Free Under the Tuscan Sun by Frances Mayes

The height of the remaining wall was
not the actual height the rebuilt wall would have to be to support
the broad terrace leading up to the house. Besides being 120 feet
long, the wall must be fifteen feet high, buttressed from behind.
As we read about packed fill, thrust, balance, and all the ways
the earth shifts when it freezes, we began to think we had the
Great Wall of China on our hands.
    We were absolutely right. We've just had several experienced
muratori,
masons, out to view the remains. This job is
a monster. Restoration work inside seems dwarfed beside this project.
Still, Ed envisions himself apprenticed to a rugged man in a cap,
a stone artist.
Santa Madonna, molto lavoro,
much work,
each
muratore
exclaims in turn.
Molto. Troppo,
too much. We learn that Cortona recently adopted codes for walls
such as this one because we're in an earthquake zone. Reinforced
concrete will be required. We are not prepared to mix concrete.
We have five acres of blackberry and sumac jungle to deal with,
trees that need pruning. Not to mention the house. The wall
estimates are astronomical. Few even want to tackle the job.
    This is how in Tuscany we build the Great Wall of Poland.
    Signor Martini sends a couple of his friends by. I forewarn him
that we are interested in getting the work done immediately and that
we want a price for
fratelli,
brothers, not for
stranieri,
foreigners. We are recovering from the new
well and still awaiting permits so the major house work can begin.
His first friend says sixty days of labor. For his price we could
buy a small steamer and motor around Greece. The second friend,
Alfiero, gives a surprisingly reasonable estimate, plus has the
terrific idea that another wall should run along the row of linden
trees on an adjacent terrace. When you don't speak a language well,
many of your cues for judging people are missing. We both think
he is fey—an odd quality for a mason—but Martini
says he is
bravo.
We want the work done while we are in
residence, so we sign a contract. Our
geometra
doesn't
know him and cautions us that if he's available he probably
is not good. This kind of reasoning doesn't sink in with us.
    The schedule calls for work to begin the following Monday.
Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday pass. Then a load of sand arrives.
Finally, at the end of the week, Alfiero appears with a boy of
fourteen and, to our surprise, three big Polish men. They set to
work and by sundown, amazingly, the long wall is down. We watch
all day. The Poles lift one-hundred-pound stones as though they
were watermelons. Alfiero speaks not a word of Polish and they speak
about five words of Italian. Fortunately, the language of manual
labor is easy to act out.
“Via, via,”
Alfiero waves
at the stones and they have at them. The next day they excavate
dirt. Alfiero exits, to go to other jobs, I suppose. The boy,
Alessandro, purely pouts. Alfiero is his stepfather and evidently
is trying to teach the boy about work. He looks like a little Medici
prince, petulant and bored as he stands around listlessly kicking
stones with the toe of his tennis shoe. The Poles ignore him. From
seven until twelve they don't stop. At noon they drive off in their
Polski Fiat, returning at three for five more solid hours of
labor.
    The Italians, who have been “guest workers” at many times
and in many countries, are thrown by the phenomenon happening in
their own country. During this second summer at Bramasole, the
newspapers are tolerant to indignant about Albanians literally
washing up on the shores of southern Italy. Living in San Francisco,
a city where immigrants arrive daily, we cannot get excited about
their problem. Americans in cities have realized that migrations
are on the increase; that the whole demographic tapestry is being
rewoven on a vast scale in the late twentieth century. Europe is
having a harder time coming to grips with this fact. We have our
own poor, they tell us incredulously. Yes, we say, we do, too.
Italy is