03. Be a fool, again
Gnocchi di semolino, Ada calls it. An accurate description: gnocchi made not from flour and potato, but from semolino—a coarsely ground wheat product, similar to the ground corn used to make polenta.
Actually she does make a polenta from it, using milk rather than water to give it a creamy, richer, flavor. Once the cooked semolino is rolled out, cooled, and cut into circles (or squares) and aligned overlapping in an oven dish, one must spolverizzateli abbondantemente (sprinkle them abundantly) di parmigiano grattato e (with grated parmigiano and...) innaffiateli col resto del burro... (douse them! with the remaining butter), and bake.
Gnocchi al forno. The dish is heaven. Fattening, unforgettable heaven.
I CROUCHED IN THE BACK OF THE WHITE VOLKSWAGEN, trying to breathe, trying to hold firm, the seat’s chilled vinyl against my bare legs, dry September air pushing through a dropped window billowing my pale, cotton gown.
The car swerved over rough, eaten asphalt, racing to the city’s edge, then climbing high and higher, a predawn approach to a stunning gothic mansion. La Quiete, it was called, The Calm, the private clinic where my son was to be born.
Magda and Aldo stood at the entrance, the sky black, the building dark, one lamp glowing by the mahogany east door. Running the elevator was Aldo’s job, and he was in full uniform. When I telephoned Magda an hour earlier, she likely called him. Aldo, arriva una donna. Venga subito. Come quickly.
Magda watched my approach with a timeless, gentle face. Years as a midwife had instilled a knowing serenity. Ciao, Lisa, she said, a double cheek kiss. Dolore? No, there was no pain yet. The elevator thumped as it halted on the third floor. Aldo slid open the elaborate metal gate, and we entered the sleeping hallway.
Che stupendo! Magda said to me, and not to me, a general wonderment at life, the process of unfolding. Oggi nasce un miracolo, il tuo bambino. Yes, and he will be an Italian, I thought, knowing my grandmother was smiling somewhere.
Magda brought me to a white-quilted bed in an ancient room, my private space for the coming days. Soaring lead glass windows overlooked the villa’s grounds where centuries-old pines stood guard, their broad skirts gathering earth’s energy and shooting it to the sky.
E adesso? I asked Magda as I undressed, the miracle stirring boldly, low and heavy within me. And now?
Aspettiamo, she said. We wait. Lifting her hand to her forehead then touching her heart, she glanced at the wooden cross nailed above the door. Coraggio, Lisa. Coraggio, she whispered, then backed out of the room, silent steps, amber light pulsing behind her.
He was remarkably calm when he arrived after a strenuous six hours, a satisfied smile on his ruddy face. I fed him and lay him, already asleep, in a bedside crib. Magda wrapped me loosely in a soft robe, my parents were called, my husband went home, and I—exhausted and energized and hungrier than I’d ever remembered—was led to a small table dressed in white linen set up in my room...and presented with a bottle of sparkling Pelligrino and a plate of oven-warm gnocchi di semolino prepared in the villa’s kitchen, just then, for me.
That was the story. The one which first took shape in a poem years ago, the one I tell others. A visceral happiness, completeness.
But there is more.
THE INFLATABLE POOL was large enough for four adults to sit comfortably and hold water to a depth of 2 ½ feet.
An acquaintance of mine—a French woman living in Varese—had purchased it for her latest birth at La Quiete, a water birth, and then donated it to the clinic and to all the women who might follow her.
I had wanted to be one of those women. To have this baby swim into the world in a bath of warm, clear water. A gentle ease into life. Magda was highly supportive; she’d been on hand for several water births. È bellissimo, she said.
Research assured that the baby would not, could not, drown, would not think of swallowing water, would only know what it had known, moving from one fluid chamber into another, until it was lifted into the air and opened its lungs.
When I phoned Magda to let her know I was on my way, the maternity staff began preparing the pool. Imagine: a magnificent room on the third floor of an historic, four story mansion. In it: a rugged rubber pool with quilted sides, resting on a plastic tarp, filling from hoses hooked to sink faucets.
Warm water soothes. And from the moment I was helped over the edge into the warmth, the contractions slowed, then nearly stopped. The weightlessness which I’d thought would be a relief, wasn’t. Instead it left me unmoored. The buoyancy instigated a deep, unending ache. I stayed with it as long as I could, but I needed solid footing.
Strangely, I had the sense that the birth had already happened that way, underwater. Was already remembered that way. And now the story had to be rewritten.
Out of the pool, the contractions returned instantly, confirming a truth both terrifying and reassuring: there was no stopping the roar of the body in its desire to free a new life.
I remember others wandering in and out of the room, the pediatrician, for one. No one wearing any kind of medical clothing or gear. There were no monitors, no medications. I’d stripped for the pool and never dressed again; my heaving body had to breathe.
An elderly male GYN whom I’d not before met was on duty that morning. He sat at a desk in the large central room with the pool, writing, writing, god knows what, certainly nothing about the birth, he was completely disinterested. After several hours, when it became clear the contractions weren't working in favor of the birth and that the baby had moved from its optimal position, he took the first and only action during those hours. With one hand on my stomach and one at my vagina--and with Magda trying to hold my gaze—he manually shifted the baby in one massive, excruciating wumpf. A fierce act, but a beneficial one: my son was born within the hour.
That evening there was a sudden, urgent arrival at the elevator, and what seemed like moments later, the wail of a newborn. Another on this day. A cork popped (I envisioned a bottle of excellent prosecco). A family soon gathered—grandmothers, grandfathers, children—trying to keep their voices soft, unable to subdue their effervescent joy.
La Quiete, September 14, 1992, Varese, Italy.
