A Friendly Face

 It is a perfect Sunday morning and I’m heading away from the shores of Lago Maggiore. In an hour’s time, the lakeside roads will be suffocated by summer weekend traffic.  I take secondary roads, comfortably laid-back paths when time is not an issue. I’ll stop anywhere that catches my fancy.

The needles of my wristwatch mark 9.30. By now I should have been on Mount Mottarone hunting for mushrooms, hadn’t Beppe the mycologist called early to tell me that he’d woken up sick.

The road narrows and twists as it leads me through a small, deserted village – Oneda. A quick glance at the map sprawled on the passenger seat tells me that I’m approaching Lago di Comabbio and Lago di Monate, relatively obscure lakes.

The sun is blazing by the time I drive into Mercallo. Vivid frescoed figures peep at me from the dry, crumbly façades of ancient houses. The winding street opens up into a petite village piazza and opposite, the sky-blue cape of the Virgin Mary accentuated by the salmon-orange of its background building catches my eye. I pull up beneath the painting, noting the sign ‘Piazza Carlo Balconi, Patriota’.

The place is quiet, except for a small crowd of elderly men conversing in sleepy voices just outside the café-bar. The nearby florist is open too. A woman in blue jeans and black t-shirt is leaning by the battered flower display, having a smoke. She closes her eyes with every pull.

As I focus on shooting the Virgin Mary, I hear a deep voice saying, ‘There are many others worth seeing.’

I lower the camera and see that the youngest elderly gentleman has left his companions and is hobbling towards me. He’s square-faced, and has a thick mane of grey hair and a ready grin.

‘There are some good ones further up,’ he says, pointing to one of the streets.

I hesitate for a moment, unsure.  

He offers his right hand and nods. ‘Egidio,’ he says.

His grip is strong, and the palm is dry and cracked like a lizard’s skin. He walks briskly.

I follow him round a corner whose sharp shadow points towards a fresco depicting a dead Christ being mourned by female followers.

‘I’m originally from Calabria,’ says Egidio, as we walk on the shaded side of the alleyway. At every step, he is greeted by a smiling face peeping from behind shutters or curtains and saying, ‘Buongiorno’, or ‘Salve’.

‘I’ve been living here for 38 years,’ he adds, by way of explanation. ‘It’s nice. You only see old Lombard houses here, built around the traditional courtyard. No ugly high risers.’

As I hurry to keep up with him, the smooth melody of a hundred chanting voices rises through the hush. A belfry peeks from above the houses ahead.

A man, whose home flanks the church grounds, smiles and says, ‘Buongiorno Egidio!’ His face is deeply wrinkled but he looks spright.

Egidio tells him I’m interested in frescoes.

‘Please, come in,’ he says, motioning me through the gate.

I snap two frescoed well-to-do ladies relaxing by the parterre of an Italian garden.

Just across the street, we come face to face with the large, grey-white striped façade of the church, lined by dark terracotta edges. A large window, a Cyclops’ eye, stares at the village.

Egidio motions me to the terrace flanking the church and I’m enthralled by the sheet of blue water speckled by infinite reflections far below, heavily framed by wooded ridges.

‘Lago di Comabbio,’ he says with a flourish of hands. ‘The views you get here are much better than from Comabbio, but the lake inherited the name of the larger village.’

My eyes are drawn to a pool at the tip of the lake.

‘That used to be a clay quarry,’ says Egidio, following my gaze. ‘It filled up with water after it was abandoned. They made ceramics here. I myself decorate tiles as a hobby, now that I’m retired.’

The three doors of the church burst open and a flood of excited worshippers spills onto the terrace. The lethargic village comes to life with a multitude of cheerful Italian conversations, each one accented by eloquent gestures and fluid facial expressions.  

People nod to me, and some shake my hand as Egidio introduces me as a visitor from overseas. Gradually, the terrace empties as the Mercallesi trickle away to go home for Sunday lunch.

I thank Egidio and tell him he’s just made a complete stranger feel at home.

‘It was the same for me, 38 years ago,’ he says, staring vacantly. ‘When you don’t know where you’re going and what you’ll find, a friendly face makes a world of difference.’