“What’s this?” he demanded. “I thought I said no presents?”
“It’s Christmas!” I hadn’t been able to help myself. “There have to be presents…” I loved rituals and celebrations, couldn’t let Christmas pass without some parcels to be opened, convinced that, whatever he said, his son was still enough of a child to be thrilled by Christmas presents.
“In that case…” Bernardo said and disappeared into the bedroom, coming back with a small box that he placed into my hands. “Happy Christmas, cara,” he said, kissing me on the cheek. I tore open the paper excitedly, and opened the box to find a pair of exquisite earrings, cylinders of delicately wrought silver wrapped around balls of turquoise, my favorite stone. I clapped my hands in delight. “They’re gorgeous.” I hugged him. “How did you know?”
Bernardo smiled and indicated Alessandro. “Well, he helped me!” and Alessandro came and hugged me too, grinning from ear to ear. I put them on, to their admiring cries. I was still flushed with pleasure when I saw Cocca out of the corner of my eye, walking in along the corridor. But there was something over her eye, and I was about to go and examine it when I saw Cocca coming out of the kitchen the opposite way, at the same time. I rubbed my eyes: there were two white dogs now, nose to nose, like a mirror reflection except that the new one had a black patch over his eye.
“Cocco!” exclaimed Bernardo. “Dai, they are here,” he said and, with that, a tall man with a soft fleshy face and thinning wispy brown hair walked in, holding a baby. His wife was right behind him, tall and slim, with short hair, leading a toddler by the hand. In the commotion of introductions and hugs and greetings that followed, Cocca executed a bull-terrier dance in the middle of the kitchen. Sniffing at her son, she reared up on her hind legs, spinning around and bucking mid-turn as Cocco copied her, then she snorted in excitement before raising her muzzle and letting out a long song of joy, rushing from one person to another, poking our legs with her nose as her tail wagged furiously.
Gaetano shook my hand, looking at me with piercing blue eyes, a smile across his broad face. “I have heard a lot about you,” he said in a perfect English accent. Instantly likeable, Gaetano was everything Bernardo had described. A big, cozy man, he was warm and funny and his wife, Ilenia, was, he told me as he introduced us, his falconer assistant.
“Ah, yes,” she said in heavily accented English, taking the baby from his arms, “before we had these ones”—indicating the kids—“we were parents to twenty hunting birds.” She turned and pointed to a big cage that had been placed at the end of the corridor.
“You see,” she said, rolling her eyes, “he brought his new baby with him…” And Gaetano went to the cage and slowly opened the door, placing a gauntlet on his hand, coaxing out a large bird, which sank its claws into the leather as it climbed out onto his arm.
I gasped. As Gaetano got up, holding his arm aloft, the enormous bird perched on it spread its wings. They spanned the whole width of the corridor.
“Royal eagle,” said Gaetano. “We had to bring him, we got him only a couple of weeks ago and I didn’t want to leave him alone. Want a demonstration?”
“Oh, yes, please!” I said, looking at the proud creature as he perched, his head turning this way and that, his yellow eyes impassive.
“Dai,” said Bernardo. “You go and fly the bird and I will put on the tortellini…”
I followed Gaetano outside. Ilenia stayed with the baby to help Bernardo, but the children came too. Gaetano placed the eagle on a post and positioned himself in the widest part of the yard. Telling us to stand back, he took something out of one pocket and he tied it on a string. I peered at this, realizing that it was a dead mouse.
I leaned in toward Bernardo’s son. “So he really does have pockets full of dead mice?” I asked, wincing, and the boy laughed. “Oh, yes,” he said, “that’s nothing. Wait till you see the other bits…”
“Even on Christmas Day?” I was as amused as I was fascinated and disgusted.
The boy laughed. “That’s Gaetano…”
Gaetano released the bird, which spread its enormous wings, soaring into the sky, above the trees, over the vineyard. The mist of early morning had lifted, leaving a bright but bitterly cold day. The eagle swooped through the sky, turning and rushing back toward us, where Gaetano was swinging the rope with the dead mouse, and the eagle dived down, chasing the bait, passing low over our heads. I felt the wind on my face from its giant wings, heard the feathers fluttering, saw the majesty of the eagle’s flight close up. Gaetano made it pass us a few more times before bringing him in, the big bird landing silently on Gaetano’s upheld arm. Holding it aloft, Gaetano instructed Bernardo’s son to bring him something from upstairs and, when the boy reappeared with another leather gauntlet, Gaetano asked me if I wanted to hold the bird.
“Is it safe?” I asked. The eagle was huge, bigger than Gaetano’s toddler, and I instinctively shied away from it, from those cold eyes and sharp, curling beak. But Gaetano assured me that it was okay, and as I donned the glove, he came close and handed me the fine chain that he had clipped onto one of the bird’s claws.
“Hold this loose, and I will hand him over,” he instructed me, and as I did what he said, the bird, with a flap of his giant wings, skipped from Gaetano’s wrist to mine.
I held up my arm, looking at the eagle. He didn’t move, but turned his head, and looked right at me. Our eyes locked, and I saw the eagle’s flicker—he was looking me up and down. I was mesmerized, I had never been so close to something so wild. I had the feeling he was sizing me up, much in the same way that Antonella checked me out whenever she saw me. An Italian bird, I thought, as Gaetano took the eagle back from my arm. I felt elated by this incredible encounter.
When we arrived back upstairs, the places were set and the food was steaming on the table. A soup tureen was full of tortellini al brodo, the turkey sat in the middle surrounded by roasted potatoes with rosemary, the vegetables were placed all around it, and at the other end of the table there was another large dish with the roast pork sitting on it. There were two boxes of panettone on the sideboard. Bernardo had made a centerpiece from the poinsettia and holly I had brought, and there were tall red candles burning on either side in silver candleholders I hadn’t seen before. An exquisite crystal carafe filled with red wine sat on the side, and in the other room a fire was crackling in the fireplace. It was beautiful.
“I’ve never seen so much food,” I said as we took our seats. “I thought we were over-the-top in England!”
“We are in Italy,” Bernardo said and laughed. “We like our food, you know…”
We all sat at the table, the baby in a high chair next to Ilenia, Cocca and Cocco at our feet, the eagle perched on the low wall by the kitchen, watching. Occasionally Gaetano got up and, reaching deep into his pockets, brought out a mouse’s foot or a tail and fed it to the bird. I sat back and watched the scene, and I smiled. So this, I thought, is a regular Christmas with Bernardo.
* * *
—
On New Year’s Eve, Bernardo was once more at my door, licking his lips as he looked at me in my red Fontana Sisters dress and sparkly heels. “Ma quanto sei bella,” he said, his eyes devoring me, and I flushed with pleasure. He was usually so taciturn—for an Italian man—that when he made these compliments, they meant so much more.
I had accepted Antonella’s invitation for dinner and, although I was fluttering to feel his skin on mine and we were both tempted to see in the New Year with an epic bed-in, we jumped into the car and headed over the bridge. Florence was all lit up, full of people, the atmosphere crackling with laughter.
Bernardo had just taken his daughters back home and dropped Alessandro off with friends. He had been there since Boxing Day with all his children. He looked content, the lines on his face softened by the days with his family.
“I look around the table last night,” he told me, “and I think, Mamma mia, all these people are made by me!” He glowed with happiness and I fel
t a stab of jealousy. Not at the love that he had for his children but at not being part of the scene. As if reading my mind, he went on: “Only person missing was you, cara…” and the feeling melted away. There was no stinginess to Bernardo, I thought, no need to fight others for portions of him. He was generous with his love; his heart just stretched to encompass more people to care for.
The Piazza Santa Croce was once more cordoned off. This time there was no stage, but a station for fireworks in the middle of the square, complete with sandbags all around and a couple of fire engines at the ready. Once more from Antonella’s window I would have ringside seats for one of Florence’s best shows—its New Year’s fireworks display, this year to be launched from the middle of her piazza.
Anto flung open the door, champagne glass and cigarette in hand. She too was wearing red—the first time I had seen her in a color—and her hair had been freshly, sharply cut. She hugged me and, on being introduced to Bernardo, embraced him too, ushering us in. The apartment was full of people; there was a full turnout of Adonises, mostly crowded around la mamma, who was sitting, resplendent in sequins, on a chair by the buffet table, which was spread with food. I could see Luigo in the crowd, and there, in a corner, was Giuseppe.
“Amore, come in”—Anto was at my elbow—“and eat some lentils,” indicating the dishes placed at either end of the table. “It is traditional—”
“Means you will have money all year,” cut in Bernardo.
“I’d better have several plates, then!” I said.
I went around the room hugging all my friends. Luigo whispered in my ear, “So, bella, what’s new?” and I told him about the latest conversation with Christobel, the decision I had made.
“So…?” Luigo arched a brow, glancing at Bernardo, who was laughing uproariously with la mamma across the room.
“Shhhh.” I put a finger on his lips. “I haven’t told him yet.” Antonella joined us, and Luigo told her the news. “Amore!” she exclaimed, hugging me. “Brava! You’ve chosen well.” She indicated Bernardo. “I like him. But you better watch out, la mamma seems to love him,” as another peal of laughter burst out of la mamma and Bernardo. Then, turning to Luigo, she said: “Allora, ti pago dopo…”
“Wait,” I cried. “Pay him? Did you guys have a bet?”
“Cazzo,” cursed Anto, “your Italian has improved and we don’t have a secret language anymore…” She gave me another hug. “Okay, yes, but is only a joke. I say you are too scared, but Luigo here”—she clapped a hand on his shoulder while Luigo pouted—“he is a true romantic.”
“That’s because, bella, I have seen you together,” said Luigo, sipping his drink. “Now, basta, let’s go dance!”
Antonella’s bedroom had been transformed into a dance floor. Her few pieces of furniture had been removed, the bed tucked into the corner of the room and piled with cushions. “Is chill-out area,” said Anto, indicating the pile of silk on which lounged two gorgeous Adonises. In the hallway between the sitting room and the bedroom, there was a deck and a DJ, an Adonis twiddling the controls while arranging his earphones around his hair, and disco lights flashed in the bedroom.
“This is amazing,” I said to Anto as she pushed me onto the “dance floor.” And we danced, Adonises appearing to twirl us around. I whirled through the evening, at different points dancing with Luigo, Antonella; even Giuseppe came and waved his long limbs around in a gloriously arrhythmic way. Bernardo accompanied la mamma into the room, swaying her in his arms, telling me over his shoulder as he circled her past: “I am in love with this woman…”
As midnight approached, we gathered by the windows, putting the lights out. At the stroke of midnight the Duomo’s church bells rang, echoing through the city, ricocheting off the walls around the piazza as Antonella’s guests burst to life, whooping and jumping up and down, everyone hugging one another. Holding on to Bernardo, I kissed him as the fireworks display whizzed to life, the lights exploding in the night sky, illuminating the city, the dome, the façade of the church. We leaned out the window together to watch the sparks overhead.
“Happy New Year, Bernardo.” I stroked his beard. “What are your intentions for the new year?”
He gave me an intense look. “Di stare insieme…” he said. “My intention is to stay with you…” He stopped and swallowed hard. My heart skipped, his vulnerability disarmed me. It was time to tell him about the potential book deal and my new arrangement with Christobel. Leaning in closer, I told him that I had decided to stay in Florence to keep on writing my book. “At least until it’s done. And then we will see…”
His face wreathed into the biggest smile, he pulled me close. We kissed as fireworks lit up our faces and then he looked deep into my eyes again and said:
“Happy New Year, amore.”
And then:
“Amore mio…”
Tortellini with capon broth
SERVES 4
2 onions, finely chopped
2 cloves garlic, finely chopped
3 stalks celery, finely chopped
2 carrots, finely chopped
Best-quality extra-virgin olive oil
1 capon
Sea salt and black pepper, to taste
11 oz. fresh tortellini
For the broth, make a sofrito, gently frying the finely chopped onions, garlic, celery, and carrots in olive oil in a deep pan. Once the sofrito is cooked and aromatic, fill the pan with water and add the capon. Season with sea salt and black pepper and let it simmer for a couple of hours or more, spooning off any fat or scum that forms at the top.
Remove the capon from the pan—you can serve the delicious white flavorful meat separately but never in the broth—and sieve the water to get rid of the vegetables so you are left with a clear broth. Transfer the broth to another deep pan, throw in the tortellini (we buy ours from a specialist fresh-pasta maker, but if you want to make your own, I recommend Marcella Hazan’s recipe), and bring to a boil. It doesn’t need long, so watch out not to overcook—just a few minutes.
Serve the broth and enjoy—this is the Italian version of chicken soup, mamma’s traditional cure-all!
Cavolo nero with oil and lemon
SERVES 2
2 bunches cavolo nero (other types of kale can be used)
Sea salt, to taste
Best-quality extra-virgin olive oil
Juice of ½ lemon
Black pepper, to taste
1 clove garlic, chopped (optional)
Wash thoroughly and dry your cavolo nero. Remove the fattest part of the stalk, cutting away the kale from it. Place the whole leaves in a pan of boiling water with salt and let it boil, removing before it’s overcooked and wilting. Drain very well and serve on a platter with lots of olive oil, lemon juice, and plenty of sea salt. Add black pepper to taste.
Alternatively, you can chop the cavolo nero into pieces, toss in a pan of olive oil with chopped garlic and a little water, and stir while it cooks. Serve with olive oil and lemon as above.
Lentils with pancetta
SERVES 4
9 oz. green lentils
Sea salt, to taste
Best-quality extra-virgin olive oil
1¾ oz. pancetta, sliced
1 clove garlic, peeled and crushed
Large bunch of parsley, chopped
Boil the lentils in salted water until they are cooked but not soft (about 20 minutes). Drain. In a deep frying pan, heat some olive oil and add the pancetta; cook for a minute or two. Add the lentils with the garlic and plenty of parsley. Mix everything together over a medium-high heat until the lentils are covered in oil. Serve.
(For a vegetarian option, simply leave out the pancetta.)
Epilogue
2017
I am walking around an exhibition of Betsy’s ceramics at a London gallery. Standing among the other exhibits is a triptych of long and lissome pots, covered in squiggles and flowers floating around a naked figure with big curly hair.
“Amore,” says Bernardo
from behind me, “that’s your bottom!” I check the date on the work, and sure enough, it was made in 2008, the year I posed for Betsy. I remember that day, my despair over the dastardly Dino—an experience that inexorably brought me to this man, the one who is still by my side, the life partner who can spot a facsimile of my bottom at a hundred paces.
To allow Bernardo into my life I had to drop my prejudices, say yes a few times instead of no, and take a risk with my heart. Sometimes I think we have been so spoiled by the fairy tale that is continually sold to us—even as adults—that we fail to realize that true love is not an idealized romance that comes tied up with a Hollywood-style bow. Real love and real life, as my mother told me, is messy, imperfect, flawed—and so much better than I could have possibly imagined.
* * *
Much has changed in the decade since I encountered the bella figura, but I still drink my olive oil and I still walk as much, and as proudly, as possible (a study by Ohio University showed that the straighter you stand, the more confident you feel). I still honor each meal with attention (no screens) and a variety of courses, even if a course is just one radish or half a fennel. I have observed, with fascination, as the health fads and special diets I once followed have been replaced by clean eating and the wellness movement. But I remain convinced that at the heart of being healthy, there must be pleasure involved: to eat well, we must enjoy what we eat. I continue to preach a sort of Italian moderation: home-cooked pasta and fresh vegetables are good for you if eaten the right way in the right quantities. I encourage spoonfuls of fresh extra-virgin olive oil and creamy cappuccinos with full-fat milk to start the day—although not at the same time, obviously. I am convinced that there is no true health possible if, while imbibing so much juiced—or rather nutritionally extracted—kale, one no longer enjoys actually eating; I am sure that no amount of spiralizing can make up for the joylessness of deprivation, and that there are not enough gluten-free products in the world to counter the devastating effects of stress and giving no time at all to your inner self.
Bella Figura Page 24
