I have a good friend who assigns animals to everyone she meets. I, on the other hand, am partial to fictitious characters. I currently work with four Italian men. In my mind’s eye, they are the Wizard, the Scarecrow, the Tin Man and the Cowardly Lion.
‘Who’s Who?’ my colleagues wanted to know, once I confessed my habit of assigning roles to the people I love.
‘You mean you can’t tell?’ I asked, genuinely surprised.
The three seconds it took for them to work it out reassured me that I had cast them well. The characters, they admitted, suited them well. Only Antonio was unhappy. ‘Why do I have to be the Cowardly Lion?’ he protested.
‘Because you over-react like he does, and besides, the Scarecrow and Tin Man are already cast.’
Resigned to the role of the temperamental King of the Forest, Antonio stopped protesting. It was my whim, he was going to let me win. ‘So, if we are in Oz, does that make you Judy Garland?’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘It’s a toss up between Dorothy or the dog. But if you want to make a woman happy, give her ruby shoes and four complimentary men to dance down the bricks with.’
‘You think we’re complimentary?’
‘Well, you are all certainly fond of pet names.’
None of my co-workers had noticed this, of course. I, on the other hand, had been studying the phenomenon for months. Vezzeggiativi, easily the ugliest word in the Italian language, is how you say ‘terms of endearment.’ Affectionate words are tossed around our office with astounding frequency. If you are ever feeling blue, all you have to do is reach up and grab one. There are dozens of them to be had, and they vary depending on the time of day.
Cara is my personal favourite. It shows its face at the beginning of the shift, when the morning is young and the day is yet to be written. Quite similar to dear, its English equivalent, cara is best for kind negotiation and amicable agreements. Safe and without much string attached, it is the pleasant reminder that in Italy one can be friends as well as colleagues. Which brings me to an important point. As far as I can see, the use of a vezzeggiativo is not a sign of sexism in the workplace. My four colleagues shower each other with the same type verbal affection that they use to dote on female co-workers. For them sweet words just make the language lighter. In Italy, terms of endearment should be taken as a sign of high regard and respect rather than an insult or means of condescension. Why? Because they indicate you are well-liked. And in Italy, if you are well-liked you are also respected.
Bella, Italian vezzeggiativo par excellence, is most often used at the end of the day. After all, there is nothing smarter than sending a woman away feeling beautiful. Certainly more common and less incriminating than its English-speaking equivalent, bella rolls quite quickly of the tongue. More a sign of affection than an aesthetic reality, bella knows nothing of the high expectations held to the adjective in English. To be called beautiful in the English–speaking world you’ve got to wear a striking red dress and raspberry lipstick. To be beautiful in Italian all you have to do is show up for work.
Yes, it’s lucky to live in Italy. There are so many lovely words to be had here. If the truth be told, however, there are some vezzeggiativi that should be avoided at all costs. Adorata, for example, is one of those words. Beyond the shadow of a doubt, a declaration that starts with adorata ends in argument. Not that I have any philosophical problem with being adored. My aversion to the term is purely practical. Adoration is the bearer of bad news. ‘Adorata, the deadline has been moved forward and the budget has been cut back. But surely you will find an easy solution.’ When adorata pops up, whatever is baking is burning. So, if you happen to hear the term, either flip on your problem-solving switch or slip out the door. They may love you, but their going to ask you to do something difficult.
There is only one term of endearment that I fear more than adorata. Antonio mistakenly used it with me last week and the worrisome word gave birth to this article. It was Friday afternoon and I called the office about a fax that needed to be sent by four o’clock.
‘Will you take care of it?’ I asked Antonio.
‘Certo, Ciccia. Consider it done.’
Ciccia? His unfortunate vezzeggiativo hit me like a brick. What did Antonio mean by calling me ‘Chubby’? Was my Lion friend getting back at me for the ‘Cowardly’ comment? Or was he simply unaware of the psychological repercussions of ‘chubbiness’ on the modern woman’s mind?
‘Listen Antonio,’ I told him, ‘Never call an English-speaker Ciccia.’
‘Why not?’
‘Just don’t. It translates terribly. You’ll loose a friend. She’ll worry about her weight all weekend and come to work on Monday, moody and bitter.’
‘Ciccia is not meant to be insulting. Chubby women have always been considered attractive. For centuries, fat was considered a symbol of abundance. But, it’s not literal, Linda. It’s just for affection.’
‘I understand, Antonio. But of all the awful affectionate words in the world, ‘chubby’ takes the cake.’
Antonio laughed. He has learned to humour me and my linguistic hang-ups. ‘Va bene.Have a good weekend, Bella.’
I hung up happy. It’s true, I’m sure of it. Beautiful is always best for goodbyes.
