In those long hot summers of my youth at La Tambura, after dinner had been served, eaten and enjoyed, we would all move to the sitting room to play games or chat. There was no TV, but there were always so many people around that table: my brothers’ many friends, my parents’ friends and so many relatives, the house was always buzzing and there was always somebody to talk to or to persuade to join in the after dinner entertainment.
Sometimes, a game of Sardines in the dark shadows of the garden would be instigated by one of my brothers; or on particularly ferociously hot nights we’d grab our rickety bikes and pedal very slowly down to the beach to skinny dip in the almost bath-temperature water, glowing with eerie phosphorescence under a shower of bright shooting stars with the mountains behind us decorated with apricot coloured strings of tiny lights, far up in the distant villages.
But some nights, I would long to just go to the cinema. It wasn’t actually a cinema in the true sense of the word. Across our street and half way down a little lane that led to the beach was a boy’s-only Colonia called La Romanina. The idea of the summer Colonie first began in Italy in 1822 when the Hospital of Lucca launched the first organised seaside holiday for the street children of Viareggio. By the middle of the 1800’s there were about 50 such Colonie in existence in Tuscany and Emilia Romagna. Like Colonie everywhere in Italy, they existed to give children a summer holiday that their parents might not be able to afford. They used to exist all over Italy, run either by religious orders or by large corporations like Fiat or Olivetti, offering their factory workers’ children the chance of a proper holiday.
The Romanina was run by fairly modern-thinking monks. On certain nights of the week, epic films, often with a tenuous biblical connection such as Ben Hur, Anthony and Cleopatra, the marvellously titled spaghetti western: Between God, the Devil and a Winchester, or cinematic classics with a more obvious religious content, such as Liliana Cavani’s 1966 Life of St Francis of Assisi; would be projected against the rough stucco wall of the little church within the Colonia.
Of course, these films were carefully chosen by the monks for the entertainment and edification of the boys holidaying there, and not for the general public, so I would never have any idea what the film was until I got there. But no matter, the challenge was how to get inside to watch the film, whatever it might be, without getting caught.
If I wanted to go to the “cinema”, I first had to get permission from my Dad, and would have to absolutely promise him I would be home at 10:30, without fail. Then, I’d need to plaster myself in mosquito repellent from head to foot. Inevitably, I’d turn up at the gate of the Colonia after the film had begun, but this made it easier to get in unnoticed.
I’d squeeze through the hedge and creep quietly round the back of the rows of chairs and perch anywhere to watch the film played out across the church wall, the actors’ faces distorted by the rough textured surface, the soundtrack bouncing off the walls of the surrounding buildings and always the sound of the waves crashing on the beach in the near distance. Bliss! And the enjoyment of the actual film was always heightened by the fear of discovery, my senses on full alert all the way through to the finale. It was all incredibly exciting.
The only trouble was, I was often late back, engrossed as I was in both the plot of the film and the thrill of the possibility of being caught for trespassing I lost complete track of time! Sneaking out under the cover of the closing titles, a cold sense of terror would descend on my high spirits: it was never a good idea to be late for anything when it came to my Dad! With my heart pounding, I’d fly down the lane in my flip flops to get home as fast as I could, where I could see him standing on the pavement outside the gate, almost audibly waiting for me and pointedly looking at his watch.
I’d go and face the music, ready for the inevitable ticking off and prepared for my punishment, which usually included not being allowed to go the movies again for a long while.
But the lure of the “Cinema Romanina” always proved too much, and I’d soon be working out ways to get there without my Dad’s permission. I’d pretend to be going up to bed for an early night, then slip out of another gate and run unobserved up the lane. Or I’d get everybody involved in a game of Sardines, and then furtively slip over the wall while everyone thought I was still hiding. Such exploits always got me into heaps of trouble.
And then sometimes, the film would end early, I’d get home on time and all would be well. My parents would ask if I had enjoyed myself and sweetly kiss me goodnight. Snuggling down in my bed, with its crunchy straw mattress, I’d re-live the whole film in my head and fall asleep, feeling like I had just had the most exciting night of my life.
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