The Schizophrenic Accordionist

Here in Portland, every August we have Festa Italiana! Yes, for a whole week, the six known local Italians form a committee and put on a fun-filled celebration of everything Italian: pasta, bocci, grape-stomping, and musica! This thing ends with a three-day weekend extravaganza which takes over the entire Pioneer Courthouse Square, located on one square block in the heart of downtown. Exhibits include restaurants, scooter merchants, an information booth, a winegarden and more, all surrounding a big stage for various featured artists and announcements.

This year, as in the fifteen prior years of the Festa!, my new friend Gabriel, the accordionist, was a featured artist. To prove it, he sent me a copy of the latest event brochure, which he had highlighted to emphasize the times and venues in which he was featured. Some years, he plays the mainstage, while some years he is a "strolling accordionist"; some years he gets his picture in the brochure, some years he doesn't. This year, his picture isn't in the brochure and he is a strolling player. Last year, his picture WAS in the brochure and he was a mainstage player. Gabriel says it all evens out eventually, which of course it does. Even accordion players can remind us of life's little lessons if only we will let them.

So, comes the Friday of the final Festa! weekend.....and I head downtown to see Gabriel stroll and play some Italian favorites........the ones we all know: Finniculi, Finnicula, Volare, etc., etc. It is a beautiful day for grape-stomping, the champions of which will be having a stomp-off at noon while Gabriel is strolling and playing. Perfect! I even get a nearby parking spot.

I walk onto the square, look around, and Gabriel is nowhere in sight. It's lunchtime, the place is packed with people eating and drinking and spilling food all over themselves, the stompers are stomping and I am in a VERY Finniculi, Finnicula mood and almost wish I had a "knapsack on my back." Almost.

So in the restaurant section I spy the OTHER strolling accordionist, whom I recognize because his picture WAS in the brochure this year. He is wearing a bright red shirt, just like in the brochure, and even though he has lost some weight since the picture was taken, I know this guy. Let's call him Luigi. Another big giveaway is, he is wearing an accordion. He will know where Gabriel is.

I go up to him, all jovial and all, and immediately use up one third of all the Italian I know.

"Buon Giorno, Luigi," I say. "I recognize you from the brochure. Can you tell me where I can find Gabriel Guererro?"

He looks at me and says, "Stop making stupid remarks, and go away!"

I feel as though I have been slapped across the face with a big-a salami. Ah, perhaps in the little village where Luigi is from, "Buon Giorno" means something other than "Good day!" Perhaps it means "I pee on your mother's grave, you pigdog!" Which was not my intention at all.

I recover quickly and say, "Isn't this your picture on the brochure?"

"No," he says. "That is not me." His voice is completely devoid of any accent. So much for the "village-of-origin" theory.

I show him the brochure, and I say, "Is this or is this NOT your picture?!"

"No," he says again. "That's HIS picture." And he points to a nearby table, where Gabriel is standing. (At this point, I am not sure of any of my usual bearings, like my name. I am not accustomed to being insulted by strolling Italian accordionists wearing red shirts named Luigi whose pictures I recognize from the Festa Italiana! brochure I hold in my hands. In fact, even at that moment, I could say with assurance that the last 30 seconds were absolutely unprecedented in the previous 17 million plus seconds of my life.)

I walk over to Gabriel, still a bit disoriented, and am welcomed by his generous smile. He is standing and talking with a table full of people with festive clothing, nametags, and thick Italian accents. I take him aside and point to Luigi, who is standing about 20 feet away.

"See that guy, that OTHER strolling accordionist, standing over there?" I say.
"Yeah.....Luigi." He says.
"Do you know what he just said to me?" Gabriel's brow furrows and his eyes roll.
"No," he says, but it's clear he has an inkling of what's coming.
I relate our brief conversation. Gabriel is crestfallen.
"He is schizophrenic," Gabriel informs me. "He sometimes has trouble relating to people." This is an obvious understatement. By now I have recalled my name and my ability to take righteous umbrage.

"Lucia, who is President of the Festa! hires him because she feels sorry for him."
"Yeah, well I understand about mental issues because a close member of my family has his own challenges in that regard. But to have the guy strolling around people, plus with his FACE in the brochure........?"
"I know, I know.........."

Quite frankly, it had never occurred to me that Italians could be schizophrenic. Italians are HAPPY people, full of life and passion and chianti. They sing exuberant songs with words like "Finniculi" in them! They play instruments they wear on their bodies, for Chrissake. The thought that they could be depressed or irritable had never crossed my mind. Swedes, now they can be depressed and have all manner of existential thoughts with their morning bowl of muesli. Or the Swiss, they never know what side they are on so are always afraid of pissing the wrong people off, and therefore never make any statement stronger than being SURE what time it is, which they can immediately prove by showing you their watch, case closed. But the ITALIANS! HAPPY people, with never a discouraging word. Especially guys named Luigi in red shirts strolling around playing the accordion at the Festa! They don't have "issues".

Whereupon Gabriel interrupts my reverie by introducing me to Lucia, the aforementioned "Mama" of the Festa! I take her and her marinara-thick accent aside and I say to her, "That accordion guy over there, Luigi, he said a very insulting thing to me."

"Oh, No!," she says. "He's-a no all-a there."
I feel as though I am talking with the sister of Chico Marx.
"Yes, Gabriel just explained things to me. But still..."
"Hey, we no hire him again next-a year. He's-a no play with a full-a deck."

So now I have gotten this guy banned from all future Festas! I start to feel bad. I walk around the rest of the Festa! and take in the sights and sounds. The champion grape-stomping team is announced, along with the fact that they stomped 7 inches of juice in their giant bucket. The band starts to play on the mainstage. What will Luigi do from here on out, I wonder? Where do schizophrenic Italian accordionists go when their Festa! gigs are yanked out from under them?

I do what any reasonable person would do in such a situation. I buy a bottle of Nebbiolo and two glasses and wait for Gabriel to put his accordion away and join me. Gabriel strolls over, I pour the wine, and tell him I feel lousy about Luigi the Schizophrenic Accordionist.

"Not to worry," he says. "It wasn't you. After you walked away, the band started on the mainstage and the rule is that we strolling musicians have to stop playing then. Luigi refused to stop and Lucia had to call security to shut him up. It wasn't you."

I felt better. He cooked his own goose. We drank the wine. The whole bottle. Finniculi, Finnicula!