Bella Figura

by Kamin Mohammadi

  “All this?” I indicated, surprised. La mamma chuckled and let loose a torrent of broad Florentine, of which I understood only “figs” and “variety.” I looked out pleadingly at Antonella nearby on the terrace. Without opening an eye, she told me that la mamma thought it would be fun to make two or three varieties and see which I liked the most: a plain one, an herb one, and one with spices. La mamma handed me a knife and ordered me to peel the skins of the figs. I watched as she set three pans on the stove and started to cook the fig flesh with sugar and the various other additions. My only other job was to stand over the pans and stir them while la mamma went and sat down in front of the TV and Antonella came to keep me company. Finally, it was time for la mamma to taste the three jams and declare them ready for their jars. I tried them all too: the plain one was gorgeously figgy, the herb version had a lovely tang of rosemary cutting the sweetness, while the one with the spices was layered with heat and piquancy. I loved them all and went home happily, eating pecorino cheese and the three different fig jams for supper that night.

  * * *

  —

  One quiet Sunday afternoon, I accompanied Old Roberto to a shop on the via de Neri on the other side of the bridge. As we walked, the clouds that had been gathering overhead broke, one of those furious Florentine showers that made you doubt you would ever be dry again. We ducked into a shop selling pizza in little square slices, and I decided to eat some while we waited for the rain to stop.

  But it didn’t and, as we stood by the door, Old Roberto was silent, staring at the rain, visibly preoccupied. I asked if he was feeling all right and, stumbling, he told me that when it rained really hard like this, he started to have flashbacks to the flood of 1966 when the whole of Florence was submerged by water.

  Old Roberto told me about the flood, how after days of rain the Arno had burst its banks and washed over the city in an oily surge of mud, carrying debris and even animals from the countryside into the streets and into people’s homes, into the museums and piazzas. Roberto had been thirty years old, a man with a young family, living in the house that he still occupied on via di San Niccolò, just one street back from the river.

  We walked back over the Arno when the storm had passed. I regarded its fast-flowing waters with narrow eyes—it had always seemed so benign. I imagined the devastation the flood had caused, the most devastating natural disaster to befall the city. With her solid palazzos built like fortresses, Florence—solid, harmonious, ordered—seemed invulnerable, inviolable. And yet she was at the mercy of the Arno, so much of the world’s most beautiful art sitting just yards from its banks.

  I started to notice the plaques that charted the flood everywhere, on palazzi, inside museums: Il 4 Novembre 1966 l’acqua dell’Arno arrivo’ qui, they said. My walks became a mission to trace the flood, and I thought of the massive cleanup job, the bravery of the people who had picked up brooms and mops and scrubbed that sticky oily mud off their city. The foreigners who had poured into the city to help restore the art, wash down the walls of the museums, donate clothes to those whose possessions had been destroyed. On one of my walks I visited the I Latini restaurant, the first to open after the flood, the family of the owner coming from the countryside near San Gimignano with olive oil, wine, whole sides of prosciutto, and tons of bread, and how they had cleaned out their kitchen first so they could feed Florence. The anniversary was at the beginning of November, but these walks around town stitching together the monuments to the flood were my own little tribute to the city’s most recent natural disaster. It was also my way of making sure that I never needed to visit a gym again.

  Fig and ricotta tart

  MAKES 1 MEDIUM-SIZE TART

  Shortcrust pastry dough (I buy mine preprepared)

  15¾ oz. fresh ricotta

  3 eggs

  ¼ cup brown sugar (or local honey)

  1 tsp. orange zest

  Cinnamon powder

  8–10 fresh figs, cut in half lengthwise, stems removed

  Pistachios, to serve (optional)

  Spread parchment paper on a baking sheet, then place your shortcrust pastry dough on top and prick with a fork. Preheat the oven to 375°F/200°C.

  Make the filling by folding together the ricotta with two of the eggs, the brown sugar or honey, the orange zest, and a pinch of cinnamon powder.

  Place the ricotta mixture onto the dough, spreading all over except where you need to fold up the edges. Then place the figs on top. Brush the top with a beaten egg, then bake in the oven until the crust is golden brown (20 minutes or so—check the bottom with a spatula to make sure it has a nice brown color). Let it cool, then serve. You can also sprinkle a few pistachios on top before serving.

  Fig jam

  MAKES 2 LARGE JARS

  2 lbs. fresh figs

  18 oz. sugar

  Juice and zest of 1 lemon

  Sprig of rosemary or pinch of spices of your choice (see this page for la mamma’s suggestions)

  Wash your figs, cut off the stalks, and carefully peel off the skins. In a large pan, combine with the sugar and lemon juice, as well as a little lemon zest. Add whichever flavoring you choose—the rosemary or spices—and bring to a simmering boil over a medium-low heat, stirring constantly.

  Lower the heat and let the jam simmer, covered, for at least an hour, stirring occasionally. Remove the lid and continue simmering, stirring continuously until the mixture thickens.

  Sterilize your jam jars and pour in the jam, removing the rosemary or spices. Since there is no pectin, this jam will keep for 3–4 weeks in the fridge before spoiling.

  10

  OCTOBER

  ·

  Sprezzatura

  or THE POWER OF STUDIED NONCHALANCE

  PRODUCE IN SEASON · porcini mushrooms

  SCENT OF THE CITY · grapes

  ITALIAN MOMENT · parking in the middle of the piazza

  ITALIAN WORD OF THE MONTH · Maremma maiala!

  October was a month of light and shadow, the medieval walls imprinted with the silhouettes of cypress trees, the afternoon sun saturating the umbrella pines that lined the streets up to San Miniato. The temperature was that of a pleasant English summer but autumn’s bounty filled the market. Antonio’s stall overflowed with orange pumpkins, beige and dark green squashes in shapes I hadn’t seen before. There were so many—from speckled marrows to bright yellow squashes shaped like stars—that even Antonio didn’t know all their names.

  Then there were the boxes of different mushrooms. There were porcini with their brown caps spread over broad, barky stalks; small cream prugnoli that looked like champignons and were, according to Antonio, very popular during the Renaissance; and a colorful variety with smooth, glossy red-orange oval caps worn low over a golden stalk. These were ovoli, and, Antonio told me through a mime that I suspected was his favorite so far, they were also called Caesar’s mushrooms for having been prized by the Romans. He filled up a paper bag with a handful of prugnoli and ovoli—the porcini were beyond my pocket—and told me to toss them lightly in a pan with a little oil, garlic, and an herb called nipitella—calamint. Antonio instructed me to put it all on a bruschetta.

  There were also grapes everywhere, signaling harvest time for the vineyards. Mostly they were black and red and very sweet, and my favorite way to eat them became the schiacciata con l’uva when I was given some by Isidoro, a traditional schiacciata dotted with fat pieces of dark red grape.

  I was eating one of these late one morning sitting outside Cibreo when my phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number.

  A gruff male voice, Italian. Heavily accented and audibly puffing on a cigarette. “Ciao, Kamin,” it said. “I am Bernardo, friend of Carlo and Aurelia…”

  The Complicated Bernardo! I had received an email from him while I was in London, a jumble of terrible English telling me that he was away shooting but would like to meet when we were both back in Florence. I had shot off a quick reply with a date early in October and my phone number, and thought
no more about it.

  Bernardo, though, had obviously not forgotten. He was ringing me on the very date I had given him. He suggested meeting for lunch, telling me he was in the center of Florence. I agreed and gulped down the last of the sweet schiacciata—I had just broken all the rules of Italian eating by having a pastry before lunch. It had taken obstinate insistence on my part to persuade Beppe to let me eat this so close to lunchtime, we had nearly had a row. The Italians believed so passionately in the good sense of their eating rules that they couldn’t help but impress them on foreigners—namely, me—at any given opportunity. For them, it was a public service, a humanitarian act. I had been educated well, and yet I was still capable of going dangerously rogue on the rules.

  My misgivings on any more involvement with Italian men were overridden by the temptation of lunch somewhere new. Accepting a lunch invitation was always a good idea here.

  “Allora, we meet at the Porcellino in half an hour?” he asked.

  As I rounded the corner into the Mercato Nuovo, I hesitated when I caught sight of the man waiting in the appointed spot. He was nothing like the mental image of him I had; this Bernardo was shorter than I had imagined and broad-shouldered, with a full head of curly brown hair and a generously lined face with a large Roman nose protruding over a clipped beard sprinkled with white. He was dressed in a light tweed jacket and jeans, muddy worker’s boots on his feet; his fingers as he lifted the cigarette from his lips were covered in grazes and cuts. He was frowning slightly, deep in thought, preoccupied.

  He hadn’t seen me yet, and for an instant I wondered if I should turn away and go home, but I pulled myself together and instead went up to him and said hello. He asked me if I too had rubbed the snout of the boar, as tourists were lined up to do in front of us. I shook my head. “It brings luck,” explained Bernardo. “If you are a visitor, you must do it.” We joined the line. The line was slow-moving and conversation didn’t flow. In fact, it was downright awkward. Bernardo groped painfully for every word in English; he seemed ill at ease. When it was finally our turn, he pulled out some coins, which he tossed into the fountain of the boar while I gingerly touched the nose rubbed shiny by thousands of hands, my Virgo sensibilities challenged by placing my hand where so many germs must be lurking. “So now,” he said, pointing to the coins, “you will always come back to Florence.” And he gave me a smile so dazzling that it transformed his whole face.

  Laying a hand on my elbow, he guided me around the corner to his car. He walked with a pronounced limp but nonetheless at such a fast pace that I had to trot to keep up. At the car he first went to the passenger door, which he opened for me before going around to his own side.

  We drove through Florence, Bernardo explaining his limp, how an accident had left him with a leg so badly broken that he had spent several years in a wheelchair. “You see,” he said, indicating a pink laminated square that was stuck to the window, “I have this, is ’andicap pass. It means I can drive everywhere.” As if to prove the point, he turned sharply into the Piazza Santo Spirito, and, driving his car up into the middle of the square, he parked by the fountain. “Are you sure this is okay?” I asked, looking dubiously at the chaotic parking, but Bernardo just walked on in his fast and lolloping pace.

  The Piazza Santo Spirito was on my side of the river beyond the Ponte Vecchio. It was wide and leafy, overlooked by the church of Santo Spirito built by Brunelleschi. Its plain façade was unadorned, save for a perfect curlicue at the top. On the wide steps of the church was a ragtag of people: American teenagers drinking, Italian teenagers passing around joints, junkies with emaciated dogs, and tourists eating slices of pizza. Bars and restaurants were dotted around the square and the loggia of a hotel in a Renaissance palazzo stretched across one side. It was relaxed and bohemian and I loved Santo Spirito, often sitting on a stone bench under the shade of the acacia trees, watching the residents walk their dogs.

  Bernardo led me through the square to a plain restaurant in the corner of the piazza. I peered at him over my menu. He had kept his scarf knotted around his neck, his head held high as he looked down through his glasses at the menu, his big Roman nose dominating a face that reminded me of a portrait in the Uffizi. I riffled through the paintings in my head and, as he turned to the waiter and I caught his profile, it popped up. The Duke of Urbino, as painted by Piero della Francesca, in Portraits of Federico da Montefeltro and His Wife Battista Sforza hanging in the Uffizi. The hooded eyes, the hooked nose, the proud posture—here it was, sitting across the table from me.

  My own Duke of Urbino looked at me as the waiter returned. He ordered us a plate of fried porcini mushrooms, but otherwise he didn’t help me with the menu. That was not the only difference between this meal and my meals with Dino. Instead of being solicitous, Bernardo was serious. Talking hesitantly in a sort of pseudo-English in which he anglicized Italian words, he told me about his photography, showing me the catalog he had just been shooting for the Florentine fashion brand he worked for. He talked briefly of his three children, their two different mothers, the teenage son who lived with him, the two little girls who lived with another mother outside Florence. He also told me about his dogs, whose existence I had already guessed from the short white hairs on his jacket. Bernardo had, as well as the kids, some twenty dogs, which he had bred—a lifelong passion from the age of fourteen. I nodded along politely, trying to decipher his English. Post-Dino, I was aware of how little I could contextualize a new person.

  * * *

  —

  In London, every time I met someone new, there was an almost unconscious gathering of information that started the moment we shook hands—from the way they spoke, the vocabulary they used, the references they made. Here in Florence I had none of those references and it made me wary.

  And yet his pictures were as good as the best that had crossed my desk; he had a particular way with light, a refined sensibility that reminded me of the luminous paintings I had seen in the Uffizi. I could see a real artist at work and I was intrigued. And so, uninspiring as our lunch was, when he suggested we go to the opera the following Friday, I accepted.

  * * *

  —

  I love opera and I dressed up in a vintage Dior wool crêpe dress with a discreet neckline and classic full skirt that Antonella had pushed on me, declaring, “Every girl needs a little black dress, tesoro, and no one did them better than Christian,” as if they had been personal friends. Opera was, of course, another Florentine invention: the oldest surviving opera was performed in Florence in 1600 at the Palazzo Pitti for the wedding of King Henry IV of France to Maria de’ Medici. Bernardo’s family owned one of two private boxes in the Teatro Comunale, and in honor of this illustrious occasion, I had taken down my sparkly strappy high-heeled sandals from the wall. I picked my way carefully across the street from my front door, where Bernardo was waiting for me in his car. He leaped out and opened my door. I have always loved good manners. Brought up by Persian parents with strict adherence to a formal and courteous culture, I have never lost the sense of dismay every time one of my male friends slams the door in my face in the name of equality.

  Tonight Bernardo was more relaxed, the awkward manner gone. Approaching the theater, we could find nowhere to park, even with Bernardo’s special pass. Eventually, cursing, he said, “Let me make a place,” and squeezed the car into a half-space at an angle, mounting the pavement in that inimitable Italian way.

  I had been to the Teatro Comunale before, on one of my first nights out with Dino as a couple. He had taken me to a concert, we had sat in the stalls of the modern theater surrounded by well-dressed people, my hand in his lap under his coat caressing his thigh. I didn’t remember much more than that. Now Bernardo led me to the private box, which was at the end of a long corridor. He opened the door with a small key and ushered me into a room with a burgundy velvet sofa, two armchairs at the front of the balcony, chairs dotted about. There was a wardrobe for our coats. I handed Bernardo my jacket and sat down, wa
tching the scene below. The balcony was perched over the orchestra, on the side of the stage. It was a dramatically different vantage point, looking down into the orchestra pit and back over the whole of the auditorium, watching people take their seats in the stalls, along the circle, some glancing up to look at me as I sat, floating above the stage.

  Bernardo sat beside me in the other armchair, the music rising up to envelop us, but as the first act went on, he moved back to sit on the sofa. As Act One climaxed with Rodolfo and Mimi’s exquisite duet of “O Soave Fanciulla,” I was so thrilled by the purity of the voices ranging along the sweet romantic melody and the proximity of the singers that I turned to Bernardo. He was sitting deep in the corner of the sofa, a blanket across his legs, fast asleep.

  At the start of the interval, Bernardo woke up. “When I was a child they brought us here once a week,” he told me. “And I always fall asleep because”—moving cupped hands down by his thighs as if taking the weight of something very heavy—“it was boring! Now is automatic—when I come here, I fall asleep. Every time!”

  And sure enough, just like Pavlov’s dog, as soon as we were back in the box and the music had started, he took a seat on the sofa again and within minutes was in a deep slumber.

  * * *

  —

  “There was no pressure,” I explained to Luigo the next evening. “It was actually really relaxing. The opera was absolutely beautiful and sitting up on top of the stage like that…And without having to worry about making some kind of impression, I enjoyed it much more! I mean, this guy—I’m not sure if I like him, so, actually, it was ideal!”