Why choose one flavor when you can have three? Still, I’m not sure why they call vanilla, chocolate and strawberry a Neapolitan, because those people want it all – especially coffee. My father-in-law rarely eats ice cream and he never takes more than one flavor at a time. And he hates sandwiches. He won’t eat one. He’ll reduce it to its components, which is not to say he’s dainty. He drives his knife and fork like a Ferrari, and it’s a beautiful thing to see. He also loves to whistle Chopin, especially when we’re on our way to eat. The one thing I can say about his whistling is that he does it loud.
As a boy he saw his life completely destroyed, so his looking forward to lunch is informed with a knowledge you and I don’t possess – and it doesn’t include fast food. This guy has seen everything and he enjoys most of it, even a sandwich, as long as he can sit properly, take it apart, and put it back together in his stomach. He is an Engineer, after all. He always takes his time, he’s never frustrated, and he never has a bad thing to say about anybody, especially when he’s at the table.
He started out as the ring bearer for his cousin the Princess, which is where I found him, in the only photo he has before the war. His grandfather is just behind the bride, chatting with the King of Hungary, making a point even as his niece is walking down the aisle, the exact same guy as my father-in-law but with a bowler and as Secretary of State. My father-in-law is 5 years old and out in front, like the whole party is for him.
He was an only child. His father played the piano, the only person in the family to carry a tune in centuries. Consequently, he was no disappointment to his father the statesman, who loved him dearly. We have one photo of my wife’s grandfather, sitting at a piano in formal wear, spats on the pedals. A few years later he was dead, leaving my father-in-law, at 14, alone with his mother - a debutante from Philadelphia with no relatives in Italy who couldn’t even speak Neapolitan.
They lived in a big house down in Posillipo, a gift from the grandfather, who got a street named after him up in Vomero (which is bad news for my brother-in-law, who now has that name and can never go near the place, which is a shame, since there’s a good friggitoria up there). But that was before Mussolini. When that idiot showed up, the party was over, since whatever money they had left was worthless. And being the opposition in a nation of opportunists, they went from having few friends to having none, this widow and her son, just as the war was breaking out. So they lived alone in poverty and hunger, which was common in Naples, stuck in their big, cold, damp house. Then the house got bombed and they had nothing.
They found a couple of pictures, taken from their frames by the firemen, who were not begrudged. As a courtesy, the firemen left a locked armoire standing upright, undisturbed. There was little inside. My father-in-law says it’s a good thing there wasn’t anything much, since they had nowhere to go. Luckily, he was 17 and in love - another condition common in Naples.
I once got a letter from a French Viscount, who would be a Cardinal among Cardinals. It had my name on it. It was a 7 part wedding invitation on hand-made paper inscribed in purple with a cut pen. I was afraid to open it. My wife took it away like I couldn’t figure out how to turn on my phone. She looked inside and made a face like she spit out a bad cherry. My cousin, she said. Do we have to go? I asked, thinking of the pate at L'Ami Louis. Most certainly not, she said. My poor parents, though.
This invitation had nothing to do with my father-in-law. It had to do with his in-laws. I mention it because it’s where my wife grew up. I know it sounds strange, but some girls grow up that way, with Viscounts all around. The only question I had at the time was: How did they get my name?
She dropped the subject until our own wedding rolled around. Ours was at the Municipio on Capri with lunch at Paolino – the usual deal. My father-in-law paid for everything, including a dozen hotel bills. He invited more people than I expected and I was presented with a seating plan. I looked to my right. Who’s this uncle from Rome? I asked. You’ll be fine, I was told. His English is perfect. The night before, my wife tells me that this uncle was the Ambassador to France, some years ago. I ask: Why did you wait until now? She says: Because it might come up at lunch.
It didn’t. I got this perfectly charming older gentleman who gave the most beautiful toast I ever heard. He described me as someone I never met, drawing on a relationship we didn’t have, in an amazing attempt to fully impart what I had just spent about 10 seconds trying to impress upon him, but without the pretense and twice the nerve. I didn’t know who he was talking about. Then he repeated everything in English and it all made sense.
I understood that my father-in-law didn’t get along with this guy, his brother-in-law the Baron, this uncle from Rome, who never missed an opportunity to use his title, even though as Ambassador you’d have thought he earned a better one. But no, Baron it is, which is a sticking point with my father-in-law, who has steadfastly refused to call this guy Baron under any circumstances since the old Baron died, which would be about 40 years ago. Ambassador is what he calls him, which is the closest my father-in-law comes to contempt.
Like I said, my father-in-law is an Engineer, which title he is never without. It is his sword and shield. Engineers are men of action. They must do. It is not sufficient to be. And his is a generation that idolizes Engineers, which figures, since Naples was a wreck - something that tends to happen over there. Nature wrecks it slowly, unless there’s an earthquake or something. But when it’s people, fighting over all that beauty, expect a better job.
So he got himself through college and even managed to build a building before he came to his senses and began working for his father-in-law, the late, great Baron who was in need of a son with less pretension and more desire, who wanted to stay in Naples and take money from the air. Of course, it didn’t hurt that my father-in-law had the same name as the first son of the city and a father of the Democratic state, which noble idea was briefly sidetracked. Add that to the manufacture of oxygen, and you have a happy ending.
The first time I met my father-in-law was on Capri. He was in a bathing suit being served breakfast on his boat. He couldn’t have seemed more at home. Funny thing, he made me feel the same way. Believe me, I was prepared to disembark after my delivery of pasticci, but there wasn’t a bit of it. My wife had sent me down to the marina alone, with instructions to introduce myself, shake hands, and come right back with breakfast. I had already met my mother-in-law, even spent a day on the boat while my father-in-law was at the office (it was like watching my wife in 30 years, and I fell in love twice), so I knew I had a green light. But I wanted to stop, not go, and it’s been that way ever since.
