“Come on, I show you upstairs.”
We entered into a grand hall with a double-height ceiling beamed in the traditional Tuscan way. There was a large wooden door closed to the left, and another wooden door to the right that he pointed at, saying, “This is the kennel, I show you later.”
In front of us was a stone staircase, which led up to a door painted red. Cocca was ahead of us, standing by the door, her right leg held up stiffly as she wagged her tail wildly, and when Bernardo opened the door, she raced in first. Before leading me upstairs, Bernardo paused just inside the door. “Here,” he said, indicating the stone stairs by the door, “is where I fell and broke my leg.” For a minute he was lost in the memory, muttering, “You can’t imagine the blood.”
I looked at the door painted red. He followed my gaze. “Eh si”—he shrugged—“maybe is a sort of symbol that I painted the door red, no?”
Upstairs, what had looked like a large house from outside was, in reality, an apartment. At the top of the stairs, a spacious hallway had several doors opening off it, but all, apart from the one to the bathroom, were rooms in various states of disrepair, filled with unwanted detritus of his past lives. A corridor led off to the left through an arch, covered by very thick, lined curtains. We stepped through these. The corridor went all the way to the end of the house. Immediately on both the left and the right, wide brick-lined arches connected the sitting room and kitchen. The sitting room on the left had a high sloping brick ceiling, beamed with thick pieces of wood. On the right a low wall sat between the corridor and the kitchen, which was lined by wooden cupboards, the countertops all the typical marble of an old-fashioned Tuscan kitchen, pans and implements and mugs hanging off hooks from a large wooden oven hood that occupied the whole of one corner.
The sitting room was arranged around a huge fireplace, with two dark red sofas and a low table, a television on a corner table, a desk with Bernardo’s computer along one wall, in front of it a blue office chair. Cocca was already up on the biggest sofa, burrowing into the large orange striped cushions. Bernardo made a fire and I sat on the sofa with Cocca, who instantly nuzzled in to me and started to inch her way into my lap in such increments that before I knew how, she was lying across my lap, pressing me down with her not inconsiderable weight.
“Ah”—Bernardo laughed at me—“so you see she is a coccolona.”
“A cuddle monster!” I exclaimed.
I watched Bernardo from the sofa, pinned under Cocca’s weight, as he made us coffee. Here on his own territory, Bernardo was more confident, and much more sexy. And I was more susceptible to his kisses. So when he came over to the sofa and covered me in his long, lazy, luxurious kisses, and his hands roamed my body, I didn’t stop him.
* * *
—
The next morning Bernardo slept. In sympathy with his grueling weekly routine, getting up at five thirty every morning to get Alessandro to the train for school, I didn’t try to wake him. I slid out of bed, slipped on his dressing gown, and, in the kitchen, found a coffeepot and the coffee. Cocca was fast asleep somewhere on one of the sofas, buried so completely under a pile of cushions that the only sign of her was loud snoring.
As the coffee percolated, I looked out at the vineyard and reflected on the day before. It had been full of surprises. There had been the delicious meals cooked by Bernardo: handmade tagliatelle ai funghi porcini for lunch, and a supper of bistecca Fiorentina cooked on the open fire and accompanied by a dish of peppers called peperonata, an exquisite mix of sweet and sour flavors followed by a salad of fresh wild leaves. There had been the Loo with a View, a small window in the bathroom that afforded the house’s most sweeping views of the Apennine Mountains, the river valley, and terraced hills. There had been the cuddles with the affectionate and hilarious Cocca. And most of all, there had been Bernardo himself, who had swept me off to bed and kept me there all day.
The Complicated Bernardo had turned out to be a wonderful lover, tender and unhurried, luxuriating in the intimacy of the time we spent in bed. He had, in fact, been rather a revelation. A slow burner, he definitely improved on acquaintance, and when we weren’t making love, we were laughing, sharing a slapstick humor that transcended our two languages.
The coffeepot started to splutter. I heated up some milk and took my coffee outside. As I stepped out, a mass of sparrows rose in a flap of wings from the gravel. Their song filled the air, and there was the cooing of wood pigeons, the cluck of pheasants, a cock crowing somewhere. There were butterflies fluttering through the yard. The air was several degrees colder than it was in Florence, the freshness opening my lungs.
I sat on a bench by the long table and drank my coffee, taking it all in: the dogs, the sound of the breeze in the trees, the falling of the odd leaf, the layers of birdsong, the dazzling brightness of the sun, different greens all overlaid. I stood up and opened out my arms, taking a deep breath. I looked out over the vineyard, and there, at the top, was a man, pointing a gun right at me.
I ducked, spilling my coffee, and rushed back inside. I ran up to the kitchen, where Bernardo was filling a cup with coffee. I went to the window and peeked out—the man was still there. I pointed him out to Bernardo, and he shrugged lightly. “Hunters,” he explained.
“But look, he’s pointing right at us,” I cried.
“Is ’unting season, but don’t worry, they haven’t killed us yet.”
A shot went off, and the dogs started to bark wildly. All the peace was shattered. Bernardo opened the kitchen window, and, perching on the ledge, he leaned out.
“Ooooooooooo,” he called out in the loudest voice I have ever heard. The dogs immediately piped down, with just the odd straggler still yapping. “Oooh, allora?” he demanded, and there was silence—peace was restored. I chuckled to myself—the king dog, Bernardo, was the ruler of this canine kingdom.
We took our coffees back to bed and emerged from our bed-in only when it was time to go home. I kissed Cocca goodbye; she nuzzled me with her ears folded back against her head, raising a right paw and laying it on my outstretched hand like a grand lady. I was delighted: “I think we are friends,” I said.
We descended through the woods and down the hill in the last of the afternoon light. I opened the window, watching the magical forested hills as we wound along the road. We were in a companionable silence, the atmosphere soft and dreamy.
As we followed the road down to the river, I let my eyes soak in all that green, the autumn colors just beginning, the red tinge to the vines. The fresh air was mild on my skin, the breeze caressed my cheek. We crossed the river, passed under the railway bridge, and turned right onto the main road that took us back to Florence. I roused myself. Back to real life from the enchanted world of Bernardo.
Pasta con aglio, olio, e peperoncino
SERVES 2
4–5 cloves garlic
2–3 whole dried red chili peppers (or red chili flakes)
Sea salt, to taste
5½–7 oz. spaghetti
Best-quality extra-virgin olive oil
A small bunch of parsley, chopped
Black pepper, to taste
Peel and chop the garlic roughly; chop off the chili stalks, then cut the chilies lengthwise in half and slice (or use red chili flakes instead).
Fill a large pasta pot with water and bring to a boil, only then adding salt. Add the spaghetti and cook. Meanwhile, place the garlic and chili pieces in a deep pan with a glug of the olive oil and cook over a medium-high heat till the garlic is translucent—2–3 minutes only. Add the parsley and turn off the heat.
Just before the pasta is ready, when it is still a little chalky inside, drain, saving 2 cups of the pasta water, and add the pasta to the chili and garlic mix, along with a cup of the reserved water. Place back on the heat, stirring constantly. Gradually add the other cup of water.
When the pasta finishes cooking with the garlic and chili (3–4 minutes), season with salt and black pepper, and serve.
Taglia
telle ai funghi porcini
SERVES 2
9 oz. fresh porcini mushrooms
1¾ oz. butter
1 clove garlic
Best-quality extra-virgin olive oil
Sea salt, to taste
5½–7 oz. fresh tagliatelle
Bunch of parsley or calamint
Carefully clean the mushrooms. Wipe the caps with a cloth and scrape any earth out of the inside, then chop off the woody bits at the bottom of the stalks. Try not to wash them, as they absorb water. If you have to do so, pass very quickly under cold water, then dry immediately. Slice the mushrooms lengthwise. Put the butter in a deep pan and melt over a low heat. Peel the garlic and smash it with the flat side of a knife. Add the mushrooms and garlic to the butter. Mix so each piece of mushroom is coated with butter. Then add a good glug of olive oil and allow to simmer over a low heat.
Meanwhile, take a large pasta pot and fill it with water, bring to a boil, and add salt. Add the tagliatelle, and just before it’s ready (it will cook quicker than dried pasta, so don’t overcook it), add it to the mushrooms and stir together along with a cup of the pasta water, sprinkling with finely chopped parsley (or, better yet, calamint if you have it). Remove the garlic and serve immediately (you can put another cup of hot pasta water on the table to dribble on the dish if the tagliatelle is becoming dry).
Bistecca Fiorentina
SERVES 1
1 T-bone steak
Best-quality extra-virgin olive oil
½ lemon
Sea salt and black pepper, to taste
The key is to use the best cut of T-bone steak you can find. Ideally, bistecca is cooked over an open fire, but you can also use a skillet pan. Heat the skillet on the stove until it is smoking, then add the steak, searing it on each side. The ideal bistecca Fiorentina is served very rare. Remove the steak from the skillet and serve, drizzling on some olive oil, lemon juice, and sea salt and black pepper.
Bernardo’s peperonata
SERVES 2–4
2 lbs. green, yellow, and red peppers (about 6–10 peppers)
3 cups vinegar (any basic vinegar is fine)
3–4 Tbsp. sugar, plus more to taste
Open and deseed the peppers carefully, and remove the white edging on the ridges. Cut each pepper into four slices. Place in a large roasting pan, add the vinegar so the peppers are covered and there is a lot of liquid on top. Add sugar—the proportion is key, so start with 3 or 4 tablespoons, then adjust to taste. You can cook the peppers in a medium-hot oven, but Bernardo cooks them on the stove in the roasting pan, usually over a medium-low heat, which allows the liquid to simmer, stirring occasionally to make sure they don’t burn. Be patient, you may need more than an hour, until the peppers have nearly caramelized. Then serve. This dish keeps very well, becoming more delicious overnight, and is also good cold.
11
NOVEMBER
·
Amore
or HOW TO FIND TRUE LOVE
PRODUCE IN SEASON · white truffles and green olive oil
SCENT OF THE CITY · roasting chestnuts
ITALIAN MOMENT · a village sagra
ITALIAN WORD OF THE MONTH · tranquillità
“Luigo, he actually licks his lips when he looks at me. I mean, every time, it’s obviously totally unconscious. It’s so sexy…”
Luigo leaned on the bar, listening to my babble. “So, this is The One?”
I shook my head. “Good God, no!” I exclaimed. “This is just fun! He’s way too complicated to get involved with.” I was determined.
“Okay.” Luigo was trying to look serious. “But you have met his son, no?”
“Well, yes,” I admitted. “Last weekend, before he took me home, we had to go and pick him up from his friend’s house.”
I described to Luigo the drive through the Mugello, another spectacular part of Tuscany, which Colognole bordered. “The Medici came from there, you know,” I told him, proud of my newfound knowledge, “and it’s just gorgeous.”
“But how was his son?” Luigo asked, bringing me back to the point.
“Well, he was actually very sweet,” I said. We had arrived at a large country house and been shown into a kitchen with a big open fire, where we had sat drinking coffee with other parents as the kids came in. Bernardo’s son was a slight boy, blond and blue-eyed, his coloring that of his Swedish mother. He had the same-shaped face as his father, a long nose, his hair curled around his forehead. He shook my hand and stood with his friends looking at me sideways. The father of another boy started talking to me in English, a divorcé, he told me, also living in San Niccolò. He reached into his pocket and handed me a card with his phone number on it. “Since we are neighbors,” he said, “we should go for a drink sometime.”
Bernardo moved closer to me then, slipping an arm around my waist. “Luigo,” I said, “the guy hit on me! Right there in front of Bernardo and all the kids! I didn’t know what to say.”
“Are you still surprised by Italian men, bella?”
“They drove me back to Florence,” I told Luigo, “and I invited them in for a cup of tea. His son seems quite grown up for a fifteen-year-old, but I guess that happens to kids of single parents, right?”
“Yes, that’s true. So it went well?” he confirmed. “The kid likes you, of course? I mean, you are from London and have an encyclopedic knowledge of pop music…”
It had gone well. We sat around my kitchen table drinking tea and talking. It was easy, sweet. And when Alessandro went to the bathroom, Bernardo regarded me with eyes so sentimental that, as soon as he opened his mouth, I deliberately talked over him, scared of what he would say. Alessandro came back into the room and the moment dissolved, but, despite my protestations that Bernardo was just for fun, I found myself so moved by the lone limping man and his shiny golden son, standing together on my threshold, that after shutting the door behind them I actually shed a tear.
They needed me, I had thought, but I didn’t say this to Luigo. I hardly admitted it to myself, ignoring what my heart had told me so clearly that night: here, if you want it, is a family. Not perfect, not made by you, but anyway yours.
Did I want it? I pushed the question away and kept on seeing Bernardo for his fun value, for the epic bed-ins, and for the fact that he licked his lips every time he looked at me.
* * *
—
We were at a large supermarket on the way out of town. It had been so long since I had been in one as big as this that I was wandering among the shelves like one hypnotized. The varieties of fruit and vegetables in the fresh section were mesmerizing. I learned to put on clear plastic gloves before touching anything, and how to weigh and price the produce. Bernardo’s son had shown me all this, in between disappearing, only to jump out unexpectedly, Catolike, at his father as he passed, setting off a mock martial-arts battle that moved through the aisles, dodging other shoppers, while I followed them, laughing.
Life in Colognole was quiet. Bernardo would cook, Alessandro helping, and all the while the ninja-style mock fights burst out. Before long I was involved too, side-kicking and karate-chopping as I laid the table. Then we had dinner, after which Alessandro would go to his room to do his homework and we would settle down in front of the fire with Cocca. Sometimes we roasted chestnuts, sometimes there was music—Bernardo playing me his favorite Italian songs—but often there was just quiet, into which the fire crackled and Cocca snored. The flames were compelling, Cocca had such a variety of strange and amusing noises, and Bernardo’s embrace was so enveloping, that I was in danger of being permanently ruined by so much coziness. The silence outside was deep, and I loved all those dogs sleeping downstairs—so much life, so much contentment. It was profoundly tranquil, laced with nights luminous with sensation and intimacy in Bernardo’s bed.
Sometimes I stayed the next day too, doing nothing much apart from tumbling around in bed with Bernardo. From the window I watched the sun work its way down from its low post in the sky, before dipping be
low the top of the hill, illuminating the clouds, turning them a spectrum of colors from vivid orange to a final delicate pink, the light of the gloaming infusing the whole yard a soft lilac. I hung out of the kitchen window to watch the passages of light and color, Bernardo holding on to my hips, saying: “We don’t want you to fall out, we just found you…”
Driving to Bernardo’s home at night, the car lights picked out animals at the edge of the road: an owl perched on a fence; a porcupine waddling through the undergrowth, its sharp quills fanned out; the long springy legs and white tail of a hare running away down the track; and once, a litter of baby wild boar with striped backs being led into the woods by the mother.
During the day, the vineyard was alive with the call of pheasants and their lazy flapping as they attempted liftoff; grouse littered the tracks, partridge tottered around, and rabbits drove the dogs crazy by running up and down past their pens. Wood pigeons roosted in the rafters, kestrels and buzzards circled the skies, and, on milder days, butterflies fluttered across the garden. In the kitchen, there was honey from the beehives in the woods, and freshly pressed new “green” olive oil from the trees of the estate. On my first visit, Bernardo gave me a jar of honey and a bottle of green oil to take home. I was thrilled by both, knowing that the fine oil—bitter and fresh, an almost luminous green—came from the trees I could see around the house, and that the honey had been made from the flowers and trees outside.
Colognole was not just beautiful, it was pristine and uncontaminated, each lungful of air clean and sweet, the kind of place that in my former life I would have paid a lot of money to go to for a “forest detox.” Add the crackling fire at night and the company of the funniest, strangest, sweetest dog, and it was a wrench to return to Florence.
Bella Figura Page 20
