by Peter King
He chuckled. “It’s a hard life, my lad. Problems, decisions everywhere. Did you know they want me to play Churchill? He’s one of my heroes, how can I do that? Even if they have got—no, I can’t tell you—to play Stalin.”
A waiter was firmly shooing away a girl who looked like a reporter as we attacked the lamb. It was succulently tender and the Madeira sauce and the rosemary butter complemented one another surprisingly well.
“At the bottom of that sheet is a number where you can reach me.”
“Country code thirty-four—that’s Spain, isn’t it?”
“Yes. I’m shooting some episodes for a television series. Richard the Lionheart it’s called.”
He eyed me in a challenging sort of way and that gave me just enough forewarning not to say “Surely you’re not playing him!”
He smiled. “Yes, I’m playing Richard. The writers have made him an older man. Richard was only thirty-two years old when he left on his first crusade, did you know that? We’re shooting all the battle scenes in Spain. I’ll be a physical wreck when I come back. I went up to Lincoln last week to see that bloody great sword he used. It’s still there, in the Guild Hall, you know. I could hardly lift it—it’s over six feet long and weighs a ton. Feels like it anyway.”
He had a reputation for collecting unusual and little-known facts and I could picture him going up to Lincoln just to swing Richard’s sword.
“They’ve made me four aluminium and plastic replicas,” he went on, chuckling. “The way I wield that weapon, I’m sure to break one or two.”
He had an engaging way of chatting. There was no boasting and none of the domination of a conversation that many movie and TV stars had. The things he talked about were interesting to him and he liked to share that interest with others.
“Nigel is taking care of travel and hotel arrangements for you. Have you met him? He’s here somewhere …”
“No, I haven’t. Is he the fellow who phoned me?”
“Yes, that’s Nigel.”
“Fine,” I said. “Well, I’m ready to swing a sword or two in my own way. A dinner knife, anyway.”
“Good man.” The way he said that had been used by impersonators who liked to depict him in a command post on the battlefield, nonchalantly sending unwilling volunteers off on impossible tasks.
That was not a real parallel with me though, I reflected. This job would be easy, a real pleasure—with no risks involved at all …
CHAPTER TWO
THE AIRPORT AT BOLOGNA is not large but the Alitalia Boeing 737 landed smoothly without even using up all the east-west runway. Traffic into Bologna has increased at a faster rate than airport expansion, with the result that the terminal always seems crowded. Then I remembered that the entire country always seems to have many times more people than it has in reality. I was watching for my suitcase when I spotted a board among the many being held aloft in the baggage claim area.
“Perseus Travel,” it said. Lansdown had told me that he was laying on a service to get me to my hotel. Perseus Travel turned out to be a lanky young man with long black hair that he had to keep pushing out of his eyes. His dark eyes showed no interest in me as he took my one suitcase and told me he had a limo out front.
It was parked in the absolutely-no-waiting-or-stopping zone and the way in which he passed a couple of banknotes to the police officer on guard there was clearly the outcome of much practice and in-depth experience.
It had been about two years since I had been in Italy, and as always when I came here, I was glad I was not driving. Every Italian seems to have aspirations of being a Grand Prix contestant. They drive faster and there seem to be more cars, louder horns, more gestures, and more close calls than anywhere else in the world.
Ignoring the traffic and concentrating on enjoying the countryside was easy to decide, not so easy to do, but I persevered. Away from the airport surroundings, all the familiar impressions returned: the fields of manicured olives, the dusty sideroads leading into small vineyards, and the unfinished houses. Only Mexico can compete in the percentage of houses begun and never finished. They seem to be everywhere, many of them bearing the unmistakable signs of many owners. Brick has been used here, stone there, concrete block elsewhere; then the next buyer, convinced he has a bargain, has a better idea and uses another construction material.
The intermittent row of cypress trees stamps Italy indelibly on any scene it adorns. Then from a bony ridge of hills, I could see a squat, ugly, but once-formidable castle, gray with age, still proud and now lonely. In a knife-thin valley, concrete mixers were standing in line, ready to pour the foundations of yet another housing tract, probably new homes for the thousands of East Europeans now finding Italy the next promised land after Germany.
The limo slowed marginally as a sneering condescension to entering the suburbs of Bologna. A church behind iron railings had red and white banners outside proclaiming a clerical congress, and next to it was a row of crumbling almshouses. Just beyond was Il Banco del Spirito Santo, the ubiquitous chain seen throughout Italy. The Bank of the Holy Ghost is a name that astounds tourists who see it for the first time, but closer acquaintance with the country brings the realization that only the Italians could blend the spiritual and the financial so blithely.
The traffic thickened as we penetrated the town. My driver shouted curses at a bus that refused to get out of his way, then swerved violently in front of an ambulance with flashing lights. It was no doubt on its way to a hospital carrying an unfortunate pedestrian who had unwisely ventured out of his house. My driver yelled curses which did not reflect well on the personal life of the Holy Family and stamped on the accelerator so that he was not too many seconds late in a race with a traffic signal.
It was with relief that I arrived at the Ambasciatore Imperiale Hotel. The severe stone facade made it appear a little grim on the exterior, but inside, the spacious gray-and-white marble—flagged lobby was divided with mirrors and curved walls. Large modern oil paintings and wrought-iron stairways flanked a wall of stainless steel-fronted elevators while the room was larger than usual, colorful in soft beige and light orange. Every convenience was provided, including a phone and TV in the bathroom, while the minibar was well stocked.
I had unpacked, taken a shower, and dressed when there was a knock at the door. I opened it to find one of those gorgeous girls who have given Italian glamour such a good name.
She flashed me a dazzling smile. “Hello, I’m Francesca from the escort service,” she said in English that carried only the faintest trace of a charming accent. She pushed the door further open and came in before I could protest, although that thought had not crossed my mind. She closed it with a provocative flick of a well-rounded hip.
“Desmond sent me,” she said.
I had not expected Lansdown to supply any auxiliary services of this nature but she broke into a giggle and went on, “He told me to say that. Actually, he explains in this fax. May I sit down?” She handed me a sheet of paper and sat in the armchair by the window. She crossed a pair of elegant legs and leaned back to watch me read. Lansdown’s fax explained that he had retained her agency to furnish me with an interpreter and guide for as long as she was needed during my stay in Italy. He had added a note to me stating that he had used her services while he had been making the Don Juan movie. He said she was extremely efficient, has a thorough knowledge of the area, knew a number of people in influential places, and he was sure she would give maximum satisfaction in every regard.
A writing table was handy, and I sat in the chair beside it and looked at her. She wore a light sandy brown-colored business suit with wide lapels and a skirt just to the knees. It was a spectacular fit and I found her a credit to the Bolognese commercial community.
“He speaks very highly of you,” I told her.
She had big, dark eyes, almond-shaped, and a generous mouth. Her nose was unmistakably Roman but only proud not dominating. Luxuriant black hair had probably once cascaded down her back but wa
s now cropped a half inch short of severe. Her figure was curvaceous, with a slim waist that accentuated her bosom and hips. She had long showgirl legs, which she uncrossed then crossed the other way.
“We had some fun times together,” she said in a musical voice that is found in so many Italian women and confirms the nation’s eminence in opera. “I was working in the Cinecitta Studios in Rome when Desmond came to make Don Juan. I was assigned as his personal assistant. Sometimes I work as a script girl—I want to be a director but nobody has given me the chance yet.”
“You were born in Rome?”
“No, here in Bologna. I grew up in this region, in Verona, Parma … I work for the escort agency in between films—times are hard in the movie business here in Italy just now. American films are what everybody in Europe wants to see.”
“Well, I’m glad to have you,” I told her. “My Italian is passable, but it’s much better to have someone who is a native speaker.”
“It sounds like a pleasant task for you,” she said demurely, and I wondered how much she knew.
“Your presence will make it even more pleasurable,” I told her. Italians should not be allowed to think they are the only ones who can be gallant. Before she could respond, I asked swiftly, “What exactly did Lansdown tell you?”
“He has put a lot of money into a new food guidebook. For the Italian section, you are going to review restaurants in this region—where the best Italian food comes from,” she added loyally.
“Good. I am sure you will be very helpful.” So Lansdown had not told her the real reason I was here. Did it really make any difference? was my fleeting thought. Perhaps not.
“Desmond also sent me this list.” She handed me another fax. Eight or nine restaurants were listed. The three belonging to the candidate chefs were among them but not together. Lansdown had evidently added the others as a blind. I noted that the first name on the list was underlined. It was the Capodimonte, owned and operated by Giacomo Ferrero, one of the three chefs on Lansdown’s list.
Francesca was a sharp-eyed girl. She saw my perusal of the list return to that name at the top. “At this time of year, it is not difficult to get a table, at these restaurants, but Desmond does not want any of your time to be wasted so he suggested that I make a reservation at Capodimonte. I made this for tonight. For two, of course,” she added with a delicious smile.
“Good planning. Yes, I want to visit as many restaurants as possible. Let me see, will you make reservations at some others for the following nights?”
“Of course.” She took a tiny electronic organizer from her bag. “Which ones?”
The computer had arrived in Northern Italy. She even looked as if she knew how to use it. Sexist! I reprimanded myself, naturally she does. I scanned the list.
“In the order Desmond has put them?” she asked innocently.
The other two chefs were down the list but there was no need to be too cloak-and-dagger about this. I wanted to check out all three promptly so as to allow time for repeat visits if required.
“This one, the Palazzo Astoria in Padua,” I said casually. “Isn’t that the restaurant run by Ottavio Battista?”
Her eyes glowed. “Yes! You know him?”
“He has a reputation,” I said, “even in England. They say he is the enfant terrible of Italian cuisine … er, do you speak French?”
“Of course. I know what it means. They also say that he is absolutely divine!”
“As a chef?”
“Yes—as a chef and also as a man.”
“Well, it’s his restaurant I’m interested in,” I said, which was a partial truth at least. “Let’s go there next.”
She nodded and her fingers flew over the minuscule keyboard. She looked up before I had time to admire her dexterity. I looked back at the list. “There’s another restaurant with a wonderful reputation … I keep seeing the name … it should be next—ah, here it is, San Pietro.”
“In Verona, yes, it is one of the best at the moment.” Her fingers twinkled again. “And after that?”
I picked a couple at random, names I did not know.
She rattled them off on the keyboard and reached into her bag again. Her hand came out with a cellular phone and she was squeezing out numbers. She said a few brief sentences and nodded to me. “We’re okay for the Palazzo Astoria tomorrow night.” I did not have time to congratulate her on her efficiency before she had repeated the performance. “Alas, the San Pietro is fully booked the next night, some special function but I can make it for the following night. The others can be arranged later.”
Lansdown certainly knew how to pick a good personal assistant. “Let’s see, it’s nearly five o’clock now,” I said. “What time is dinner tonight?”
“I made the reservation for eight-thirty. It’s a little early but I thought I should allow plenty of time for you to assess the place.”
Eight-thirty is not early by American or British standards, but this reminded me that the Italian stomach operates on a later schedule. Francesca stood up. “I will go now. Pick you up about eight-forty-five. Capodimonte is not far from here.”
“I thought you said our reservation is for—”
“Eight-thirty, yes. But no Italian ever arrives on time.”
She swung her bag on to her shoulder and strode to the door. She fluttered fingers.
“Ciao.”
CHAPTER THREE
“BOLOGNA THE FAT, IT is called in Italy,” she said.
Francesca looked charming in a close-fitting dress in black shantung with a tiny shoulder cape that achieved the maximum of exposure despite a pretense at modest coverage. Ebony and gold earrings and simple black high heel shoes completed a stunning effect.
I had heard that description of Bologna before but had forgotten it. The town lies in a buffer zone between the olive oil country and the butter culture where animal fat reigns supreme. Bologna’s location in the heart of Emilia Romagna means that it accepts both styles of cooking, striving simultaneously to maintain the old traditions and explore new horizons.
Not too new though … Lean Cuisine? Forget it. Diet? That’s for invalids. The Italians are not stick-in-the-muds in food, however, and are well aware of the trend towards more healthy eating that is still sweeping much of the Western world. That is to say, they are apprised of the trend but their reaction to it is cautious. Extra virgin olive oil has replaced lard and the harshest description they apply to a food is to call it pesante, heavy. Beyond that, their venturing is tentative—a contrast to the French who leapt eagerly on to the Cuisine Minceur bandwagon only to have a wheel or two fall off. Now they are trying to find a way back to some middle ground.
“In the inimitable way of Italians, you manage to keep abreast of modern trends in cuisine without emulating them,” I told Francesca. “You hold on to tradition without being a slave to it.
“It is also called Bologna the Red,” she said. “It threw away political tradition in the fifties and sixties and became the center of Italian communism.”
“A change that the rest of the world found baffling,” I pointed out.
“That was understandable,” she agreed. “No one expected a predominantly Catholic country to embrace Communism. But that was only the viewpoint of foreigners who did not have a deeper knowledge of the Italian temperament. We Italians are too realistic to expect a revolution to eliminate poverty, hunger, and inequality. We did not want a revolution, but we love the role of strutting rebels. We love the bands, the parades, the noise, the posturing, the food, the spectacle, the fireworks.”
I smiled at her exposition. “You like the trappings of revolution but not the ideology. You know, Francesca, you have a sound comprehension of the Italian people—for an Italian. Most nationalities do not see themselves as clearly as that. Patriotism usually gets in the way.”
She shrugged delightfully. “I have lived in America and in England. That helps.”
“To come back to Bologna the Fat. Do Italians still consider
this region as dominant in cuisine?”
“Oh, yes,” she said firmly. With a smile, she added, “Unless they are Sicilian or Piedmontese or Tuscan or Lombardian …”
“The old rivalries still exist?”
“Of course. They do not die. But overall and from an objective point of view—”
“If such a thing exists with food—”
“Yes, then Emilia Romagna still reigns.”
She had been only twenty minutes late picking me up so it was nearly nine-thirty when we arrived at Capodimonte. An hour late was nothing. She swept in as if she were the Queen of Sheba and was doing the restaurant a favor by appearing at all.
The sommelier appeared and invited us to have an aperitif.
“I’ll have a Rabarba,” I said.
Francesca clapped her hands in delight. “You know Rabarba?”
“An Italian friend introduced me to it years ago. I’m still not sure if I like it but I always order one.”
“I’ll have one too,” she said.
The Italians have a bewilderingly large selection of aperitifs. Many are made from unlikely vegetables and fruits. Rabarba is made from rhubarb and has a unique taste, sort of sweet and bitter fruity at the same time.
The aperitifs and the menus arrived. I studied the latter carefully, for I was at work already. There are several things you can learn about a restaurant from its menu. For instance, you should be suspicious if the menu offers crab bisque but no crab dishes. It probably comes from a can. Skepticism concerning quality is justified when the menu is as thick as a magazine, for it means that many of the products are frozen.
Francesca engaged in a detailed conversation with the maître d’ about several of the menu items and then ordered different ones altogether. First she had tiny squares of smoked eel on a bed of cooked Treviso radicchio while I had the bocconcini, a Bolognese specialty—vol au vents filled with chicken giblets and truffles. The tiny puff pastries literally melted in the mouth. We both went for pasta dishes for the second course. The region around Bologna is the pasta center of Italy, the maître d’ reminded us, so it was an inevitable choice. Francesca preferred the crosetti, rounds of egg pasta, while I had the frittalloni, which I had never encountered before. Small pasta cups were filled with spinach, cheese, and sultanas, the sweet seedless raisins, then deep fried. Francesca said she liked them sprinkled with sugar so she could eat them as a sweet course.