Suddenly, Aurelia stopped in mid-sentence, as if struck by inspiration—I could practically see the lightbulb above her head. “If you decide to come back to Florence,” she said, “you must meet our friend Bernardo. He is a wonderful photographer—perhaps you can work together?” She scribbled his email address on a piece of paper and pressed it on me before running off to find some of his pictures. In her absence, Carlo, who had been regarding me wolfishly, leaned over and said in a low growl, “But just be friend with him, ehn? He has many kids and wives. Don’t get involved, too many complications.”
I instantly pictured a roguish, handsome man who seduced models and carelessly impregnated every woman he saw. A flicker of interest sparked in a still-unreformed part of my mind, but I batted it away.
* * *
—
I stood on the edge of the pavement on Oxford Street. Buses rumbled by, and I stepped back to let them pass, dodging people jumping off, marching by. I looked around at all the buildings, the full flow of people going past, and took a breathful of exhaust fumes. I coughed. London felt claustrophobic, invasive, pressing in on me with its noises, skyscrapers, and lack of horizons. It was way too fast, too furious. It made me breathless.
I stepped through the side streets of Soho and entered the grand lobby of the publishing house. People filed in and out, disappearing into the elevators; baby-faced young models sat awkwardly on the sofas waiting for castings. I gave my name to the receptionist and was pointed to the elevators. Upstairs, I stepped out to be greeted by a sleek-haired assistant with the vertiginous heels and Bambi walk that marks British fashionistas, who showed me into a bright corner office. My ex-colleague greeted me warmly, putting down a tall plastic cup with the remains of a murky green juice, saying, “My latest detox,” sucking the last of it through a straw. “It’s all about kale now. It’s pretty horrible.” She pulled a face, the tip of her tongue working some green bits out of her teeth. “I’ve lost two pounds though, and I am full of energy.” I could see makeup packed on sallow skin hiding dark circles under her eyes, teeth bleached ultraviolet white. I had known her for years, and the interview was straightforward: the publisher was launching a new title, and they wanted to know if I was interested in being the editor. “The launch editor,” my interviewer trilled. “And they are putting a minimum of five years into it, so you have time to prove yourself.”
She broke off to remark with not entirely flattering amazement on how much I had changed, how stylish, how polished I looked. I was bemused. Finally she raised her eyebrows expectantly: “It’s a chance to launch an important new brand. It’s exciting. Are you up for it?”
A new magazine with the backing of one of the world’s slickest publishers, a whirl of activity and creativity. I could feel it now: the adrenaline, the buzz of working with some of the world’s best-known photographers and writers, being plugged into everything that was going on. But it would be all-consuming too. There would be room for nothing else. I looked out over the rooftops of Soho. Five years, locked in, time to prove myself. A good salary, a pension plan, paid vacations, performance incentives, a spot in the company car park. I could come back in a blaze of glory—“Everyone has been wondering where you’ve gone,” the interviewer confided in a low voice—resume my high-flying career, buy an apartment somewhere leafy. I told her I would think about it and she shook my hand confidently, as if I was already on board. “I’ll think about it,” I said again. In the elevator I found myself wondering who would be gathering on the street in San Niccolò for aperitivo tonight.
* * *
—
I had accepted some freelance work while in London. For a week I went back to something resembling my old life, my alarm clock next to my bed. I had not woken to an alarm all year; the bells of my tower were the closest thing I had. Now it was a shock, but I took to setting my clock an hour earlier so I could stroll through the park for part of the way to work. The mornings were light and warm, and the bus was quiet at that early hour. I got out in Regent’s Park, walking along the canal and then past the zoo, passing giraffes with large, pretty eyes in their pens next to the road, appreciating the time to myself. By the time I arrived at work—carrying my own flask of coffee, which I made at home—I was perky and happy from my encounter with the giraffes and the walk along the beautiful flower-lined avenues in the park. I arrived on time and left on time, and always took an hour out for lunch no matter how much work was on my desk. I went to the little green opposite the office to eat my homemade lunch, and then went walking in Soho for the rest of the hour, looking up and around. I caught people’s eyes as they walked past, smiled, got a smile back. In the office, I went about my work without the overburden of responsibility and engaged with my colleagues, curious about who they were beyond these desks we were sharing. I met up with friends after work, sipping at cocktails on narrow streets under the late-summer sun, the evenings long and warm. I walked back home, meandering up through Regent’s Park and past the pretty pastel-colored houses of Primrose Hill.
What I had learned in Italy about bella figura had come home to roost, and I found unexpected beauty in London. Struggling with my suitcase up the stairs of the Tube station on my way home from the airport, I had been helped by an Englishman, who carried my bag. It happened on my way back to the airport too. Such gallantry in London was as rare as a sunny day in February, and I was delighted.
And yet I longed to be back on the streets of San Niccolò.
* * *
—
I sat on the bare floor of Kicca’s apartment, surrounded by boxes in the dying days of August. As we talked, I thought about Florence. It felt like home.
I looked at Kicca. “I am going to stay,” I said. “Maybe it’s not the sensible thing to do, but honestly, it feels like the only sane thing to do. I am going to stay in Italy and see what happens.”
And then, contrary to the belief that had propelled me up the career ladder all those years, I said: “I mean, it’s only a job, right?” Kicca nodded. “There will be other jobs. It’s not a whole life…”
Panzanella
SERVES 2–4
1 loaf day-old sourdough bread
Red wine vinegar
1 large white or red onion
2 large tomatoes (preferably beefsteak, but any type will do; judge by eye how much you need of different types)
1 cucumber
Fresh basil leaves
Best-quality extra-virgin olive oil
Sea salt and black pepper, to taste
Slice the sourdough bread: be careful here, as the bread is hard to cut and the knife can slip—my hands are scarred from making panzanella! Place in a large oven-safe dish and pour on a mix of water and red wine vinegar (1 Tbsp. vinegar to a cup of water)—enough to cover the bread and then some extra, as it will all be absorbed—you will need more than you think.
Chop the onion into fine slices, put in a bowl, and cover with another mix of water and red wine vinegar. Leave for a few hours, at least a couple.
When the bread has absorbed all the water and vinegar mixture, peel the crusts off each slice and discard. Then squeeze out the bread with your hands and massage it through your fingers, crumbling it into a large bowl. Chop the tomatoes and add them to the crumbled bread, along with any juice and seeds. Peel and chop the cucumber into small cubes and add. Drain the onion so there is no liquid remaining and add it to the bowl too. Tear up lots of basil leaves and add, then mix it all together.
Don’t dress the panzanella right away, so you can store it in the fridge—panzanella keeps well and the flavors deepen overnight. Leave in fridge for at least a couple of hours before serving—panzanella needs to be served well chilled.
Dress with a mix of olive oil and red wine vinegar. Sprinkle on plenty of sea salt and a little bit of black pepper to taste, garnishing with some whole basil leaves.
Caprese “farro” salad
SERVES 2
5½ oz. farro
Sea salt, to taste
Best-quality extra-virgin olive oil
1 large buffalo mozzarella
2 large tomatoes (if using smaller tomatoes, judge by eye how much you need)
Large handful of fresh basil leaves
Balsamic vinegar or lemon juice, to taste
Wash the farro in a bowl, passing plenty of water over it. Heat water in a large pan and salt when boiling. Add the farro and cook for about 30–40 minutes. Drain and let it cool, then mix with some olive oil so it doesn’t stick together.
Slice the mozzarella and add it to the farro, chop and add the tomatoes, and tear in some basil leaves. Dress with oil and either balsamic vinegar or lemon juice, season to taste, and serve.
9
SEPTEMBER
·
Stare in forma
or HOW TO NEVER NEED A GYM AGAIN
PRODUCE IN SEASON · figs
SCENT OF THE CITY · petrichor
ITALIAN MOMENT · watching a gig in Piazza Santa Croce
ITALIAN WORD OF THE MONTH · alluvione
I came back to Florence in the first week of September. Summer was still in full swing but the deep heat and humidity had abated, the smell of sewers was gone and there were fewer tour groups to dodge. The flat glare of August was replaced by a slanting light that gilded all the palazzos and towers. It was perfect, beautiful weather.
I was eager to be home, dragging my wheely suitcase behind me noisily from the train station. When I approached San Niccolò, Cristy appeared in her doorway to bow and scrape at me, Giuseppe the Gnarled Jeweler waved from the smoke-filled interior of his shop, Jack barked, and the Rifrullo Pavarotti sang a snatch of “il mio tesoro” as I rounded the corner onto my street. Monica tapped on the window from inside the bakery and I saw Guido give Gabriele a clip on the ear, sending him to take my bags. I handed them to him and let us into the building, smiling when I saw Giuseppe loping up.
I reached up on tiptoe and hugged Giuseppe. He was unshaven and his cheek tickled mine. Grinning broadly, he put me down. “I heard the noise and thought—she is back!” he said, his arms spread wide. “San Niccolò has missed you.”
* * *
—
I had a lot to catch up on. The changing of the month had been marked by the reopening of my favorite cafés, people reappearing at Rifrullo, looking relaxed, nut brown, comparing tans, telling me stories of their vacations, their travels and adventures. In a rush of words, Cristy told me that she had gone to visit friends in Salento, Giuseppe the Gnarled Jeweler had returned home to the marble mountains of Carrara with its own stretch of Tuscan coast, Isidoro had been to his apartment in Castiglione della Pescaia on the Maremma coast, and Beppe had gone home to Puglia to visit his mother. Even the ever-penniless Luigo had managed a couple of weeks at a friend’s house in Viareggio. Propping up the bar at Cibreo, I looked at the relaxed faces of the boys and understood the point of the Italian summer and the August break. Everyone was a better, nicer, browner version of themselves, as if they had been dipped in honey.
I went to meet Antonella, excited to see her and la mamma. Santa Croce was a mass of construction activity. I had to dodge workmen as well as the usual throngs of tourists in the piazza; it looked like a building site, complete with crane. There were rows of seats going up and a stage being built in front of the basilica, much to Dante’s displeasure. Elaborate lighting rigs flanked the stage and barriers were being erected to contain what was clearly shaping up to be a makeshift open-air auditorium.
I stood under Antonella’s window and looked up to see her leaning out of the open window, smoking and watching the activity with a raised eyebrow. I asked what was going on. “Tesoro, there is going to be a concert,” she announced. “Every year they torture us with something. Last year it was Roberto Benigni, who ruined the summer murdering the Divina Commedìa, e mi aveva rotto i coglioni…” The phrase translates as “he broke my balls.” Antonella nodded. “Yes,” she said, “and I told him.”
“You told him?” I asked, remembering the lusty shouts she had aimed at the players of the Calcio Storico from the window.
“Ma certo.” She shrugged. “They can’t expect to make this casino under my window and not have to deal with me…”
I looked at her with admiration. Italian women had the gift of righteous indignation. I was used to bending into any shape necessary in order to accommodate other people, no matter how much their behavior annoyed me—the curse of an Iranian upbringing. I looked at Anto shrugging and spreading her hands and decided I still had much to learn.
“Anyway, this year,” Antonella went on, “it’s George Michael, so at least we can dance. Tesoro, I am going to have a party on the first night, which is also your birthday, no? So you must come…”
* * *
—
On my birthday, I clicked bravely over the bridge of graces to Santa Croce in my sparkly heels, and worked my way through the people scrambling to take their seats. Antonella buzzed me in, greeted me with a glass of prosecco at her door, and guided me to her bedroom. She was wearing a sharp Helmut Lang number—black, of course—accessorized with scarlet lipstick and yards of thick gold chains hanging from her throat. There was a spread of perfectly toasted Tuscan crostini on the dining room table, in the center of which sat the most beautiful fig tart I had ever seen with a birthday candle in its center. “Your birthday cake, tesoro,” said Anto, hugging me as la mamma emerged from the kitchen with a tray of more crostini, putting them on the table before embracing me. The Adonises were out in force, wearing particularly tight T-shirts, and they kissed me and hugged me to a chorus of “Auguri!”
The crowd was roaring outside and we stepped through to the other room, taking our places at the windows as the lights flashed on the stage and spotlights roamed the audience. I had never seen Florence looking more beautiful—the evening sky was a dark blue velvet behind the façades of the palazzos illuminated with pink and blue lights, the dome of the Duomo peeking above the buildings, and in all the windows around us there were people etched in the lights.
The orchestra struck up, lights twirled around the audience, and in a burst of dry ice, George Michael appeared, tiny against the looming façade of Santa Croce cathedral behind him. His voice filled the apartment and we all started to dance and sing along to his songs. As the prosecco went down, the volume of Anto’s comments—all aimed out the window—went up. Finally, in the gap between two songs, Anto cupped her hands and shouted out: “Oooooo Mi’hele,” which had been her favorite catcall for a few songs now. The call landed in one of those moments of resounding silence, ricocheting around the square, bouncing off the walls. Audible laughter rippled through the crowd as hundreds of heads turned to look at us, and on the stage, even George Michael smiled. We heard a titter as he too turned toward our window, his dimple appearing in his cheek as his eyes met Antonella’s and she blew him a kiss.
* * *
Figs were gloriously and stickily in season: on a roamingly long walk along the Lungarno, I stepped into a syrupy mess on the pavement, and, cursing, I looked up to see a tree laden with figs boughing over me, threatening to bomb me with more ripe fruit. I reached up and plucked one, tore it in half, and bit into its pink flesh, scraping it off the skin with my teeth. It was juicy and sweet as treacle. Later that afternoon, I came back with my straw basket and surreptitiously filled it with as many figs as I could reach.
Back in my kitchen I placed my figs carefully in a sink filled with water. They were mature and tender and I clearly had way too many—if I ate all these I ran the risk of spending the next few days chained to my loo. So I called Antonella to ask la mamma what I should do, and la mamma said, “Ma figurati—devi fare la marmellata!”
Yes, jam, of course. La mamma offered to help me and ten minutes later, I was in her kitchen sterilizing jars in the oven while Antonella sat on the terrace—the only time of day that she would go out there was once the sun had dipped. Unlike most Italian women—whose raison d’être was to tan—Anto avoi
ded direct sunlight as assiduously as a vampire; she had carried a small parasol at the height of the summer to protect her pale skin from the sun. “You see,” she always said, “no lines, tesoro. How many Italian women do you know my age who have cheeks as smooth as a—how you say it—baby’s bottom?”
She was right. Aside from their sense of style, the thing that distinguished women of a certain age in this country was how crumpled their skin was from spending every weekend of the summer and all of August by the sea. Their dedication to sun worship, however, didn’t mean Italians headed to parks—indeed, any sizable sort of green space—as soon as there was a visible ray and strip off during their lunch breaks as we do in Britain. Apart from on the beach and by the pool, I had never seen Italians sunbathing. I asked Anto about this and she said, “But my darling, because of the bella figura, of course. It’s vulgar to take your clothes off in the middle of the city and bake your flesh in the sun.”
“But it’s okay to literally fry yourself with oil at the beach?” On my one foray to the seaside, I had seen teenage girls slathering each other generously in the stuff.
“Time and place, tesoro, time and place.”
I went into the kitchen, where la mamma had the ingredients lined up: my figs were in a bowl of water in the sink; there was a bag of sugar and some lemons sliced in half. More surprisingly, there were also saucers containing, in turn, a pile of rosemary, cinnamon powder, some cardamom pods, a small knob of peeled ginger, and a handful of cloves.
Bella Figura Page 17