by Lily Prior
“Signorina. It is done. I have completed my work on the manuscripts. A very important piece of work has been accomplished today.”
Carefully I returned the manuscripts to their cabinets, while l’Inglese gathered his things together and placed them in a little knapsack. As I was locking the cabinets, he came up very close behind me and buried his face in the back of my neck, making small, whimpering animal noises.
“Ahh, signorina. It has been a long hard day’s work for the poor Inglese. Won’t you comfort him just a little?”
“Signor, it is past closing time. If we do not hurry we will be locked in overnight.”
“That would not be so bad, signorina, would it?” he whispered right inside my ear.
“Signor, please, I must go,” I said, freeing myself.
“Very well, Miss Independent.”
L’Inglese stood back gallantly and with a wonderful gesture of his aristocratic hand waved me ahead of him up the spiral staircase. I had reached halfway before I realized that he had positioned himself directly underneath and was looking up my skirts. I tried to gather the material close around my legs so he could not see anything, but in truth, he had already seen everything. He smiled broadly at my discomfort.
As we walked through the entrance hall I knew I had to speak soon or I would always regret it. I had to be brave and speak out. I could not let this moment go by; I had to seize it. I knew I had reached a turning point in my life, and the next few seconds would be critical.
“Of course, signor,” I said very quickly, as if afraid my courage would desert me at the last moment, “if you really want to know about our food, you will not find it in books.”
“No?” L’Inglese read the signal.
“You, um, you need someone to show you.” I looked at him squarely while blushing like a beetroot.
“You mean you cook, signorina?” he asked, his eyes bright with a sudden fire.
“Signor,” I said, “I cook.”
“Of course,” he replied, tapping his forehead with his little hand in a gesture of sudden and complete realization. “Of course, now everything falls into place. It is natural, it is right that you cook, signorina. How could I not realize this from the beginning? From the moment when first I placed my eyes upon you and drew you into my soul like a breath.”
As he was saying this l’Inglese placed his little hands in an elaborate gesture upon his midriff, where his soul apparently lay.
“Teach me, signorina,” he breathed. “Teach me everything. I will be your pupil, your disciple, your slave.”
He removed one of his hands from his midriff and placed it on my generous breast. I groaned.
“Teach me. Oh, teach me, signorina, say that you will.”
I was incapable of uttering a word. My vocal cords, along with my other organs, seemed to be in a state of paralysis. Already I was experiencing doubts. I felt myself a novice swimmer in very deep water. Still, I had spoken out; now there was no turning back.
“Ttchurggh,” I gurgled, by way of response.
“Tchurrgg…?” repeated l’Inglese. This was a word that was new to him.
“I’m sorry, signorina, what is it, the ttchuuurggh?”
“Forgive me, signor,” finding my voice at last, “I have a little hoarseness in my throat. I will do what I can to assist you.”
“Signorina, you make me the happiest of men,” he said while bowing and, at the same time, hiding a little smile.
As I hurried home through the darkening streets, my heart fluttering, I had the feeling that I was being followed. I kept looking over my shoulder after every few paces but did not catch sight of anyone. I suppose I was just feeling unsettled. Had I been too forward in speaking out? I had almost shocked myself: it was as though someone else, someone bold and unafraid, had been acting for me.
I spent another sleepless night in my apartment and in the early hours of the morning I snuck once more into my little kitchen, to prepare a huge torta di ricotta. I needed a cheesecake: it was the only thing that could give me the peace of mind I craved.
Had I been too hasty in offering to give l’Inglese lessons? I asked myself, as I ground green almonds with my pestle. The power of my wrist quickly turned the almonds to powder. If only I could grind my worries away as easily.
I beat the ricotta, egg yolks, honey, sugar, lemon juice, and rind into the almonds. I beat and beat and beat the mixture until a sweat formed on my brow and my body began to glow with warmth. Even then I did not stop beating. I welcomed the exhaustion that began to creep up on me: I could feel the healing power of my cooking.
Really I knew nothing about l’Inglese. Nothing at all. Except that everything about him spelled danger to an inexperienced woman like me. I was afraid of him, yet could not bear the thought of not seeing him again. I was always thinking of him, imagining our next meeting: amusing myself with every possible scenario.
I whisked the egg whites into peaks in a matter of seconds. I reasoned that I had been right to speak out to him when I did. I knew how I would have hated myself if I had let the moment slip by. I knew how wretched and foolish I would have felt at my impotence, and yet this turbulence inside me was almost as bad. Acrobatic butterflies fluttered in my stomach, however much I tried to feed them into submission.
When the torta had baked to a golden, angel-scented crust, and after waiting impatiently for it to cool, I helped myself to a large slice with a thick dollop of cream. Ooh, it was good. I mopped up every crumb from the plate with my finger. Then I switched out the lights and climbed back into bed. I resigned myself to the thought that what was done could not be undone and drifted into a lemon-flavored sleep.
The following day I took the remains of the torta into the library to feed the poor students who did not bring any lunch. I always did this when I made anything I could not eat all alone. I reserved a large portion for Crocifisso, the doorman, to take home for his family. I could only guess how he fed his wife and seven bambini on the money he made.
L’Estate
THE SUMMER
CHAPTER ONE
We had arranged to meet at the corner of the Via Cala and the Via Cassari in the middle of the Vucciria market. When I arrived, l’Inglese was already there, trying to avoid dirtying his dainty shoes by stepping in the running water, discarded entrails, glistening fish parts, and the other foul detritus of market life.
I had been to the Per Donna hair parlor. My hair had been back-combed, sprayed, and piled so high it resembled a creation of the seventeenth-century French court. Unfortunately, when I emerged from the salon it was drizzling slightly and the pile of hair had sunk like a failed souffle before setting like cement.
We were instinctively aware of each other’s presence. Around us whirled the din of the market: the cries of the fish filleters, the vegetable sellers, and the butchers, the gabble of the housewives and the clucking of short-lived chickens. The accordion player vied with the rumbling of carts and the braying of mules. Yet a bubble of silence surrounded l’Inglese and me.
He kissed my hand without speaking and then we drifted through the tumult in slow motion like characters in a silent movie.
An amazing thing was taking place in the air between our bodies, something that flowed from both and entered each, joining us in a sticky web. It swelled and expanded, plucking at the strings of the deep-seated place in each of us that yearned and ached for consummation of this thing that had overcome us. Overhead the red awnings of the merchants bulged and flapped like the wings of a great red bird. Inside me a red wound throbbed.
We wandered the entire length of the street market, stopping to buy the provisions I needed for the lunch dish I wanted to prepare to initiate l’Inglese into the real art of Sicilian cuisine.
I took l’Inglese around the best stalls, teaching him how to choose produce, livestock, game, fish, and meat of the highest quality for his dishes.
Together we circled among the vegetable sellers, who were praising their heaps of artichokes,
zucchini still bearing their yellow flowers, spikes of asparagus, purple-tinged cauliflowers, oyster mushrooms, and vine tomatoes with their customary cries:
“Carciofi fresci.”
“Funghi belli.”
“Tutto economico.”
I squeezed and pinched, sniffed, and weighed things in my hands, and having agreed on the goods I would then barter on the price. The stallholders were used to me, but they had never known me to be accompanied by a man.
Wild strawberries, cherries, oranges and lemons, quinces and melons were all subject to my scrutiny.
The olive sellers, standing behind their huge basins containing all varieties of olives in brine, oil, or vinegar, called out to me:
“Hey, Rosa, who’s your friend?”
We made our way to the meat vendors, where rabbits fresh from the fields, huge sides of beef, whole pigs and sheep were hung up on hooks, and offal and tripe were spread out on marble slabs. I selected some chicken livers, which were wrapped in paper and handed to l’Inglese to carry. I had never had a man to carry my shopping before; it made me feel special.
We passed the stalls where whole tuna fish, sardines and oysters, whitebait and octopus were spread out, reflecting the abundant sea surrounding our island. Fish was not on the menu today, but nevertheless I wanted to show l’Inglese where to find the finest tuna, the freshest shrimps, and the most succulent swordfish in the whole market.
After we completed our shopping we walked back together down the Corso Vittorio Emanuel. Occasionally he would brush his hand or arm against me and I would experience a jolt of electricity.
CHAPTER TWO
It was not without embarrassment that I admitted l’Inglese into my little apartment in the Via Vicolo Brugno. Naturally, the day before I had sought permission from Nonna Frolla to give cooking lessons to a foreign gentleman in my apartment.
“I see no reason why the gentleman should not call, Rosa, for cooking classes,” Nonna had said with emphasis.
“Of course I shall call in to introduce myself, as your landlady. I assume he will be leaving before evening?”
“Of course, Nonna,” I said, blushing like a teenager.
Nonna had hurried to her husband with this news. It proved what she had known all along. That there was a man in my life, and a foreigner, too. She would keep her one good eye open the next day; of that Signor Frolla could be sure.
I opened the door and admitted l’Inglese inside.
“Here, signor, is la cucina,” I showed him. “Of course, it is very different from a proper country kitchen, such as the one on my family’s farm. Still, I have everything here that I need.”
“I can see that, signorina,” he said.
L’Inglese immediately made himself at home, examining my copper pots and testing the sharpness of my knives while undressing me with his eyes.
“And where, signorina, is the bedroom?” he asked after a pause.
I pretended not to have heard the question, and assuming a businesslike posture I rolled up my sleeves and put on my apron.
I wanted to show him how to make a timballo. This baroque dish exemplifies the style of cooking from the island’s aristocratic past, known as cucina baronale. Its main ingredient is macaroni, which, until the eighteenth century, was a celebratory food that only the very wealthy could afford to eat. The macaroni is mixed with mushrooms, onions, tomato paste, chicken livers, wine, cheese, and ham and then formed into a pie with a melting pastry crust. It is a complicated dish, so we tend to make it only on special occasions.
First I prepared the pastry dough. I stood back to let l’Inglese knead it and as he moved closer I could feel his breath on my cheek. I inhaled his cologne. Our fingertips met in the mixing bowl. Momentarily I stopped breathing; it was one of the most erotic moments of my life.
L’Inglese’s lips puckered slightly and he reached forward slowly. There was a knock on the door.
“It’s my landlady,” I said apologetically.
“Let’s keep very quiet and she won’t know we’re in here,” he suggested conspiratorially as he tried to draw me down under the table to hide.
“Oh, she knows we’re here, signor; she has only one good eye, but it sees like a hawk. I will have to let her in or there will be trouble.”
I dusted off my hands with a cloth and opened the door. Nonna Frolla trotted in along with her pug.
“Sir, I am Donna Maria Frolla, grocer and landlady. I understand that you are taking cooking lessons from my tenant Signorina Fiore.”
“That is true, most excellent lady,” said l’Inglese, immediately exerting his charm by kissing her clawlike hand. Nonna Frolla was enchanted and immediately began to play the part of a 111-year-old coquette.
“Signor, please,” Nonna said with exaggerated formality, drawing her hand away.
“I, unlike my tenant, am a married woman. Signor, it is my duty to protect my dwelling from the merest hint, the merest smirch of dishonor. I am sure you will understand that in my business my reputation is all-important.”
She sat herself down and continued, “Sir, I have been like a mother to Signorina Fiore for the past twenty-five years, since she first came into my lodgings, and I take responsibility to protect her and guide her through the villainous, the tortuous alleyways of life. She is very naive, signor. She is not one of us Palermitians; she is from the country, way out in the east where their ways are very primitive, very different from ours. May I ask you, signor, what your intentions are toward my tenant?”
“Signora, I thank you for your concern for the welfare of your charming tenant and daughter Signorina Fiore. May I assure you that my intentions are more than honorable. I intend to take lessons from her. That is all.”
“Of course, signor, of course, you are right. You are an honorable man. That is plain to see to anyone who looks into your honest face. Forgive me for being so careful. But I am sure you appreciate the sincerity of my motives in securing the reputation of this poor lonely girl. There are men, signor, of a type unknown to you I am sure, who would take advantage of such a girl; a girl of such naïveté and large bosoms. Bear me no ill will, signor, if I seek to protect her. Now, I see that you want to get on with your lessons. Please don’t let me interrupt you any longer. It has been a pleasure meeting you, signor. I hope we may welcome you here again.”
“Signora,” said l’Inglese, suppressing a smile, “may I assure you the pleasure has been all mine.”
Simpering, the signora bowed her way out backward and ran back to the store to give all her customers a verbal portrait of l’Inglese.
I was furious at Nonna Frolla for talking about me to l’Inglese this way. I would speak to her about it later. The embarrassment of it.
L’Inglese laughed at my pained expression.
“Signorina, you did not tell me that you lived in a convent.”
We returned to our work. Once the dough was mixed we set it aside to rest while we prepared the filling of pasta, mushrooms, and silky chicken livers.
“Taking some dried porcini mushrooms,” I said, imitating the cookery shows I had heard on the radio, “you should soak them in enough warm water to cover them fully and leave them for half an hour. Gradually they will soften and expand, releasing an acrid aroma and coloring the water a rich brown.”
Now was the time to make macaroni. I took little pieces of the dough we had prepared together and showed l’Inglese how to roll them around special straws called busi so that they form a tube. Then the fingers carefully release them.
This took much longer than I had anticipated, as l’Inglese deliberately ruined his macaroni again and again. I had to take his hands in mine to demonstrate the rolling motion an infinite number of times.
“While the mushrooms are soaking and the dough is relaxing,” I continued, “sauté a small chopped onion in a little olive oil until it is soft and transparent. Add some ’strattu, or strong tomato paste, and cook for a few minutes. Add two handfuls of chicken livers and cook until they jus
t begin to color. Add a little white wine and the mushrooms with their soak water and cook for about twenty minutes. Signor, please, don’t do that,” removing his hands from my bottom as I faced the stove.
“What shall we do while it is cooking, signorina? Perhaps you could show me the rest of your charming apartment?”
“This is all there is, signor.”
“Surely, signorina, you do not sleep in this kitchen?”
“I have a small bedroom, obviously, signor.”
“Ah, a bedroom. Won’t you show me?”
“No, signor. Now we need to add a good measure of butter to the pan and season the mixture with salt and pepper. Next, we need to cook the macaroni in plenty of salted boiling water until it is al dente. To test for this, you should literally bite a piece of the pasta and feel its texture against your teeth, thus…” I demonstrated.
“Signorina, do you know that you have the most sensuous mouth that I have ever seen?”
“If the macaroni is ready, drain and mix with some more butter, some grated parmigiano, and some prosciutto cut into thick strips; then mix all of this into the liver and mushroom mixture, so.”
He was still scrutinizing my mouth, with his own slightly opened and reaching forward. He was in danger of catching flies in it, and I told him so.
“Finally, oil a timballo mold and line the base and sides with two-thirds of the pastry dough. Fill it with the macaroni mixture, then cover with the rest of the pastry and brush with some beaten egg. Cook in a moderate oven for around half an hour until the pastry is golden.”
With the timballo safely in the stove, l’Inglese pounced. He was not going to be put off any longer. He seized me in his arms and delivered a passionate kiss on the sensuous mouth of this startled librarian. I fought for breath.
The most wonderful aroma was filling the air, causing those passing through the street outside to look up and say: “Rosa is in her kitchen today, there’s no mistaking it.”
“What’s the matter? Signorina, why, you kiss like a frightened mouse. Just relax, open your lips, let your tongue stray into my mouth, it is nice, come, let me show you.”