Imperfect Delight

by Andrea de Carlo

  “Yes.” Milena Migliari can’t get much conviction into her voice, partly because she knows her body language is communicating panic more than contentment.

  “I thought you’d be happy.” Viviane’s eyes narrow.

  “But I am.” Milena Migliari forces herself to find a joyful tone, but it doesn’t come. They’ve been talking about this business for months; months. Viviane brought it up on the night of her birthday, when they had drunk a bottle of champagne and were both very tipsy. But she must have begun thinking about it for a long time because she was able to provide very precise details. In the euphoric and unstable heat of the moment Milena thought it was an extraordinarily beautiful declaration of love, a way to further cement their bond and project it into the future; they hugged and kissed, happy. But when they talked about it sober the day after, she was far less enthusiastic about the idea: the clinical and mechanical feeling of the whole story, the need to plan everything out, the responsibility for a hypothetical third person. Her head filled with images of laboratories, doctors in smocks and masks, needles, probes, test tubes, slides, microscopes, tests, injections.

  “Well, you don’t look like it.” Viviane resumes her pacing, unplugs the automatic sprinkler system, plugs it back in.

  “What do I look like?” Milena Migliari would really like to know, because she isn’t the least bit sure. Out of pure agitation she tears a leaf off one of the geraniums that flourish in the Mexican-like climate of the glass-covered patio; she rubs it between her fingers, feels it fleshy and moist.

  “Not very convinced.” Viviane’s tone is pretty neutral, but it’s plain to see how difficult it is for her.

  “Come on.” Milena Migliari tries to figure out whether hers is a form of egotism, a lack of generosity, a reluctance to make long-term commitments, a lack of love. She wonders why she’s unable to throw herself into this venture with enthusiasm, why it feels absurd and even anachronistic to imagine herself with an enormous belly, shambling around like a whale, unable to make her gelato or do anything else in a normal way. She wonders why Viviane’s desire for motherhood seems almost like a form of bullying, an attempt to limit her freedom, relegate her to the dimension of primitive female. She wonders whether it’s so terrible never to have wanted to bring anyone into the world even before, in her relationships with men; never to have really felt a calling as a breeder and nurturer and educator.

  “Yes, you do!” Viviane raises her voice now, doesn’t stop pacing back and forth.

  “Maybe I’m still a little shaken because of the blackout at the gelateria and everything else, all right?” It’s true that she is a little shaken, she even has tears in her eyes; but attributing her state of mind to the blackout seems cowardly, a way of not calling things by their true name.

  “Who cares about the gelateria?!” Viviane is furious, red in the face. “What’s more, gelato season has been over for weeks! You should already have closed the shop!”

  “There isn’t a season for gelato.” Milena Migliari responds with an obstinate tone, but in a voice that’s far too meek. “There are many of them, each one as different as its raw ingredients, the weather, the mood of the taster.”

  “But if there are no buyers, would you explain to me who you’re making the gelato for?” Viviane raises her voice further, gesticulating more and more uncontrollably.

  “I make it for whoever wants it. The Brits today, for example.” It is true that today’s order was exceptional, but the point isn’t how many buyers there are or are not: it’s that making gelato is her work and her passion, and that maybe Viviane is a little jealous of it.

  “Right, and the Brits have put you in the black for the next few months!” It’s true that in the beginning Viviane gave her a lot of support: encouraged her to give the gelato business a real go, helped her find the space, get the loan from the bank, handle the bureaucracy involved with opening a business, and all the rest. But ever since things started coming together, she’s started coming out more and more frequently with sarcastic little jibes and hyper-realistic considerations, as if to say that making gelato is a kind of hobby, more than a real job, and that even if it were, it certainly isn’t comparable profitwise with her postural massage center that’s now frequented by hundreds of people.

  “Well, I’m in the black for today, at least.” Milena Migliari tries to hold her ground.

  “Yes, how nice it is to live in the moment!” Now Viviane has her hands firmly on her hips, as if to restrain herself from doing anything rash, like smashing a vase of geraniums. “Listen, if you’ve changed your mind, it would be much more honest of you to say so!”

  Milena Migliari bites her lower lip, because she remembers when they both enjoyed living in the moment, and because she can’t bear the thought of seeming dishonest about a plan that’s so significant for both of them. Ever since childhood she’s had notions of loyalty based more on fictional stories than on real life, and has been disappointed so many times by others’ behavior that she feels a desperate need to respect agreements, see them through to the end. She takes Viviane’s hand, gives it a squeeze. “I haven’t changed my mind.”

  “No?” Viviane looks at her with a sudden glimmer of hope in her eyes, behind those lenses constantly smudged with fingerprints.

  “No.” Milena Migliari thinks that it probably is possible to help good intentions win out over momentary second thoughts, if you really want to. “But maybe it’s normal to be a little bit worried, don’t you think?”

  “But of course it’s normal!” Viviane hugs her enthusiastically, squeezing her with her strong hands. “It’s the most normal thing in the world, ma poulette!”

  Milena Migliari feels intense relief at having successfully resolved such an apparently irreparable situation with just a few words and gestures: practically a miracle of interpersonal communication.

  Viviane kisses her forehead, cheeks, nose, lips, chin, eyes. “This is something that we’re doing completely together, ma poulette! I’ll support you every step of the way, you’ll see! It’ll be amazing for both of us! It’ll be incredible!”

  “Good.” Milena Migliari dries the tears at the corners of her eyes, dries her nose with the back of her hand. Though she’d rather not, she can’t help thinking how time changes the perception of things: for example, she had long considered ma poulette a tender and funny nickname, but now it embarrasses her. (And reminds her of the fact that the main reason people keep hens around is for their eggs.)

  They both go inside, smiling. Milena Migliari climbs the inside staircase to wash her hands, use the bathroom, and change her shirt; when she comes back down Viviane is starving to death, so she immediately makes her a cheese omelet and a walnut salad.

  EIGHT

  WHEN HE’S AT Les Vieux Oliviers, Nick Cruickshank spends hours by himself walking or horseback riding through the grassy areas and woods on the property or locked in his studio. Not that Aileen doesn’t notice, or bring it to his attention, in a more or less offended tone depending on the circumstances: like she’s being deprived of something she has a right to. He usually replies that he needs to feel free to do what he wants; even not to do anything at all, without interference from anyone. “Interference?” Aileen displays a little grin of feigned astonishment, shakes her head slowly. This is an issue that in his previous relationships as well has brought him endless complaints and accusations, attempted invasions, clashes, escapes. With Aileen the problem arises more here than in London, because in London their lives are largely independent, or at least they have been until now: they each have their own house, their own commitments, their own schedules. They really only see each other in the evenings, if they’re both in the city, and almost always to go out; it’s not like they’ve ever had to adapt to what passes for the other’s domestic routine. Aileen doesn’t come to Sussex willingly, because she says it feels like barging into the life of his first marriage: it bothers her to see the kids’ rooms that still have their toys from when they were little, th
e roses and azaleas that Hoshiko planted. The result is that he too now rarely sets foot there, just occasionally to have a chat with Roman the custodian, make sure that the place isn’t falling apart, indulge in a little melancholy. Same goes for St. Barts, where each time they end up tense and unable to relax, slightly worse off than if they’d stayed in a hotel. For Manchester as well, where Aileen claims she feels like an outsider in his small circle of relatives, old friends, and old flames, though for years everyone has been doing their utmost to make her feel at home in every possible way.

  So for now Les Vieux Oliviers is the only place where they’ve attempted to live together for more than a couple of weeks at a time, which makes it a sort of experiment. Aileen has invested all her incredible energy into transforming it: she’s had plants added and removed in the garden, hedges moved, the shape of the pool modified, several interior walls torn down, windows changed, the large roof beams painted white. The Provençal furnishings that Nick’s second wife, Marie, liked so much have now disappeared, except for two armchairs, a couch, and a carpet that he’s been able to salvage in his studio and in the little cottage in the woods. The new style is a mix of high-tech, Arte Povera, 1960s design: interesting, though much less comfortable and comforting than before. And the process of transformation continues, it will probably never end: every so often Aileen calls him from some part of the world in the throes of excitement, to tell him she’s found a Philippe Starck glass-and-steel table perfect for the living room, a Tina Paloma sculpture that’s made for the entrance, a painting by Hans Herrmann that would look great in the hallway. He lets her, because he trusts her eye, because he appreciates the idea of making creative investments for their life together, and because he’s relieved that she focuses her energy more on the containers of their relationship than on the relationship itself. The fact is that it’s quite rare for him to see her lying in a hammock in repose, or calmly sitting and reading a book for more than ten minutes at a time: she has a constant need to move from one point to another on those nervous legs, be on the phone, organize conference calls, collect information, discuss ideas, solicit answers, explore possibilities, explain, communicate, urge. Yet didn’t her mental and physical dynamism strike him almost as much as her extraordinary attentiveness the first time they met? It’s true that it was maybe a less-focused dynamism then, almost naïve, before growing more marked as one success led to another until it became unstoppable, inexhaustible, as it is now.

  Startled by a knock at the door, Nick Cruickshank jumps up from his old Provençal couch, like he’s under attack. “What is it?!”

  “Viens manger, Nick!” The voice of Madame Jeanne, full of maternal concern, finds its way through the thick wood of the door.

  “Okay, merci!” Nick Cruickshank puts the acoustic guitar back on the stand, takes one last hit of Wally’s weed, puts out the joint in the ashtray; he thinks that he would be happy if only he were able to avoid the others, eat something on his own in the kitchen.

  He walks as silently as he can down the hallway, but when he peeks into the vast open space of the living/dining room they’re all sitting there, at the long walnut table: Aileen, Tricia, Maggie, Tom, his assistant what’s-his-name, the Star Life quartet, Wally, Kimberly, Aldino, Damian Baumann, Christie Swoonie, Marguerite and Hugo Bertrand. It’s like there’s a committee around that damn table.

  “Oh, look who it is!” Aileen simulates surprise; all the others turn to look at him too. “We thought you’d decided to barricade yourself in there indefinitely.”

  “I wasn’t barricaded.” Nick Cruickshank goes to sit to the right of Aldino, who out of embarrassment stuffs into his mouth a piece of buttered bread that’s half the size of his hand. Nick thinks that in reality Aileen is right: he was barricaded in his studio. But only because he is under siege in any other part of the house: one only needs to look at all these eyes and hands and mouths moving, all these poses being endlessly put on display.

  Wally and his wife, Kimberly, don’t seem too thrilled with the company either, but for the worst possible reasons: Wally, because there aren’t too many attractive women on whom to feast his morbid eyes, apart from Aileen and Christie Swoonie (who detests him), and Kimberly, because with the exception of the hosts, Christie and the Bertrands, there aren’t enough rich and famous guests to excite her attention. In fact she continues flicking the screen of her giant cell phone, perched on her elbows and forearms: torpid stare, heavy eyeliner, bleached-blond hair forced up against its will, puffed-up cheekbones, lips like inflatable rafts, unbuttoned blouse to show off her tits elevated by a push-up bra, giant-pearl necklace that her darling husband must have given her to apologize for some little slipup. Only Wally Thompson could marry such an empty and vulgar woman, who, at the time of their marriage, fully corresponded to his most squalid adolescent fantasies.

  “Wally told me that tomorrow morning you’re taking us for a horseback ride?” Kimberly must think that this half-whispered and husky voice is sexy, like the indolence with which she moves her eyelids and head.

  “Well, we’ll see.” Nick Cruickshank has no desire to make any firm commitments with these two, because he’s annoyed enough as it is to have them in his home, and because deep down he hopes that, between now and tomorrow, some catastrophe might still intervene to sabotage everything.

  Aileen can’t stand Wally and Kimberly either, but when it came time to decide on who to let stay here and who to distribute among hotels, villas, and homes in the village, she agreed on the fact that the Thompsons would resent an external lodging more than anyone else. So here they are, like a thorn in their side for four days; what’s more, in the grand scheme of things, it’s not even the worst of their problems.

  The editor in chief of Star Life continues scanning the other guests at the table, exchanges quick words and glances with the members of her team; although the agreement is not to film or take photos at the table before Saturday, she’s clearly committing every little detail to memory, to be later used from a voyeuristic slant in the long cover piece they’re doing.

  Madame Jeanne comes in, accompanied by a young and slightly timid server named Didiane, who’s pushing a cart bearing a large terra-cotta pot containing the cook’s legendary artichoke risotto. They place it on the table unceremoniously, she inserts the ladle. “Nick.” Jeanne motions for him to pass her his plate first. It’s not that she doesn’t know the rules of etiquette; she simply wants to clarify that there’s no doubt in her mind as to who the most important person is in here, to hell with formal courtesies.

  “Merci, Jeanne. Vous pouvez le laisser ici.” Aileen gestures politely but firmly, so as not to give the guests the impression that she has no control over this woman. Early on she tried quite insistently to persuade Nick Cruickshank to fire her, claiming that for the same cost they could find someone much more attuned to their dietary requirements and more familiar with contemporary cuisine, as well as capable of communicating in English with their guests and possibly behaving with a bare minimum of politeness. He had to muster a fierce resistance in her defense, going so far as to say that without Madame Jeanne he wouldn’t set foot in this house again. The question lies there dormant, far from being resolved; he has yet to see Aileen give in when it comes to a question of principle.

  Madame Jeanne proceeds as if she didn’t even hear her: she serves the master of the house, then Aileen, then the others. Kimberly is last of all, but only after being glared at with such intensity that, in a burst of awareness, she decides to put down her cell phone, setting it on the table with her piggish hand and white-varnished fingernails, though without taking her eyes off the screen.

  When Madame Jeanne exits with Didiane in tow, Aileen shoots a look at Tom Harlan and the editor of Star Life: she rolls her eyes, eliciting chuckles.

  “What’s so funny?” Nick Cruickshank pretends not to have noticed the silent challenge just thrown down.

  “Nothing, nothing.” Aileen exchanges more ironic glances with her neighbors,
then cautiously nears her fork to the risotto, as if she’s sure to find some unpleasant surprise.

  Three bottles of Côtes de Provence make the rounds of the table, but no one really drinks, maybe because of the presence of the journalists, maybe in view of the revelry of the coming days, maybe because there’s not a very convivial spirit. Wally is the only one who, as soon as he’s finished the gin and tonic he brought with him to the table, gulps down a glass in a few swallows and immediately pours himself another; he snickers, gives Christie Swoonie a dirty look, mumbles something to Kimberly, who digs her fingernails into his wrist.

  The risotto is extraordinarily good, like everything Madame Jeanne makes. More than once Nick Cruickshank has watched entranced as she prepared it: the outer leaves of the artichoke removed and boiled to obtain a broth that’s green and rich in flavor; the inner parts accurately cleansed of their sharp extremities and fluff and then cut into thin strips and slowly sautéed in a pan with garlic and olive oil, before being mixed with the rice in the ceramic pot and bathed in small splashes of white wine and then generous amounts of green broth, and patiently mixed again and again until the final addition of butter and grated Parmesan to thicken. The result is about as close to perfection as you can get with an artichoke risotto: the bittersweet flavor so intense and pure, the deliciously creamy consistency that still leaves each slice and kernel individually identifiable to the tongue. Light-years away from the discolored, overcooked artichoke risottos he’s been privileged to eat in the so-called best restaurants in the world. He’s sometimes amazed that he has learned to appreciate these nuances; it’s been a long road, from his mother’s harried and careless survival-style cooking to this. (He has such vivid memories of the three slices of liver dropped into a frying pan with a little salt, no trace of butter or oil or herbs or anything else, then transferred all dried out and blackened to their plates. “Come on, boys, down the hatch.”)