During my Venetian years, I lived in a crumbling, 16th-century apartment whose best ‘room’ was the terrace on the top floor. I was up there one afternoon mopping— something I did on rare occasions for the sole purpose of keeping my neighbour lady happy. She and I had developed a very friendly stairwell relationship ever since the day I carried her rubbish sacks four flights down the stairs. Be kind to your neighbour in any country, and the courtesy will come back ten-fold. According to her birth year, Anna was pushing 70, but she was younger than me in every other way. Her energy was astounding and her enthusiasm contagious. And she never failed to surprise me.
That day, she surprised me out on the terrace, carrying a open box with a bedraggled kitten inside. ‘For you,’ she said simply.
I took the kitten in silence, but with a mounting sense of alarm. Anna had brought me gifts before. During every tre per due sale at the supermarket, the third box of Barilla was mine. She’d even brought me clothes from the market on occasion, saying that the vender had ‘thrown them at her’ as she passed his stand. But she had never brought anything as big as a kitten before.
‘I’m not so sure I want a cat, Anna.’
‘But a girl was taking her to l’Isola dei Gatti to be poisoned. And I know you’re lonely so I couldn’t help but prendere la palla al balzo, catch the ball at the bounce. I had to take her; she is a good opportunity for you.’ The terrace was in order, but I was suddenly in an utter state of disarray. What was this about Cat Island? A desolate place where abandoned felines are marooned and murdered by someone evil who plants cat poison in the soil? Could it be true? Second, I had never ever made mention of being lonely. Third, I am a dog person. I would not, even on my best day, call a cat ‘an opportunity.’
In mild response to my series of protests, Anna said, ‘In Italy, one cannot resist the will of the Fates.’
‘But I’m just not ready to make such a spontaneous decision,’ I stammered.
‘This is about catching an opportunity that flies by, it has nothing to do with spontaneity. We Italians know very little of that.’
‘What?’ I cried. I know it was not the right time for cultural insight, but her statement surprised me even more than the cat. Leave it to Anna to destroy my favourite myth in the time it took for the floor to dry. ‘Italians are known throughout the world for their spontaneity!’
‘Italians are spontaneous in their emotions but not in their choices,’ she informed me. Then she took the cat in her arms and told me more. ‘Italy is a country of savers and slipper-wearers,’ she said. In this country, people choose security over spontaneity, every day of the week. Hadn’t I ever noticed how small Italian fields of freedom are? In Italy, more than elsewhere, private adventure is often smothered by an all-encompassing sense of family responsibility. Spur of- the-moment decisions are stifled by meals that need to be made, children who need to be raised, and ageing aunts who’ve got to be cared for. There are plants to water should there be sun and shutters to close in case of rain. Bread needs to be bought before closing time and pasta can only be eaten al dente. A misplaced minute may spark starvation; there’s no time to get distracted by futile whims—unless of course the whim is willed by what the Fates desire.
‘Our belief in happy coincidence is total,’ Anna told me. ‘That’s what saves us. We are good at recognising opportunity and sappiamo prendere la palla al balzo: we know how to catch the ball on the bounce.’
Hmmm. Anna and I were from different generations and different worlds. For English speakers, Opportunity is a rather timid chap. When he knocks—listen close and open up. He might not call again. In Italy, Opportunity doesn’t loiter patiently at thresholds—it bounces straight through them. And there’s no keeping the rascal out. He knows no locks and sees no doors. To the Italian mind, if a ‘ball’ gets thrown your way, you’d be a fool not to reach out and ‘prendere la palla al balzo.’ Fear of foolishness is key. It wins the battle against the mundane. After all, foolishness breeds shame, and sidestepping that is the Italian’s primordial responsibility.
Of course, all you cat lovers out there care nothing whatsoever about all this jazz. You just want to know if I kept Snowball. So, yes, I did keep her. As Anna said, there was no way to refuse. The ‘palla’ had been thrown, and at the time, it would have been cruel—not foolish—to let it fall.
Snowball did end up being great company, though—too great, in fact. Two years and twelve kittens later, I decided it was time to take urgent provisions. I really am a dog person, and as such, I find it quite unnerving to have a momma tabby give multiple births under my bed. And despite the affection it proves, I have no patience for bats and lizards as tokens of loyalty. It was time to throw a ball of my own. I was moving to Florence and a couple cat-loving friends were buying a house in the countryside. We all agreed to prendere la palla al balzo and let Snowball meet her own new fields of freedom. She would go with them.
Sometimes I miss her. But mostly, I miss my young-old neighbour lady, whose greatest gifts to me were a couple of words strung together in a nice, tight phrase. Prendere la palla al balzo is never bad advice. After all, the world is round, and coincidently, it was an Italian who discovered that. Anna was a wise woman. She knew. When the world flies your way, you’ve got to reach out and catch it.
