Bingo

by Helen Zanni

My ex-husband comes from a tiny village, 2000 feet up in the Italian pre Alps, close to the Swiss border near to Lake Maggiore. At the time we used to visit, there were still about 250 people living there, no shops, one bar, the church, a bus twice a day (but not on Sundays) and a “market” on a Thursday. The market consisted of a fruit and veg van, a general food van with salami and cheeses, and a clothes van selling the corduroy trousers and chequered flannel shirts favoured by the men of the village, plus a wide array of vests, knickers and woolly socks. And an occasional “Moroccan” who sold tat from the back of a car and called everybody Maria. As Maria is the most common name in Italy, he would strike lucky at least once each visit.

Each summer we would make the annual visit to see Mamma. My ex-pat husband would turn truly Italian for a couple of weeks and his mother would lovingly feed him with all sorts of concoctions, some of which were truly disgusting. Nervetti to name one! To be fair, she used to make her special “zucchini” for me. I have never been able to emulate that particularly tasty dish. I’m sure she left out a crucial ingredient in the recipe she gave me, just so that I couldn’t make it like Mamma.

He’d stay in the bar playing cards and I would be home with a good book – at first on my own and then with our daughter.

In later years I managed to get out and about a bit more with my daughter – adventures on the bumpy bus to go swimming in the often icy lake. Anybody who has swum in freshwater will know the breath-taking feeling – we were essentially swimming in melted snow from the top of the surrounding mountains.

As we used to visit in August, we were there for all the village festivals, which all consisted of food and alcohol and church. Church was during the day and as the sun was going down people would gather in the church square or down at the school, where there was a covered, but open air party area. Great for the unreliable mountain weather. The village survives under the patronage of Saint Lawrence, a martyr who seems to have been grilled on a gridiron with gladioli. 

Candles were bought and delivered to the priest in church for blessings. When the candles ran out, Anna, the church busybody, would go and gather armfuls of the donated candles and recycle them for sale once more. Enterprising and profitable for the priest.

When evening came, people took their places on the church wall or at specially set up tables in the square, ready for the main event – bingo!

That year, Giuseppe and I were on holiday and sat in the square ready for action. It was my first experience of bingo, Falmenta style. I bought my tickets and awaited the start of the main event.

Half the village were present along with various holidaymakers – ex-pats from Milan who had houses in the village and came up regularly to escape the city heat, others who had bought a house for the same reason, but who were generally regarded with more suspicion as they didn’t “come from the village”. They just though they were a cut above everybody else.

Bona, married to Graziella, but not from the village (even though he had settled there) started the proceedings. “Silenzio!” several times, as there was not much hope of that – everybody was talking too much. “Ok, we are playing for a line and the prize is a bottle of wine. First number 25.” “Have you got that?” “No, I haven’t, have you?” “No, I haven’t, what about you, Piera?” “No, I haven’t got it.” “I have!” “Ooh, you lucky thing, Lucia! We haven’t got it” “Silenzio! Silenzio! And the next number is 48.! “Have you got that?” “No, I haven’t. Have you?” It’s going to be a long night.

I was on four numbers, just waiting for number 19. “And the next number is – Silenzio! – number 19” “Cinquina!” I shout. “Ooh, l’inglesina has won!” “It’s Zepin’s wife!” Wine bottle duly delivered once the ticket had been checked – and yes, the English one could actually understand the Italian numbers and had won fairly and squarely.

“OK, so now we are going for the full house. The prize is a salami, a plant and some towels.” Really? So, the numbers are gradually ticked off my card and I’m waiting for …. “58”. “Tombola” I shout. “No, it can’t be! She’s won again!” “ luck of the English, that is.” “I only needed two.” “Oh, I was nowhere near – I needed four.” “What about you, Piera?” “Has he finished?”

Card checked, the prize is delivered – a huge salami, two green striped towels and a green palm like plant, which will not be imported illegally into England. Neither will the salami. At which point Giuseppe appears from where he’d been socialising across the square. “For God’s sake, if you win again, just don’t call it or you’ll be lynched!” Spoilsport! I could have cleaned up there.

A few years later our annual holiday was shared by my older sister, my brother-in-law and young nephew. St Lawrence’s day was duly celebrated with church, followed by the bonfire and bingo! My brother-in-law, John, having partaken of a few glasses of red, decided to be friendly to some visiting German holidaymakers. “Come and sit down! My sister-in-law speaks German.” Thanks, John. It’s been a while. We carried on a stilted conversation. My German became more fluid, sorry fluent, as a direct result of the amount of red wine imbibed. “Why not join in with the bingo?” says John “Helen will translate.”

Bona starts. “Ventisei” “Twenty six” “Sechsund-zwanzig” “Trentatre” “Thirty three” “Dreiunddreissig” “Sessantaquattro” “Sixty four” “Ummmm…..” “Elen, Vierundsechsig” comes from the table of teenagers behind us.

They all learn German at school rather than English (more use than English for the tourists).

And so we limped through a game of international bingo. We didn’t win. I didn’t get lynched and I didn’t have the dilemma of whether to import plants and salami into England. I guess the huge block of Parmesan which Mamma bought us every year doesn’t count, does it?