Mariondino was beginning to feel the winter thaw in his loins. He longed to jump into one of his Cars and steer his little Pira past his Pora to visit his dear Bernadot.
“It’s been ages since I saw her sweet little Muncagota,” he pronounced. “What I wouldn’t give for a Ronchi in her Montefico.” It had been too long since his Ornato had been in anyone’s Vallegrande. “I’m too young to hang on, I need some Cannubi!” The Ovello seemed in a lot of pain.
So down the Via Nuova he steered, rolling many past lovers, now still slumbering. “Gallina, she was one of my first. How calm she was with me, I much younger than her, so patient she was as she caressed my Balluri.”
A few miles down he ran across another lover, his dear Serraboella. “How unusual she was. Sweet, subtle and soft, like her younger sister, Briccolina. These sisters, only surpassed by their aunt in the other village, Martinenga. She was so yielding, yet so strong.”
As Mariondino motored along the worn bricco road of the Langa, his mind wandered. “I wonder whatever happened to Roccalini. No one was better with the Rombone than her.” His temperature was rising, as he went up to the higher ground. Every corner held a memory. “Vicenziana, she had such a lovely Sarmassa. And Secondine was second to none for her beautiful Verduno.” He narrowly avoided falling down the Ravera as he almost missed the turn. “I must not lose my Nervo; get myself to where I need to be. He was beginning to sweat.
Almost near now, his mind still wandered off the Rue. He'd had lovers everywhere; it seemed as if Mariondino had had every Monprivato in the land. “Marenca, she knew better than anyone the joys of Falletto. And Cicala was famous for her midnight Vigna Rionda; the Lazzarito boys nicknamed her “Tre Stelle” for all the nights they spent with her around the Rivera.
Still, as he drove he knew what Asili one he had been. “I chased after Francia and Arione at the same time, without regard for their Ginestra or their Bordini. For me it was always the pursuit, looking for a little Trifolera here, a little Parussi there. It was seldom about love, often about lust. I was looking for any kind of Cannubi, loved nothing more than a little Rabaja with a Novello.” He often came home many a night with a Rio Sordo, but to him it was worth it.
When he finally made it to Bernadot’s Bricco, he was stunned to see what he found. There she was, already in full bloom, passionately engaged with Ausario. Non plussed, Mariondino asked Bernadot the meaning of this. Her reply, “Take your fake Ferrere back to Castiglione and get any future Falleto from Brunella or Piantà.” No longer can you run up and down my Bric Micca; the local Gaiun has seen to it that you keep your Sori self away from here.” Bernadot had finally crossed Mariondino off her Liste.
Dejected and sullen, Mariondino dried off his Fausoni and fled as fast has he could back to his Rocche. No more would he venture out for a little Manzola or Marcarini. From here on he would stay in his place, looking for La Morra in only the right places, in order to satisfy his incessant longing for Cannubial bliss.
written in memory of Kit Stevens by Alfonso Cevola limited rights reserved On the Wine Trail in Italy
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