by Adele Parks
Raffaella drops a heavy plate of fatty meats in front of me. Irrationally, I think of feeding my uncle's Alsatian dog.
'Actually, I'm vegetarian, sorry. I eat fish – at a push – but not meat.'
I look beseechingly at Roberto, waiting for him to translate. He's already eaten his breakfast and is drumming his fingers on the cloth waiting for me to be done too. He briefly delivers a translation; I hope he injected the nuance of my 'sorry'. I really am, very much so.
Raffaella stares at me horrified; she looks as though I have just confessed to urinating in the urn holding her great-aunt's ashes. She says something in reply, rushes towards me and pinches my cheeks as though I'm a baby in a pram. Roberto grins and then translates.
'Mamma says she thought you were a little pale last night and that she was worried about you. Maybe you are anaemic.'
'Well, that's sweet but tell her not to worry, I take an iron supplement and so there's no cause for concern. Vegetarianism is very healthy if properly managed.'
Roberto patiently translates for me. His mother throws her hands in the air and turns to me. She shakes her head sadly.
'What did she say?'
'She said that there is no such thing as a vegetarian in Italy,' says Roberto.
'I haven't touched meat since I was nineteen, Roberto. I'm not going to eat this. Not even to ingratiate myself with your mother.'
Roberto shrugs, 'No problem.'
I look around the table. There's some bread and honey. I reach for it and push the plate of dead cow and pig to one side.
I eat in silence.
It's a cold and grey morning, but even so as I close the door on the house I feel grateful to be scurrying to the bar. I'm sure that it's just teething trouble but I can't help but think that there is definite tension between Raffaella and me. I don't know what I've done wrong but I must fix it as soon as possible. I silently fret for about two minutes and then I blurt.
'Do you think your mother was upset about the vegetarianism?'
Roberto has much longer strides than I have and I'm dashing to keep pace with him so my question comes out a little breathy and desperate as a result; shame, I wanted to try for casual and gently concerned.
'It's no problem, don't worry about it. Being a vegetarian is a little unusual in Italy, especially in my mother's generation, but certainly not unheard of. I'm sure tomorrow she will make you some delicious eggs for breakfast; her omelettes are sublime.' He pulls me close to him.
Happy to accept his comfort, I change the subject. 'I'm so excited at the thought of seeing the bar.'
'Me too. But...'
'What?'
'Nothing.'
'Tell me.'
'Well, I'm just with worry for the things Paolina said.'
'I'm sure she's exaggerating,' I say with an encouraging smile.
It turns out that Paolina wasn't exaggerating. The bar is a disappointment. Besides the fact that it's not a vineyard, it is still some way from anything I might have hoped for. As Paolina hinted last night, it is not a thriving hub full of beautiful young Italians, decked in designer clothes, lounging on stylish stools. It is not even a quaintly old-fashioned haunt, stuffed with rustic charm and several generations of buoyant families. It's simply old, tatty and neglected. The air in the bar is stale and has all the allure of a middle-aged lady of the night.
We hurry to the bar but when we arrive we're greeted with such stillness that Roberto seems to slump a fraction and I hear him sigh quietly. Other than a couple of crusty friends of Raffaella's, the place is empty. I squeeze his hand in order to offer some support. It seems to do the trick; Roberto pulls on a mask. He cheerfully greets the old fellas, taking the time to warmly shake hands with them and chat for quite some minutes. Then he introduces me.
'Bella, bella,' they say with appreciative smiles, even though they are grandfathers; I love the fact that Italians are eternal flirts. After Roberto's offered each a drink on the house he grins at me and then says, 'OK, let's get this show started. Mamma said the books are kept in a back room.'
14
26 January
Because the bar is in financial trouble, Roberto's immediate and full attention is required to fire-fight. He spends ten days poring over the accounts with Paolina while I clear junk out of spare rooms and scrub floorboards. My work isn't glamorous but I enjoy feeling useful. I reason that after a week or so of this frantic activity Roberto and I will have time to take stock, discuss our future, sight-see, make love and perhaps even hunt for our own apartment. We have plenty of time ahead of us. The work is undeniably hard but there's a real buzz to be had from working alongside Roberto, building a family business. I get great pleasure from rehearsing in my head the stories I will one day tell our grandchildren.
'Your grandpa was always good with numbers and a real ideas man. I was more of a behind-the-scenes contributor but my sparkling windows were the talk of the town,' I'll say. The grandkids will roll their eyes because it won't be the first time I've told them this tale. Honing fantasies such as these make the days fly by.
Roberto hunts me out when I'm clearing out the attic.
'Hey bambina, I've brought you hot chocolate.'
'Thanks, I'm freezing.' I stand up, toss the scrubbing brush into the bucket and peel off my rubber gloves.
'Nice look,' says Roberto with a playful grin and nod towards the discarded rubber gloves.
'Paolina left them on my bed last night.'
'Thoughtful gift.'
'It was actually, look at my hands.' I hold them up for inspection; they have started to crack as they are constantly dipped in and out of soapy water; Paolina must have noticed.
'You and Paolina are getting on well.' I'm not sure if Roberto is asking a question or making a statement.
'Yes, when I see her. We've only spent minutes together, even though we are sharing a room. She works such long hours.' Roberto gives me a quizzical look, 'what?' I ask.
'You think she works long hours?'
'Yes. She said so.'
'I think it is a man.'
'Do you?' I'm suddenly curious, I adore a romance. Roberto, being male, is less interested in other people's love lives so he doesn't bother to pursue the thought. I don't dwell either; instead I turn my attention back to our own love life. 'I'm hoping to have this attic cleared by tonight then we can bring our mattress up here. We'll sort out a bed at the weekend.'
The attic is not a hideous black hole in the roof affair. Now I've cleared out most of the boxes and old furniture I've discovered a really lovely room with wooden floors and two skylights. I can't wait to be sleeping with Roberto again. I miss his night-time warmth.
'Actually Elizabeth, my darling, we won't be sleeping in this room.'
'We won't?' A flicker of excitement trembles inside my belly. I wonder if Roberto is going to announce that he's already found us our own place to live.
'No, Mamma will sleep in here. We will sleep in Mamma's room.'
'Oh.' The flicker is well and truly doused. I rub my back, which aches with stretching to scrub, and I consider what to say next.
'Mamma thinks the master bedroom is the most fitting for us as a married couple. She told me that the man of the Risso family has been sleeping in that bed and that room for four generations.'
Ugh, the hygiene issues which that piece of family history brings to my mind!
'That's really kind of her, but it seems daft for her to move all her clothes out of the wardrobes,' I say carefully.
'I said the same to Mamma too and she agrees, so she will leave her clothes in the wardrobe.'
'But then where are our clothes to go?'
'We'll manage.'
'Won't she miss the balcony?' I'm clutching at straws. I've put my back into cleaning this room, I've become quite attached to it; I've already started to imagine Roberto and I making love under a canopy of white cotton. I've been wondering where I'll source a four-poster bed.
'She never uses the balcony and nor must
you. Mamma says it's too high, too old. A death cage, really.'
'A death trap,' I correct. 'Well, if we can't use the balcony and have no wardrobe space, what are the advantages to the master room? This attic is far nicer.'
Roberto looks pained. 'Why are you talking about advantages? Mamma is doing a good thing. She wants the tradition of our family to continue. You must understand that.'
'Well, yes, of course.' I feel guilty and ungrateful. 'It's very kind of her to offer up the master room but honestly I'd prefer moving up to the attic. I rather like the idea of us being as far away as possible from the rest of the family.'
'Why? What is wrong with them?' Roberto asks and I can hear the hurt in his voice. My guilt instantly turns to misery as I realize that I've offended him.
'There's nothing wrong with them,' I say quickly and I lean in to give him a reassuring caress on the arm. 'I just think we need some privacy.'
'why?'
'Baby-making for one,' I grin. Concern flicks into Roberto's eyes. I know he gets tense when I mention baby-making, he thinks I think about it too much. I think he doesn't think about it enough, but we both think it is best not to draw attention to this discrepancy in perspective.
'We'll have to make love with much quietness,' says Roberto. 'We could practise now.' He grins cheekily, then puts his hand flat on my breast and starts to massage my nipple with his thumb. I make a quick calculation. I'm days away from my most fertile time of the month. There is a theory that sex just before the best time weakens the sperm and therefore makes the best time more of a second best time. I can't risk it. I move his hand off my boob.
'I'd love to but I have so much to get on with. We want this room looking nice for your mamma, don't we?'
Roberto looks a bit disappointed but shrugs. 'I guess you are right. I have much to do too.'
It's true that while I've cleared, cleaned and sorted, Roberto has run around like a mad March hare. He calls on old friends and neighbours and drums up custom by simply appealing to their curiosity. People have begun to trickle into the bar because they want to see me; I'm a low-grade circus freak – everyone is curious about the English girl Roberto married. The few patrons we have are always extremely polite and gracious with me, although I'm longing for a more robust connection than a recommendation for what I should eat. The women comment on my hair and skin and while they are always generous with their compliments I can't wait until we are swapping gossip and confidences. The men beam and tell Roberto he has done well.
Sadly, whatever pleasantries are being swapped are aborted when these new acquaintances ask the inevitable question – how many bambini do we have? As in England, they are stumped when we say none. I guess some things are universal – like disappointment for example. Still, I'm sure neither I, nor these kind enquiring folk, will be disappointed for much longer. I can barely imagine the excitement there'll be when I do finally announce a pregnancy.
I am thrilled when it becomes clear that many customers are coming back for more than one visit and that isn't down to curiosity about me, it's due to Roberto. It turns out that Roberto is a natural landlord. He's gregarious, authoritative and amusing. It is fun to watch him greet and entertain. I feel distinctly proud of him. Seeing him so excited by this project makes it easier for me to put my hands into pail after pail of hot soapy water.
A mixture of guilt at having turned down his amorous advances and pride at his professional advances prompts me to suggest, 'Listen, I have a great idea. How about we have a night off tonight and we go to a ristorante? Your mamma has had to do so much cooking since we arrived; it will be a break for her.'
'That is very thoughtful, Elizabeth. Mamma doesn't get out much. She will love a dinner in a ristorante.'
Bugger, I'd meant that Roberto and I should go out alone and Raffaella would get a night off from cooking for us. I wasn't planning on taking her along. I wanted Roberto to myself. Still, my own fault, I should have been more explicit. Now, if I say I don't want to include Raffaella, I'll look mean.
'Grandpa should come too,' says Roberto. 'We can't leave him alone to eat.'
'Of course,' I say with an enthusiasm I wish I felt. 'And Paolina. My treat.'
15
Paolina says she's really, really sorry but she can't come out with us tonight, she has an important case starting tomorrow and her boss is insisting that she runs through the facts of the case one more time. She sounds disappointed to be missing out; I'm devastated. I was depending on her to keep the conversation lively. But on the other hand, Raffaella and Grandpa accept with more . keenness than I was expecting, which is cheering – I suppose. I really want to believe that Raffaella and I have a chance to draw a line under any issues that might be brewing and become close.
Raffaella suggests a ristorante in Marostica and naturally I agree to her suggestion. When we arrive I'm surprised that it's rather more formal than I was expecting and significantly more expensive than I've budgeted for. But I remind myself that this is our first family meal out together and no expense should be spared, plus the white tablecloths and gleaming silverware are very impressive.
We are shown to our table but Raffaella is concerned that Grandpa is in a draught and so we move seats. Then Raffaella doesn't like that table because she is sitting under a speaker and says it hampers her chance of understanding me, even though the tunes being piped out are low-key and at a sensible volume, so we move to a third table where I find I'm facing the bathrooms. This is a pet hate of mine in restaurants, but I can't stand the idea of us all moving yet again; I'm worried that the waiters will spit in our soup.
Having recovered from the shock of the formality and cost of the restaurant, I now give into the experience and find it's wonderful. The waiters are attentive and cordial and show no signs of impatience with us for playing musical chairs. They offer us aperitifs on the house and small dishes arrive even before we've ordered. When we do get to look at the menu two waiters spend a serious amount of time discussing our choices with us and no query is too silly and no request is dismissed. Food is a serious business here.
Raffaella asks how fresh is the meat that she's considering ordering, so the chef comes out of the kitchen carrying the bloody cut; it's veal I think. The sight is enough to put me off my food (and that's quite something), but Raffaella is satisfied. We order a selection of antipasti to share and I order pomodori farciti di magro (meatless stuffed tomatoes) and a fresh green salad for my main. I'm salivating at the thought of the juicy, home-grown tomatoes. The antipasti is delicious, although I find I'm a little squeamish about sharing food from the same plate as Grandpa and Raffaella.
The old grandpa says little at most times and nothing during meals. In my mind he is ancient and frail and I am somewhat disconcerted when I calculate he's eighty-four, only a few years older than my father. He comes to the table and wraps himself in an enormous napkin, so big it gives the impression that he has slipped into bed and has pulled up a sheet, and then he methodically sets to on the monumentous matter of eating. He's a loud and appreciative eater but the sounds of gnawing, chomping and swallowing are a symphony that I simply can't welcome. With every slurp and burp my stomach churns. My mamma-in-law, on the other hand, congratulates her father as though he's a child whenever he takes a bite. She also enjoys her food so much that she has a habit of repeatedly licking her fingers and then touching everything, even the stuff she doesn't want to eat. Roberto doesn't seem squeamish about their manners; I remind myself they are family but can't help thinking flu bugs.
When Roberto is in the loo Raffaella calls over the waiter and speaks to him in quick, almost liquid Italian. The waiter nods approvingly, crosses out something on his notepad and writes something different. I wonder what else she's ordering and how much it will cost. I don't want to be mean, but we haven't discussed my wages at the bar yet; anything I spend here comes from my UK savings account.
When our dishes arrive I am surprised that I'm given polio alla cacciatora.
'Oh dear, they've mixed the dishes,' I say to Roberto. I call out to the waiter, 'Mi dispiace but I ordered pomodori farciti di magro.'
The waiter holds his hands wide and then brings the tips of his fingers on both hands together and shakes them up and down; he looks as though he's pleading with me. He says something to Roberto.
'Mamma ordered the polio alla cacciatora for you,' translates Roberto. 'She was concerned that the dish you ordered was small and that you'd be hungry.'
'But this has chicken in it.'
Roberto looks surprised. 'Oh, of course. Sorry, Elizabeth.' He hesitantly holds his fork over his dish; clearly he's itching to start his but now doesn't think he can. I feel such a nuisance but it's not my fault; Raffaella changed the order.
Raffaella says something in Italian. Roberto translates, 'She's so sorry, she did not understand you don't eat chicken as well as meat.' Raffaella does look horrified; she is beating her chest with her hand and rocking backwards and forwards on her chair.
Roberto grabs her hand and squeezes it tightly. 'Don't worry, Mamma, it is nothing.'
She smiles back at him and for a moment looks like a gentle, dear lady. Then she turns to me and instantly all her softness vanishes. She looks cross and her tone is antagonistic when she pushes the breadsticks my way. 'Finire di mangiare.' Eat up. 'Eat Roberto's food.'
'His is pheasant,' I argue.
'Is pheasant meat to you? I don't understand the vegetarianism,' she says in whispered angry Italian.
I look to Roberto to see if he's clocked her face or tone but he's busy re-tucking a napkin into Grandpa's shirt and doesn't notice.
I try to remain patient. It is just about possible that Raffaella made a genuine mistake when she ordered me a meat dish but I don't think so. I think she understands way more than she lets on. Since we've arrived she's maintained that she doesn't understand my pronunciation, however hard I try. Apparently she doesn't even understand me when I say no, which gives her the opportunity to serve me more food when I say I have had enough – 'Basta, grazie? She ignores my requests for seconds if something is truly delicious and I have a hunger and she's pretending to have understood that I don't like wine, so she never offers me a glass at dinner. I consider that Mamma-in-law has chosen a clever weapon of war: food. As I'm invariably hungry I'm becoming listless and short-tempered just when I need energy and patience the most.
