The Food of Love (33 page)

‘Well done,’ Benedetta commented. ‘Although it has to be

said, it might be better prepared in advance next time.’

He stared at her. How long had he been cooking? He had no

idea. Then he heard the church bells striking four. Four o’clock!

He had been making this dessert for over an hour.

‘I’ll take it to her,’ Benedetta said beside him.

‘Are you sure?’

“I said so, didn’t I? She should taste it first, before she knows who it’s from.’

He knew what an extraordinary thing it was that she was offering to do. He watched as Benedetta picked up the little plate. She

touched her finger to the side of the cake, picked up a crumb and tasted it. For a moment her eyes met his, and there was something in them he didn’t quite understand. Then she took his dolce outside.

Laura had been terrified when Kim started having convulsions at

the table, but now the doctor had confirmed that it was just an

allergic reaction to a particular type of mushroom, and that he

would be right as rain within a few hours if he was left to sleep quietly. The other customers and the lady who ran the place were sympathetic and helpful, and now, with the sun filtering through the trees and the amazing view beyond the war memorial to entertain her, and a bottle of the restaurant’s best wine open in front of her, she was feeling quite mellow. She helped herself to another glass, a little guiltily. Poor Kim. On the other hand, if he were here he would almost certainly be reminding her of the one-glass-a-day rule, and it was really rather nice to be able to indulge herself a little.

Heavens. Here was one of the kitchen staff coming towards

her, a strikingly pretty girl in a white jacket, her black hair cascading over her shoulders in defiance of all normal kitchen

regulations. She was bearing a plate on which a dessert sat, an

island in a little lake of sauce. The girl put it down in front of her and said, ‘Here. This is for you. Cooked specially by our chef, with his compliments.’

Was it her imagination, Laura wondered, or did the other girl’s

eyes search her face with a quizzical look while she spoke, as if she was subjecting Laura to some kind of scrutiny?

‘Oh, thank you,’ Laura began. ‘But I couldn’t. You see, I don’t

eat desserts.’

‘And a vin santo^ the girl said, ignoring her and placing a glass of golden liquid on the table.

‘No, really,’ Laura said firmly. ‘Please take it away.’ But the girl had already gone.

Laura told herself she didn’t want to appear rude. She would

have a couple of mouthfuls, and she could always slip the rest to the dogs that lay panting in the shade of the church wall. She

pushed the teaspoon into the top of the pudding, through the

layer of sauce, and tried a little.

The sauce. Memories flooded into her brain. It was zabaione. She had a sudden vision of herself, that first night in Tommaso’s apartment, licking sauce from her fingers.

Coffee. The next taste was coffee. Memories of Gennaro’s

espressos, and mornings in bed with a cup of cappuccino … but what was this? Bread soaked in sweet wine. And nuts - a thin

layer of hazelnut paste - and then fresh white peaches, sweet as sex ltself, and then a layer of black chocolate so strong and bitter she almost stopped dead. There was more sweetness beyond it,

though: a layer of pastry flavoured with blackberries; and, right at the centre, a single tiny fig.

She put down the spoon, amazed. It was all gone. She had

eaten it without being aware of eating, her mind in a reverie.

‘Did you like it?’

She looked up. Somehow, she wasn’t surprised. ‘What was it?’

she asked.

‘It doesn’t have a name,’ Bruno said. ‘It’s just - it’s just the food of love.’

‘How do you make it, if it doesn’t have a name?’

‘Well, there’s a sort of recipe.’

She was silent, remembering the apology that Tommaso had

texted her once, still stored on her phone. It seemed so long ago.

As if reading her thoughts, Bruno said: ‘Take one American

girl …’

She looked at him, surprised.

‘With honey-coloured skin,’ Bruno continued softly, ‘and

freckles like orange-red flakes of chilli on her shoulders. Fill her with flavours, with basil and tomatoes and pine nuts and parsley.

Warm her gently between your hands—’

‘It was you,” she said, realising at last.

‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘It was always me.’

‘You’re the cook. And Tommaso …’

‘Tommaso is a fine person in many ways. But not a chef.’

She closed her eyes. ‘Why?’

‘As a favour to Tommaso, originally. And then - I really did love you, and I loved to see you eat. And it all got horribly complicated, but I was too stupid to see that it would end the way it did, and before I knew it everyone was shouting at everyone else.’

‘There was a lot of shouting, wasn’t there?’ she agreed with the faintest of smiles.

There was a sudden commotion at the door of the osteria. Gusta’s voice could be heard, and it was clear that she was arguing with someone. A moment later Kim appeared, looking pale and

angry, with Gusta and Benedetta just behind him.

‘Sweetheart,’ he said icily, stopping at Laura’s table. ‘When we ordered, do you recall seeing anything like a menu?’ There was a note of petulance in his voice Laura hadn’t heard before.

“I guess not,’ she said.

‘And do you remember reading, on this non-existent menu, a

non-existent warning to the effect that dangerous mushrooms

were being served at this restaurant which might precipitate an

allergic reaction?’

He waited. Laura was clearly meant to play her part in his

tirade. With an apologetic glance at Bruno, she muttered, ‘No.’

‘Was there any verbal warning, explanation or other rider to the effect that this meal was actually life-threatening?’

‘Not that I heard,’ she said, looking at the ground.

‘Not that you heard.’ He turned to Gusta, who was standing

with her arms folded and a face like a dog that has just swallowed a wasp. ‘And thats why I want the name of your lawyer. So that I can sue your fat ass into the ground.’

Laura flinched visibly, though Gusta herself didn’t blink.

‘It might have been the wine,’ Benedetta said. She shrugged.

‘Everybody knows that you have to be careful if you drink white

wine with mushrooms.’

‘Everybody except me,’ Kim said firmly. ‘And who served me

this wine?’ He pointed at Gusta. ‘She did. Did she tell me to be careful? No, she did not.’

Bruno stood up. “I prepared the food,’ he said calmly. ‘If

anyone’s going to be sued, it’s me. I’ll happily give you my name and address, though I’m afraid I don’t have a lawyer.’

There was a brief silence as the two men stared at each other;

Kim still flushed with rage, Bruno apparently unconcerned. ‘Oh,

forget it,’ Kim snapped at last. ‘Come on, Laura. We’re going.’ He stalked off to where their car was parked next to the church, leaving Laura to follow.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said awkwardly to Gusta. ‘He doesn’t like

being made to look stupid, that’s all. It was,’ she hesitated, ‘it was really good to see you, Bruno.’

‘When do you go back?’

‘To Rome? Right away.’

“I meant to America.’

‘Next week. I’ve left it as late as I can, but I have to get back for college.’

He nodded. She was flying away, like the skylarks. He watched

the two of them buckle themselves into the car, and then the car itself move off rapidly down the hill, towards the autostrada, and Rome.

They went back into the kitchen to finish clearing up. For a long time nobody spoke..After a while Benedetta announced that she

was going up to her room to rest. Bruno tried her door later, but it was locked.

He had to wait until much later, when the evening service was

over and the house was quiet, before he was able to speak to her.

There was no answer when he knocked, but this time when he

tried the door it opened.

She was sitting at her dressing table, brushing her long black

hair. ‘Go away,’ she said without turning around.

He sat down on the end of the bed. “I wanted to say thank

you,’ he began. ‘What you did earlier - that was unbelievably

generous.’

‘Too generous.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘If I really cared that much about you, I wouldn’t have helped

you go after someone else.’

‘You cared as my friend,’ he said gently. ‘That means a lot to

me, Benedetta.’

‘That’s what we are, is it - friends who have sex?’

‘You’re my mirror image, Benedetta. We understand each

other. We even have the same gift. If I’d never met Laura I’d

want to be with you, but I did meet her.’

‘So why didn’t you go after her today?’

He shrugged. “I did my best.’

‘Oh, sure. You offered to let her boyfriend sue you. Nice work.’

‘What was I meant to do?’

‘You were meant to hit him. Wasn’t it obvious?’ She stamped

her foot. “I went to a lot of time and trouble to arrange things so that you and he were out there, with everyone shouting, and you

didn’t even hit him! What sort of an Italian are you?’

‘Not a very good one, evidently,’ he muttered.

“I should have realised you were spineless when you first

arrived, and you never tried to grab my ass when we were together in the kitchen.’

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Benedetta was just

getting warmed up and was brooking no interruptions.

‘You know your problem, Bruno? Menefreghismo*. You don’t

really give a shit about anything or anyone apart from your cooking.

Not her, and certainly not me.’

‘That’s not true,’ he protested.

‘Isn’t it? Did you even ask Laura to choose you over that idiot

today?’

‘No,’ he admitted.

‘And why not?’

‘Because she would have chosen him.’

‘How would you know, if you haven’t asked her?’

‘Look at me,’ he said hopelessly.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Just - look at me.’ He gestured at his own face in the mirror.

‘That guy she was with - he’s good-looking. Tommaso - he’s

*An expression that combines The nefregd’ - ‘I don’t give a damn’ - and ”machismo’: in other words a cultivated attitude of not bothering.

good-looking. Laura’s beautiful. Why should she choose a guy like me when she can have a guy like that?’

There was a brief pause, during which Benedetta regarded him

with narrowed eyes. ‘You’re beautiful, too, of course,’ he added belatedly.

‘Thank you. So why did I sleep with you?’

‘I’ve absolutely no idea,’ he confessed. ‘I’m very glad you did, but it’s a complete mystery to me.’

‘Santa CieloP she cried in exasperation. She dragged his face

closer to the mirror. ‘Tell me, Quasimodo,’ she commanded,

‘which part of you exactly is so ugly?’

‘Well …’ He made a vague gesture. ‘All of me.’

‘Specifics, please.1

‘My nose,’ he muttered.

‘Your palate, you mean? The secret of your success?’

‘When I was little, other kids used to say things.’

‘Such as?’

‘“Can I plug you into the TV so we can pick up the football in

Tokyo?”’

‘Is that all?’

‘“Your nose is so long your ID card won’t fold.”’

‘Ha! Very good.’

‘“Your nose is so long that if you shake your head you’ll hit the person next to you … Your nose is so long that if you sneeze we’ll hear an echo … Your nose is so long that if you were a sheep you’d starve to death—”’

‘Enough about the nose,’ Benedetta snapped, putting up her

hands. ‘Bruno, you have a perfectly normal Roman nose. What else?”

‘I’m overweight.’

‘No, you’re not.’

It was true: hard work, vigorous lovemaking and the health)’

diet of Le Marche had trimmed the extra pounds from his frame. He shrugged. ‘I’m just not good-looking enough. Not for a woman like Laura.’

‘Then I have a question for you.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘This friend of yours, Tommaso. He’s nice to look at, you say?’

‘Undoubtedly. Women throw themselves at him.’

‘But he can’t cook?’

‘Good God, no.’

Benedetta held up a comb from her table. ‘This is a magic

wand. Now pay attention, because I am going to offer you the

chance to make one wish. Understand?’

“I think so.’

‘If you want, you can wish that you become as good-looking as Tommaso - but at the same time, you will become like Tommaso in every other way as well, with Tommaso’s talent for cooking.’

He saw what she was getting at, and the realisation took his

breath away.

‘So. Just say the word and you will become handsome and talentless, just like Tommaso. That’s what you want, isn’t it?’ She

raised the comb expectantly.

‘No!’ He stared at her. ‘If it meant I couldn’t cook, I wouldn’t want to be like anyone else. Cooking is who I am.’

‘Exactly,’ Benedetta said quietly. ‘That’s who you are. So stop

regretting that God has made you exactly the way you actually

want to be.’ She tossed the comb back on to the dressing table.

‘And if you want to be with Laura, go to Rome and tell her so.

Tell her so, and keep telling her until she understands.’

He kissed her, wrapping his arms round her and hugging her until she gasped. ‘Thank you,’ he whispered. ‘Thank you for everything.’

‘Now get out. Go on. And take your hands off my tits. They’re

not yours any more.’

The next morning he was up early, battering at the door of

Hanni’s barn and shouting that he needed his van back.

‘Come in,’ Hanni said, opening the barn door. ‘And don’t

Worry. I got the message yesterday.’