The food-writing course, learning pastry making under Santin, that’s a lot of ladder to climb before one could ever step into the great Santin’s kitchen or Andrea Besuschio’s chocolate-lover’s haven. Sara seemed quite nice but way too laid-back to become a pastry chef. Or even grasp the wealth of experience she had at her fingertips. Seeing opportunity going to waste gets on my nerves and makes me feel ineffectual. The sight of Sara curled up on the Alcantara sofa with her shoes on made me green with envy.
The house was enormous and so was the deck. I slipped out to get a breath of fresh air while, indoors, joints were still being passed around and the piano was getting a light dusting of white powder. In the end I sensed that I didn’t fit in with the offspring of these well-to-do Roman families, with their dim-witted, indulgent parents. I stuck a hand in my pocket and grabbed the small container that I always have on me. Inside there were two grams of charas, four papers, some filters, and a few cigarette tips. I rolled a joint, basking in the privileged position of being able to look at the others from the outside. I had my own personal space. Who gives a rat’s ass if it’s a sign of being disaffected that I was out here smoking alone, while everyone else was inside smoking together?
And what about Vincenzo? He reached into his backpack, chatting all the while, and pulled out a block of hash. It’s what they call a ball in Rome, seven ounces exactly. I’d finished rolling my joint, there was no wind, my lighter worked on the first try, my corner of the terrace lit up momentarily, and the window became a mirror. I inhaled slowly, then it was dark again, the mirror disappeared, and I looked inside. A wave of fury engulfed me — maybe I was angrier with myself than with him. The dickhead, he’d brought a block of hash without telling me. Fuck, you don’t carry an illegal substance with you if you’re riding on the back of someone else’s motorbike without telling him. Especially if that someone is me.
They got out the scales, a cutting board, and a carving knife — my favorite — and Vincenzo lined the blade up about an inch from the edge of the block, pressed down clumsily, and knocked a slice of about half an ounce to the floor. I decided to go back inside. They continued doing what they were doing while I sat on the sofa. Vincenzo collected about €150. He didn’t seem overjoyed. I was thinking to myself: This is the last time he rides with me. This is the fucking last time that he and I go anywhere together.
I took Vincenzo to one side. “Listen, I’m splitting. What about you? Are you coming or staying?”
“Why don’t we have one last joint and then go?”
“No, I’m going now, you do what you want.”
I should have added — but didn’t, dumb ass that I am — if you decide to come with me, do me a favor and leave the block here. In the end, Vincenzo gave in. Picking up jackets, helmets, and Vincenzo’s backpack, we said goodbye and took the elevator. You could hear the music all the way onto the street. We got back on the bike. This time it took three pushes on the pedal and a quite a bit of cursing to get it started. It was cold and I was thinking about Barbara and her curly hair, goddammit. I drove really slowly. Finally Vincenzo shut up, and so did I. I turned down Via Delle Valli toward the loop. There wasn’t a soul about. The traffic lights giving onto Viale Etiopia were red. I slowed down, looked right, then left, changed gears, and was about to run the lights when a car approached from the right, windows down and three people inside. The driver looked at me and mouthed something as he passed. I saw the scene as if in slow motion, in the muffled silence of this deserted part of Rome: my Honda groaning, me pulling on the clutch and the brake, the car passing. I saw, very clearly, the lips of the driver forming the word “PO-LICE.” Then he was gone and time went back to normal speed. I looked down the street, to the right. At the gas station about three to four hundred yards away was a police car with its lights off. No one else. I stayed put. The lights were red. I was just slightly over the white stop line. I’d stopped at a red light.
Car stationary. Me stationary. Vincenzo, who had seemingly missed the whole scene, was quiet. Me too. The traffic lights seemed to stay red forever. Time was slowing down again. The only sound was the vroom vroom of the Honda’s motor. Then, finally, the lights turned green. I exhaled, realizing I had been holding my breath. I put the bike into gear and started moving. Turning into Viale Etiopia on the left, I checked the rearview mirror. The blue police car had left the side of the road and was following me. Shit. Were my headlights working? Maybe I was just being paranoid, c’mon, maybe they were just going somewhere. I drove on, almost to the on-ramp to the loop, slowly, but not too slowly.
Suddenly, I remembered there was a stretch of the loop that you can’t drive on at night. I always forget from where to where. I forget because I always drive along it anyway, because the chances of getting caught are one in a million. But now, with a police car behind me, what should I do? At the very last moment I veered right into Via Tembien. I checked my rearview mirror again and the police car had turned right too. Fuck. I continued along Via Tripoli, unfamiliar with this part of the city, a neighborhood that was fuzzy in my mental map of Rome. I didn’t have a clue where I was. I put the indicator on, turned right, and looked at the sign: Via Cirenaica. I checked my rearview mirror again, the police car turned right too.
I turned my head around slightly and said to Vincenzo, “Listen, you have to keep cool now, okay? There’s a police car following us.”
“Jesus, that’s why you’ve been going around in circles, I was wondering why … What are we going to do?”
“Nothing, that’s what we’re going to do; maybe they’ll just stop us to check our ID. That’s all, what else? Oh yeah, one of my headlights isn’t working, that’s probably why.”
“Fucking hell, Leo baby, you should have gone through that red light. They must have gotten suspicious when they saw you stop. Who stops at a traffic light at four in the morning?
“Okay, let’s just behave and keep going a little farther. They might just ask to see our documents. Do you know this part of the city?”
“No”
“Great.”
In front of us, the traffic lights on Via Tripolitania were green; I went through and then stopped at a red light in Viale Libia. The police car drew up beside us and stopped. I kept looking straight ahead at the traffic lights, pretending there was nothing amiss. I held my breath. Green. I started turning right into Viale Libia — where the hell were we? The police car turned right into Viale Libia. We came to the next traffic lights, this time red. I stopped. This time the police car stopped behind me. I looked right and left, trying to fathom where to go. On the right, the sign said VIALE ETIOPIA. Fuck! We were at the lights in Piazza Gondar; in front of us was Via Delle Valli. The same traffic lights where the car had passed me and warned me not to go through the red light, only now facing the opposite direction. It was clear that we were not going anywhere in particular. It was clear we knew they were following us, and that’s why we were wandering about aimlessly. So obviously we have something to hide. And it wasn’t the broken headlight.
“Vince, I’m turning right now. Get ready, they’re going to stop us now for sure. Don’t fuck things up.”
Green. I moved off. I accelerated a little, arrived at the first place you could do a U-turn, turned around, and drove past a closed newspaper kiosk. I felt Vincenzo make a sudden movement. The police car switched on flashing lights and siren. I accelerated a bit more and tossed the small container I had in my pocket. I realized that Vincenzo must have thrown the block of hash behind the kiosk. The police car overtook us and stopped sideways, across the lane. I slowed down and killed the engine. Two uniformed cops emerged.
“Stop! Get off the bike! Keep your hands in sight!”
From slow motion, time suddenly shifted to fast forward, narrowing like an esophagus just before vomiting. Everything happened in a split second: yelling, being pushed, hands — mine — on the hood of the police car. Hands — someone else’s — delving into my pockets and patting me down. More flashing lights,
more sirens, three more police cars arrived, all of them screeching to a halt. In the middle of Piazza Gondar.
“We’re not doing anything wrong, we’re cool, we’re not resisting arrest!”
“What else have you got on you?”
“Nothing, nothing at all, no need to worry, everything’s fine.”
One minute I was racking my brain trying to decide what to say, as we handed over our documents. The next we were sitting in the back of a squad car, with our hands handcuffed behind our backs. I discovered that the seats were hard plastic shells, that they weren’t padded. How about that. Sitting next to me, all Vincenzo could say was, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Leo, I’m so fucking sorry, man.”
And I, almost to myself but moving my lips, whispered, “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe this is happening.”
For a moment, in my mind’s eye, I was sitting on the sofa at home with Matteo. The time was now, the place far away from here: “It was Vincenzo or Barbara, and you chose Vincenzo. That’s what worries me the most, Leo.”
“But you know how my mind wanders. I start thinking I can have it all, maybe not right now, but maybe tomorrow.”
“Yeah, but today you chose Vincenzo. And tomorrow you can’t choose Barbara because you’ll be in the slammer.” Was it really going to end this way?
The police station was half empty, sparsely furnished, and filled with a musty smell. It occurred to me that working here must be depressing, no wonder they’re always so pissed off. There was a female officer and two male officers, one of whom was really big. They exchanged pleasantries with the cops who’d brought us in.
“Hi, guys, what have you got?”
“Possession. A block of hash.”
They took us into a small room.
“Take off your clothes.”
I stripped, down to my shorts and socks.
“Everything.”
The boxers came off, as did the socks. My arms dangled loosely at my sides. What was the point of trying to cover up? Lately I’d been hitting the gym, a bit of fitness training as well as capoeira. I wasn’t embarrassed at being naked, quite the opposite, in fact. Let the female officer get an eyeful of me and maybe she’d be shocked that a chef could be so ripped. I let my thoughts get out of hand, as they often did. The female officer left, taking my clothes with her and without giving me a second glance. The burly cop said, “Turn around. Bend over.” I didn’t ask why, just turned around as instructed and bent over doggy style, with my butt in the air and my hands touching the floor.
Then the questions started.
First, the usual ones: Where were you this evening? Where did you get the cannabis? Where were you taking it? Where’s the bit that’s missing? Did you sell it? Where’s the money? Where do you live?
And then more questions that I wasn’t expecting.
How many of you were at the house? How many women and how many men? Do you remember if you ate anything? What was the house like? Did you smoke? Did you drink? Do you remember how the others were dressed? Were you the only one eating the chocolate or did Caffi eat it too? (Vincenzo Caffi, that’s his full name.) And other things like that, to see if our stories matched, I suppose. I gave my answers calmly, everything I said was the truth, I didn’t have to make anything up. The whole time I was being questioned, I was bent over, with my butt in the air. Were they trying to intimidate me? All I could think about was please, just don’t search my apartment, please let this interrogation last as long as possible. At home I had one and a half ounces of weed and a few hundred euros: payment in cash from dinners at the Testaccio venue, but try explaining that to them.
Then it ended.
The policewoman came back in and handed me my clothes, almost kindly. “You can get dressed now.”
I put my clothes back on. They made me sit on a wooden bench in the corridor, and after a quarter of an hour Vincenzo arrived and sat down beside me.
“Well then.”
“Yeah.”
“Did they have you bend over with your butt up in the air too, Leo baby?”
“Yep.”
The two officers who arrested us entered a small room at the end of the corridor, along with the burly cop. I could hardly believe what I was seeing through the half-glazed door. They were chatting and laughing. I caught a few words here and there but missed most of it. The huge policeman made a movement just like the one I saw Vincenzo make at Sara’s place, the one with the cutting board and the knife. Only this time it was smoother. From where I was sitting, it seemed like a surgical incision, of what I had no idea. Nobody paid us the slightest attention. Then the oversize policeman bent his elbows wide, pulling a face from the effort, and suddenly let go, like when you’re straining to break something and it suddenly snaps. I even imagined hearing the snapping sound. One of the three was saying, “Come on, what the fuck are you doing?”
“Shut your trap, you know I can’t sleep otherwise.” And more laughter.
I turned to Vincenzo, questioning him wordlessly: Did you see that?
He was poker-faced, concentrating on his next move. He scared me even more than the cops. You never knew what Ciccio was going to do next. Fuck, these guys were cutting weed, now what? What the fuck would happen now?
The public prosecutor arrived in jeans, a white shirt, no tie, a tan jacket, and a weary, displeased air. He climbed the stairs with the three officers who had just emerged from the booth. Footsteps filled the air, then a door slammed and voices faded away. Our breathing was slow and shallow. It felt like the oxygen was getting thinner. Outside you could hear Rome awakening, giving a big leisurely stretch. Then one of the officers came over to us by himself. It wasn’t the big guy.
“Sign here, you’re free to go. This is the report relating to tonight’s arrest, any further communications will arrive by mail,” he said. Just like that. No small talk. A piece of paper to sign. Three ounces of hashish, 4:38 a.m., Piazza Gondar. Lucarelli and Caffi.
We thanked everyone, said goodbye, and shook hands. Vincenzo’s thanks were particularly heartfelt. People said goodbye back, and a few officers even smiled. We signed out, put on our belts and shoelaces, got back our things and the keys to the motorbike.
Outside it was a glorious morning. Six forty-five and the sun was already warm and energizing, the sky a freshly painted azure. We wondered if we’d looked a tad too overjoyed. After all, we’d been charged with possession with intent to sell, not a thing to be sneezed at. Parked outside the police station was my bike, delivered to the door, no less. We headed home, the pandemonium of rush-hour traffic in Rome yet to erupt. I stopped in front of the camper van. It was all over.
Little did I know that in actual fact it had only just started. But to us this wonderful morning had been a gift. We didn’t talk about anything serious, no mention of lawyers, court hearings, fines, anything. We relived the events of the night before and congratulated each other on our steady nerves and balls of steel. For a short moment we were allies again, just like old times when we used to bake bread together in the middle of the night. Then I drove home alone, repeating the same promise, over and over: I will never hang out with Vincenzo again, not ever. My work wasn’t paying enough. There would be legal fees and I had no idea how much they would be. I’d worry about that later. Right now the sun was shining. I changed my mind and went over to Testaccio and headed straight for the kitchen. I pulled out my favorite bowl, the ceramic one that my grandmother gave me when I moved to Rome, and filled it with flour, without measuring, then added some water and started to knead, gradually regaining my composure.
Giangi and I hadn’t yet drummed up the guts to admit that our dinner parties were not going well; perhaps we should have. He took care of the invitations, the music, and the beverages. I put together the menus — a different one for each event — and bought the food. Sometimes we lost a little, sometimes we made a little, on a good night we might make a couple of hundred euros each. Permits, licenses, food safety rules — you’re joking, n
o way. These were private dinner parties, like cooking at home for friends. Only we were not at home and the friends paid for the privilege. Perhaps they were not paying enough. Perhaps there were too few of them. I couldn’t work it out. The dining room always seemed full, mouths were munching and glasses were clinking. Why weren’t Giangi and I making a fortune? How much longer would it take? I was nearly twenty-six, not that old but not that young either. And last night I could have ended up in jail and then before a judge in a fast-track trial, and instead here I was mixing flour, water, and yeast, following Vincenzo’s recipe. I called Matteo and told him what happened. I left out a lot of the details, but I had to talk to someone.
I escaped all too often into my own little dreamworld, where I’m Leo, the star chef or the acclaimed artist, living in Rio de Janeiro or Bogotá, with women throwing themselves at my feet. I can do and say whatever I want. I dreamed of having more money than I knew what to do with, that time would stand still and I’d never hit thirty, that I wasn’t earning peanuts in a crummy makeshift eatery in a working-class neighborhood like Testaccio, and that curly haired girls like Barbara would say they loved me. Instead, Barbara appeared with Matteo, said a quick hello, and went off to work.
I looked at Matteo. “What’s she doing here?”
“She turned up last night and rang the bell. You weren’t here, but I was.”
“So while I was getting myself arrested, you were banging Barbara.”
“It’s just that you make such stupid fucking choices, Leo.”
“You did the right thing. Barbara’s cute, isn’t she?
“Yep. She thinks you’re a dickhead.”
“What do you think I should do?”
“Open your own place.”
“Are you joking?”
“The truth is that things aren’t going half as bad as you’re making out.”
He was right. I did have my own place, sort of, just as I’d had a mother who always let me do whatever I wanted, yet I longed for something else, and I didn’t know what.
Mincemeat Page 5