Maria, una signora italiana

- C’è la signora?

- Eh, la signora è sempre qui. And I would soon learn that to be true.

A computer-typed sign pasted onto the window that read “CERCASI CAMERIERO/A” invited me into Trattoria Cornelius, where I met her for the first time.

Actually, she was the only one there, sitting comfortably by a table covered with the typical Italian checkered tablecloth. She was deep into her thoughts, concentrated on her lunch salad like it was all she cared about in the world until I interrupted the moment with my presence. I noticed her winter-white thin hair, so thin it was almost transparent, her wrinkly pale arms covered in freckles and sun spots, and finally, her deep, dark, experienced eyes that slowly turned over to me. She didn’t need to say a word before I could read into her serious expression: Si? Cosa ti serve?

She must be the owner, I thought. Or someone that came by to check from time to time the Trattoria, it never crossed my mind that she worked full-time there. Anyway, I went on and asked her the question I had practiced in my head probably over 10 times now.

“Ho visto il lettrero fuori, e mi chiedevo… vorrei sapere si io posso lavorare qui. Her eyes silently scanned my face as I also explained that I was a student from the Instutito right across the narrow busy Via Faenza, and that it would be nice to work at the restaurant every now and then. Hai lavorato prima? Was the only thing she asked me. Not if I had a working visa, not if I could speak any other language. Sí, I said. She told me to come over the next morning and we would chat about it. As soon as I said ciao she had already turned back to her salad.

Went back the next day, earlier around noon, and this time I didn’t found her sitting in the table by the door. The restaurant was full with costumers and only this one stressed waitress running all around. Maybe I was right, maybe she only came by occasionally. But when I asked for her, they gave me the famous answer: Eh, la signora è sempre qui.

I found her further to the left, standing from behind the crystal bar, serving a tap beer. Only after she stepped out of it to come closer to me I noticed for the first time how tiny she was. Her back was so bent, her neck was barely visible. Her hunchbacked figure walked slowly towards me as if every step was a tremendous effort for her. But her body seemed to be the only thing fragile about her, neither her voice nor attitude gave me that impression. She told me loud and clear, allora, ascoltami, noi abbiamo bisogno di qualcuno che possa lavorare tutti i giorni, va bene? When I told her I wouldn’t be available on the weekends, it didn’t surprise me when she dismissed me quickly once again and told me she would give me a call if she eventually needed me.

A couple of days passed and I thought that that would be it, that I wouldn't get the experience of working in an “authentic” trattoria, mingling with Italian people, until I answered an unknown number and heard a raspy voice say: Buongiorno, sono Maria dalla Trattoria, puoi venire domani a lavorare?

…

Maria doesn’t give you tons of instructions even if it is your first day, in a new workplace, in a foreign country. Maria expects you to do and learn the things yourself. After all, I had worked before, right? So Maria just gives orders. She ordered me from behind the crystal bar, as I struggled with the commands, the menu, and the placement of the plates and glasses. Guardi, questo is fa così, questo si mette qua. Devi portare sempre l’olio e l’acetto ogni volta che ti ordinano l’insalata. Non si mangia mai il formaggio con la pasta al pesce! Devi portare via subito l’apperol, dai, dai!

I want to think that she must have seen something in me, to take me in just like that, and expected me to pull it out. Because I was truly freaking out: swollen feet and the head spinning, greeting customers in four different languages, answering questions about the unknown menu, processing orders, carrying food and drinks from the kitchen to the tables and dirty dishes back from the tables to the kitchen, preparing bills, and dealing with her serious, intimidating expression.

She is really old, one of the customers told me pointing at her. Yeah, she really is.

And for the first time, I actually recognized just exactly how old Maria was. Behind her strong and temperamental character, there was this elderly lady whose hands would tremble whenever I asked her to prepare a drink, whose mind would struggle to remember the table number of those who were paying, who hand-dried every glass of wine one by one. Whose face turned dead serious whenever it seemed I could not handle all the plates, but who still, served thousands of Aperol’s, chianti, and birre a day, who spent 8-hour shifts standing on her chubby pale feet, who forced her hunchbacked self to look up and smile to every paying customer, whose fragile spotted hands would patiently fold every clean napkin at 11 pm, and who when I asked: posso venire per i soldi domattina alle 9, o è tropo presto?, would just smile sarcastically and say: Amore, io sono qui dalle 8. Tuti giorni. Sono sempre qui.

…

Maria reminds me of my grandma. For they way I feel she realizes that she is not the same strong, independent, physically capable woman she once was. How frustrating it must be to get to that point in your life and recognize things are not the same anymore, even if you want them to be. I guess that is why she yelled lascialo! lascialo! with a serious hostile glare whenever we tried to help her with the heavy metal chairs she was trying to carry inside at the end of the night. But I also guess that is why, after we finished folding the napkins and it was only the two of us sitting in her table, she finally gave me the first of many soft, wrinkly, warm smiles and in her dark tired eyes I could read: Grazie davvero per essere qui e aiutarmi.

…

Unfortunately, I haven’t been around to help a lot more lately, our schedules are off and I guess they found a new waitress that can work every day so they haven’t called. But every single time I pass by Trattoria Cornelius I sneak in to see if she is there. And Maria always is. Behind the bar and receiving me always with a warm smile, and generous discounts. Always asking how my day was, and how I was doing in school.

- Va tutto bene, grazie, bello, stancante però.

- Eh, almeno cosi ti la ricordi.

Guess that is true, guess that is why also why I won’t ever forget those few rewarding days I spend working at the trattoria with Maria.

She tells me to pass by more often, to have a caffè with her, I don’t even ask if she is going to be there Monday morning, by now I know she will, but also I can’t help but wonder… what if one day, la signora non c’è piu lì?