Buonanotte: A good night in Tuscany
Dinner stretched long that night, as the dinners did every night over the course of our week-long stay at the Villa Sabolini in the heart of Tuscany. New friends and old, writers all, we’d gathered for descanso – a dedicated respite for renewing the soul.
Wine and conversation continued to flow, even as the staff began discreetly checking their watches. Francesco set a fruit plate in front of us, our fourth course, this one as artfully composed as the ones that preceded it. Someone mentioned chocolate sauce. It appeared. Someone suggested more wine. And there it was. Someone thought it might be nice to end the evening in the music room. And, since good sense had long since departed on the sober arm of restraint, we convened there for nightcaps, though the hour was already much too late.
The borrowed guitar had structural problems. The Baby Grand had seen better days. But, in a celebration of American ingenuity and wine-fueled optimism, we propped up the piano with paperback books and tuned the crippled guitar. Someone started a song. The cello’s rich vibrato married the keys and strings. Voices joined the chorus. The music swelled.
And then the Germans arrived. W e ’ d seen them at dinner. We’d seen them strolling the grounds. And we’d seen them arrive the evening before in their fleet of sleek Porsches wearing their understated shoes. We’d nodded and exchanged pleasantries, their limited Italian much better than ours. But we did not know that they could sing. Or that they had been listening.
They crowded the hallway just outside the open door, deferential, polite, reluctant to intrude. Maybe just a little bit drunk but clearly drawn to the music. Crowded already, we waved them in and one by one they joined us. It was Billy Joel’s “Piano Man” that broke the ice. “Imagine” made us lifelong friends. “Country Roads” took us home.
In dark times we yearn for some sign that all hope is not lost; for assurance that our better angels can and will prevail. That night they showed up, the angels I mean.
The angels showed up and sang.
Monica Michell is a local playwright, poet and storyteller who has long been involved with local and regional theatre. Her award-winning plays have been produced on stages in Austin, San Marcos, San Antonio, Houston and Wimberley. Her stories have been heard by thousands. She is a Teacher-Consultant with the Central Texas Writing Project and a founding member of Wimberley StoryFest.