“You have very nice view here.” He opens his legs wider, leaning forward to indicate the bella vista beyond.
“I know.” Belinda's nostrils flare, and her eyes are uncontrollably drawn to his crotch. “We're very lucky here.” She tries to turn away, then looks straight back at the bag of balls.
“I like views very much,” shares Bernard.
“Yes, yes, very good view,” adds Brigitte, appearing behind him in a black industrial-strength one-piece bathing suit with low legs and large foam bra cups that funnel her breasts into hard points. Her long, skinny white legs are covered with a blue-marbled veined effect, rather like Stilton cheese.
“Oh, Brigitte,” says Bernard, twisting in his chair. Belinda winces as his strained right leg operates a vicelike pincer movement on the string bag. She waits for his voice to rise an octave, but he does not seem to notice. “This is Belinda.”
“Very nice, thank you.” Brigitte smiles.
“Good,” says Belinda, snipping more new growth off her lavender bush. “Did you have a nice lunch?” she asks, nodding toward the table that is laden with half a baguette, a couple of large tomatoes, a Camembert, and a family-size packet of crisps.
“Oh, yes, super good,” replies Brigitte.
“There's nothing like fresh air to give you an appetite,” says Belinda.
“Oh, yes—bon appétit !” says Bernard, raising a plastic tooth mug of rosé wine.
“Alcohol as well?” Belinda beheads almost the entire bush as she stumbles and falls.
“Oh, attention !” says Bernard, leaping out of his seat. “Are you okay?” he asks, his arms outstretched as he towers above her. Belinda is horizontal on her lawn. She looks up at Bernard. He is gazing at her with concern, but his shorts remain in the same crumpled position and down his right leg swings the small string bag.
“Bernard!” says his wife, her eyes trained urgently on his crotch.
“Oh,” he says, looking swiftly between his legs. “Pardon me,”he adds, as he posts his balls back into his shorts with a deft tweak of his fingers.
“No, no, fine,” says Belinda, getting to her feet and smoothing down the blue artist's smock. “Just glad you're settling in.” She speedily picks up her secateurs and turns away. “We serve supper at seven thirty. No later, otherwise you won't get any.”
The ball-bag incident is enough to put Belinda off spying for the rest of the afternoon. Instead, she takes herself down to the kidney-shaped swimming pool and, between little rests, busies herself watering and gently weeding the surrounding garden. On lazy afternoons she likes to invite Franco up to Casa Mia to perform such services and follows him around, admiring the rippling and flexing muscles in his back while pointing out the occasional particularly tricky weed. This afternoon, however, she is grateful for the distraction. With Mary cluttering up the kitchen, and her guests displaying their private parts, there is precious little sanctuary for her. But it is all exhausting work. By the time Belinda is ready for her presupper cocktail at five thirty, her mouth is well and truly parched.
“Honestly, what a day,”she says to Mary, as she rattles around the kitchen getting herself some ice. “I've had no sleep, and I've had to deal with one trauma after another. And then to be confronted by Bernard's parts is enough to put any woman off her pruning.” She takes a large sip of her large gin and exhales in a satisfied manner. “That's much better. I'm beginning to feel human again,”she says. “So?” she asks. She puts her head up and takes in, for the first time, the chaos of the kitchen. There are three pans on the go, two dirty chopping boards, one greasy mixing bowl, and an odd, slightly acrid smell coming from the cooker. “Everything all right in here?” She opens the oven door to find a foaming dish of cream-colored something. “Yuk,” she says, her short nose curling. “What the hell is that?”
“Macaroni and cheese,” says Mary, running sprigs of moribund rocket under the tap.
“Oh.”
“I watered it down like you said, and the sauce separated,” she explains, her head bowed into the sink. “There was nothing I could do.” She continues washing the salad, waiting for her mother's anger to march into the room.
Belinda takes another slug of her gin. “Oh, well,” she says eventually. “Grate a whole load of cheese on top and I'm sure no one will notice. Anyway, from what I've seen so far, these Belgians are a couple of plebeian tourists who wouldn't know good food if it ran them over.” She takes another sip of gin. “They appear to live on bread and cheese, so pasta and cheese won't make a blind bit of difference.”She smiles. “So far they've been nothing but an irritating pain in the arse, and I'd be quite happy if they never came back, or recommended us to any of their ghastly friends. I'm going to suggest they eat in Poggibonsi tomorrow. It's their sort of place.” She takes another sip of her gin, drains the glass, and goes to fix herself another drink. “D'you know?” she continues, unscrewing the green bottle, “you can always tell what people are going to be like from their first inquiry. I particularly remember this lot because they asked about walking. I can't stand people who walk. It's a miracle I allowed them to come and stay in the first place. Mark my words, darling, they won't notice the food at all.”
owever, by the time Belinda serves the second spoonful of macaroni and cheese onto the surprisingly heavy plate, she realizes that even Howard Oxford's unkempt, unhappy, underfed mongrel would notice the food. So far Bernard and Brigitte have made all the right noises about sitting on the terrace under the stars. They have tucked into the chunky slices of salami and charred slivers of aubergine and red pepper that Mary had put together as an antipasto. In fact, they have been really rather polite, drinking their wine, regaling Belinda with stories of the lifesaving operations they perform on sick children in Brussels between dense, chewy mouthfuls.
“Macaroni and cheese,” announces Belinda, with hopefully blinding confidence, as she places a helping in front of Bernard, moving a candle to prevent his closer inspection of the slowly separating mixture that oozes across his plate. “And salad.” She puts a rather large bunch of leaves on top of the pasta.
The man feigns great interest, and, passing his long nose over his plate, he inhales.
“Mmm. Super good.”
“Brigitte?” asks Belinda.
“Oh, super good,” Brigitte runs a quick eye over the food, “but I am in fact on regime, so salads for me.”
“Too many crisps earlier today?” Belinda smiles.
“Yes, too many crips,” agrees Brigitte.
“Darling?” asks Belinda, addressing Mary.
“Um …” Mary hesitates.
“I think it is only fair that you share in your culinary triumph,” suggests Belinda, and adds another spoonful to Mary's already full plate. “Seeing as there's so much here.”
“So most interesting,” says Bernard, as he chews slowly. “Why an Englishwoman lives on her own ways in Italy?”
“Oh, Bernard,” smiles Belinda, taking a sip of her almost empty glass of white wine and serving herself a few leaves. “A clever, educated pediatrician like you should be able to work something like that out.…” She giggles and pushes her breasts together with her elbows on the table in front of her.
“No, but please to go ahead, thank you very much,” he says, nodding and chewing.
“It's a very long story,” says Belinda, pouring herself some more wine, “but you are right about one thing, Bernard,” she adds. “It is molto interessante…. ”
Belinda tells the well-practiced story of her arrival in Italy. The trials and tribulations that she went through—doing up her house, finding the right shutters and tiles. The workmen she had to deal with. The artisans she got to know on the way. And how she bought all the linen they are sleeping in from a super little stall in Serrana market.
“I washed it in warm soapsuds and left it on the lawn to dry in the natural bleach of the midday sun. Just like in Under the Tuscan Sun. I'm sure you must have read it?”The Belgians shake their heads. “Anyway,
I now keep a diary as well,” she continues. “It's full of little aperçus. ”
“Aperçus,” they echo.
“Yes,” she says, with an intelligent smile. “And pensées … ” She hands Mary the salad bowl to clear away. “And recipes.”
“Recipes.”They smile, looking down at the food.
“Super good,” says Brigitte.
“Yes.” Belinda inhales her own geniality. “Super good.”
“Mum?” asks Mary.
“Sì, Maria,” she replies.
“There are lights on at the Casa Padronale. Do you think they've moved in?”
“No? What? Impossible!” Belinda springs out of her seat and looks down the valley. “Oh,” she says, frowning, “you're right. There is a light.”
“Do you think they've moved in?” asks Mary again.
“They can't have, the place is uninhabitable.”
“Well, how else do you explain that?” asks Mary, pointing down at a light between the trees. “Unless it's burglars.”
“Burglars?” asks Belinda, wobbling with confusion and too much alcohol.
“Yes.”
“I think we'd better go and investigate,” announces Belinda, her finger pointing decisively in the air.
“What—now?” asks Mary, still holding the salad bowl.
“Well,” says Belinda, turning to look at her paying guests.
“No, no,” they both say. “Please to do …”
wo minutes later, with her guests still at the dinner table tucking into shop-bought tiramisù that Belinda forgot to pass off as her own, mother and daughter are in the car heading off down the hill to investigate. Belinda is in her floral frock and mercato hat, while Mary is still in her shorts and T-shirt. They pass the trattoria, which looks quite full for this time of year, and speed on down the hill past the Bianchis' farm, and Derek and Bar-bara's, just making the sharp right turn under the pole.
The drive is dark and difficult, overgrown with long grass and riddled with potholes; Mary and Belinda bounce up and down as they career along.
“No one could be down here,” says Belinda, holding on firmly to her bosom.
“Look! There's the light again,” says Mary, peering over the steering wheel. “It's not far now, is it?”
“I don't know,” exclaims Belinda, throwing her arms into the air, then immediately regretting it. “I've only been here once and that was five years ago.”
“Oh,” says Mary, pulling to a halt. “Here we are … I think.”
They sit in the car. With the headlights switched off, the driveway is pitch black and the silence is only broken by the gentle ticking of the engine as it cools.
“Are you sure about this, Mum?” asks Mary. “I mean, it could be anyone hanging around here late at night; poachers, vagrants …”
“I know.” Belinda nods, determinedly tapping the tops of her thighs. “But it could also be the American.”
“I can't see a thing,” says Mary, her face pressed against the window. “Are you sure you don't want to turn around and come back tomorrow?”
“And miss out on being the first to meet him?” asks Belinda, sounding somewhat incredulous.
“Okay, here goes, then,” says Mary, climbing gingerly out of the car.
“Here goes,” says Belinda, straightening the brim of her hat.
They slam the car doors.
“What do you think?” asks Mary. “Over there?”
“Sssh,” says Belinda, finding her mouth with her finger. “I can hear something.”
They pick their way through the long grass in what they think is the direction of the house. There is a loud scraping sound of stone against stone, and suddenly a door opens, bathing the two women in light.
“Hello?” comes an American voice.
“Hello?” replies Belinda, as she stares directly into the light. Head up, eyes looking down her short nose, she makes her way toward the gap in the door. “Hello,” she says again, exuding neighborly confidence. But just as she reaches the steps, her fashion flip-flops slip on the grass and send her flying toward the ground. “God, damn it! Shit!” she yelps, as she lands, tits first, on the grass.
“Hello? Who's there?” comes the voice.
“Hi there,” says Belinda, peering out from underneath her mercato hat, valiantly maintaining that the show is still on the road. Her voice sounds strangely English. “We're looking for the americano, ” slurs Belinda, still managing to sound patronizing as she gets onto all fours. She clears her throat. “The American,” she says again. “We're looking for the American.”
“Well, I'm American,” says the voice.
A slim, well-worked-out blonde steps out of the shadows. She is dressed in neat-fitting jeans, a white shirt, and flat shoes, her blonde hair is shoulder length, her arms brown and firm. She looks like she's in her thirties.
“Yes,” says Belinda, dusting off grass and coming toward her. “Well, we're actually looking for the americano. You know, the man who's bought this villa.” She smiles, her hand out ready to shake.
“I'm afraid I'm the person who owns this house. And last time I looked, I was, in fact, an americana. ”
“Oh, good Lord,” says Belinda, in an uncontrollably shrill voice. “A woman … how … Welcome to my—the valley. I'm Belinda Smith. This is my daughter Mary—or Maria …” Mary moves into the light.
“Hello,” says the American. Her glossed mouth smiles, and her expensive hair swings.
“I'm Lauren. And my …” She turns toward a shadow in the background.
“Good, Lauren,” interrupts Belinda rubbing her hands together. “Welcome to Toscana. Welcome to Val di Santa Cate-rina. Welcome to this little part of the world that I like to call home.”
“Why, thank you.” Lauren smiles. Her teeth are white and straight. She is most certainly attractive.
“I run the very upmarket bed-and-breakfast, higher up the hill,” says Belinda, pointing a chipped pink nail in the direction of Casa Mia. “You can't miss it.”
“You do?” says Lauren. “That's good.”
“So,” Belinda rubs her hands together, “what are you doing here?”
“What am I doing here?” Lauren looks puzzled.
“Yes, what are you doing here?” persists Belinda, moving from one foot to the other.
“What am I doing here? What are you doing here? What are we all doing here?” Lauren laughs, briefly. “I'm here to make Tuscany work for me, pure and simple, just like everybody else in the place. Anyway …” She shrugs. Her hair swings as she turns. “If you'll excuse me, I'm right in the middle of some-thing. You know, moving in …”
“Oh, yes, of course.”
“So, see you around,” says Lauren, in a tone that implies she won't. “Nice meeting you,” she adds, with a wide, white, pleasant smile that Belinda recognizes only too well.
“Absolutely … right, yes, good,” she says. “Um, how about—” Lauren shuts the door firmly behind her. “Oh? Right. Arriva-deary! ”says Belinda, waving away in the dark.
DomenicaSunday
Climafa caldo (Hot! Hot! Hot!)
It's another lovely summer's day in my corner of Paradiso and I'm just radiating joy. Sunday is a day that I particularly like to put aside for “me time.” It is a day for quietness, relaxation, reflection, when I like to pamper myself and do a few little Italian things.
If I am not too exhausted from entertaining the night before, I try to get up nice and early. The mornings are so fresh, so young here, and there is simply no suggestion of the heat to come. After a light breakfast of toast and a little homemade preserves, I take myself, my easel, and my watercolors down the valley, and while away the early cool hours breathing in and soaking up nature. It is so much more pastoral here than it is in, say, England.
I love painting, I really do. It is one of my talents, and, I suppose, it was one of my many main reasons for coming to Italy in the first place. Italy is such an artistic place. It is a country just made for the watercolor
ists' canvas. It is a feast for the eyes! There is beauty and culture around almost every corner. Each time I go into Serrana market to buy my fresh fruit and vegetables (I eschew the cheaper supermarkets) I notice different things. The fabulous Medici carved crest on the walls of the clock tower, the arches above the windows of the Santa Croce church, the colors of the breast-feeding Madonna in one of the alcoves in the church. Only in Italy, from mere shopping trips for provisions, could you come back with an artistic memory to treasure!
After a long morning spent in observation, expressing myself, I tend to return to Casa Mia to change, and then I'm off down the hill to join my friends for lunch at Giovanna's. Well, when I say friends, I really mean my extended family—Derek and Barbara and, of course, the famous writer Howard Oxford.
Sundays at Giovanna's are packed and very Italian. People come from miles around to sample her homemade food. Sometimes the Bianchis tip up en famille, and occasionally the sporty girls who live in the monastery take a table. We all sit and talk about our busy lives. But it is so relaxed and comfortable. Sometimes hours can go by without the need to speak—although I shouldn't imagine that will be the case today as we have so much to gossip about! Not only do I have news of my lovely Belgian guests to share, but also that the American who has bought the really rather run-down property in the poor position opposite Casa Mia turns out to be a woman! Quite extraordinary!
We met last night. Maria and I popped over as a break from our busy entertaining schedule. She asked us in and was terribly friendly, but unfortunately we could not afford the time to stay and chat. I know she will be needing our friendship in the future. It is only a matter of a horrendous thunderstorm, or a total electricity blackout before she's on our doorstep desperate to be let in!
Tuscany for Beginners Page 7