We are on a steep hill, and I can hear his voice from the vegetable farm down below.
“Ragazzi, cosa fate? andate a lavorare! Guys, what are you doing? Get to work!”. He is waiting among the cabbages, trying to tell us what needs to be done at our didactic vegetable farm that day. I put my backpack down and we begin to head toward him. But we are slow, chatting away and putting our phones in our pockets. That’s when you hear for the second time, “Ragaaaaazzi!”.
Nino is the master farm keeper, a full time volunteer at Società Gastronomica, our student farm. A white-haired, white-bearded man in his mid seventies, Nino could easily be mistaken for a character in an 80s southern Italy mafia movie, except that he has “grown shorter and shorter, and bigger and bigger in the width” he says, rubbing his belly while lighting up a cigarette. He is there at the farm every single day, as early as 5 am in the morning, taking care of all the different vegetables and fruits we grow and managing the compost day by day. You will even spot him on a Sunday morning, slowly walking through the vegetable rows. I only found this out when I went early to have brunch there with some friends. “Nino, but it’s a Sunday?!” He just replied, “Silvana mi ha spedito qui. Oh, Silvana just sent me here,”referring to his beloved wife. Although it was pretty obvious he came to examine if the fruit trees were doing okay after a rainstorm the night before.
Nino can appear in many different ways to different people. Some people define him as the “cutest old man” or “SO Italian”, often referring to his appearance and gestures. For me, the impression is somewhat different. He never really looked me in the eyes in the beginning, and carried a tough-to-approach attitude about him. It took me a while to grasp how he wants me to work with him, not to mention the language barrier for the both of us. When we first met this March, I barely spoke nor understood any Italian, and the first thing he told me was “Io non parlo Inglese, va bene?I don’t speak English, ok?” I remember nodding awkwardly and feeling nervous.
I got to know Nino more when we worked together in the farm during March, April, and May. English-speaking students familiar with the garden helped me understand soil preparation, plot management, and seeding according to the seasons and weather situation. I could see that Nino, while busily moving his hands with other chores to take care of in the farm, was observing how I work. He would never ask me questions, but gradually started giving me little tips. “Are you sure that’s enough water?” “I think it could be the right time to prune your tomatoes.” I found myself trying to read his mind and make him happy by looking after my vegetables. The result? I wasn’t sure if Nino was happy, but my vegetables seemed to be.
Summer came, and I had come to feel more comfortable in the farm and with Nino. Every time we bike to the farm, it’s a great feeling to see rows of tomatoes, eggplants, potatoes, and zucchinis standing in the field with a big sunflower soaking in all the sun. There, you will always find happy looking vegetables, and Nino, smoking his pipe. Nino and I have had so many great times making salad straight from the garden, learning parmigiana di melanzane from Silvana, and late night guitar sessions where he will show up with her and sit quietly on a sofa students made out of pile of hay. He’s always proud of Silvana, and her parmigiana.
Then, May approached, a time where our school work became more intense, so many of us weren’t able to show up at the garden as much as we had before. Week long study trips where we travel away from Bra, didn’t help either. I could see it in Nino’s face. One hot day, he came up to me and said, “Maya, ridi sempre! Sei sempre felice! Ma i tuoi pomodori sono felici? Maya, you always smile and laugh so happily, but are your tomatoes happy?”
Nino was right. My tomatoes, that we planted with so much excitement, had become affected by some kind of disease. I realized Nino had tried to tell me this, but by the time I was present, it was too late. He is always caring for the students and their vegetables, in a subtle way we never fully grasp. One time a professor came up to me and whispered, “It’s the Sardinian in him.” You have to give all, and be real with him because that is what he does and what he expects.
Seasons go by, vegetables changes, and now our farm is ready for winter goodies and getting the soil ready for next spring. But it seems like Nino doesn’t change. He says the same phrase when he has to go home, which is, “Ragazzi, io torno a casa! Guys, I’m going home!”, followed by “Silvana mi aspetta per cena. Silvana is waiting with dinner,” with a little shrug. I still don’t know what he thinks of us students, but if I ask him, “Forse la parmigiana di melanzane? Maybe it’s eggplant parmigiana for dinner?” he would look back and smile at me now. I think my vegetables will be happy this year.
Maya speaks Japanese, English, Chinese and a bit of Italian but can communicate with anyone regardless of what language they speak. She is a journalist who has interviewed everyone from oil diggers to presidents.