Three Gold Coins

by Josephine Moon

  They were now in Trentino. For the next couple of days, before heading even higher into the mountains to visit Carlo, they would be working their way along la strada dei formaggi delle Dolomiti—the Dolomites cheese trail—as Matteo wanted to visit some farms and factories to see what others were doing.

  ‘Aren’t you on holiday?’ Lara had asked lightly, buttering toast in the Bologna hotel restaurant that morning.

  He had smiled at her, cradling his coffee in two hands, taking his time with it. ‘I am very lucky that I love what I do. I don’t ever really feel that I work. So this will be a holiday for me. I am excited to see what others are doing and what I might be able to take back to the farm.’ Then he shrugged self-consciously. ‘Or maybe a farm of my own one day.’

  ‘Would you have a goat dairy, like the one you’re on now?’

  ‘Maybe. I love all food, so I think I would be happy on most farms.’ He paused. ‘But I do love the goats. They amuse me.’

  Lara smiled, thinking of Meg and Willow grumbling at her and kicking up their heels. Some mornings when Lara went out, she would find one of them with her front feet in a bucket for no discernible reason other than fun.

  ‘I envy you,’ she’d said, thinking of her real estate job back in Brisbane. ‘There must be a deep bliss in having found your dream career. I wouldn’t even know where to start looking.’

  Now, as they pulled into the gravel driveway of a Trentino restaurant on a hillside, she took in the scenery and considered that if she had a job here in the mountains, she might even start to love her job too. ‘Look at this,’ she said in awe, motioning to the restaurant and the surrounds.

  The straight cypress pines of Tuscany had long since given way to the wide Christmas-tree pines; the rows of grapevines and flat yellow wheatfields that sat between mountains had opened up to green fields of cows, sheep and goats; and the slower rivers and canals had opened up into fast-running rivers of melted snow busting down from the peaks above them.

  But it was the buildings that astonished her. She felt wholly ignorant and naive, but she’d just had no idea how Austrian northern Italy was, and felt even more stupid when she’d mentioned it to Matteo and he’d informed her that that was because this land had been part of Austria.

  ‘Italy annexed it in 1919,’ he’d said.

  ‘That’s not that long ago. Do people still speak, um…’

  ‘Austrian German,’ he supplied. ‘Maybe some elderly people, those whose parents were born in what was Austria and spoke their language to their children. But mostly everyone speaks Italian.’

  In front of their van now was a classic example of this Austrian past. It was a huge stone building, whitewashed and with dark wooden beams around doorways and windows, a sharply pitched wooden roof to allow the snow to slide off, and bursts of bright pink, yellow and purple flowers overflowing from balconies. Moving through the doorway, carrying trays laden with food and drink, were women with their hair in braids, wearing white blouses underneath green pinafores.

  Matteo removed the key from the ignition. ‘Let’s eat.’

  ‘Why is the cheese here so good?’ Lara said half an hour later, feeling bloated and sleepy from the warmth inside the building and the rather large house beer she’d been working her way through. Matteo cleaned up the last of the semi-hard, dark-rind Nostrale d’Alpe cheese, originating from this area, and washed it down with his own beer. She envied his ability to eat so much. She could live on cheese, oh yes, she could.

  ‘Fifty or sixty years ago, everyone in these mountains had their own house cow. They milked their own cow to make cheese, yoghurt, butter. Not everyone can afford to live in these mountains now—they need jobs—but the traditions are strong. Each village has its own cheese and is fiercely proud of it. Some families will still have someone in the mountains who continues to make their traditional cheese.’

  ‘Like Carlo,’ she said, the thought of the box back in the van like a stone weight on her.

  Matteo nodded. ‘Carlo’s whole family lived up here for centuries. He lived down in Tuscany for a long time, but moved back here when his father died. He is the last one still living the old way.’

  A wiry, white-haired man walked in the door wearing lederhosen and a brown felt hat with a small feather sticking out of it. Lara expected someone to start yodelling at any moment, and rather wished they would.

  She shifted the conversation away from Carlo—she’d have to think more about Samuel’s message for him later—and brought her attention back to the cheese board in front of them, small white flags on toothpicks bearing the name of each cheese. ‘I really don’t understand what all these names mean,’ she said. ‘Back at home, you’d be lucky to find ten different types of cheese in the supermarket. Here, there are thirty different types on the menu in this restaurant alone.’

  ‘It’s very complicated; you’re not alone. I am a cheesemaker and I could not tell you everything.’

  ‘Well, that makes me feel better.’ Lara suddenly realised how much she loved the fact that Matteo never talked down to her, never made her feel inferior or dumb.

  ‘Essentially, that thing you call parmesan or brie isn’t really a parmesan or brie.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘It is cheese made in the style of brie. There are only two real Brie cheeses in the world. They have been registered as being authentic to the region of Brie in France. Everything else, any cheese called a “brie” anywhere in the world, isn’t really a brie. Does that make sense?’

  ‘Sort of,’ she said, watching the white-haired man ordering from a braided waitress, and tried to ignore the large deer head nailed to the wall above the fireplace behind him.

  ‘Cheeses are classified on firmness: hard, firm, semi-soft and soft,’ Matteo continued.

  ‘Ah. So parmesan would be hard and ricotta would be soft.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the harder the cheese the more flavour it has?’

  ‘Often, but not always. Have you tried Stilton?’ He smiled.

  ‘Oh, yes! The smell! It got so far up my nose I couldn’t get rid of it for hours!’

  ‘That’s it,’ he said, laughing. ‘You can change flavour with the cultures you add or the type of milk you use—Guernsey milk has a high fat content, and fat gives flavour, but Jersey milk has higher protein. And of course how long you mature the cheese is a big factor.’

  ‘Now I can see why you have a degree in this stuff,’ she said, loving how animated Matteo became when talking about his favourite subject.

  ‘You can change a cheese’s flavour by cutting it months earlier than you intended. Most of the time, soft cheeses mature quickly, in weeks, but with less flavour than hard cheeses that mature for years.’

  ‘So what you’re saying is that there’s no one formula for how long to mature a cheese? The cheesemaker needs to decide that.’

  ‘Not if the cheese comes from a mass production factory. There everything needs to taste the same, always, or the customer gets cranky. But in the hands of a craftsman, making cheese like we do back in Fiotti, from our own goats, yes. What I make this year should taste different to next year because my goats will be different, the grasses and weather will be different, I might feed the goats different foods, I might be having a bad day—or a really good day—when I make the cheese. All of that will change the taste.’

  ‘That’s amazing.’

  ‘Just think of it like wine. Each wine that a winemaker makes is different, which is why a certain year will sell really well and everyone wants it and pays a high price for it. Cheese is a living thing—or it should be, when you use raw milk. In a tiny isolated village, like in these mountains, a family may have been making their cheese, using the grandfather’s culture that he created, which they re-culture each year. That family would have a totally unique cheese, not found anywhere else in the world.’

  ‘That’s so beautiful.’ Lara had really only dipped her toes into the Italian approach to food, their reverence for food, but
she loved it. They celebrated difference. They wanted difference.

  She was different.

  Perhaps she too could be loved, not in spite of her difference, but because of it. She stared at Matteo for a moment, speechless, then pushed the thought aside to ponder another time.

  ‘So what do the names of all these cheeses mean, then?’ she asked.

  Matteo smiled, plucking a toothpick from a dark yellow, holey cheese. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘It’s like naming a child. Mostly, cheeses are named for the region they come from, or the cheesemaker who made them. The name won’t tell you what it tastes like if you’ve never tried it before or have nothing to compare it with.’

  ‘So what you’re telling me is that I must just keep eating cheese to learn all about them.’

  ‘Yes! See what I’m doing here?’ He popped more cheese into his mouth. ‘This is work, yes?’

  ‘You have the best job in the world.’ Lara picked up a wedge of delicately creamy, truffle-laced goodness—because, surely, there was room in her belly for one more piece.

  41

  Lara lazed under the duvet and stretched her arms out wide in the deep and comfortable bed. Here in the Austrian-like Italian inn, the walls adorned with shields bearing coats of arms, cowbells hanging from hooks and a dreamy green landscape outside her window, the world felt peaceful. She felt peaceful. Here in Italy, she was sinking into herself, really feeling like Lara for the first time in as long as she could remember. Yes, she missed her family and the kids, but she’d found something unexpected here: a place where she wasn’t defined by her past. Instead, she could see new possibilities.

  Matteo had told her last night that he’d be up early, talking with the innkeeper to find out more about cheese production in the area, so she took the time to check in with her people back home.

  First, she messaged Samuel to make sure he was okay and Henrik was looking after him, and told him to give Meg and Willow a kiss for her.

  Then she messaged photos of the Dolomites (the photos just don’t do it justice!) to Hilary, Sunny and her mother. And she sent another text message to Hilary to wish her a happy forty-second birthday.

  Hilary replied with a photo of herself dressed in fairy wings and a crown. This from my kids, she said. Then a photo of a whistling key chain for her car keys. This from my hubby. WTF? Doesn’t anyone understand I just want a massage?

  Poor Hilly Billy. Maybe next time you

  should tell them what you want? x

  Next time I’m hopping on a plane to Italy.

  On. My. Own. Speaking of which, have you

  shagged that gorgeous goat farmer yet???

  I need details! Not photos, mind. But long

  details of romance and wooing.

  The resultant thoughts of Matteo made Lara’s head spin. She pushed them away and instead tapped out an email to the kids for Sunny to read to them, telling them all about the little children she’d seen in Bologna, staying up way past their bedtime and eating pasta in restaurants with the grown-ups, and the tiny buskers playing their violins in Piazza Maggiore, their instruments at least half their size.

  She also told them about the trio of dark-haired beauties, about the same age as Daisy and Hudson, wrapped up tightly in little coats and long pants, blowing bubbles outside a shop selling wooden Pinocchio toys and books, each bubble a perfect whirling circle of rainbows, scattering in the busy wind.

  She’d always loved blowing bubbles with the kids, particularly very late on summer afternoons, when the sizzling, stinging heat had finally left for the day, sitting on the still-hot concrete of the driveway, blowing gorgeous bubbles to fill the air, the kids chasing them till they popped, then coming back for more.

  Often, Hudson would pick flowers and put them behind his and Daisy’s and Lara’s ears. It was one of his sweetest traits, she thought, and it gave her hope that he wouldn’t turn out like Dave. This was something she never wanted to think about, but sometimes the dread sneaked in. Sunny said it was rubbish, and that any son of hers would know from the start how to be kind and loving. Maybe that was what had prompted her to get a puppy.

  A tsunami of love for the children washed over Lara, temporarily rendering her unable to breathe. She closed her eyes, waiting for its intensity to pass.

  The first trimester had been a sea of terror, despair and instability. She had run from Dave, run away to Sydney to get as far from him as possible, but she couldn’t escape the awful realisation that Dave was right and there was no way she was fit to look after a baby—let alone two, as the scan revealed.

  But then there’d been Sunny, her beacon of light.

  The second and third trimesters had been much calmer. A heavy stillness fell around her, like huge, rich velvet theatre curtains that kept everything backstage a secret. Lara felt long moments of calm such as she’d never felt before in her life, even though on some level she knew it would all end, the babies would be born and she would give them away. But it was as though she knew if she could just get this one thing right, if she could just hold onto her mental stability long enough to deliver two healthy babies for their chance of freedom and happiness, she’d have done what she’d been put here on earth to do.

  People misunderstood the supernatural love of a mother. Lara had it; it was what brought those children into the world, and of that she was proud. But then it had transformed into a different sort of love, one that meant she could willingly and consciously choose the woman who could be the real mother, in action, every day. Sunny had it too, this supernatural force of selfless love. Sunny would die for those kids, no question.

  42

  Lara and Matteo arrived at their next stop on the cheese trail and were shown to their cabin by an ancient, unspeaking man who shuffled across the clearing to open the door for them, then shuffled away again, leaving Matteo and Lara in the deep silence of their surrounds.

  Their cabin shared the clearing with an enormous store of firewood, the same height and width as the cabin, both buildings with sloped roofs. They were nestled at the base of a steep rise in the mountain: a platform above many other cleared platforms all the way up and down this range. No key was necessary for the door. They dropped their bags, admired the rustic beams, flagstone flooring and open fireplace, then both glanced at each other.

  ‘There is only one bed,’ Matteo said. ‘I am so sorry. I didn’t realise. I will sleep on the floor, of course.’

  ‘No, don’t be silly. I’ll sleep on the floor. I’ll sleep over by the fireplace.’ Lara tried to sound cheerful and as though she really meant it, though the idea was terribly unappealing.

  ‘No.’ Matteo held up his hand. ‘Absolutely not; I will sleep on the floor.’

  Lara bent down to look for a rollaway mattress beneath the sagging queen-sized bedstead in front of her, but only discovered dust. She opened the doors of a wobbly wardrobe, but there were just clothes hangers and extra blankets.

  ‘Maybe we could see if there is another room inside the house,’ she said feebly.

  ‘It is no big deal,’ Matteo said gently. ‘Goat handler here, remember? The barn floor is my friend.’

  Lara placed her hands on either side of her face. There was no need to panic, she told herself. They were travellers, on an adventure. This sort of thing happened when you were travelling. She was no stranger to a night with no sleep; she should just count on staying up, maybe snoozing a little on the couch, being useful by tending the fire.

  Matteo walked across to her, his strong farmer’s frame bulked up by his coat, his deep brown eyes terribly seductive. He put a hand on her shoulder and a spark of energy bolted to her chest so that she almost jumped under his touch.

  ‘Lara, trust me. It is no big deal.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said quietly. She was grateful, of course, but she was also starting to feel fractious with Matteo, and couldn’t put her finger on why. She smiled it away. ‘Let’s go for a walk.’

  They put on t
heir sturdy shoes and slipped out into the crystal-cool air, heading for the slope behind the cabin, wanting to find a view from up high, like eagles. They hiked in silence, taking their time, nowhere else to be, and Lara’s irritated mood evaporated.

  They climbed through soft brown leaf litter high up in the hills behind the farmhouse and their accommodation hut, dappled sunlight fell through the pines, and ferns cast magical rainbows at every turn. The only sounds were those of birds taking flight from the grasses around them, the breeze shifting through the treetops high above, and the rhythmic fall of an axe far below them in the valley as it chopped through even more wood to add to the huge winter store. The steepness of the track tested Lara’s heart rate.

  She stopped, put her hands on her hips and puffed. Matteo, his legs far more used to this kind of exertion than hers, turned and smiled. ‘Should we rest here?’ he asked.

  ‘I…think…I’ll…have…to,’ she puffed. ‘Woo! This hill is steep.’ Her calves pinched with burgeoning cramps.

  A new sound entered the air then, the loud, tinny clangs of cowbells from the hidden animals meandering through the trees.

  Matteo sauntered back down the hill and she was pleased to see that even if he wasn’t as breathless as she was, his face was at least beaded with sweat. As if reading her mind, he wiped his forearm across his brow. They stood side by side gazing out at the view.

  ‘Spectacular,’ she said, struggling to believe that something so stunning could be real and that she was actually here.

  ‘It is bellissimo,’ he agreed.

  They stood together in peaceful silence, drinking in the view. This was something Lara wanted to be able to see in her mind again and again after she…

  Went home.

  The thought fell hard, just like the axe.

  Something odd had happened. Right now, she could say with certainty that she didn’t want to go home. Where had that come from? It wasn’t as if she was never going home to Australia. Of course she would; her family was there.