Taking Care Of A Disney Princess

Everything about this little eight month old girl is like a Disney film character.

It is like she was drawn using the digital animation applied to baby characters in kids films to increase their cuteness. Her limbs are perfectly formed, plump and marshmallow soft. Still so smooth and hairless they have a glow to their surface when she is touched by the sun or light. Her arms crease in one hundred different places, her calves are short subtle and curve like a banana, her thighs are pear-shaped and can no longer fit in ones closed hand due to their circumference and volume.

Her cheeks are perfect nectarines, slightly drooping over her tiny dimpled chin due to their voluptuousness. Her eyes, a shade I can only describe as a translucent blue, are simply put enchanting. Also due to a slight eye muscle problem they tend to roll in towards each other when she focusses on something, so she appears slightly cross-eyed. To everyone who meets her this only makes those blue eyes more appealing, as this feature heightens their surreal cartoon-like quality.

When she smiles you can't help but coo over her. Her eyes wrinkle up, creased by the sudden upwards motion of her bouncing cheeks, and her gummy toothless mouth gapes open, daring you not to smile back. When we are out with her in the pram people cannot help but be drawn to her, so much so I joke about feeling famous by association. Little girls, mothers, elderly folk, even the toughest of young men, cannot stop themselves from starring at her as we go past. They nudge their companions or partners and gesture to her, saying 'awww, look at that little girl!' Sometimes they come up to us or stop us on our journey to say hello and admire her for just a few moments. They instinctively reach out to touch a bare foot or her open palm, wanting to feel for themselves her incredible supple softness. She is cuteness embodied and those who are drawn to her are always rewarded with a glorious smile. Maybe even a gleeful gurgle or a vigorous kick of the legs.

But she is also bashful, as if aware of her appeal. When she sees a new face she takes a moment to focus on their features with her weak eyes. Once the face has been identified as 'unknown' she will flash a dazzling smile, but then quickly turn her face to her mothers chest, not with fear but something alike a coy shyness. This never fails to irrevocably charm her new friends.

***

She falls asleep best when in my arms against my chest moving up and down as I take breaths to sing to her. Cole Porter, religious hymns, Operas and Ella Fitzgerald are our favourites. Once she has fallen asleep I try to transfer her to the pram, but she wakes up immediately howling with anger as if she has caught me attempting to dupe her. I pick her up again and her stubby but petite finger slips around my own index digit as she closes her eyes and falls asleep, as if to say 'don't you dare put me down in my pram. I am staying here thank you very much.' Her head is tucked perfectly under my chin, her face nestled against my collar bone. My nose gently grazes the fuzz on her minute skull, golden at the base and almost white at the ends. She is heavy but comfortably so. She not only looks healthy, but feels healthy.

On a particularly hot day I walk her out of the house and go next door to the family Chapel to find some fresh air. The chapel is the coolest place perhaps in the whole Villa. Often I have walked in to find Rockie the Labrador belly flopped on the Marble floor, tongue lolloping from his mouth desperately trying to find a breeze. My voice echoes in the cavernous space of the Church, and she is as soothed as I am, by the lulling (though far from perfect) notes issuing from my throat. We are disturbed only by a cleaning lady who has come in to replace the dead flowers on the Torrigiani family tombs with fresh ones. She is naturally in awe of the little baby sleeping so peacefully in my arms, admires her for a time and allows me to continue singing.

***

This little girl lives in a beautiful property, in a house that is more than 100 years old.  Every day she goes for a walk in the pram with her Mother and sister around the magnificent Baroque Villa that belongs to her family. One day, if all goes well, her father will become a Prince, her mother a Princess. One day the Villa may even be her's. Every day she grows up surrounded by fountains, beautiful Woods, rose filled gardens and Baroque sculptures. She takes naps in the pram shaded by lemon and grapefruit trees, guarded by a devoted huge white shepherd dog, who lies at her feet, sleeping with one eye open. She has a loving 2 year old big sister who will clamber up onto her pram to be with her, who calls her 'little one' in Italian or 'daaaaarling', who murmurs in her ear and dots her face with whispy kisses. A big sister who talks about her constantly, who never lets anyone forget her existence, her needs, her cuteness and beauty.

She has a whole cupboard draw to herself, packed with beautiful linen dresses and pant suits.Often with matching baby booties and lace socks. Floral prints, pale pinks, creamy whites, and tomato reds are her best colours.  Every day she wears something new and beautiful, not out of her mother's extravagance but because family friends have showered her in hand-me-downs and these friends have good taste.

***

When this little girls is upset it is only for three different reasons: she has a dirty nappy, she is hungry, she wants to be held. Once you have identified which of those reasons is the cause for her distress and helped her achieve what she needs she just smiles, and smiles and smiles. When she does not have a cause for want she is a forever happy baby, as if she is permanently delighted by life itself.

She is also a talkative baby. When she is happy we are treated to her cooing, gurgling, giggling and humming . We love trying to make her laugh because every giggle of her's is priceless. Her laughter sends chills up our spines and fills us with joy. To hear something so pure, innocent and sincere from a human still unaware of cynicism touches us immensely. So we raise her above our heads so she feels like she is flying, we jiggle her up and down on our knees, pull silly faces even in public and make ridiculous sounds. Nothing we do is degrading. Any form of silliness is worth even the shortest snorts of amusement.

***

She has a loving grandfather. She often sits in the crook of his arm in the evening after dinner and watches the FIFA world cup with him. She sits content and quiet, inspecting her hands for the one-hundredth time, marvelling at her own little fingers, the way she can flex and move them. Her grandfather chortles at some incident he has just seen on the screen. She is curious and tilts back so she can look at his face. She stares at him for a long time, then raises one chubby little arm to gently touch his white bead with her fingertips. He looks down and smiles at her. She looks at him for a few moments longer, returns a glowing smile, then relaxes back into the crook of his arm. She holds his finger protectively in her grasp.

 

***

 

We have just come back from dinner at a friend's house. All six of us are squeezed into the 5 seater car. My host, being a very petite man is seated to everyone's amusement on his wife's lap in the front passeger seat. The grandfather is driving, and I am seated in between the two girls in the back. We all chat during the journey about the party, what was said, what we ate. We are nearly back when I look down at the baby to my left. I struggle to hold back a snort of laughter. From her baby capsule she is starring up at me with a deeply serious interrogative look. Usually only her mother sits next to her in the car and she has noticed this change in the proceedings. I bend my head down and nuzzle her little up-turned nose to reassure her but the look persists. She seems to say 'Are you sure you have the correct qualifications for this position?'

 

***

 

Sometimes I wonder the same question too. When children are at this age sometimes you can find yourself temporarily paralysed with the gravity of their fragility. The other day I was holding her in my arms when suddenly I almost stopped breathing. I looked down at her and fear combined with tenderness into a heart-wrenching panic...all I could think was 'OMG WHAT IF I DROPPED HER. I WOULD DIE.'

 

All I know after being an au pair for the last 6 months is that all children are precious and irreplacable. Although this is the cause of much anxiety it is also exactly why I am au pairing in the first place: because children are miraculous.  







Lord Of The Poo: Coming To Terms With What Childcare Really Involves

The other day I had a beautiful moment that maybe 6 months ago I wouldn't have considered particularly beautiful.

My hostess, the two girls, her father, the three resident canines of the Villa, and of course I, were taking a stroll around the property. As we are apt to do just before closing time at five pm, when the heat is low and the park is relatively free from tourists.

Our focus was to visit the recently planted roses in the Italian gardens dedicated to my hostesses deceased mother (my favourite Rose in the garden is called 'Barbra Streisand' and it smells like heaven) and to visit the grand fountain at the back of the villa to see if we could spot the turtle. We have been trying to coax him out of his slimey weedy hiding place with all kinds of food tid-bits but he won't have none of it.Then again with the way the 2 yr old pelts the surface of the water with the pellets he probably does think he is under attack.

On the way back down through the copse my hostess found the dogs trying to get into a rubbish can, in which she found a stranger had dumped a dirty nappy. On our walk we had run into a nice looking family with a little boy the last tourists of the day. We assumed maybe it had belonged to them. She left me with the baby in her pram as she raced off to the house to dispose of it in an environmentally conscious way.

Slowly I made my way down the crumbly road surrounded by magnolias and Oak trees, humming 'Amazing Grace' to help ease the little one into sleep. Of all the songs I sing, Amazing Grace is her favourite. With the first note of tha she will crinkle up her eyes, flutter her arms like a butterfly and give me this gorgeous toothless smile. Who would have known a 6 month old to have such poignant music taste. Apparently 'Wheels on the bus' and 'Polly had a  Dolly' are too superficial for this little girl.

We are nearly at home once again, I can see the pink roses hanging over 'Nymph Hill's' wooden fence. When suddenly a man to our left strolls past obviously bent on a mission. He nods at me in a friendly way, and I think seeing me so at ease with the pram made him assume I was the babies' mother. My suspicions were confirmed when (in a broad Australian accent to my surprise) he informs me chuckling:

'We are just in the middle of a 'Poo Emergency.' And would you believe it, I left the bloody nappies in the car!'

Once I get over just how 'Aussie' he sounds I sigh as knowingly as I can and return a chortle as if to convey that I too am well aware of what it is like to be in the middle of a 'Poo Emergency' with no nappies. His stride develops into a trot and as he overtakes me I am filled with a silly sense of pride. Because what this means is that I have been welcomed into 'The Fellowship of the Poo' by a fellow member. I too am part of the world of the nappy-disposers and butt-wipers, otherwise knows as the childcare industry. Otherwise known as the period in one's life as Parent-hood. And I couldn't be more proud.

In all honesty I haven't actually had to do too many nappy changes. All three of my hostesses have liked to spare me the ordeal when they can. But here in Lucca I won't lie I find myself discussing Poo on a daily basis. With children, I have accepted, the topic is simply inevitable and inescapable. You may as well just embrace it and get into it.

The reason we are talking about Poo a lot of late is because the little 6 month old is transitioning from breast milk to homemade baby foods. Her little stomach is used to the uniform diet of her mother's milk, but now after a period of constipation as a result of the change she is producing solid poos. When she produced her first one my hostess told me over breakfast with great happiness. Clearly I have been so indoctrinated into this pooey fellowship that I too experienced genuine joy, and gave the baby a congratulatory kiss on the top of her fuzzy little head as she gurgled and smiled under the praise. It was only ten minutse later that I realised the gravity of my situation: I was talking about Poo consistency over breakfast and I hadn't even lost my appetite...I am slowly losing my 20-something-year-old-normality. Sometimes I wonder if I can ever go back to the way I was.

The only other time in my life I can remember Poo being a commonplace and socially acceptable daily topic of conversation was during the tour I was on in South America. During the trip stomach bugs were rampant. Basically every single person on that tour had diarrhea at one stage during that month and a half.

So sick of the relentless diarrhea a few of us would muse over how fantastic it would be to have constipation...for a day or two at least. The greatest anxiety experienced before the Inca Trail was not how the hell are we going to climb the Andes for three solid days of non-stop hiking, but is there going to be privacy on the hike to regularly void our bowels.

Amongst the poorliest of the tour Group (myself frequently included) we began acknowledging each other's bowel movements as a sign of solidarity. Over breakfast we would casually ask: 'So, how's the diarrhea going?' or 'So, did you throw up again last night?' When someone would announce 'Guess what, I did my first solid poo in a week this morning!' they would be met with high-fives and generally celebratory comments. Someone would mutter sadly under their breath 'Gee, if only I could do solid poos again.'

So this is what I have learned. The Poo Fellowship only silently forms during two unique situations:

1.When in daily contact with putrid dirty water full of bacteria

2. when one has kids.

...Fantastic.

***

 

Other than coming to terms with the fact Poo is a predominant theme in childcare there are other challenges one must face when working with children. Many other challenges...

 

All au pairing challenges I like to take with a grain of salt. It is also easier to deal with problems this time round in Lucca because I have the full support of the parents and because I know when my post finishes. So  I have an ability to pace myself and put things into perpsective if that makes sense. But more than that I think I experienced the worst of the au pair spectrum in Pisa. Everything since that episode has been a walk in the park. Literally...

 

The problem I am encountering is not so much a 'problem' as it is part of the job, being a witness to a Tricky but essential stage in any child's development: their getting used to the presence of another sibling and how this changes their relationship with their parents.

 

In summary my two year old companion is suffering from the pangs of jealousy. Although devoted to her little sister who she smothers in tender kisses and loving murmurs, she is clingy with her Mamma to the point of being inseparable. When I first arrived my little friend was fascinated by my company, which was beautiful but not such a surprise. All the children I have taken care of have fortunately warmed to me within a week or two. But then we had a visit from one of the two year old's playmates from Genova. The little boy stayed with his his parents at Nymph Hill with us for two days. During which the two friends fought bitterly over the possession of their respective mothers, completely unaware their competitiveness was totally unwarranted and didn't even make sense.

 

'Mia Mamma!!!' he would cry, grabbing his mother protectively.

 

'Mia Mamma!!!' my ward would reply, grabbing her own mother with equal ferocity.

 

The two would then stare each other off, daring the other to claim posession of their Mamma.

 

The competitiveness seemed harmless at first despite some tears and general misbehaving. But since the occasion my little friend has been difficult and our relationship has changed. While she is well-behaved, charming and funny when we are just one-on-one, as soon as her mother returns or her baby sister joins the dynamic she becomes tearful, deliberatly destructive and aggressive towards me.

 

Fortunately I understand the situation very well. I know my little companion is actually devoted to me. The first thing she says when she wakes up in the morning is 'Meeyanda??' Her parents reassure her I am donwnstairs, ready to greet her at breakfast. Now with her rising feelings of insecurity  she often sees me as a poor stand in for her mother....our time together is often thwarted by her need to attract her mum's attention, with more often than not frustatingly naughty behaviour. Whether it is stealing chocolate from the fridge, drawing on the walls, or not allowing me to dress or even hold her, she becomes virtually impossible to deal with until her mother drops everything and give her undivided attention.

 

But I understand that children don't have self-awareness at the toddler age of two and it is simply my new duty as au pair to be patient through these difficult daily episodes...it is just the nature of the job. Children need to go through these experiences to grow and learn about relationships.

 

***

 

That said Poo does crop up a fair bit in discussion regarding the two year old as well. At a recent party despite her parents suggestions to eat a diverse range of foods, my little companion insisted on feasting solely on her beloved salami. Slice after slice she ate until she fell into a post-salami-gorging coma. She awoke later that day with diarrhea.

 

It is nearly two weeks since said party but regardless of her sysmptoms, even if it is a bruise on her foot or a burn on her tongue, my little companion insists all her maladies are a result of the salami overdose. When asked what's wrong, she will suddenly become very sombre, look down at her hands, shake her head and mutter sadly 'Troppo Salami...troppo salami,' Too much salami indeed! Her mother and I hope that she will recover from the salami incident soon. Our worst fear is that she will go to the doctor with a serious complaint but all she will be able to do is preach about the horrors of eating too much salami in one sitting. Ah well, we can work through the jealousy issues and the salami issues one day at a time.  

We All Live In The Villa: My Downton Abbey Life

'Take a bottle of water! Oh, and a book! She will probably fall asleep soon!'

Looking down at the face of the two year old girl in the pram before me, rosy with weariness, I agree with my new, my third, and potentially my last, hostess. I grab those items before we lock up the house.

We all leave at the same time and I tell the little one to say goodbye as her mum as she drives off with the other little one who is only 8 months (her nickname is Chai) and Nonno P. They are going to Lucca to collect some sweets for the upcoming  Christening Party and to visit the tailor to fix Nonno's suit. I am going to stay here on the Villa property with the two year old and take her for a pram ride.

It is ridiculously hot, an easy thirty-five degrees and tonight it will only lower to a stuffy twenty-eight. At night I usually resist opening the windows for as long as possible but when the perspiration starts the sheets sticking to my body I fling the shutters open. Consequently the mosquitos pour in.

Despite the heat today I am full of an inner peace that only true aesthetic indulgence can inspire. I now have a chance to explore my new extraordinary surroundings and take photos as I please.

***

I am in Lucca because I have decided to Au Pair again. I made the decision for many different reasons:

1. My beautiful Genovese friend was going away for two weeks with his father

2. His mother and sister were moving to the countryside house for the summer

3. Their apartment was going to be locked up very shortly

4. I made a promise to travel Italy for a week in July with someone important to me and had no money to do it with. So the generous wage offer was a strong incentive.

5. I had a good feeling about the family as I was introduced to them by my good friend and I trust his judgement.

6. I wanted to take my life back into my hands. Being dependent on the kindness of others in Genova though wonderful was beginning to become burdensome. The more I was given the more I wondered how on earth I could repay. It was time to stand on my own two feet again, even if that meant I would make more mistakes.

***

So now I am in Lucca, and I am staying with what turns out to be yet another Noble family. We all live in the grounds of the a Villa hailed to be the most spectacular of all the 600 villas within the 10km radius of Lucca historical centre.

The members of the beautiful family I am staying with include my Host (who is the next in line to inherit the Villa) My hostess, their two little girls and my hostess's father, Nonno P.

***

'Mamma?' the little one asks from underneath the pram hood. We are making our way through the copse framing the left fountain.

'She's gone to the shops Darling, with Nonno and Chai. They will be back soon.'

She settles back into her pram and unable to resist the demanding heat any longer, falls into a silence, and then a absolute sleep. She dozes as usual almost uncomfortably, with her head awkwardly angled to the side so that her chin slouches on her shoulder. I want to move her so she is more comfortable but that might wake her up. Her white blonde hair flickers in the breeze like her mauve baby eyelids.

 I drive the pram slowly over the bumpy gravel path towards the Italian Gardens. The property is huge, a Villa built during 16th century.The house itself sits like beautiful wedding cake surrounded by various gardens, woods, olive groves, fountains and decorative pools. But I really love the Italian gardens the most. It combines 16th century architecture with the fallen splendour of Italy I love so much...moss covered stone deities, ochre toned paint gently curling off old walls in the heat, lemons left to rot on the stony ground perfuming the air, crumbling staircases and balustrades with daisies springing up between the cracks. Perfect imperfection.

I only have a disposable camera now as my digital one has finally given up the ghost. I guess the gritty sands of Peru plus my 9000 photos were too much to handle. With the pram I do a round of the perfectly manicured Italian style garden: round compartments of soil filled with evenly placed red or white flowers, surrounded by knee high hedges. They collect in a beautiful shape, green and red bubbles, designed to embrace the decorative outdoor stairs at the end of the garden.

I then visit the Citrus trees located behind the villa and smell their thick yellow and orange skins, trying to find one suitable for my Citrus loving two-year old compaion. I then stroll through the Woods at the back of the villa, glance longingly at the olive groves behind the furthest gate and finish back at my current home, which is called 'Nymph Hill.'

The house used to be a hundred or more years ago, the resident Priest's house. The building is attached to the Villa's Church, a tiny little chapel that has a surprisingly indulgent and magnaminous feel about it with its bright red walls and stone family tombs. My host's mother, grandmother and great-grandfather are among the marble plaques.

My own room upstairs is opposite the bell tower and on the other side of the loungeroom wall downstairs is the priests study. I can't help it, everytime I leave the house through the hydrangea filled garden I have to look up in admiration at the bell tower. After all these years is still timed to ring every 15 minutes and I am amazed at how used to that massive gonging sound I am already. I hardly notice it, so I often worry it has broken or something. But then I hear it and think....wow doesn't it ring so sporadically! In reality it is quite regular.

***

 

It is a few days later and my hostess, her two little girls and I are finishing off our late breakfast: foccacia from Genova, local-collected honey flavoured with Chestnuts and local-made corn-flower biscotti, a big pot of barley tea and some croissants.

 

We manage to drag the little 2 year old away from her beloved Peppa Pig episode, change the 8 month old's nappy and rub our sunscreen on. We grab the bread and scraps collected under the kitchen sink and make our way across to the other side of the Villa to feed the chickens.

 

On our way we pass by my host, the girl's father, working at the ticket box of the Villa. He greets international and local guests as we play alternately in the sunny green lawn and under the shade of the enormous magnolia trees. The little one wants to join her daddy in the box office but I sneak in and drag her away just as she reaches mischeviously for his unguarded cell phone. She also has a fascination with pebbles. She picks them up off the floor and drops them down the front of my loose silk shirt. When it lands on the ground I pretend that I have laid an egg. The little one laughs and reaches for another stone.

'Again!' she says in Italian, 'again, Meeyanda! Again!'

***

 

Finally we reach the chickens and they gather hysterically as my hostess launches the bag over the wire fence. We lounge around in the shade and nibble on the Japanese plums we picked off the nearby tree. My hostess and I suddenly jump, disturbed by a splashing sound. The little one has jumped into the dribble of the nearby stream,and is now completely muddy and wet. She smiles with delight. My hostess and I both sigh as this will be her third costume change today already. By the end of the day it will most likely be up to the usual five.

 

***

 

My hostess wants to plant two fuit trees, one to celebrate each daughter. I think that sounds like a beautiful idea.

 

'But, we will have to see if The Lizard will let me...' My hostess murmurs almost to herself.

 

'Really...you have to ask permission for that?' But she does not answer. I am only just beginning to realise just how much of an influence my host's step-mother truly has on the operations of The Villa. From the planting of the tiniest pot plant, to the hosting of a world-class conference in the Villa dining room, my host's step-mother has to approve it first.

 

The family I am staying with are one of the oldest families in Rome and they have all the complications you would imagine a Noble family would have. 400 metres from Nymph Hill my host's father and second wife live in another beautifully transformed cottage. But sometimes it feels like they live with us. With the newly installed secruity (or spy!) cameras placed in obvious locations around the Villa, their watchful and judgemental presence is heightened further. 

When My host's mother died in the early 70s he was only eleven. His father introduced a Nanny to the family to take care of his motherless children but only three months later my host discovered his Nanny in his father's bed. His father went on to marry his nanny (I will refer to this nanny as V) and have a child with her. Since the moment V entered the Villa she has done everything in her power to make sure the beautiful property will not be passed down fairly to my host, a sweet, gentle and hard-working man, but become the possession of her own son, a 20-something year old racing car enthusiast. For this reason we refer to her as 'The Lizard.'

***

 

The tales this Villa could tell...I am only starting to learn all of them. But with this backdrop of Tuscan beauty I find myself slipping further and further into a contentment I didn't think possible after my last au pairing experience in Pisa. Sometimes when told these tales of family drama and scandal by my hostess who married into this family, we simply laugh together, both new to the world of Italian noblity and it's complex archaic family culture. We laugh because we can't believe it is real: the greed, the betrayal, the seducations. But yet here it is, every day around us. So I guess, for now, this is my new Downton Abbey life.

On Reading The Godfather: Is Mario Puzio Actually a Feminist?

I was in Pisa when the craving set in again. I had just finished my last David Sedaris book and was itching for a new read.

However I am a rather fussy reader, selecting my books primarily based on a mysterious tug I feel towards a particular novel, author or theme; a spontaneous curiosity that arrives out of the blue and which can only be satisfied by hunting down this particular book and devouring it in a few days. Nothing else will do until I have that particular book that is on my mind. I am known during this period of obsession to become a rather irritating shopping companion, endlessly pouncing into any bookstores I come across promising to the friends I drag along that I will be 'Just a second, I just want a quick look!' When I cannot find what I want I am not disheartened in the normal sense. Instead the longer the delay is in finding my particular novel the more I am enamored with the idea of reading it. I enjoy this chase so thoroughly that I even set harder goals for myself, deciding I only want a second-hand copy, and I cannot settle for a certain edition with a cover I disprove of. I am pretty much a madwoman.

One night soon after the craving began the children were thankfully dozing on the couch as my hostess sat curled up watching Italian tv. The Godfather part I came on and once again I was blown away not only by Al Pacino's incredibly beautiful face but by the emotional pull of the film. The sheer curiosity factor had set in and before I knew it I had decided what my next read would be. I simply had to read The Godfather by Mario Puzio. I was in Italy and everything, it was the perfect choice!

So, as a book addict does, I planned my next day around attaining this novel. I got up early in the morning when there was still a purple glow to the garden and took the bus to the local station and then the train to Florence. I dozed on and off during the trip as my train window was slowly heated cozily by the rising Tuscan sun.

Arriving in Florence was a wonderful feeling because by this stage of my trip my unhappiness with my situation in Pisa was definitely settling in. It was the first taste of freedom I had had in quite a few weeks. I ended up getting a delicious cheese, truffle honey and truffle cream sandwich, and a piece of orange cake for breakfast (as you do when in Florence) and then strolled along the beautiful streets, the Ponte Vecchio, and ducked into any shops that took my fancy. By shops that took my fancy I mean Zara...

I finished off my day out leaving the best for last. On the way back to the station I went inside a huge bookshop and found an english copy of the Godfather. While waiting to be served at the counter something very strange happened. The nearly empty store was disturbed by the noisy entrance of an haggard elderly man, dressed in a day suit worn by men two generations ago. Despite the fact the shop assistant was already in the middle of serving someone and that I was clearly next to be served the man strode right up to the counter, dropped both his hands onto the counter with slap and declared in loud heavily Italian accented English: 'I need The Godfather by Mario Puzio but in Italian.' There was something so abrupt about his entrance and the way he delivered his demand that the customer in front of me, the shop assistant and I, all stood staring at him for a few seconds not really knowing how to handle the situation. The assistant gave him cautious directions to where he could find a copy in the store and he strode away with the same almost panicked determination. But why he spoke english when he was Italian and in an Italian bookstore I still do not know.

As he strode way I looked down at the copy in my hands and thought to myself 'It's an omen! This is the right book to be reading right now!' I felt like a cog in a very strange fate machine. Maybe this man had watched film last night as well, and had been just as moved as I. I left Florence in awe of the influence of literature and film basically combusting with excitement to begin reading.

However my actual reading of The Godfather proved less invigorating as its purchase. I had heard several times from different sources that The Godfather is one of those rare situations where the film far outshines the book. I can say now after having finished the book that this is true and that I totally agreed with Coppola's editing decisions; which story lines he chose to film and which one's he chose to leave in the pages of the book.

I agreed with Coppola almost to the extent that I wondered at times, maybe a bit harshly, what on earth Puzio was thinking when he wrote the book...or more so what his editors were thinking when they were combing through his manuscripts. To me it felt like Puzio began the book as a way of exploring Mafia warfare and customs during the 1940s, but as he did so fell in love with certain characters and could not let them go, despite damaging the coherency and flow of the main narrative.

Two characters he could not let go of were Johnny Fontane (Who makes me think of Frank Sinatra...anyone else??) and Lucy Mancini. And frankly I found their storylines irrelevant almost to the point of boring and confounding. My conclusion is that 40% of The Godfather is written well, and that percentage is  very engaging and very informative...but the other percent. that is not written well, those hearty chunks simply verge on the irritating.


First of all, the Johnny Fontane storyline:

Full of trysts, male sexual escapades, sexpot women using their bodies as a form of power, and a burnt out Hollywood star lamenting his damaged vocal chords, Fontane's storyline had no real contribution to the advancement of the main plot of the novel. The subjects of this storyline were clearly meant to be racy and scintillating, but the blatant sexism and pulp fiction sex irritated me because I couldn't find a way to justify it narrative-wise.

Furthermore with the Fontane storyline there was something off in Puzio's tone, something insincere. I could never quite grasp where Puzio sat on the omniscient author scale. I just couldn't pinpoint what he was trying to say or achieve by being so pointed and indulgent when it came to all matters involving females and sex. My first theory was that he was just getting really into trying to accurately portray 1940s sexism, to in fact make a statement about the sexism of the time by being so aggressive in his handling of it. But that didn't seen right either when I realized some of the language didn't fit in with the time he was trying to recreate...it was too....70s. If the lingo had been more 40s that would have removed the sexism and placed it in another time, as if to say 'this was how it was back then.' After all this book was published post-women's lib. Instead the vague indecisive tone only lent the story line a seedy indulgent tone that as a (progressive) female, more than anything else, I simply found irritating and unecessary to read.

To me Puzio's story was already fascinating enough without having to throw in what appeared to be a bunch of cheap thrills. It frustrated me to watch him try and 'sex-up' a novel that being about the complexities of mafia relationships and power struggles, depended so much on subtlety. Maybe this was to do with his editors who just wanted to 'spice' the story up, break the politics up with sex or something...Maybe Puzio didn't understand the potential of his novel to surpass the pulp ficiton standard and therefore he was lax about his own personal editing...he wrote a trashy novel not realising what absolute jems it contained, or its cinematic potential.



But what I found ten times more bizarre was the Lucy Mancini storyline:

 All I know was that I had just finished Part V on a gripping cliff-hanger: The Corleone's had to work out a way to bring back Michael who had run off to Siciliy after shooting Sollozzo and Captain McCluskey. I turned the page into Part VI and suddenly found myself in the middle of the incredibly bizarre chapter dedicated, and I am not even joking, solely to discussing the problems with Lucy Mancini's vagina.

Lucy Mancini is sad because her lover Sonny Corleone is dead and he was the only man able to make her orgasm. Puzio goes into great depth, explaining over 25 pages that the reason for Lucy's unhappy love life is because she in fact has a weak pelvic floor, resulting in a vagina with too much space to create the necessary friction, a genuine medical condition. Lucy goes on to have an operation to fix her pelvic floor and the chapter finishes with her being able to enjoy sex again. By the time I finished the chapter I wondered what the hell had happened to The Godfather and why the hell was I reading a book that spends 25 pages describing this female characters vagina. I got so bored and by this directionless chapter that I put the book aside for many weeks, only continuing once I had left Pisa and was well and truly into my two month stay in Genova.

And I am not joking about his going into excessive depth. For example the following reads like a one of my old highschool biology textbooks:

'The technique of any operation to strengthen the pelvic floor required the accomplishment of two objectives. The musculofibrous pelvic sling had to be shortened so that the slack was taken up. And of course the vaginal opening, the weak spot itself in the pelvic floor, had to be brought forward, brought under the pubic arch and so relieved from the line of direct pressure above. Repairing the pelvic sling was called perincorrhaphy. Suturing the vaginal wall was called colporrhaphy.'

...Ok great. But how does this in anyway relate to how they are going to bring Michael back home from Sicily?? And what about the Don, is he going to reclaim his power?? But now, here we are, talking almost in boring depth about Lucy Mancini's vagina. The only useful thing this chapter achieved was to inform the reader about the character change of 'Fredo' in Las Vegas which becomes more important only in the second book.. It is hardly likely the chapter was written for such a purpose anyway, despite it's importance, because Fredo is only referenced a handful of times, almost as a 'btw kind of memo.'

Also again I just could not tell by Puzio's tone what he was hoping to achieve with that chapter....was he simply fascinated by 1940s surgery and thought this little story might prove to be authentic in recreating the time...did his editors once again tell him to slip in a little more sex? But that doesn't explain why Puzio then goes into tedious detail about female genital surgery because that isn't exactly sexy...it is just science.

Or am I being too hard on Puzio? Is he actually a secret feminist, breaking down myths about female sexuality? Was he simply trying to be an informative prophet for his own generation of readers, to warn them about the perils of having a weak pelvic floor!? Is he a sympathiser of all unsatisfied women?? The chapter to clarify isn't vulgar, and I don't oppose to the content because it isn't exactly indulgent as Puzio clearly sympathizes with Lucy. And as I said it isn't even really that racy. But my main qualm is: So what is the point of it??

I only have one other theory and it is a really weird one, a kooky Conspiracy theory. At the beginning of the book Puzio introduces Sonny Corleone as a man who not only has a temper but has a huge penis. Jokes about his massive genitals are scattered throughout the first chapter of the book culminating in him and Lucy Mancini having a fling at Connie's wedding.

This is when the thought occurred to me. Sonny with the over-sized penis is the only man who could satisfy Lucy with the over-sized vagina. Suddenly it has become a chicken and the egg scenario. What came first in Puzio's mind as he wrote his novel. Sonny's penis or Lucy's vagina?? What character came first?? Did he create the character Sonny only to aid his exploration of 1940s female genital reconstructive surgery and unfulfilled sexuality as a result of a conservative and patriarchal society???! Because frankly Lucy gets more in-depth character study then Sonny! I cannot even believe I am writing this. Too weird. This has become a gender studies essay...is Mario Puzio a feminist?? Why is he so obsessed with the irrelevant character of Lucy and her weak pelvic floor??

So in short I can't help but wonder whether Puzio, if asked, could justify these certain passages, or whether he would now admit he was still refining his narrative style at the time of writing the book, thus it simply shows some of that trial and error process. In any case the book was an interesting experience that was for sure.