But I made myself do so. I made myself say no as often as I could to Bernardo’s offer to spend the night with him in Colognole—being a parent, it was impossible for him to stay with me during the week. Alessandro seemed keen to have me come over too, we had gelled as a trio, but I was determined to keep the balance and not to lose my routine with the book. I knew from my experience with Dino how easy it would be. I kept this in mind even as my time with Bernardo began to feel more compelling. I stayed in touch with my reality, refused to lose my head, and kept on the task of being an adult.
* * *
—
My apartment, the kitchen, the fridge, and everything in it, stank of truffles. The weekend before we had attended a country sagra in the village of San Miniato, famous in Tuscany for its truffles. There had been dishes of tagliatelle served up on plastic plates at long tables laid in a marquee in the central square. It was packed and clamorous, the smell overpowering. Everyone, from granny to young child, had been tucking into the pasta, to which we had unlimited recourse for the ten euros we had paid at the door. I had been surprised by how little it cost to consume the world’s most expensive food, and how few merchants were in the marquee selling their goods. I had assumed the sagra had been for the purpose of selling truffles, but I had been proved wrong. It was a true celebration, a chance for all the generations to enjoy at least one truffle-laced meal together, a truffle democracy.
I had come back from the sagra with a small lump, knotted and bumpy like a malignant growth, covered in dried mud, which I kept wrapped in kitchen paper in a glass jar. As instructed, I changed the paper twice a day, wiping the inside of the glass to catch any condensation: this was the key to keeping it fresh, that and not washing off the mud. I broke off a small bit by hand every day, brushed it clean with an old toothbrush, and then grated it with the special slicer we had bought, over a fried egg.
“The breakfast of kings,” declared Luigo when I told him, licking his lips at the mere mention of white truffles. I noticed that all my Italian friends had this subconscious reaction—even Giuseppe had come out of his studio, nose in the air, and knocked on my door, asking me if he was right in thinking he could smell truffles.
I apologized. “It’s such a tiny piece, but my God it stinks.” But he shook his head. “No need to apologize,” he said. “It’s wonderful. You know that they say it is an aphrodisiac?” I nodded and asked him what he thought.
He pondered for a while. “I’m not sure about the aphrodisiac part, but there is definitely some effect they have. Have you noticed?”
I had noticed. In the three days I had managed to make my little truffle last—having been warned that the longer it was kept the more it lost flavor—I had become aware of the involuntary salivating at the merest smell. I could feel the odor of the truffle traveling through my nostrils and into my sinuses, filling up my head, making me almost giddy. The man at the sagra had told me that when they were out hunting, they had to make sure the dogs didn’t gobble down every truffle they found, and that traditionally the pigs that had been used to forage for them could locate them because they gave off the same scent that sows did when they were in season.
For days after I had finished the truffle, I could still smell it in my apartment, and everything that had been in my fridge with the truffle tasted of truffle, as if the entire contents had been steeped in it—the butter, the cheese, even the milk. Even after everything was gone, there was a trace of it everywhere, as if it had permeated the inside of my nose.
* * *
—
Bernardo felt familiar. His warmth, his demonstrative nature, the way he took Alessandro’s head in his hands and planted loud, juicy kisses on the boy’s cheek, no matter how much his son protested. He did the same to Cocca, who licked him back enthusiastically, her paws placed on his chest in a doggy embrace. It reminded me of my Iranian uncles, those loud, funny, and sentimental men who couldn’t let you walk past without grabbing you and covering you in kisses. And now here was Bernardo, who, as the mood took him, showed his love with the same loud smacking kisses.
I loved his lack of reserve. And yet, with me, he was not very demonstrative. When we were alone, I was in no doubt about his feelings, but he had not yet included me in his public displays of affection, nor had he called me amore. After I told him about Dino, he had asked me if he had ever said that he loved me. I told him that while he hadn’t said it explicitly, I felt it was implied, not least of all from the fact—and the way—that he called me amore all the time.
“This is very bad,” he said, frowning. “Amore is not a word to be used lightly. I only call people amore who I really love, capito?”
He was a man of his word. He called his son amore, he called Cocca amore, he even called some of the other dogs amore when he let them come up into the house for a bit of love and attention, but he had never called me amore. Not even in the heat of passion. I thought it a sign of my growing maturity that I was only slightly disappointed.
* * *
—
One Saturday morning, Bernardo took me to a village fifteen minutes the other way, going east. The road followed the River Sieve, whose origins were in the higher reaches of the Tuscan-Emilian Apennines, and Dicomano was the gateway to the mountains. Situated at the crossroads of three of Tuscany’s most beautiful and obscure areas—the Mugello, the Casentino, and the Val di Sieve—Dicomano had me at the first turn of the road. A stone bridge forded the river, houses alongside the banks painted brick red and cadmium yellow, balconies hung with boxes of geraniums. The hills soared up, and the streets were abuzz with people. It was market day and we walked up into the center of the village into a piazza packed with stalls. The road to the right of the piazza had an elegant long double loggia running on either side.
We walked around the stands, Bernardo buying fruit and vegetables, as adept at shopping as the fierce housewives in Sant’Ambrogio market—life as a single parent meant he was an organized and thorough housekeeper. I found it wildly attractive. Every time I saw him clear up, get out the vacuum, wipe the table clean, and fold his son’s washing quite badly in a precarious pile, I went a little weak at the knees.
From the fruit and vegetable stall, he steered me across the square to a van with a counter in front of it piled high with little rounds of cheese. “Pecorino,” he announced—the sheep’s cheese that was so popular in Tuscany and which could be either quite fresh or very mature and hard. The two men behind the counter called out to Bernardo by name and they all stood around chatting. I couldn’t understand all of it but I recognized enough words to realize that they were discussing politics and Berlusconi’s recent rise to power. As they talked, the one called Carlo (I knew this because they were wearing aprons with their names embroidered into the top-right corner) took out a roll of cheese and sliced into it, giving us both a small sliver to try: a pecorino with pieces of pear in it, one with tiny pieces of red chili, another that had been aged for years, and, best of all, one with bits of truffle peppered through it. Each one was delicious. Beppe (the other cheese guy) held out a little mound of creamy white fresh ricotta cheese to me and I savored it, showing my appreciation with a long sigh.
When we got home, Bernardo put a little ricotta on a plate, drizzled on some of the honey from the hives outside, and spooned some into my mouth. It was like manna from heaven and I closed my eyes with pleasure. Mountains, loggias, and excellent cheese—Dicomano had it all.
* * *
—
Back in Florence, I was taking care of Cocca while Bernardo attended a meeting at the Kennel Club. I took her for a walk in the Piazza Demidoff in the chilly moonlit night, intending to take her to meet Luigo. Cocca was pulling me inexorably toward the bridge, however, when Bernardo rang.
“Com’e?” he asked.
“Fine,” I said, “except that she’s trying to pull me over the bridge. She’s so strong!”
“Ah si,” he said, chuckling. “Well, she wants to go where there are peopl
e and show herself off. Be firm, don’t worry about yanking her lead, see how much muscle”—he pronounced it “muskle”—“she has around her neck?”
He was right. Cocca had been a show dog, a world champion, as it happened, and as soon as we came to the city, she had an extra spring in her step, her gait super perky. Bernardo had been breeding dogs since he was a teenager—it was something he had shared with his father—setting up their kennel then, and getting the accreditation from the Italian Kennel Club at the age of fifteen. At Colognole there was a room downstairs full of cups from all the shows he had won over the past three decades. It was a passion that had shaped his life—he had met Alessandro’s mother when he had visited her family kennel in Sweden, and they had not just created Colognole’s spacious kennel but also bred and showed generations of champions in the decade they were together.
I put the phone down on Bernardo and yanked at Cocca’s lead. She reluctantly turned away from the bridge and followed me to Luigo’s. I wanted to check in with him about my feelings for Bernardo, and I had brought him some castagnaccio from the bakery in Rufina, a sort of flat cake made of chestnut flour and sprinkled with pine nuts and rosemary, which seemed to be everywhere now that it was the season for chestnuts.
“Well,” exclaimed Luigo as we walked in, coming around the front of the bar to pat Cocca, “who’s this?” and as Cocca jumped up to lick him, snorting and snuffing her pleasure, he laughed. “Is it a pig or a dog?”
Cocca walked around everyone in the bar, sniffing at all their legs, wagging her tail and waving her paw like the Queen Mother on walkabout.
Luigo asked where Bernardo was.
“He’s at the Kennel Club,” I said. He had just sent me a text in which he told me he would be back later than expected: there was “much burocrazy” to deal with. I showed this to Luigo, laughing. “Seems like an apt way to spell it, don’t you think?” I loved Bernardo’s rambunctious insistence on speaking English regardless of whether he knew the words or not. His texts were even more creative than his speech, and they made me laugh, his multiple mistakes and malapropisms.
“Florentines,” I observed to Luigo, “love their clubs. Bernardo has his Kennel Club. Dino had his tennis club—”
“And I have my gay clubs!” cut in Luigo.
I confided to Luigo that I was worried I was getting too involved with Bernardo too quickly. After all the men who never stayed long enough for me to actually unfold the double sofa bed, I told him, with Bernardo I had no opportunity to fold it up again. And not only did he stay the whole night when he could, but he brought his dog and his child with him too sometimes. He brought life—with all its mess and chaos—into mine.
“What are you scared of, bella?” Luigo asked.
“Well, earlier, when he was driving away, I found myself trying to memorize his number plate…”
Luigo leaned on the bar encouragingly. “So…?” he said.
“Well, I was thinking—I should remember his number plate so that when he leaves me, I can identify his car…”
For months I had squinted at every passing black Audi, wondering if Dino was inside.
Luigo walked over to my side of the bar and took my hands. “You know, bella, Dino was a stronzo. I don’t think this Bernardo is.”
“But how do I know, Luigo?” I pleaded with him. “I’m getting so cozy with him. I mean, we sit on the sofa and hold hands and gaze into each other’s eyes. His place is so lovely I never want to leave. This is all wrong!” My voice had risen to a pitch almost too high for human ears. Cocca was wagging her tail frantically.
“Don’t panic!” Luigo stifled a smile. “So you’re comfortable with him! So you like him—maybe you even love him—”
I shook my head vigorously. “No, Luigo! I don’t. He’s way too complicated—this is just fun! So, tell me, what can I do? I’ve kind of gotten here ’cause of la sprezzatura—what can I do to protect myself?”
Luigo chuckled. “Bella, there’s nothing to do. Keep writing your book and keep being with your man. One does not have to exclude the other. So let go. Don’t resist. Enjoy the man and his nice house and all those dogs and puppies.”
“But then what happens when I get attached to the house and the dogs and the kid? And then he leaves me and I am all alone…”
Luigo squeezed my hands. “What if he doesn’t leave you?” he said. “Or what if you decide to leave him? It doesn’t matter, bella. Have I taught you nothing about Italy and love? We love love and there is nothing shameful in loving and losing. Remember our relationships are ‘stories’—they are episodes, and however long or short, we give ourselves over fully to the story.”
I blinked at him.
“So you see, bella, it doesn’t matter. If your story ends, you come and hang out with me until the next story starts. But,” he went on archly, “I think what you are really scared of is not that it may end, but that it may not…”
Tagliolini with truffles
SERVES 2
Sea salt, to taste
5½–7 oz. fresh tagliolini
4 Tbsp. butter
1 large white truffle, sliced superfine
Fresh Parmesan, grated, to taste
Fill a large pasta pot with water and place over a high heat till boiling. Add salt and then the tagliolini. Just before the pasta is ready (remember, fresh pasta cooks quickly), drain and reserve the water.
Melt the butter in a deep pan and add the tagliolini, along with a cup of the pasta water. Add the truffle and Parmesan and cook everything together for a minute, adding more pasta water if necessary. Remove from the heat and serve immediately.
King’s Breakfast: fried egg with white truffle
SERVES 1
1 free-range egg
A knob of butter
½ small white truffle
Sea salt, to taste
Fry the egg in butter in a large pan until the white is crispy but the yolk is still runny. With a truffle cutter, slice some superfine slices of white truffle onto the yolk, add some flakes of sea salt to taste, and serve.
12
DECEMBER
·
Stare insieme
or HOW TO BE TOGETHER
PRODUCE IN SEASON · cavolo nero
SCENT OF THE CITY · snow in the hills
ITALIAN MOMENT · Christmas in the Tuscan countryside
ITALIAN WORD OF THE MONTH · amore
December arrived with enough of a chill in the air to justify the extravagant displays of winter dressing the Florentines had adopted since the start of November. Big puffy coats with hoods edged in fur, sheepskin-lined boots, gloves, and thick knit scarves encircled them so thoroughly that no hint of a cold wind could get in. Florentines were obsessed with catching chills—a mysterious concern even in the height of summer but the likelihood of which exponentially increased as the seasons turned colder. Old Roberto had been so concerned by my cavalier disregard for the possibility that he had given me a scarf all the way back in September when I had considered it still summer. In October, he had been shocked by my refusal to wear a winter coat. When I had coughed a couple of times, he had insisted on taking me to his doctor, whose office was a few doors down from Guido the Dramatic Idraulico.
Now that I was wearing my winter coat and the scarf he had given me, Old Roberto was finally satisfied with my attire, but that didn’t stop him from urging me to tie the scarf tighter around my neck to make sure that the treacherous chill could not penetrate its folds.
There were frosts in the mornings, gilding the neighborhood with a crisp layer of white. Occasional rain showers left bare branches embroidered with glistening droplets of water, backlit by the sun. Skeleton imprints of red and brown leaves were etched into the streets, ghosts of an autumn that was now conceding to winter.
There was a full program of concerts and operas at the Teatro Comunale, and Bernardo and I went often; I leaned down over the balcony, rapt, while Bernardo dozed sporadically behind me. One night at the last minute he
couldn’t join me and he gave me the key to the family box. I invited Antonella and she came flanked by two of her tallest and most beautiful Adonises, extravagantly dressed in cloaks and stiff collars, one in a top hat, the other carrying an ornate walking stick and wearing a monocle.
As we settled into our seats, I told Antonella about Bernardo’s emergency. “One of his daughters is sick and her mother is freaking out, so he has gone to see if she needs to be taken to the hospital,” I explained, reasonably. But I didn’t feel that reasonable about it. Of course I could not mind, the children came first. But his daughters and their mother were such shadowy figures in my life that every time their existence impacted me directly, I was not only surprised but a little put out.
As the orchestra took their seats beneath us, Antonella asked me how I liked his daughters.
“I haven’t met them,” I said in a whisper—the conductor was holding up his baton. In answer to Anto’s raised eyebrow I went on: “They are little and he wants to protect them. That’s fine by me, I am not sure I am ready to take on any more kids. And honestly, although he says everything is cool with their mother, I get the sense that it’s not really.”
Whenever his second wife called, Bernardo went into another room to talk to her, lowering his voice, shutting the door. He had told me that on the weekends when she dropped them around to Colognole, she often stayed the whole day, stretching out her visit all the way to dinner. I had wondered more than once if that meant she also stayed the night.
“Do you think there is still something between them?” hissed Anto as Tosca launched into an aria below us.
Bella Figura Page 21
