Imperfect Delight

by Andrea de Carlo

  It’s worse when he gets out, doubled over and breathless, and sees the three Middle Eastern guys in the distance immediately shed their workers’ disguises and transform into terrorists. They come running toward him, a ferocious light in their eyes, a brutal eagerness to complete their mission. They certainly weren’t expecting to see their task facilitated this way, to find their target within their grasp, immobilized and stunned, instead of having to hit him on the move and from a distance. They’ll see it as confirmation that their mission is holy and just, guided directly by the hand of Allah.

  Nick Cruickshank thinks for a moment that he could try to escape; despite the shock of impact and the lingering hangover he’s in far better shape than many of his colleagues, ruined by a life of excess. He left that life behind a good ten years ago; he does at least an hour of exercise a day, a five-mile run, a long swim, a horseback ride, eats well, has totally eliminated meat from his diet. Furthermore, the three terrorists are still about forty yards away, impeded by the nets they were pretending to rearrange; if he started zigzagging between the olive trees he might have a chance. But the fact is that the idea of being mowed down while running away like a coward after crashing an Ape Calessino just seems so undignified, so uncool. It’s not a question of keeping up appearances to the very end. But there is undeniably an image to uphold, and it’s an issue that doesn’t regard him alone, but also all his fans, and even those nonfans who consider him a behavioral benchmark. Looking back at his life since the Bebonkers became famous, you won’t find a single occasion on which he has started running to get somewhere, or away from something. He once blew off a concert in Birmingham (and infuriated the other band members) just to avoid rushing to catch a train, even though it was still on the platform and he was only a few dozen yards away, with a determined sprint he’d certainly have made it. Another time he skipped out on a ceremony with the queen at Buckingham Palace simply because he couldn’t be bothered to set his alarm at an unpleasant hour (back when he was still waking up late). But there too it was a question of style: on his résumé there isn’t a trace of nervousness, hastiness, anxiety, insistence, breathlessness, struggling against the current. Excess, yes; anger, even of the destructive variety, yes, he certainly won’t deny it, but always in the service of asserting a principle, or of artistic and existential exploration. This is why for years now he has come to be known (among his fans, in the media, even in certain jokes) as the incarnation of cool: for the combination of elegance and natural nonchalance with which he does or doesn’t do things. On the other hand, it isn’t an act; it’s how he is. Always has been, ever since he was an unhappy and restless child in Manchester and didn’t seem to have the slightest thing in common with what he saw and heard and felt around him. It’s not coldness, it’s not emotional neutrality: you only need to listen to one of his songs to know that he’s the opposite of emotionally neutral. The fifty percent of Irish blood in his veins should suffice. If an explanation were absolutely necessary, you could say it’s a tendency to see things in a far-off perspective, which inevitably reduces their relevance significantly. It would also be tough to find cowardice among the character flaws he’s been attributed over time (by journalists, ex-wives, other members of the band). If anything, they’ve all rebuked him constantly for being too willing to take risks, with drugs (in the past), with women (in the past), with aggressive fans, with powerful cars, with spirited horses, with ocean waves, and so on. At least there’s some truth to this: ever since as a scrawny third-grader with stick legs he floored that fifth-grade bully with a totally unexpected uppercut and then kicked him senseless, he’s known how to look fear in the face and tell it to fuck off.

  So instead of slaloming desperately through the olive trees, Nick Cruickshank turns toward his future killers with an expression of extreme casualness; he raises a hand in a tired and ironic replica of the greeting he made from the Ape, when he still thought they were actual workers, maybe even fans. He’s slightly crooked and a little shaky on his legs, but in general he doesn’t think he’s giving off a shabby image of himself; he straightens up, adjusts the foulard rolled up over his forehead, even manages to don a provocative smile, before they start shooting. It occurs to him that an end like this might even make sense; that it might even be a sort of crowning achievement. It’s certainly no less than he deserves: no one ever forced him to become a global catalyst of love and hate, aspirations and frustrations, admiration and jealousy. Over the course of his career he could easily have died in dozens of more stupid ways: from an overdose like several of his colleagues, suffocating in his own vomit like Jimi, drowning in the swimming pool like Brian or in the bathtub like Jim, crashing in a helicopter right after a concert like Stevie Ray. All in all, this might be a noble end, which could turn him into even more of a symbol, like what happened to John, who in life might not have been a great guy but in death turned into a beautiful martyr. Of course it will be necessary to wait and see just what he becomes a symbol of: unfiltered and uncompromising creativity transferred from art to life? The freedom of Western culture attacked by Islamic fanaticism? The fans and media will have to find the answer; personally, he couldn’t care less at this point.

  His three soon-to-be killers are now only a few yards away, but though they’re clearly out of breath and look at him with extreme intensity, strangely they hold neither Kalashnikovs nor pistols nor knives, nor do they seem intent on attacking him physically in any way. In fact, one of them points to the Ape that crashed into the tree, then points at his legs. “Okay?”

  Nick Cruickshank needs a couple of seconds to transition from being about to die in an extremely cool way to feeling extremely stupid. He nods. “Okay, okay.”

  The three look at him with inquisitive faces, look at one another; they might not be terrorists, but they’re certainly not fans, either. In truth they don’t seem to have the slightest idea who he is, what to think of him, or what’s just happened.

  Nick Cruickshank gives another decidedly self-deprecating smile, though he’s none too sure that’s how they’ll interpret it. Relieved? No. Embarrassed? That neither. More than anything he’s fed up: a damn fine morning this is turning out to be. He nods good-bye to the three workers, crosses the olive grove with all the nonchalance he can muster, reaches the driveway, sets off in the direction of the house. Now that he knows he’s being followed by a collective stare, albeit limited in number and not particularly invested emotionally, he emerges from his dazed state of shock and his movements gradually regain their elasticity: he sets his toes down before his heel, in that undulating gait that years ago some moron, later imitated by many other morons, called the “Nickwalk,” and which at any rate makes him feel more in possession of his faculties with every step.

  “Monsieur!” There’s a voice coming from behind him, over a mix of rustling and squeaking.

  Nick Cruickshank turns around calmly, thinking that maybe the three men are terrorists after all, though quite tentative, or maybe just waiting for the best moment to do him in.

  But they’ve just finished pushing the Ape out of the olive grove, and with great difficulty: they present it to him, panting, with the same perplexed expressions as before.

  Nick Cruickshank shakes his head, at himself and at them, smiles again, opens his arms out wide; he goes back to reclaim his stupid motorized tricycle, only slightly the worse for wear.

  THREE

  MILENA MIGLIARI GETS Guadalupe to help her attach the rolled-up little messages to the containers, already filled and taped shut. The idea came to her when she was still making gelato at home and selling it to local restaurants. She has always enjoyed finding the short phrases inside Chinese fortune cookies, or on the little tabs of the herbal tea she and Viviane drink in the evening: discovering tiny revelations, possible connections to her current state of mind or activity. So she began looking for phrases in the books she loves, and transcribing them with a fountain pen on little pieces of straw-colored paper, which she then tightly rolls
up and binds with a little red string. Whoever buys a container receives one. It is a little time-consuming, especially in the summer, when the gelateria is working at full capacity, but she likes to dedicate an hour each night to finding the phrases and copying them down; likes to imagine people’s faces at home when they unroll her tiny messages, before tasting the gelato or after tasting it, or best of all, while they’re tasting it.

  Guadalupe helps her put the first five containers in a cooler and properly seal the cover, then helps her fill up the other five, working determinedly with the spatula. Fortunately the consistency is still good, and should stay that way until delivery. It would certainly benefit from a few minutes in the blast chiller, but oh well. Every so often Milena Migliari looks at Guadalupe, they both laugh: this monster order at such a desperate moment is a sort of miracle, difficult to believe. But the truth is that to her it seems like a miracle every time someone comes into the store; she still hasn’t completely gotten used to the idea that there are people who like her gelato to the point of coming here even from far away, and returning several times in the course of a week or month to taste new flavors or enjoy the ones they’ve already tried, knowing full well they’ll never be quite the same. She even wrote as much in light-blue marker on a sign hanging on the wall: Every flavor changes, from one time to the next; don’t be upset when you don’t find the exact replica of what you liked, but try to appreciate the differences. One of the things she figured out right from the start is that she gets no satisfaction from repeating the same identical recipe over and over again, even when it’s particularly good: the true joy is in the experimentation, the implicit risk, the possible surprises. Naturally this leads her to make mistakes, to follow a hunch that seemed promising and instead leads to disappointing results; but she allows for it, it’s part of the game.

  The choice to use only local and seasonal raw materials also means that they can run out, sometimes in a few days, and that it takes a whole year to get them again. This is probably the aspect of her work that’s most difficult for others to understand: even the customers who know her best sometimes get upset when they discover, for example, that the Châteaudouble elderberry of the previous week is no longer available, or that they’ll have to wait until the following November to savor Bargemon pomegranate again. Viviane often tells her that this is just purist fanaticism, that there’d be nothing wrong with freezing local ingredients to be able to use them for a longer period of time, or even buying outside the local area, as long as the products are of the necessary quality. But to her it would seem like cheating, and anyway she’s convinced that the magic of her gelato lies in the variability of her flavors according to the season, place, outside temperature, the mood of the person tasting them. Considerations like these are what led her to the name of her gelateria. (“Philosophically intriguing, but wouldn’t simply ‘La Merveille’ be better? Or ‘Gelato Italiano’? Or, I don’t know, ‘Le Bon Goût’? Or maybe ‘Soleil de Provence’? Since it is supposed to be a business, aiming for the most part at tourists?” as Viviane commented three years ago, when it was time to decide. And of course she was saying it for her own good, and for their common good, with the practicality that Milena usually finds so reassuring.)

  But the fact is that she simply isn’t interested in making good gelato for tourists; she wants to explore the mysterious nuances of each flavor, discover the connections between sensations and images and memories, traverse complexity to reach a maximum of simplicity. She spends hours each week talking with small farmers and sellers at the local markets, taking note, reflecting, experimenting; and more time on the Internet and at the library, reading up on everything she’s been able to find about the science and mechanics of taste, from the writings of Theophrastus to illustrated children’s books to new and old cookbooks to treatises on biochemistry and nutritional science. The research is thrilling, though it’s painstaking and not very profitable, except in the middle of the summer. She invests all the physical and mental energy she has, but if she didn’t enjoy herself immensely as well and wasn’t at least able to make someone happy, she’d rather quit right away, find herself another job.

  Now the other five two-pound containers are ready, their little messages all attached. Guadalupe helps her place them in the second cooler, take both into the shop. Milena Migliari takes off the gloves, hairnet, and overshoes she always wears in the lab, puts on her coat and cap, grabs the two coolers by the handles, reassures Guadalupe that she can manage fine on her own, turns the corner, and walks quickly up the main road, toward the public parking lot where she left her van.

  FOUR

  IN THE KITCHEN Madame Jeanne looks at him with a worried expression. “Ça va, Nick?”

  “Ça va, ça va.” Nick Cruickshank takes a bottle of unfiltered organic apple juice out of the refrigerator, pours some into a thick glass cup, drains it in a few swallows. His body has an intense need for restorative liquids: he immediately pours himself a second glass, empties that one too, pours himself a third. If one thing has stayed with him from his drug period, it’s the tendency to indulge his body’s needs as quickly as possible, never to leave them wanting.

  Madame Jeanne continues observing him: rotund and soft in her striped apron, a wide face, skin like milk, small, alert blue eyes, the manner of a good country mother always slightly apprehensive for her child, indulgent but also severe when it comes to protecting him or bringing him to his senses for his own good.

  Nick Cruickshank goes toward one of the windows, with the tickle of pleasure and annoyance he feels every time he’s observed with insistence. If he thinks about it, ever since he’s had the means he’s managed to find a series of women to take care of his domestic existence, and thus, at least in part, of his emotional balance. There have been at least four or five of them, of different origins, languages, and skin colors, with the common trait of being credible, substitute, albeit paid mothers. But Jeanne is by far the best of all of them: the one who has invested the most naturalness and authoritativeness in her role, the most sincere feelings. The paradox (here’s another) is that his real mother didn’t have any of the characteristics he has sought out in these surrogates; she was a thin and nervous woman, intelligent and restless, much more interested in painting and writing poems than in taking care of him or his brother. When it came to urging them to read a book or listen to classical music or visit a museum she was all too insistent, but he can’t remember ever having seen her bake a cake, or produce one of those displays of feminine generosity and sweetness that even back then he so desperately needed. Try as he might, he can’t recall a single enveloping and comforting hug, a single kiss of comprehension or encouragement. Sure, a few caresses on the forehead when he got sick, but so rare as to be almost baffling. And yes, she did get him a little gray cat that time he came down with the measles and became delirious with fever and was nearly on his deathbed; but as soon as he recovered she gave it away to his cousin Rae in Yorkshire, because she had neither the time nor the patience for cats. What he remembers most about his mother are her ironic expressions, her sarcastic comments, her biting observations, her critiques dictated by an aesthetic sense so evolved that practically nothing was up to her expectations, her lack of indulgence for the mediocre or trite. It was probably (in fact, certainly) a privilege for him to have to measure himself against such a demanding mind during his formative years, and much of what he’s been able to accomplish in later years likely derives from it, but his childhood was certainly no barrel of laughs. Even after, with him now grown up and famous, it’s not as if he ever received much gratification from his mother; unless you consider gratifying a comment such as “Well done, with this rock business you’ve found yourself a job that not only doesn’t force you to leave adolescence behind but requires you to stay there indefinitely.”

  But as a child he also discovered the existence of a brand of femininity completely different from his mother’s high-strung and elusive variety, thanks to the rare, precious visi
ts of his father’s sister, Aunt Maeve. Every now and then she would bring him chocolates, or a picture book that she’d read to him while holding him on her knee, caressing his hair, smothering his head in kisses. When he grew older she would take him to the movies, to see the Westerns or war films he liked so much; after the film they’d go to a tearoom, to drink Darjeeling black and eat scones with whipped cream. Aunt Maeve didn’t give any credence to his mother’s implacable division between highbrow and lowbrow discussion topics, noble and ignoble subjects: she liked telling him even about frivolous episodes concerning relatives or acquaintances, movie or music stars, members of the royal family. She was always ready to laugh, in a marvelously earthy and luminous way; even now he remembers her perfume, the whiteness of her skin, the softness of her hugs. He wrote “My Wondrous Enveloper” thinking of her, though everyone’s convinced he was inspired by some amorous girl with whom he had had a fling. It certainly wasn’t by chance that his mother treated Aunt Maeve with the impatient condescendence of refined culture for raw instinct, mixed with a dose of English haughtiness for the Irish; she was almost certainly jealous of her, for everything she meant to him. Anyhow, after his father ran off to Ireland, Aunt Maeve’s visits became rarer still, ceasing completely when she left for Australia with a man from Sydney she had met at a dance hall. From there she sent him cheerful and humorous postcards, with pictures of emus and kangaroos, people in bathing suits on endless beaches; then she died. It was a terrible loss for him, but the seed of desire for a warm, caring femininity had long since sprouted inside him, become a part of who he was.

  “Tu es pâle.” Madame Jeanne comes closer to get a better look at his face, turned as he is toward the window. She has this visual, audio, olfactory, tactile way of monitoring his physical and mental well-being: she might make him stick out his tongue to see what color it is, use two fingers to stretch his eyelids open to check that his eyes are nice and clear, stick a hand under one of his armpits to be sure he doesn’t have a fever.