by Jules Wake
Despite the homespun feel of the place and the artisan look of the product, this was no amateur outfit.
Mario led them into the long, dark stone-built bar complex, where they had to don blue hairnets, white coats and blue slip covers over their shoes before they could set foot onto the production line.
The cool, dark room had several huge silver bowl-shaped dishes, which Mario led them straight over to.
‘These are our kettles, where we heat the milk. Ewes’ milk from our own herd.’ His eyes gleamed with sudden passion. ‘My grandfather established this herd of Sarda sheep, brought all the way from Sardinia. They make the best milk. Which makes the best cheese.’ The moustache had taken on a life of its own as Mario warmed to his subject, his hands talking in tandem. ‘Our secret is our location. This location has a microclimate with some rain, which means the pasture is … how you say it … lush.’
For the next hour, Will plied Mario with enthusiastic questions about cheese production, which were answered in detail and with endless patience. Will learned that the entire enterprise was family-run, involving Mario’s wife, brother, sister-in-law and mother.
They’d reached the end of the tour, finishing up in the drying room, where row upon row of cheeses were lined on shelves, the pungent smell filling the air, before he even noticed that Gisella had melted away at some point.
‘Here, you must take some.’ Mario pressed several of the small, round cheeses into his hands. ‘And stay for dinner. Meet the Fancini family. My mama is a great cook.’
When they emerged into the early evening, Gisella was perched on the Vespa, absorbed in her mobile phone. She looked up and slithered off towards them.
‘Ready?’
‘Mario’s invited us to stay for dinner. Apparently, his mother is a fabulous cook.’
Gisella lips formed the ghost of a pout, and he smiled at her. It was quite amusing. She hadn’t quite yet worked out his measure and how far she could push him. Mario had also offered him a lift home later.
‘That would have been lovely, but I want to get back to Rome this evening.’ Gisella offered an apologetic smile.
‘That’s a great shame,’ said Will, feeling a touch guilty.
‘Yes, but perhaps another time.’ She looked at her watch with a wistful twist to her lips. ‘Enough business for one day, we ought to be starting back. The traffic in Rome will be rather busy now.’
Will felt a spurt of annoyance at her presumption. This was his trip and he wanted to get as much out of each day as humanly possible. This was a one-shot visit.
‘Don’t worry. Mario has kindly offered me a lift back to Rome after dinner.’
‘Oh, right.’ Gisella’s obvious dismay pricked at him. He hadn’t meant to abandon her, and Mario had invited them both, but she’d rather jumped the gun in refusing.
‘Sure you can’t stay?’
She hesitated and he could see she was torn.
‘I don’t want to hold you up. You are more than welcome to stay,’ he offered her a smile, with a hint of future promise. It wouldn’t do to piss her off and she was very attractive and charming. It hadn’t been a hardship spending time with her today.
‘But I want to discuss a few things with Mario and he’s going to set up a cheese-tasting. We’re going to talk business.’
A sulky pout replaced her previous eagerness. ‘I’d best get back, then.’
Will kissed her on both cheeks. ‘Thanks for today. You’ve been brilliant.’
Just before she pulled on her helmet, she gave him a winning smile. ‘Let me know where you’d like to go next.’
She revved the Vespa and drove off with a spit of gravel as she did a showy swerve shooting off down the drive.
Will watched her depart with a rueful smile. Another time, another place, he might have taken her up on her tacit offer. Attractive, but wanted too much too quickly.
‘Bit of a she-wolf that one,’ said Mario. ‘Wants to be in charge too much.’
‘I think you might be right. I did invite her to stay for dinner.’
Mario smiled his quiet, contemplative smile. ‘I think she had other things in mind for you. And they didn’t involve dinner, Signor.’
‘I think you might be right.’
Signora Fancini, Mario’s mother, was nothing like the lazy stereotype of black-garbed wrinkled old Italian mama Will had imagined. Dressed in a pale-blue shift dress, which showed off a trim waist and broad shoulders, and the chicest flowery apron he’d ever seen, she had the same poise and elegance as his own mother, although that was where the similarity ended. He doubted his mother had ever owned an apron, the kitchen in their house being another room that happened to contain a rather handy storage facility for olives, cheese, lemons, tonic, and Champagne and very occasionally the odd ready-meal.
‘Mama, si chiamo Will. Will this my mother, Auzelia.’ Mario threw a casual arm around his mother and the two of them exchanged a quick hug that had Will shifting from foot to foot trying to look nonchalant.
‘Benvenuto.’ She welcomed him with an easy smile and launched into a torrent of Italian, her face lighting up with enthusiasm. He grinned back like an idiot, unaccountably shy in the face of her unconditional warmth, and lifted his shoulders with an apologetic grimace. ‘Non parla Italiano.’
Not that it made a blind bit of difference. She trotted over, nimble and neat in sensible polished court shoes, which made her look like a highly efficient PA and that she should be in a shiny office block rather than standing here in this rather idyllic vine-covered pergola, with the sensational view out over the distant domes of the city, and took his hand in a double-handed shake.
Mario offered a quick translation. ‘I told her you were opening a restaurant in England and that you were looking to use our cheese and make Italian food. She’s going to show you proper Italian cooking,’ his teeth gleamed against the moustache as he smiled at his mother, ‘not the tourist nonsense you get in Roma.’
‘Great,’ said Will, suddenly aware of being nervous. Entirely self-taught, he wasn’t a chef or anything close. Dinner with the family was one thing, but this was a bit too up close and personal.
With another burst of Italian, she called to her son, who said, ‘I must do a few things. I’ll see you in a while. I’ll leave you with Auzelia.’
Like a collie herding sheep, before he had chance to protest, she bustled him into a surprisingly modern, bright kitchen with every mod con going, including a huge range stove and an American-style fridge.
‘Veni, veni,’ Auzelia prodded him and brought him to the quintessentially different feature of the kitchen, a large, flat marble-topped central island, atop which sat a volcano-shaped pile of flour.
‘Pasta,’ she announced following his gaze. ‘Come, I show you.’ She rolled up her sleeves and in quick succession cracked open several eggs, depositing them one after another into the centre of the well.
She pointed to her face and to the pasta, making it clear that Will needed to watch closely. Her business-like approach eased his nerves. This he could cope with.
It was fascinating to see the way she worked the eggs into the flour and, in no time at all, had an even dough. After kneading, she indicated that he should take over and pointed to the sink where he should wash his hands.
It had been a while, but once his hands touched the smooth, slightly warm, dough, he soon got into a gentle, well-remembered rhythm. Kneading the dough in the repetitive rolling motion made him relax for the first time in days, freeing up spaces in his head that had been given over to list after list, things that needed to be done, the itinerary for this trip, the products he wanted to source, the fire extinguishers that he mustn’t forget to order, checking the building regs had finally been signed off.
All that flowed away as he took in the simple pleasure of rolling the dough this way and that, reflecting on the science at his fingertips, as the kneading tidied up the gluten proteins, giving the finished dough a necessary strength and structure.
Will’s jaw tightened at the memory and he gave the pasta another punishing knead.
‘Delicamente. Delicamente,’ said Auzelia, combining her gentle scolding with an amused expression. She touched his hands, shaking her head.
With a chagrined nod, he treated the dough more gently, smiling ironically to himself. There was one occasion when his father had pronounced that Will’s roast chicken was ‘passable’.
His parents had some cock-eyed view that cooking was menial, spending time in the kitchen should be kept to a minimum, and were slightly embarrassed by his ability to knock up a tasty meal.
Auzelia came to stand in front of him, nodding approvingly. ‘Bene, bene.’
She took the dough, pulled out a huge knife, second cousin to a machete, and with quick ferocious slices, the blade pinging resoundingly on the marble top, severed the dough into four equal portions.
Will stepped back to watch as she scooped one of the quarters up and began to feed it into a rolling-machine. Deftly she worked the dough through the machine several times until seconds later a foot-long sheet of smooth pasta hung over the back of a wooden chair and she beckoned Will over and thrust a piece of dough into his hand, indicating it was his turn.
Another woman came into the kitchen, a basket on her hip and with a cheerful Ciao, encompassing both Will and Auzelia, began to assemble a salad, chatting cheerfully as she sliced peppers at lightning speed, pulling freshly picked rocket from the basket and selecting tomatoes from a triffid of a plant sprawling through the tiled doorway, its branches drooping with the weight of the lush red fruit.
She waved her knife at Will and then at herself. ‘Carla, Mario. Marito.’ From which Will gathered she was married to his host and could slice and chop quicker than any chef he’d ever worked with.
Leaving him on pasta duty, Auzelia began pulling brown-paper parcels from the fridge and arranging the contents on a large platter, constantly darting back to check on his progress, throwing comments at the other woman.
Will continued to feed the pasta machine, somehow reassured by the constant squeak of the handle on the machine, which made him feel part of action of the vibrant kitchen. Even though he couldn’t understand a word the other two women said, they included him with constant smiles and gestures, Auzelia bringing over titbits of meat from the antipasti platter she’d prepared for him to try and Carla offering him slices of tomatoes.
This was a tight-knit family that understood food and the joy of sharing food, and despite the language barrier, he suddenly felt at home in a way he’d never done in his own home.
Once all the pasta was rolled, the sheets hanging from several wooden chair backs, Auzelia changed the rollers and showed Will how to feed the sheets through, to be cut into ribbons of tagliatelle. As they poured out of the machine, with a twist of her wrist she wound the resulting yellow ribbons into what looked like a nest and popped them on the side by the range, where a pan, almost big enough to bath a baby, bubbled with water.
When the last sheet of pasta was done, Auzelia gave his bicep an approving squeeze and rattled off, what he hoped were a whole load of compliments about his athletic prowess with a pasta machine. His arm ached like a bitch, but her warming approval quickly made him forget how much he was feeling it.
Suddenly there was a flurry of activity and Will, caught in the noisy thick of it, found himself squeezing lemons and shaving Pecorino, while Carla rubbed garlic into bread and Auzelia strained the huge vat of pasta. Two younger teenagers appeared and began carrying bowls, plates and cutlery out to the table on the terrace.
Auzelia shooed him out of the kitchen, giving him an enormous bowl of the cooked pasta, which had somehow been drizzled with lemon and oil, tossed with walnuts and rocket and topped with a scattering of curls of cheese. His stomach contracted in sharp hunger; the food looked and smelled delicious.
From the quiet of the farm, which seemed uninhabited and still, suddenly people of all ages teemed out of the woodwork, swarming from every corner like a family of earwigs recently disturbed.
Mario appeared and urged Will to sit down, making swift introductions as the rest of the family sat down. Aside from Carla and Auzelia, there was Mario’s brother and wife, Benito and Licia, their children, the two teenagers, his cousins, aunt and uncle and his own son and daughter, who were in their early twenties. Most of the names passed Will by.
The terrace soon rang with laughter and disjointed English.
Dinner with the Fancinis was a noisy, lively affair but Will enjoyed every last minute and morsel of food, from Carla’s sweet-tomato bruschetta, which exploded with flavour in his mouth, to the salty salami of the antipasti and finally the simple pasta dish that tasted even better. As he spooned a forkful into his mouth, Auzelia made a comment to Mario, her face alight with amusement. Mario spluttered out a laugh.
‘Apparently, you make a very good assistant. She says you can come back any time. Usually she gets the children to take it in turns with the roller. She’s very impressed with your stamina.’
Will rubbed at his aching arm and grinned, suddenly feeling very light-hearted. He raised his glass in toast to Auzelia. ‘She didn’t give me much choice.’
‘No, I can believe it.’ Mario tapped his glass against Will’s.
As they sat outside, the sun began to dip towards the horizon and the lights of Rome blinked into life. The song of cicadas intensified and Carla lit lemon-scented candles to ward off the evening bugs, before bringing out tiny glasses of ice-cold Limoncello.
Will sipped, letting the smooth liquid slip down his throat, enjoying the clean, fresh flavour, the warm evening air and ignored the tiny pang of envy as he listened to the happy chatter and family teasing around him.
Chapter 12
When the sleek, black car sped away, purring out of sight, Lisa let out a long pent-up breath. Thank goodness he’d gone. It was a relief to let go of all that stress. Giovanni’s litany, over the last hour, of all the worst things that could possibly happen before he arrived at his Nonna’s bedside, made her feel quite sick.
To give herself something to do, she’d started transferring her things from her room to Giovanni’s, as he’d suggested she take advantage of the air conditioning and en-suite shower room in his absence. She almost regretted it. It was far too warm to be dashing about. The evening air, hot and heavy, seemed to have pooled in the apartment. She’d leave the rest of her clothes until morning and make herself some food.
In the kitchen, she looked down at the rather limp pizza, already semi-defrosted from its packaging, which had been literally grabbed from a little corner store on the way back from the bar. A few sorry dabs of Mozzarella made up the topping, along with some cardboard discs that might have been pepperoni. A pathetic-looking specimen. A bit like her right now, and Nan would be the last person to thank her for worrying, that was for sure.
After a quick spell in the oven, the pizza gained a little colour and several small puddles of brilliant-orange oil floating about on the surface. After hesitating momentarily, she poured herself a glass of the red wine from the bottle Will had opened last night. It wasn’t as if he’d miss it. Probably already at some little bistro wining and dining his new friend.
Shoving, most likely, the worst pizza she’d ever eat in her life onto a plate, she grabbed her little guide book, tucked it under her arm and went back out to the balcony.
Mmm, nice wine. At least, she thought it was. But then, Will knew his stuff and he’d said it was a good one. She tilted her head and gazed out at the rooftops, shimmering in the early-evening haze. Rome, alone. The villa opposite still and silent, mocked her. As if to say, you�
��re on your own now.
She bit her lip. Okay, it was a different country, but she’d cope. She was used to being on her own. Picking up the guide book, she slid the grainy photo from between the pages and looked at the blurred face of the father she’d never known. And didn’t need to know. She and Nan had managed thus far perfectly well and once Nan was gone … she swallowed hard. She’d be just fine.
But she did want to get rid of the ring. Sever that last link with Vittorio. Stake her independence. She turned over the picture, tracing the faded writing on the back. It was a shame she no longer had Giovanni’s useful contact at the electoral place. She was on her own with this one. Even if it was twenty years old, she had an address. She had a phone app and if she could perhaps borrow Will’s laptop on some pretext she could get some idea of which part of Rome the street was in. She looked at her watch. When he got back, she’d ask him then.
Feeling positive, if not completely confident, she turned back to the guide book. In between time, she had another five whole days to fill.
Eventually, when the bats took flight in the garden, wheeling with balletic grace across the skyline, she forced herself to move. Still no sign of Will. Not that she’d been waiting up for him.
Only one-thirty, but it felt like the middle of the night. Air conditioning, she decided, was not her thing. It made too much noise and the chill of the air was too icy. But without it the room was too hot. She was as bad as Goldilocks. Switching it off, she lay on top of the covers, her ears attuning to the unfamiliar creaks of the ancient building. Had Will come home?
Lisa sighed and turned over, trying to find a cool patch on the sheets and escape from the orange lights of the bedside clock-radio. It was as if she were being cooked from the inside out and despite it being of no use at all, she flapped her cotton t-shirt from her body.
For a while, she tossed and turned, aware each time she moved of the baleful glare of the orange light impressing on her that a bare ten minutes had elapsed since her last turn. Two-twenty now.