The Sweetness of Liberty James

by Janey Lewis

  ‘I will walk from where the minibus drops me, thank you.’

  She stepped into the sunshine and climbed into the little bus that took guests from the hotel into town whenever they needed it. She was joined by a young American couple who were discussing the meal they had eaten the evening before.

  ‘We come from San Francisco, and we thought we had great pasta there! Now we are not sure we can eat outside of Italy.’ Their faces beamed with pleasure at her, and she felt a joy for them and their ability to appreciate, and not simply want an imitation of what they had at home.

  As the bus drove them down the hillside and through the outskirts of Florence, Liberty looked out at the shops. Fresh linen in neat heaps, little market stalls hanging with leather bags, cafés bustling with people standing drinking their cappuccino or espresso before rushing off to work. Dust, drains and roasted coffee filled her nose and she loved it. Even the driver’s strong cologne did not disturb her, although Percy would have complained loudly. Every hint of an aroma excited and amused her. This was living!

  The minibus dropped them in the main square, right by the Duomo. Liberty left the young Americans examining their street map. She could see them as she turned; they were already surrounded by touts and men offering horse and trap rides, while she strode away not caring in which direction she went. She wanted to explore and enjoy absorbing the atmosphere of beautiful buildings, people and history. She smiled as she walked past a café, the owner of which was yelling at the top of his voice to a delivery driver who had apparently forgotten his quota of peaches. The driver simply shrugged, and the owner smiled in typical Italian style, everything quickly forgotten as he saw Liberty, a prospective customer.

  ‘Cappuccino? Espresso? Signora?’

  My mouth almost hurts from smiling, she thought as she declined, anxious to see the city. Spying a beautiful shop adorned with linens and plates, she thought she had better phone J-T. He had told her to call the moment she knew the results of her test. In fact, her mother, father and boss had better be told where she was. She could picture her mother at the Aga, eyes glancing towards the phone, wondering why she hadn’t heard, whilst wrestling with a new recipe or a kitchen full of students. Unwilling and unable to speak to a kind voice yet, Liberty thought maybe a cappuccino would be a good idea. But I want to find a local café, in the Italian style, no chairs, somewhere I can stand in a very disorderly queue and wait to shout loudly enough to order my coffee over a bar, and then watch the world go by as I drink it. She filled her mind with as many ideas as she could, to remove any negative thoughts.

  She wandered through some narrow alleyways where washing hung from one side to the other way above her head, and then came out again into a large square with a church at one end. She found a café of the sort she wanted at last, and waited for attention. She was baffled and amused at the same time by how the barman could work out who was next in line, as it seemed utter chaos to her, but she watched for a while, learnt quickly, and then just shouted over everyone else, her height and looks helping.

  ‘Milano, espresso?’ asked the waiter.

  ‘Milano,’ she replied, the beans being smoother and sweeter. He handed her the cup. By now, 11.30, it was already too late for a cappuccino; she would be considered a tourist by any café owner if she insisted on ordering one, and despite being just that, she had no intention of advertising the fact, as her coffee would probably be taken by someone she had just queue barged. She took her cup on to the street, and looked along the narrow passageway, lined by ancient wobbly buildings, each as beautiful as the next, finished in intoxicating Tuscan colours: terracotta, dusky pink, burnt umber. Flowers spilled from well-tended baskets and urns, smart new wooden shutters protected the long windows. She imagined that behind the beautiful old exteriors were stunningly expensive and exquisite apartments, judging by the buzzers attached to the huge wooden doors.

  It was tempting to begin a fresh life and live somewhere new. She had always loved both Italy and France; the joy that both the Italians and the French seemed to take from life had long fascinated her. They always took time to enjoy each day and never allowed it to pass them by, whereas the English always expected and demanded so much from the world around them. She thought, We need to learn to stop, look and love, to breathe, to do what we want and not as we should. Liberty knew that she was English through and through, and although the idea of moving abroad was a tempting one, she also knew she had to get on with living, and that did not begin with running away.

  She strolled off down the street, and back into Via Borghese. She decided, first things first: new woman, new clothes!

  8

  Two hours later, loaded down by huge bags from many of the great fashion houses, Liberty headed for Buca Lapi, a well-known traditional trattoria, run by the same family for decades and the oldest restaurant in Florence. The owners used fresh produce and wine from their estate in the Tuscan hills. Hungry, and loving the sensation, the moment she started to think about stuffed courgette flowers with fresh ricotta she actually thought she drooled. She wiped her chin worriedly, then laughed out loud.

  She found the restaurant tucked down some stairs in a passage just off the Via Borghese.

  ‘Signora! Welcome!’ A tall, slim man took Liberty’s bags and put them behind his desk, then offered her his arm. Silver hair, handmade suit and shirt; Liberty summed up instantly that he was the owner rather than merely the manager, as he led her past the tiny open kitchen.

  ‘I have a special table for you. You like to be private or to observe?’

  ‘Ooh, definitely observe!’

  Carlo, as he introduced himself, raised a finger and immediately a waiter in a shoulder to ankle striped apron appeared and moved the table so that Liberty could slide on to a comfortable bench with her back to the window and look around the room. How typically Italian, she thought. A table for one, and they give you the window, just in case you want to keep an eye on the street. The table was larger than some of those laid for two. She giggled to herself – Italians obviously expected you to sit almost on top of one another if it was to be a romantic dinner for two.

  The elderly waiter brought out sourdough bread, crostini with tiny Tuscan olives and a glass of Prosecco.

  ‘May I choose for you, Signora?’

  ‘Oh, yes please,’ sighed Liberty, thrilled to empty her mind and let someone else do the thinking. The restaurant was just filling with diners. Those who had already finished their meals were presumably tourists, unused to the hours kept by the Florentines. Water rather than wine on the tables, maps everywhere and pasta being eaten as a main course. This early ‘tourist’ service allowed the tables to be filled for a second time at a normal lunch hour for Florence, and the restaurateurs loved it. The earlier sitting was at midday (who eats at such a stupid time, they sighed, but it was so easy for the kitchens); probably only a plate of carpaccio as a starter, followed no doubt by a big dish of pasta carbonara, followed by maybe a cappuccino (and who drank milk after a meal anywhere civilised?) then a rude wave of an arm when offered a limoncello on the house.

  The locals were arriving for their luncheon. Italians are used to taking a decent lunch break during the working week, although longer than one hour is frowned on in the modern, uncivilised world. But now it was Saturday, time to relax and enjoy life to the full. Elegant ladies and gentlemen, couples and families, grandparents and grandchildren, all exquisitely clothed, all buzzing with the excitement of eating together, of filling each other in on their news, sharing their silly problems or happy developments of the past week. They were simply here to enjoy catching up, gossiping and, of course, the food.

  One couple at a table close to Liberty’s had obviously had a bit of a set to. They sat side by side, as the restaurant encouraged couples to do, the man holding the girl’s hand, whispering in her ear as she looked the other way, her huge doe eyes glistening with hurt tears. He started to stroke her cheek whilst continually whispering sweet nothings in her ear.
<
br />   Carlo appeared and placed a dish between them. On it sat a solitary ravioli. One sage leaf atop, it was surrounded by butter. Liberty imagined the butter flavoured with the sage and perhaps a little garlic and pepper and wondered what the pasta envelope held within. Carlo silently placed a fork on each corner of the square dish and two small glasses of what looked like Marsala wine next to each of them.

  The man picked up his fork, the girl her glass. For one moment Liberty thought the contents of the glass were about to land in his lap, but no, they were Italian, after all! She took a sip, and he cut the corner off the ravioli, so soft and yielding, but then the fork found just a touch of resistance in the pasta, to show just how perfectly cooked it was. A little puff of steam was expelled from the centre and Liberty could discern sage and maybe butternut or onion squash, and she watched as the creamy filling spilled out on to the dish.

  The man placed his fork under the girl’s nose, as a parent might a child, and then lowered it to her trembling mouth, still glistening from the wine. Liberty realised she was holding her breath – would she? Wouldn’t she? The lips parted; slowly and gently he placed the small portion in her mouth. As her lips closed around the aromatic pasta, the corners of her eyes lifted and she chewed slowly and then swallowed. He smiled. She turned her head and gently kissed him. She then picked up her own fork, and tiny mouthful by tiny mouthful they fed each other. Not a word was spoken throughout the whole transaction. Liberty thought she had never seen anything more erotic in her entire life.

  Carlo appeared. Liberty had assumed the ravioli was an amuse-bouche for the whole restaurant. But it seemed they cooked different remedies for different maladies (perhaps this was really an Italian hospital?). On her own plate, miraculously placed before her while she had been examining her neighbours’ performance, lay a few wide ribbons of pappardelle. She could see and savour small pieces of rosemary, a few slivers of pancetta and some very green, freshly podded broad beans.

  Carlo shaved some pecorino on the pappardelle and drizzled the dish with a little of the vibrant local olive oil.

  ‘Enjoy. It’s good for you.’ He smiled.

  Liberty thought for a moment. Either the hotel had, along with reserving her table, given the restaurateur a full rundown of her disastrous love life, or, being an Italian man, he thought her too thin.

  She picked up her fork and scooped up a bit of pasta, a piece of the ham and a bean, gazed at it momentarily, and then tentatively placed it on her tongue. The aromas flew to her nose, whilst the flavours, delicate together yet individually strident, exploded in her mouth. What she hadn’t seen on the plate she now tasted. The fresh pasta had been cooked in water with a bay leaf to give it an aromatic flavour, the minute amount of rosemary was just enough to uplift and heal, the salt of the pancetta was enhanced by its partnership of fennel seed and pepper, and the new life in the tiny broad bean gave energy and a touch of sweetness, gently offset by the slight tang of the sheep’s pecorino.

  There were probably only three medium-sized mouthfuls on the plate. Liberty ate carefully so as to make seven, and then sighed heavily, as she had to relinquish her fork and greedily mop up the last vestiges of oil with a mouthful of bread.

  Well, she thought, were I to die now, I am healed and happy.

  Three courses followed: a single courgette flower stuffed with a light veal mousse and coated in a fresh tomato sauce; a few griddled baby squid flavoured gently with wild garlic and finally a single lamb cutlet, also griddled, and served with a herb and olive oil dressing enhanced by anchovies and capers.

  Liberty sat back, pleased that she hadn’t devoured the entire bread basket, but in no way did she feel over full. They knew how to balance a meal.

  She sipped her small glass of red wine brought with the food – fruity, light Chianti. She smiled and felt genuine happiness for the couple who were now chatting away happily, waving their hands to demonstrate their meaning, and from what she could understand of the conversation, talking about the apartment they were moving into, although it was obviously not the one the girl had picked!

  Families were conversing over coffees, children were playing together around the tables and the staff from the open kitchen had to dodge as they played games of chase around their feet.

  It was almost four o’clock in the afternoon, and Liberty knew she needed to walk and see more of the city, but she was enjoying herself too much. Carlo approached her table and looked down at her in a paternalistic way.

  ‘I am so happy you enjoy our lovely town properly, signora. It is so calm in here, and so happy, I feel you are seeing more of the true Tuscany in here than out there with the tourists. Well then, an espresso and you can have a walk along the river. It will not be too crowded, as many tourists leave around now to go for a rest before early dinner.’

  The espresso arrived with a tiny sliver of hazelnut and chocolate cake, a shot glass of zabaglione and a small ball of coffee granita, sprinkled with toasted hazelnuts and cocoa. ‘Try it, you will love it and ask for all my recipes,’ said Carlo with a smile.

  Indeed she did. ‘Sadly, I never divulge recipes,’ Carlo joked as he brought the bill.

  ‘Then why say that I should ask for it?’ she responded.

  ‘I didn’t say that you should, I said that you would. I gave my heart and the recipe for the cake to someone in Rome once, and she made it, only without love and without the essential ingredient . . . It only tastes as good with the butter from my cows, who live outside Florence, so unless you want to come and milk my cows every night, when the milk is richer, there is no point in my giving you the recipe.’

  Liberty smiled up at him with a glint in her eye. What was happening to her? When did she last flirt, for heaven’s sake? And what did happen to the lady who made the cake?

  ‘Well, as I said, she made the cake without love; I could tell, all beating and no care. I couldn’t love a woman who baked like that, so I returned to my family, found a lady who knew how to caress both human flesh and butter and cream, and from that moment on, no one gets the recipe apart from her! I am a married man, but you have made my day, signora, and you may return and eat at my humble ristorante any time you wish. You should come up to the estate and have lunch con la famiglia!’ offered the smiling owner (or should she call him doctor?).

  Liberty knew well enough that this was the restaurateur speaking, but she appreciated the offer. ‘Thank you so much, signor, I hope to return soon.’ With that, she paid her appropriately large bill, feeling she had indeed been in a hospital, and asked for her bags.

  ‘They have been taken to your hotel, signora, to free you for your walk,’ responded the lady at the desk. Wow! thought Liberty, now that’s service, and she climbed back to street level and headed towards the river. The tourists had indeed thinned a little, but in normal terms the city was still crowded. Liberty decided she had had enough, and suddenly needed to get away, back to the peace and sanctuary of the hotel, so she hailed a taxi.

  As the Fiat wound its way up the hillside towards Fiesole, Liberty realised she was shaking with apprehension. She had lost herself for a few hours; she had left her true situation and taken a fantasy day out. Now she was terrified in case Percy had returned, not because of what he might do to her, but simply because she knew she never wanted to see him again. She wanted truly to rid herself of him and everything she had ever shared with him. She felt different, cleansed almost, and was ashamed to find herself realising that she was almost happy, able to be herself for the first time in years. She also felt deeply sad, but only because she had been wasting her life for so many years.

  Percy was not at the hotel. Two envelopes were waiting for her. One was to inform her that an 11.30 flight had been arranged to take her to Nice the following day, and a hotel car would collect her at 9.30. The other contained an email that had been sent care of the hotel concierge.

  ‘Liberty, expect you to have calmed down. No hard feelings. Will see you Monday when I get back from work.’

&
nbsp; Liberty sat on the terrace with a cup of English tea and thought about herself, her life and her position in it. As she looked around the garden, reality flooded into her sore head. She did not want to, but it was necessary to acknowledge Percy’s message. She thought for a moment. She knew she would not go back to live with him. She had few possessions to call her own, and she didn’t want them. Or did she? Her diary and other personal papers were all at work. Her passport was with her. She certainly didn’t want to walk into the room she had been secretly transforming – in her mind – into a nursery. She had bought several rolls of Quentin Blake wallpaper, tiny baby gowns, cashmere blankets, several teddy bears. They were no longer needed. They were not part of her life any more. She realised she had no need whatsoever to return to the mews.

  The message she tapped out on her BlackBerry was concise.

  ‘Am staying with Paloma in St Tropez for a while. Will not be back.’

  As she pressed ‘send’, Liberty knew it was the right thing to do, but felt sick to her stomach and had to race back to her room to weep in private, grieving for her beloved parents-in-law and her lost security, and wondering what the hell she would do next.

  Finding herself weeping on her bed, Liberty thought, This is getting silly. Doing something better with her life did not include soaking Frette sheets with salty water and being a complete drip. She needed to do something constructive; despite a wave of tear-drained exhaustion enveloping her, she wondered if she had packed a swimsuit. Rummaging around, she found her bikini tangled amongst her lingerie and slipped into it, covered it with a discreet San Michele robe, and ran down to the pool. This too was built into the hillside and was surrounded by a lemon grove. The last rays of the afternoon sun still warmed the flagstones along the side. A few couples were lying on the loungers on the grass area surrounding the pool, but the water itself was temptingly turquoise, empty and calling to her.