- Jasmine Chandra, 21 July, 2021
I think of her every day. She was a presence of softness, the lightest breeze scented of lilac. She believed in me. She was one half of an extraordinary partnership; she and Nonno, both became the grandparents I'd never had.
I met Connie and Nick through my parents, who were heavily involved in collecting antique music boxes. I am not talking about the small, tinkling things made in China you may find in a gift shop. Rather, I am referring to the massive, heavy instruments that stood in the reception areas of Victorian hotels and decorated the parlours of the wealthy. They played large, interchangeable metal discs with enormous, resonant sound. In addition, there were other styles, which looked like diminutive coffins and played cylinders covered with pins like porcupines. These pins were plucked by a comb as they slowly revolved. Most of the music boxes of this type were made by Swiss or French manufacturers during the Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries, and a great number of them resided in the French court.
Nici had a woodworking studio in his home. He, too, collected antique musical instruments. He was actually a retired artisan who had traveled the world doing decorative plaster work in cathedrals, museums, restaurants, businesses, and private homes. The type of work he did was exquisitely detailed and made me think straightaway of the halls of Versailles. There were soaring vaulted ceilings, angular designs tracing the walls, and bunches of grapes nestled in the highest corners of rooms, all executed with deliciously smooth, white plaster. It reminded me of gorgeous vanilla frosting. I remember that Nick’s right biceps were enlarged due to the years of doing whatever one does to plaster to create beautiful shapes with it.
My parents were headed to Connie and Nick's home to discuss their idea of restoring the wood of a music box. I decided to go along. As the car purred into the curved drive, I was already thrilled. The front doorway was adorned with plants and herbs in pretty Roman pots. The entire front of the house was a tidy riot of flowers of all colours. The house was stretched out long and large, the architecture very Italianate. Roses hugged two pergolas, which arched over adorable little paths that beckoned to me like a kiss. Somehow, I knew I would be strolling those paths with Connie without further ado.
Nick answered the door, and we entered a small receiving parlour, then a huge living room. My artistic eye instantly swept around to notice the openness of the floor plan. It felt airy and luxurious. Chairs and sofas were plump, covered in chintz fabric. There was no division between the large kitchen and the living room. Then I saw the courtyard, in which grew delicate fig trees being admired by statues of Roman ladies. A fountain twinkled in the glow of faery lights.
Nick was friendly and chuckled a lot. I liked him immediately. His wife came out from the kitchen and smiled at me. I was smitten. Her eyes were the deepest, velvet brown, and her complexion was gorgeous. She and Nick were Sicilian. The scent of fine olive oil and parmigiano hovered as an afterthought of their dinner. Connie told us she made her own pasta. After introductions were made, my father and Nick disappeared down a few steps into another seating area that led to Nick's woodworking studio to discuss the music box project. We ladies sat in the living room sipping our Earl Grey. That was how it began.
After that evening of enchantment, I began visiting with Connie at least once every week. I can still recall the crinkles at the edges of Connie’s eyes that moment I asked her if I could call her, “Nonna”.
How perfectly wonderful to have Italian grandparents! At first, Nick was a bit shy to be called, "Nonno”, but he liked it. I was jealous of their blood grandchildren: two teenaged girls. But I had fun when they came round. We would all sip our tea and munch shortbreads ( baked my Nonna, of course). Italian mothers and grans are the dream of every sensitive, creative young woman. From Nonna, I received the fragrant hugs that lasted forever, and loads of love I really had not received from anyone else. I gobbled up her attention and her shortbreads.
Nonna and I frequently watched films together, cuddled in a chair that held the pair of us. We would choose a classic film from her collection of DVDs, and we would sing along to "The Sound of Music", and shed tears during the final scene from "Love is a Many Spendoured Thing". Both of us thought the current movies of the day were too violent and obviously devoid of wit, charm, and a hundred other things. As I gazed at the slice of lemon bobbing in my glass of iced tea, my heart fluttered. Here I was, delighted and joyful, in the presence of a gracious lady. Authentic. Loving. Polite. Patient.
Nonna and I were worshippers of beauty in its myriad forms. Gazing about her home, I could take in art on the walls. There were some high quality prints of important works by Degas, Van Gogh, and Manet, and also original pieces of contemporary painters. Bold and bright, these modern paintings sprang from the walls, somewhat wildly, even, not at all clashing with the calm that dwelt in the house like a purring cat.
To me, Nonna was the embodiment of chic. She’d sweep about wearing kaftans of silk. Her hair was styled in short grey waves. I never saw her in trousers. She had bad legs and did not drive. She and I went to a tea shops and museums a few times, although she generally preferred to be at home. There certainly was enough loveliness all round her there to keep her happy.
She read extensively, her glittery glasses perched on her sharp Roman nose. I got to savour many of her books in the private library, as well. Nonno lent me a vintage book about decorative plaster works. It featured the very stuff that had made him wealthy. I loved the book so much that he gave it to me. He wrote a dedication inside, “ To a talented young lady.” The simple words had come from a huge heart that was not eloquent, but I could feel the sentiment. It makes me smile every time I open the book, because I remember how Nonno had disappeared for a half hour to write something nice for me inside the cover.
Nonna was fairly introverted. I was, too. But with one another, we were like two jolly budgies. Sometimes we didn’t watch a film when I visited. Rather, we would discuss the work of a painter or composer. I often brought my latest drawings and poems to share with her. She liked it best when I read them aloud to her. She would tell tales of the travels she and Nonno had embarked upon, from Rome to Vienna to Prague.
My visits became somewhat less frequent as Nonna aged and grew more tired. I got immersed in other things then. I wrote letters to her to keep in contact, and then hers began including a few words tossed in to indicate that her health was not as good as it used to be.
Nonna and Nonno have both passed on by now. They were the most important people in my life. As I soar along on a new path, I see them standing side by side, smiling brightly. I know they are proud of me.