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that the parroco’s wine was no match for that
of the Rev. Don Dionisio. “Altro che il vino del
parroco!” she added with a significant shrug of
her strong shoulders. As I sat under her pergola
in front of a flask of Don Dionisio’s vino bianco
it began to dawn upon me that maybe she was
right, but I wanted to be fair and had to empty
the whole flask before giving my final opinion.
But when Gioconda, her smiling daughter, helped
me to a second glass from the new flask I had
made up my mind. Yes, Don Dionisio’s vino
bianco was the best! It looked like liquid
sunshine, it tasted like the nectar of the Gods, and
Gioconda looked like a young Hebe as she filled
my empty glass. “Altro che il vino del parroco!
Did I not tell you so,” laughed Annarella. “È
un vino miracoloso!” Miraculous indeed, for
suddenly I began to speak fluent Italian with
vertiginous volubility amid roars of laughter
from mother and daughter. I was beginning to
feel very friendly towards Don Dionisio; I liked
his name, I liked his wine, I thought I would like
to make his acquaintance. Nothing was easier,
for he was to preach that evening to “le Figlie
di Maria” in the church.
“He is a very learned man,” said Annarella.
He knew by heart the names of all the martyrs
and all the saints and had even been to Rome to
kiss the hand of the Pope. Had she been to
Rome? No. And to Naples? No. She had
been to Capri once, it was on her wedding day,
but Gioconda had never been there, Capri was
full of “gente malamente.” I told Annarella
I knew of course all about their patron saint,
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