The Recipe Cops

by Keith Weaver

  When they entered Sanford’s hotel suite, they found that Julia was still dead to the world. To Sanford, she looked angelic, as always. Her face was relaxed sweetly in sleep, the slight smudges beneath her eyes betraying the excitement of the morning and a night of inadequate rest on the plane. Her blond hair was splashed artistically across the plain cream pillows. Maria evidently had the same feelings, and the sight of Julia caused her immediately to begin dabbing at her eyes.

  There was a small alcove off the main room of the hotel suite, and Sanford gestured that they might sit there. Seated in the sun, a warm breeze reaching in through the open window and plucking at their hair, they spent almost two hours in discussion that, to both of them, was unique and overwhelming.

  During those two hours, the remaining missing elements of Sanford’s life fell into place. Maria spoke of her first encounter with Joe in terms of a colpo di fulmine, and she said that looking back she was certain that they were both deeply in love within hours of their first meeting. They spent days and weeks together, visiting all the spots in Rome Joe wanted to see, and some he didn’t know about. They spent days walking in the countryside outside Rome. It was all a haze, a connection between two people that was beyond the experience of either of them. They took day trips to the coast, trips inland to as far as Orvieto and Assisi.

  In due course, Maria had become pregnant with Sanford, and as soon as she knew she was carrying a boy, she secretly always referred to him as Gianni, her little Gianni.

  The dark clouds of trouble began gathering almost immediately. Maria knew that her family would explode if they found out. She would be sent away for the duration of the pregnancy. The baby, when he arrived, would be given up immediately for adoption. And that would be that.

  Joe hatched all manner of schemes and floated them past Maria. She knew that none of them would work. She and Joe discussed the situation late into many nights. There was only one way forward that Maria could see – giving up the baby – and it was unpalatable to both of them. Marriage to Joe, a foreigner and not a Catholic, was a non-starter. Even to suggest it to her father would be little short of a declaration of war. The two of them were in anguish for what seemed an eternity.

  Then Maria came up with an alternative. She would find “another job”, somewhere out of Rome, Torino perhaps. She would move there and convince her family she was pursuing an employment opportunity too good to throw away. She would leave Rome, but the real reason would be to have the baby elsewhere, out of sight and out of harm’s way. This plan, ostensibly looking to Maria’s future as a graphic designer, certainly would cause frictions, of course. Her father would be against any plan that took her away from family, that left her susceptible to every cad who thought he might take a run at her. No. Maria’s future was as the good wife to some worthy husband, someone her father could talk to, scrutinize, put through the wringer, before any decisions were made. But if the truth became known to the family, Maria felt certain that, after the fact, her mother would see the logic. Her mother, herself, had been caught in the “good wife” trap. They got along, even loved each other, her mother and father, but Maria’s mother’s life had been bereft of any future other than the family chores that had filled – overfilled – her time.

  “What about the baby?” Joe had asked, unconvinced.

  Through a flood of tears, Maria had said “You will have to raise him”.

  “Me? I’m not even a permanent resident in Italy.”

  “Not here”, Maria had said, choking and sobbing. “In Canada.”

  Joe had lapsed into stunned silence.

  Apparently they had argued things every which way, Joe trying to find the one path out of the labyrinth that they must have missed, that they surely had missed. But it always came back to just the two possibilities: adoption and loss of the baby for good, or Joe having custody.

  “We did move away, but not to Torino. We moved to Moncalieri, near Torino. I have no relatives there, so it was a safe place. It wasn’t easy. But we met nice people, kind people, and they helped us a lot. I had to deceive my parents, and that bothered me, but there was no other choice. You were born. Oh Gianni! You were such a beautiful baby! We registered the birth, got all the papers.

  “And then the horrible day came. The day when you went to Canada with Joe. I thought I would never see you again, Gianni.”

  Sanford sat there, stunned, as a picture of what must have happened formed in his mind.

  Suddenly, he knew.

  He knew how this likely had all come about. The pieces all came together.

  Joe had known Aileen from childhood and they had been neighbours for decades. They had become confidants, probably after Harold had abandoned Aileen. It was very likely that Aileen had confided in Joe about her barrenness on some dark occasion when she needed comfort. Then when Joe turned up with a baby, Aileen’s instincts would have been given a powerful jolt. Sanford could imagine how it might have started off. Aileen offering to look after little Jim while Joe was off working long hours. Then a powerful bond slowly forming. Then Joe recognizing the drastic impact on Aileen that would result from any fundamental change in this arrangement. Joe simply let things ride, expecting that when the time was right all would be explained to Jim. Sanford had no proof that this was what had happened, but it fit, it felt completely right, and having this new view of the two most important people in his early life was something that took his breath away.

  Sanford put his arm around Maria, around his mother’s shoulders, and she wept silently.

  “You probably wonder about the name Gianni”, she said, drying her eyes.

  Sanford looked at her and nodded.

  “That’s what I would have named you if … To me, you will always be Gianni.”

  In response to gentle probing by Sanford, more of the story came out. Joe sent Maria pictures of Sanford, but she had to be careful with them, and in the end she did find a safe place to hide them. Joe had told her about Aileen, and Maria admitted to sharp pangs of jealousy, until she realized that her son would be raised by someone who appeared to be as devoted to him as Maria was.

  The years went by. Joe suggested to Aileen when Sanford was about twelve that they should tell him about his past. Aileen was aghast, terrified that Sanford would somehow lose his regard for the person he had considered his mother, that she, Aileen, could lose the most valuable thing in her life. She begged Joe not to say anything. So he didn’t, and time moved on.

  Later, Joe suggested again to Aileen, when Sanford was in his twenties, that they should tell him. But the old terror awoke again in Aileen, if anything in even greater strength. “He will react badly to being not told all these years”, she said. She feared, again, that Sanford would turn against her, and she would lose him. So, they kept quiet.

  Then, Aileen died suddenly.

  “Joe kept saying he was going to tell you the whole story”, Maria said. “He even said he had set a date to do that. I didn’t know why he had suddenly changed his mind about telling you, but I think he was also afraid of you being angry.”

  Sanford’s expression was frozen in place, and he gazed into the distance. Maria looked at him. “What’s wrong?”

  “That was why Joe wanted to see me”, Sanford said, looking blindly past Maria. Maria’s hand tightened on Sanford’s arm, expressing an unspoken question. He turned to look at her. “Joe and I had agreed I would spend three or four days with him. I had already booked the time off work. He was probably going to tell me then.”

  A feeling of great wistfulness settled over Sanford.

  “Joe died the Saturday before that.”

  “Oh Gianni! No! I’m sorry!”

  At last, the ghosts from Sanford’s past, ghosts that had risen only recently, were being laid to rest. Sanford took Maria’s hand firmly in his, and nodded toward the bedroom door, from behind which they could now hear murmuring. “Your granddaughter is awake. It’s time you met her.”

  Maria flushed visibly in expectant joy
.

  Twenty-eight

  When Sanford and Maria entered the bedroom, Julia was dressed, sitting on the bed, and brushing her hair.

  “Hi Julia”, Sanford said. “Come and meet Uncle Joe’s friend Maria.”

  Sanford watched them both closely. Maria smiled brilliantly, and walked over to Julia holding out both hands. Julia was a little uncertain, but she moved toward Maria, took her hands, and a smile slowly formed on her face.

  “Ciao Giulia”, Maria said, and Sanford sensed immediately that, in her own mind, Maria saw the Italian spelling of Julia’s name.

  “Ciao Maria”, Julia replied, since she had liked the word ciao as soon as Sanford had explained it to her.

  Maria laughed softly, put her arm around Julia’s shoulders, and they both turned to face Sanford.

  “Did you know Uncle Joe well, Maria?”

  “Yes. I knew him very well.”

  “He was as nice as Daddy.”

  Maria looked at Sanford mischievously. “Oh, I think he was nicer.”

  Sanford looked at both of them and grunted.

  “Well”, he began dubiously, “despite the insults, this is a special occasion and I think we need to celebrate.” The suite had a small bar fridge, just big enough to accommodate a bottle of Prosecco once all the other bottles had been removed. Sanford lined up three glasses, took the Prosecco out of the fridge, and opened it. The pop of the cork made Julia giggle, and she couldn’t wait for a small glass to be poured for her.

  Sanford handed a full glass to Maria, a tasting portion to Julia, and raised his own glass.

  “Let’s drink to Uncle Joe and to us.”

  Sanford led them to the chairs near the window, they sat, and he and Maria both began answering questions from Julia, while carefully dodging the central truth. They talked for about half an hour, Julia moving her chair gradually closer to Maria’s and smiling up at her.

  Sanford divided the last of the wine among them, and said that they should think about going out somewhere for dinner.

  “I’m getting hungry”, Julia said.

  But Maria was shaking her head.

  “We will all go out for dinner, but to my place. I cook you something really special. What did you eat for lunch, Giulia?”

  “I had pasta and some nice fishy things.”

  “Well, I have some nice things for dinner as well.”

  “You shouldn’t have to cook for us, Maria”, Sanford objected.

  “For me cooking is a pleasure. You must come.”

  It was soon clear that nothing would budge her from this project, so Sanford relented. Having won that battle, Maria was eager to lay out a plan for how they would fill what was left of the day. “First, we look at Genoa.” And look at Genoa they did.

  Maria appeared to be versed in all the history of the city, and rhymed it off as they walked. But she kept it general, since Julia had had no schooling yet, and what she knew was limited to the few shreds she had picked up from Sanford. They walked along part of Via San Luca before diving off through a maze of caruggi, the charming little lanes that riddle the old city. They covered part of Via Garibaldi again, and when she heard the name Garibaldi, Julia exclaimed “Giuseppe!” Maria looked at Sanford in a mixture of astonishment and delight, and whispered “Bravissimo!” to him. They walked and walked. Julia seemed impossible to tire, and she was full of questions. The narrow twisting streets fascinated her, and she kept tugging at Maria’s sleeve asking about this or that feature they were passing. Sanford tried to keep track of where he was for a while, but eventually admitted he hadn’t a clue, and just tagged along. They rode the funicular to Mount Righi, and spent fifteen minutes just taking in the afternoon view, the sun slanting across the harbour and the breeze sweeping through palm fronds.

  “Okay”, Maria said decisively. “Time to go. We need to eat soon, and you can help me do the cooking, Giulia.”

  “What will Daddy do?”

  “Daddy will look after the wine. Off we go!”

  Within minutes they were in a taxi heading back once again to Boccadasse.

  Not having had any real chance to take in the features of Boccadasse during the previous taxi ride, when he had picked up Maria, Sanford spent time looking around as the taxi made its way to Maria’s building.

  A unique piece of the exceptional Genoese quilt, Boccadasse is tucked in at the eastern end of the city. It has blocks of flats, some of them quite nice, set at invitingly irregular angles on the hills that climb out of the sea. Rows of upturned fishing and sailing boats line the upper end of a small and fairly scruffy bit of rough stony beach. There are little local bistros, a few shops, three reasonably broad streets snaking up the hillsides, and a warren of lanes conforming grumpily to the irregular framework dictated by the buildings. As they had approached Boccadasse, what Sanford came to recognize as the signature profile of the place – the elegant jumble of perched buildings – stood out against the flat background of the sea.

  The building containing Maria’s flat was a solid five-storey affair. Sanford paid the driver, and they all bundled into the building and up to Maria’s flat. The flat was laid out in what would be known in Toronto as a relatively spacious one-bedroom, having a generously large kitchen and living–dining room area. Maria watched Sanford look around in appraisal.

  “I’ve lived here more than twenty-five years”, she said, “and finished paying for this place about five years ago. A lot of the payments came from contributions from Joe.”

  “Joe sent you money?” Sanford asked, and then hesitated at his own unintended rudeness.

  Maria smiled. “Every year. He also visited me here every year, and on each visit he had a building project.”

  “Does she mean Uncle Joe, Daddy?” Julia asked, looking at Sanford.

  “Yes, Uncle Joe”, Maria replied. “He was an amazing man. Did you know, Giulia, that he could speak Italian … what was that word … fluently, yes, fluently?”

  Sanford remembered the annotated books he had found in Joe’s spare room.

  “After a couple of years, we wrote to each other only in Italian because his Italian had become much better than my English.”

  “But your English is excellent!” Sanford objected.

  “That give you some idea how good was Joe’s Italian. After a few years, he had friends here.”

  Maria showed them around her neat and colourfully decorated flat. Joe’s hand was evident almost everywhere, from the tiling in the bathroom and kitchen, to the rich woods in Maria’s bedroom, to the plaster and paint in the living area, to the bookcases. Everything was done matching a local style, but the flat sheen on the wood surfaces, the whimsically appealing tiling patterns, and the careful imperfections incorporated into the plastering and painting might as well have borne Joe’s physical signature.

  “How long would he stay, when he came here?” Sanford asked.

  “Never longer than two weeks, sometimes only a week or ten days.”

  Maria looked wistfully into a past that was evidently warm but also filled by if onlys.

  “Did you travel much in Italy when Joe came to visit?” Sanford asked.

  “No. We almost always stayed here. But Joe became very fond of Genoa. And he got to know Boccadasse well. He found the local book shop during his first visit, and quickly became friends with Franco, who owns it. Franco introduced Joe to a few other people, but the most important was Silvio, who is a policeman at the local detachment, but also collects work by poets who lived or still live near Lake Garda. In fact, all three of us once spent a weekend there, and Silvio showed Joe around Gabriele D’Annunzio’s villa, Il Vittoriale, at Gardone Riviera. We spent most of a day there, and near the end of that day Silvio gave Joe a little something to remember the visit. It was a book called Season of Storms. Joe was surprised to find that it was in English, and even more surprised when Silvio told him that it was written by one of Joe’s compatriots. Ever since that visit, Silvio always checks to make sure that I’m all right, tha
t I have everything I need. Silvio and Joe had become good friends.”

  Here, Maria drifted into another short reminiscence.

  “Joe never stayed long enough during those visits”, she said softly. “He always said he had … responsibilities … to go back to”, and she rubbed an eyebrow in a vain attempt to hide tears that had leaked out.

  “Are you okay, Maria?” Julia asked in obvious concern.

  “Oh, yes, Giulia dear, I’m fine. Just a bit tired and hungry. So, come! Both of you! Into the kitchen! We start dinner.”

  Sanford realized that they had spent quite some time looking around Maria’s flat and talking, and dusk had settled outside. Maria began pulling things from her small fridge, from her oven, and from cupboards.

  “So, we have some nice focaccia, which I warm up now, and olive oil, good local olive oil, and some olives, then we have pasta with a salsa di noci“, and here she looked to Sanford who managed to supply a translation – “walnut sauce” – “then we have chicken, how you say farcito … ah yes, stuffed, stuffed by pesto and cheese, and then we have some nice lemon cake and fruit.”

  “Gianni! Vino! Nel frigo, per favore. Giulia, please take these olives and olive oil to the table, then come back for knives and forks. Gianni! I bicchiere sono nel armadietto a destra.” It took Sanford a couple of seconds to decode all this – the wine being in the fridge, and glasses in the right-hand cupboard. By the time Sanford and Julia had completed their tasks, Maria had the elements for the entire meal laid out. Water was on for cooking the pasta, and a plate of focaccia was warming in the oven.

  The wine was poured, a very pleasant white from Cinque Terre, and Maria raised her glass, saying with obvious pride and generous hospitality “Welcome to my home, my dear friends.”

  Julia moved to a bookcase to the left of the window, and began examining the hundred or so books neatly ranged so that their spines all sat on a common line about an inch in from the edges of the shelves.