outside of the South. Instead of a white blossom, the only kind I have ever seen, it has a large pink flower, darker at the center and lightening towards the edge of the petals. She goes to the tree and breaks it off, bringing it to me. It is so thick, so tough and leathery, but delicate also, and it carries a beautiful smell. Then she says something about the seeds of a flower blowing, and taking root in the brick. I wonder what she means, but when we turn around we see that her potted flowers, simple things like impatiens, have spread their seed and large flowers have begun growing in the space between the brick wall and the asphalt driveway.
We excuse ourselves, thanking her profusely for the peaches and the conversation. We continue towards the Tratorria, and take a seat outside on the street. I order a glass of red wine, he orders the sweet white I had on my birthday. He orders chocolate ice cream, I have the tartufo, which is rich and delicious with a single cherry in the middle. When we return home, I set the peaches on the windowsill and hope they will begin to ripen from the bit of sun that comes through our gate and up the passage way.
