Tuscany for Beginners

by Imogen Edwards-Jones

  “Oh,” says Mary, cutting her tomato slice in half. “I suppose I shall be inside doing the supper or something.”

  “There's no need for that,” Belinda says with a little cough as she swallows. “We can defrost something for the major. Not that he'd notice anyway. But I want you to help Franco.”

  “You do?” says Mary, putting down her knife and fork, her cheeks pinking under her tan.

  “Yes.” Belinda sniffs. “A lot of old paving-stones need moving, and you can help him.”

  “Oh.”

  “I'll bring my lounger to the pool and conduct proceedings from there. I can't leave the two of you alone.” She laughs. “There's no telling what would happen.”

  “Don't be silly, Mum,” says Mary, looking down at her food.

  Come three thirty that afternoon, Franco is striding down the hillside toward Belinda's kidney-shaped swimming pool, dressed only in his jeans and a pair of sandals, with a heavy sun lounger hoisted high above his head. Belinda is ahead of him shouting, encouraging “Bene” noises, while Mary walks behind, staring at every strained, bronzed muscle in his beautiful back. Chiseled and sculpted, hewn from the shiniest and softest of materials, each sinew defined, each muscle distinct, Franco moves like a panther and looks like a god. Mary is transfixed, so transfixed that she forgets to look away when he puts down the lounger.

  “Va bene così?” he asks Belinda.

  “Oh, bene, bene, bene, ”trills Belinda, tottering on the spot and clapping in her enthusiasm, her face stretched into a very wide smile.

  “Bene,” he agrees, stretching toward the sky. He exhales, runs his hands through his thick dark hair, and turns around to catch Mary staring at him. “Bene.” He nods and smiles. “Okay?” he asks.

  “Oh, yes, very … okay,” says Mary, staring at her shoes, quickly tucking her hair behind her ears.

  “Good,” he says, shaking his arms. “That is molto heavy,” he explains.

  “Right.” Mary nods.

  The sweet smell of his sweat is making her feel light-headed. His masculinity is intoxicating. Actually, all of Gianfranco Bianchi is intoxicating. The big, swinging Adonis of the valley, his good looks, grand physique, and charming smile have beguiled everyone around. His arrival at anyone's house, villa, and, indeed, Giovanna's trattoria is always heralded with much excitement and applause. The only unmarried son left in the Bianchi household, he has driven his mother mad with frustration at his refusal to settle down. Happy to spend his days working on his father's farm and helping out the expat community with their DIY problems, Franco has never been interested in the lure of the city or university—too interested in girls to study, he spent his teens flirting on the bus to Serrana and failed to get into technical college in Poggibonsi. He hibernates during the winter, working hard for his father, but come the summer, there are enough tourists and DIY problems to keep him entertained.

  “So,” claps Belinda, mindful that, no matter how delightful the view, it is still costing her over ten euros an hour. “Right, Franco.” She squeezes out another smile. “A laboro. To work.”

  “Sì, yes, right, Signora Smith. Where are these stones?” he asks.

  “Maria, darling, will you take him to the stones and tell him what to do?” says Belinda, exhaustion pouring out of her voice. “I think I might just have a lie-down and point a few things out.”

  elinda relaxes into the lounger, and Mary and Franco set about shifting the large pile of flagstones left over from paving around the pool. They have sat stacked up against the side of the hill for the past three years and Mary doesn't understand the need to move them in the heat of the afternoon on this particular day, but her mother is insistent. And she doesn't really mind how hot it is or how heavy the stones are: she is working with the valley's most handsome assistant, if only she could look him in the eye.

  For the first ten minutes, neither of them speaks. The stones are heavy and Belinda keeps making demands, pointing her short pink fingers in the direction of the pile. But then she relaxes and reclines on her cushions. After another five minutes or so, Franco and Mary can hear the snuffles, crackles, and pops of phlegmy snoring. With their sentinel off duty, they relax. Franco catches Mary's eye, as they walk back and forth carrying their heavy loads. His dark eyes, with their thick, curly lashes, glint at her. The next time they cross, his handsome mouth breaks into a wide, white smile. At the third meeting he winks, and Mary manages a brief smile back. The fourth time, he pretends that the stone is too heavy and drags it along like an old man. Mary grins. Then, finally, he lays down a stone and mops his brow with his strong brown forearm.

  “Fa caldo,” he sighs. “Let's rest.”

  Mary puts down her flagstone next to his and straightens her back. “You're right,” she says, shaking her hair off her shining shoulders. “It's very hot.”

  “So,” he says, taking a small golden tin of tobacco out of his back trouser pocket. “Are you having a good holiday?” He lays a slim tissue of cigarette paper on his wide palm and seasons it with tobacco. Used to chatting up tourists and expat women d'un certain âge, Franco's English is good, if a little limited to holidays and the weather.

  “It isn't really a holiday,” says Mary, giggling for no reason other than the embarrassment of conversing with Franco for the first time. “I'm out here working for my mother.” She laughs again.

  “Oh, right, yes.” Franco's dark brows furrow at the apparent missed joke. “Signora Smith.”

  “Yes,” says Mary.

  Franco leans forward, his eyes study her face as he licks the length of his rolled cigarette with the tip of his tongue. Mary's mouth goes dry and her stomach tightens as she stares back. “Signora Smith,” she says slowly.

  “She is like a wild pig,” he laughs, imitating her snore. “You know, cinghiale. ”

  “Oh, yes, wild boar,” agrees Mary, her body collapses in a quiet, breathless enthusiastic laugh. She touches his forearm and breathes in the high, sweet smell of his skin.

  “But, you know, she is nice person.” He lights his roll-up, and inhales a curl of smoke deep into his lungs, then exhales it out of the side of his mouth. “Do you want?” he asks, handing over the damp, licked, and sucked cigarette.

  “Mmm, thanks,” says Mary, taking the moist end and placing it between her lips. She takes a drag, half closing her eyes. The damp paper burns her skin. Her cheeks flush. Her eyes shine. Her breath quickens. She coughs just once as the smoke hits her lungs, and lets out a thin ribbon of smoke from between her parted lips.

  Franco stares at her intently. His dark eyes move slowly down her face. They are drawn to her mouth. His eyelids are lowered. He does not take his eyes off her lips. He takes a step closer. His hands move toward her hips. Mary doesn't move. She can't. She is standing there, cigarette in one hand, the other hanging limply by her side. She waits, her chin turned upward, her lips parted.

  “Are you smoking?” comes a squawk from the lounger. “Mary!”

  Franco and Mary jump apart. She drops the cigarette on the ground. He treads on it, turns, and smiles. “Buongiorno, Signora Smith,” he says, ambling toward her with his arms outstretched like he is greeting a long-lost cousin. “Good sleeping?”

  “Franco, Franco,” flutters Belinda, smoothing down her T-shirt, “have I woken up and caught you on a break?”

  “Just a little rest,” he says, his finger and thumb coming together to make the smallest of gaps. “A very little rest.”

  “Good,” says Belinda brusquely, swinging her small feet on to the grass. “Because you know how much I hate slack workmanship.”

  “Yes, yes,”laughs Franco, as if he understands what she means.

  “So, Maria,” says Belinda, still smiling at Franco, “I hope I didn't see you with a cigarette.”

  “No.”

  “Good, right. How far have you got with the flagstones?”

  “We're nearly there,” says Mary. “About halfway, I suppose.”

  “Super,” says Belinda. “Y
ou carry on with that, dear, and I shall take Franco down the garden. I'm having a little problem with my fig, and I need him to help me out. Come with me, Franco,” she says, beckoning with a pink forefinger.

  “Okay, signora,” he says, smiling broadly. “Whatever you want.”

  “Whatever I want.” Belinda giggles and flicks her brown hair. “You'll regret saying that, Franco, you really will.”

  Franco and Belinda walk off down the hillside, leaving Mary on flagstone duty. But she doesn't mind. She walks back and forth carrying the heavy pieces of stone with renewed vigor. She has a smile on her face and strength in her stride. The stones aren't that heavy, after all. Could it be that the handsome Franco was just about to kiss her? Does he like her? The man who could have any woman in the valley had noticed her, and she couldn't believe it. No one had looked at her like that for some time. Actually, no one had ever looked at her like that before. The last man to make any advances on her had been Jeremy in Accounting at the Christmas party, and that was over six months ago. Even then, he had only groped her in the back of the cab after he'd drunk six Snowballs. He'd rubbed his bendy erection up and down her thigh for a while, then fallen asleep with his mouth open—and all before she dropped him off at Victoria station for the last train home. But Franco is different from English boys. For a start, he's a real man. He's the hunter-gatherer type, who can do things with his hands. He can make things, mend things. He's strong. He's gentle. He's what all men used to be before they discovered computer keyboards and Clinique. Mary doesn't mind how many stones she has to move. In fact, she could do it all day and not feel a thing.

  She finishes at just after five. Franco has already gone, winking at her as he walked up the hill. Belinda was apparently more than satisfied with his diagnosis on her fig: all it needed was a bit more care and attention and then it would bear fruit like the others in the valley. She is almost as elated as her daughter. In fact, the Franco effect on the Casa Mia household is enough to put both women in an excellent humor. Belinda marks her light mood by putting Russell Watson on her CD player and turning “Nessun Dorma!” to full volume as she conducts the orchestra from the arm of her ex-husband's favorite chair.

  Mary decides to take a long hot bath, which is not a pleasure she usually affords herself since she has to clean the whole bathroom afterward and leave it in a state fit for any guest.

  At seven thirty Mary and Belinda are sitting on the terrace. A chili con carne is defrosting in the kitchen, and they each have a drink in their hand as they watch the full red sun attempting to slide behind the hillside.

  “What time is the major coming?” asks Mary.

  “Who knows?” says Belinda, looking at her watch. “But if he's not here in the next ten minutes, then I think we can start thinking about supper. I'm not waiting for him.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Well, I'm not running a hotel,” says Belinda. “This is an upmarket bed-and-breakfast, and guests are here at my convenience, not their own.”

  “I know, but—”

  “When I say check-in time is seven fifteen at the latest, I mean it. It's on all the new literature.”

  “You haven't sent it out yet.” Mary sips her wine.

  “Yes,” Belinda sniffs, “but technically it's on all the literature. And what is the point of making rules if I end up breaking them myself ? It appears a little foolish, don't you think?”

  Fortunately for the major he arrives within the next ten minutes and spares Belinda the inconvenience of breaking her rules and himself the same inconvenience of driving all the way to Poggibonsi, which is where Belinda sends anyone who displeases her or who doesn't fit into her important schedule.

  She is in the kitchen, fixing herself a third gin and tonic, when she hears a car door slam. “They're here!” she announces to Mary, indicating her head toward the door. “You can go and meet and greet them. Returnees don't get the official greeting party—they get a ten percent discount instead.”

  By the time Mary gets to the front door and out into the drive, the major is already efficiently taking suitcases off the roof rack. “Good evening, Mary, my dear,” he says, abandoning his suitcase and walking over to greet her. Sporting a pair of khaki shorts, beige knee socks, sandals, and a cream Aertex shirt, Major Chester looks as if he has just come off an exercise in the Gulf. Were it not for the amount of extra weight he is carrying around the middle, the short, thick whiteness of his legs, and the dimples at either side of his knees, he could have passed for a man in regular service. With a fringe of sandy hair around his skull, he stands erect and carries himself with the bullish determination of a short man.

  His wife, Mrs. Patricia Chester, is at least four inches taller than her husband and of slim, neat build. She has the sort of steel gray, bouclé perm that bedecks every woman of her age, and an immensely thick pair of glasses that magnify her eyes to opossum proportions. In a pale pistachio flowered blouse and matching trousers, creased in a fan formation at the crotch, she looks a little tired from traveling.

  “Did you have a good journey?” asks Mary, as she walks toward one of the major's smaller suitcases. She bends over, taking care that her buttocks face in the opposite direction from the major's jabbing fingers. Just in case the man still can't resist a good old-fashioned goose, like last year.

  “It was all fine and dandy after the Mont Blanc tunnel,” says the major, licking his rather fat wet lips.

  “Oh, good,” says Mary, straightening quickly.

  “Yes. Right,” says the major. “Come along, Pat, let's secure our quarters while there's some daylight left.”

  “Major! Dear! Mrs. Chester!” Belinda comes outside, after a suitably discounted time, a pleasant guest-greeting smile on her face. “How lovely to see you! How lovely of you to return to Casa Mia! I feel I should kiss you! So I will!” Belinda gives her guests warm gin kisses on both cheeks. “Welcome! Welcome! Welcome to you both!”

  “Thank you, Belinda. It's nice to be back.” Patricia blinks behind her specs.

  “Oh, it's a pleasure to have you both back, Patricia. You're practically family,” enthuses Belinda.

  “Well, Pat and I can certainly orient ourselves around here,” chuckles the major, picking up the suitcases in the swift maneuver of a man used to carrying kit bags. “Our usual room, Belinda?”

  “Of course, your usual room, Major dear.” Belinda smiles, her hands clasped as if in prayer. “Down the stairs and um …”

  “Left,” supplies the major.

  “That's right, left,” says Belinda. “Just like last year.”

  “Do you need help with that bag, Mrs. Chester?” asks Mary.

  “Oh, no, love,” replies Pat, with an owl-like stare. “This bag is for you and your mum. Some little presents from the mother country. You know, little things you just won't be able to live without.”

  “Presents?” says Belinda, with a generous gift-receiving smile. “How lovely! But, really, there's no need.”

  “Don't be silly,” says Pat. “As you said, we're practically family, and I wouldn't dream of going to see any of my relations without taking them a little something.”

  “Oh, but you shouldn't have,” says Belinda, wagging a finger with one hand while making a grab for the bag with the other. She walks off quickly, like a dog with a bone. She takes it into the kitchen and empties the contents onto the counter: out pours a box of English Breakfast tea, some fudge, a tin of evaporated milk, Ovaltine, a packet of Angel Delight, some digestive biscuits, a Battenberg cake, a pot of Marmite, Branston pickle, a slab of mild Cheddar and some Cadbury Dairy Milk.

  “Oh, God,” mutters Belinda, snapping off a line of chocolate and placing it all in her mouth at once. “What a load of English rubbish.” She eats at such speed her eyes water. “Honestly,” she crunches away, picking up the Battenberg cake and sniffing it through the wrapper. “I can't even remember what this stuff tastes like.” She cuts herself a large slice through the plastic, breaks off a pink-marzipan
-coated square, and pops it into her mouth. “Mmm, mmm.” She adds two white squares. “Mmmm. Mmmm.”

  “All the comforts of home, eh?” says a voice, so loud and so close to Belinda that she jumps and snorts with shock.

  “Pat!” she says, opening her mouth to display its contents. “I didn't see you there!” She swallows. Her head and shoulders force the large indigestible sponge bolus down her throat. “You sneaked up on me!”

  “I did say hello, but I presumed you were so busy looking at all those memories of home that you didn't hear me,” Pat explains, with blinking accompaniment.

  “Yes, well, it's very kind of you. … Did you find your room all right?” inquires Belinda, smoothing down her skirt and slowly trying to edge the woman out of her kitchen.

  “It's in the same place as last year,” confirms the major, as he strides through the french windows and out onto Belinda's terrace and stands with his hands clasped behind his buttocks, looking at the view.

  “Oh, there you are, Major!” Belinda smiles through the kitchen door and wipes the crumbs off her lips with the back of her hand. “Everything all right?”

  “It looks shipshape to me,” says the major, turning around. “Tell me, what's that new place being done up on the other side of the valley? I don't remember it from last year.”

  “Oh, that,”says Belinda. “It's owned by an American woman.”

  “How awful,” says the major. “Poor you.”

  “I know.” Belinda nods. “I'm worried she'll lower the tone of the whole valley. I mean, she's already destroying the frescos in her chapel.”

  “Really?” says the major. “Dreadful people, the Americans. I know they were our allies in the war, but I really do think they shouldn't travel. They have no appreciation of culture.” He shakes his head as if to rid himself of unpleasant thoughts. “So, did you enjoy the hamper?”

  “Hamper? Oh, yes, of course, the food,” says Belinda. “Very kind.”