Cooking With Fernet Branca

by James Hamilton-Paterson

  You may be wondering, impertinently, why I have no wife, or at least no partner. Please feel free to keep right on wondering. Your impertinence is your own affair. About my affairs – and there have been many – I can but make the obvious point that marriage has nothing to do with sex. Of course not: it’s a social pact entered into by two people who miraculously find they can bear each other’s company at breakfast over an indefinite period. Personally, I have never met anyone who fits that description and doubt I ever shall. Besides, wives are famously and massively expensive. Even that witty old fag-hag Jane Austen started one of her incomparable novels – was it Donna? – with the telling sentence ‘It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a good man in possession of a wife must be in want of a tidy fortune.’ And there you have it, memorably expressed. So far as I’m concerned the whole marriage business is not something to lose sleep over. All I require is regular work, occasional louche gossip, Rossini and a well-supplied kitchen. And after many years, when the pleasure quotient has sunk irretrievably low, one can follow the sun’s example in the sea somewhere behind Sardinia.

  In the morning I breakfast on the terrace bright and early. The sun rising behind our mountains throws their chain of shadows far below almost to the coast. I enjoy watching this dark blotch shrink back from Viareggio towards the foothills, allowing the fresh day’s sunlight to wink once more on the greenhouse roofs. When the penumbra has retreated across Camaiore’s football stadium I shall know it is time for me to start my own day’s work on the story of Nanty Riah’s life. When we parted at Munich airport he had rather shamefacedly thrust a fat envelope into my hands.

  ‘Dunno if your bloke ever mentioned it,’ he said, ‘but I sort of once began, you know, putting some stuff together about my life. It’s no good, of course, I can’t write for nuts. A professional like yourself, well, I guess it’ll give you a laugh. But who knows, for Chrissake, you might find something to help you.’

  His self-deprecations had been reassuring. It was still hard to believe this suddenly shy, hairless man of almost thirty-one was the same person as the triumphant teenager I had watched whip thousands of adoring fans into screaming hysteria only a couple of nights previously. A streak of modesty was probably the one thing that, if he were ever to transcend his status as a mere celebrity, was crucial. It was certainly a great recommendation to his biographer because it made him likeable. Once back home and able to read through his scattered notes and scribbles I liked him even more. Nanty was quite correct: he was no writer. But he was frank and seemed not to care what impression he made. His papers included a poem addressed to his afflicted sister Julie. As poetry it was toe-curling. As a revelation of love and protectiveness, though, it was wholly convincing, and to such an extent that for once I shall resist the temptation to quote an extract. Well, maybe I might later. It all depends on how Nanty behaves himself.

  I am becoming aware that a familiar whup-whup sound is growing in volume somewhere below me. I glance over the tops of my basil plants that fragrantly edge the verandah and finally spot the helicopter. It is difficult to see at first because it is rising steadily, head on, bringing with it a pungent sense of déjà vu. Surely not again? And me with my pergola’s vines as painstakingly re-woven as that weasel Benedetti’s thinning hair. In amazement I watch its approach and am soon able to see it is not the same sinister black craft that so terrified Nanty some weeks ago. It is painted blue and white and has reassuringly civilian contours rather than those of an attack gunship. What is more it is evidently not going to overfly my pergola, for it banks a hundred metres away to make a circle around my house. Inside the bulbous canopy I can see three figures. I follow the glittering arc of the tail rotor behind the trees. This is unbelievable: another airborne visitor for my neighbour. Who is this bloody Marta woman? Implausible alternatives race through my mind. She is Mother Teresa’s illegitimate daughter, paid handsomely by the Sisters of Charity to keep out of the public eye. She is the last living member of Voynovia’s deposed and exiled royal family, awaiting the call by her loyal citizenry to return and rule again from her shattered palace. She is … But this time, goddamn it, I’m going to find out. What do you mean, none of my business? The suspense is affecting my entire life. Even as the helicopter settles invisibly but very audibly in Marta’s paddock I am on the way over to her house.

  The question is, do I need an excuse? Surely a helicopter landing eighty yards away is unusual enough to give the average householder a reason for being inquisitive? What role should I play, though: eager young planespotter or irate literary gent whose peace and quiet has once again been disturbed? Fortunately the matter is taken out of my hands. By the time I arrive Marta and two strangers are standing beside the red sports car in conversation. The younger man, though, is not quite a stranger. I recognize him at once as the handsome boy I saw driving her on the Viareggio road in this very car. And handsome he most certainly is. Many, many plainer boys than he have snorted a line of coke in Klosters and taken their clothes off presuming they look as rosy to others as their private world now does to them.

  Marta spots my tentative approach and calls me over.

  38

  ‘Gerree! This you meet il maestro Piero Pacini. And this his son Filippo.’

  You could knock me down with a buzzard feather. There is now no doubt about it: I recognize those world-weary and distinguished features from a thousand press photographs. Here before me on Marta’s patch is the genius who gave us Nero’s Birthday. Numbly I extend a hand.

  ‘Piacere. Piacere.’

  ‘And this gentleman,’ Marta goes on to explain in serviceàble Italian, ‘is Mr Samper, my English neighbour. Mr Samper, alas, is not very pleased with us because we took down his fence the other day. In fact, he was talking of legal action the last time we met.’ She smiles sweetly at me.

  Bitch! I never said anything about – oh well, maybe I might have dropped a rhetorical sort of hint, but only as a gesture to indicate how peeved I was. I hardly expected her to pass it on to Piero Pacini himself, for heaven’s sake, if only because I never really believed her story of knowing this celebrated man. I naturally assumed she’d had the fence destroyed for her own arcane reasons. And anyway, can this be Marta speaking such fluent Italian?

  ‘Well,’ I begin with what I hope is a disarmingly humorous note of protest in my voice, ‘I think the lady’s exaggerating slightly –’ but at that moment the helicopter pilot guns his engine and the thing rises from the paddock in the background, tilts nose down for forward speed and clatters away with a battering of echoes thrown back from the cliff face. When we can hear ourselves think Marta has offered us all coffee. Most fervently I trust she has run out of those mavlisi things of hers. Somehow I can’t see spearmint-flavoured pigeon’s eggs striking her grandee visitors as a delicious new alternative to boring old florentines. We follow her into the house where Pacini and son seat themselves among the laundry with a courteous show of unconcern. The father opens a small leather grip. I notice he is wearing a silver Old Florence watch. None of your tacky Rolexes for a man of his distinction.

  ‘Marta, cara, I’ve brought you a disc of the rushes we did here.’ His hostess is banging away with tins and cupboards and percolators. When it comes to anything involving kitchens and cuisine she has the dexterity and unobtrusiveness of a stevedore. Already I am looking forward to inviting these people to my own house for some proper Samper hospitality. I fancy they will be well able to discern the difference. Pacini is meanwhile waving a DVD in Marta’s direction. ‘You have a DVD player, of course?’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t, no,’ she says. ‘Nor a video machine. Not even a television. You know how backward I am, Piero. But it was a sweet thought.’

  As you may imagine, my mind is turning over in high gear. By suppressing a mental choking reflex I can with effort swallow the idea that Marta is on chummy terms with debatably the world’s greatest living film director, that footage has been shot in this very hovel, even that when s
he told me she was writing music for a film there might have been an element of truth in it. All this is amazing enough. Yet the real revelation is that she evidently speaks quite passable Italian. I’m absolutely certain she never used to. Somehow in the last few months she has managed to acquire a fluency that will make it possible to have an actual conversation with her in a language other than pidgin. The old bag has been playing that one pretty close to her ample chest, I think with resentment. All this time we could have been having civilized social relations. Or at least I would have been able to make my grievances unmistakably clear to her. But Piero Pacini is addressing me.

  ‘I understand from Marta that it was you who put up that magnificent fence, Signor Samper? I most deeply regret my apparent vandalism in having it taken down. But you see, the scene in my new film depends so much on the view here. I shall of course put it back up at once to your specifications and reimburse you financially. If it’s any consolation, it took my workmen no little labour to remove. The foreman told me that it was “a devil of a job because it had been put up by an expert”. Those were his very words, weren’t they, Filo?’ He turns to his son.

  ‘Perfectly correct, papà,’ says this vision, flashing me a smile I want to lay away in lavender in a dark drawer for the rocky years ahead.

  ‘Ma scherza?’ I make a gesture of dismissal. ‘You can’t be serious. It is perhaps true that carpentry is something of a hobby of mine – just an amateur’s passatempo, you understand. As for the fence itself, it’s really of no importance. Marta and I had decided it would be a good thing to mark our properties’ boundary, that’s all.’

  ‘It shall be restored this week,’ the film director promised. ‘You have Pacini’s word. Now, as regards this legal action of yours, which I willingly concede you have every right to undertake: may I ask, sir, how far it has proceeded?’

  ‘Oh, it hasn’t,’ I assure him. ‘No, no. I’m afraid dear Marta has got hold of the wrong end of the stick. She sometimes does.’

  Dear Marta gives me a look from behind her hair that I can’t interpret before she is distracted by the caffettiera’s strident bubbling – to my ears one of the great civilized sounds, along with that of corks being withdrawn. Pacini meanwhile has produced from his bag a beautifully wrapped package tied with a springy yellow ribbon.

  ‘A little nothing from Rome, Marta, for having looked after Filo’s car for him.’ He hands it to her. ‘They ought to go well with your coffee.’

  With her familiar piggy squeal of pleasure Marta tears the wrapping off an assortment of florentines from one of Rome’s most exclusive pasticcerie. Saved by the bell. The dread spectre of mavlisi fades. We sip our coffee and sample the florentines which are exquisitely nutty and chocolatey. Little do these two goofs know what so nearly might have been.

  ‘And could I ask, sir, what it is you do?’ Pacini enquires.

  ‘Gerry’s a famous writer,’ says Marta.

  ‘Hardly famous,’ I protest, ‘but undeniably I write, yes.’

  ‘Wonderful. And what sort of books?’

  ‘Having been a journalist I’ve so far stuck to journalistic things. No blockbuster novels yet, I’m afraid. Recently I’ve been writing biographies of, well, sporting figures.’

  ‘Lucrative?’ Pacini asks keenly.

  ‘Very,’ I lie, equally so.

  ‘And who are you currently writing about, if I might ask? Please don’t feel you have to answer,’ he adds. ‘I quite understand the necessity for discretion.’

  ‘No, it’s no secret, just a departure from my norm. I’ve been approached by a pop star, of all people. We can’t always choose exactly the client we would ideally like, can we? Actually, that’s what I was doing in Munich last week while you were filming here. I went to see Freewayz’ last public appearance.’

  ‘What?’ The gorgeous Filippo looks startled. ‘Are they disbanding?’

  ‘No, no,’ I reassure him. ‘They’re merely re-branding themselves. From now on they’ll be known as Alien Pie. Why, are you a fan?’

  ‘Not so much of the group,’ Filippo admits. ‘It’s just kid stuff, though they’re pretty good. Better than those boy bands whose members are chosen by TV polls on the basis of what they look like rather than their talent. Freewayz has always been way ahead of Take That or Westlife. No, it’s Brill himself I admire. There’s some musical muscle under there somewhere, don’t you think? He’s much more than just a pretty face like Justin Timberlake or Aaron Carter or those other all-American kids.’

  Aaron Who? This hunk’s a lot better informed than I am. ‘It’s Brill I’m writing for,’ I tell him, offhand purveyor of trade secrets.

  ‘You’re not! You actually know him?’ Filippo suddenly looks still younger.

  ‘Sure. As a matter of fact he’s even been here. He was staying over in my house some weeks ago. Would you like to meet him? It could easily be arranged.’

  I’m satisfied to note that throughout this exchange Marta has been looking at me in amazement. I can see her putting things together in her fuddled, Voynovian way. Was this pop star perhaps the client her helicopter had driven away? And is she not obliged to view her neighbour in a rather new light?

  ‘It didn’t take you long to find Filo’s weakness,’ Pacini is telling me with a father’s indulgence. ‘From now on he’ll be eating out of your hand. Meanwhile, Signor Samper –’

  ‘Gerry, please.’

  ‘– Gerry, you might be interested to drop down to Pisorno Studi one day when you have a spare moment and watch us do some filming. Marta has written a completely brilliant score for my new film and most of the sets we’ll be using are there. It’s just down the coast. Filo often collects Marta in that absurd car of his. I’m sure if you didn’t mind curling up in the back somehow he would happily bring you too. Failing that, there’s always our helicopter. Filo can bring you in that. He’s a fully qualified pilot, you know. They say he’s a natural,’ he adds fondly. ‘And now, Marta, our thanks for the delicious coffee. Filo and I ought to be getting down to the studios. We’ve got a heavy shooting schedule as from tomorrow. Oh, and Gerry, how long was that fence of yours?’

  ‘Forty metres. With a door in the middle. But –’

  ‘I shall attend to it immediately. The men will be up within a day or two. You’ll only have to show them where it runs and they’ll do the rest. Come along, Filo.’

  As the great man shakes my hand again I recognize his discreet, unusual cologne that somehow suggests damp prayer books. It really is Messe de Minuit. Etro and Old Florence! I wonder Marta’s shack doesn’t slump to the ground in the face of this sophistication. But it doesn’t, and within minutes the Pacinis have roared off in the red car with Filippo at the wheel. I stare after them wondering who cuts the boy’s hair. Someone in Rome, probably. There’s no one around here, except maybe Severino in Pisa on a good day. Marta and I are left standing there listening to the Panther’s exhaust burping its way down the curves below.

  ‘Well!’ I say at last. ‘A morning of revelations.’

  ‘Yes, Gerry. Not the least being that you speak such good Italian.’

  ‘And the same for you, Marta. I at least have been living in Italy some time. From now on it seems we have a language in common. I wonder if we’ll be the same people?’

  ‘I do hope not,’ she says, unfazed by my philosophical pleasantry. And with that familiar sinking feeling I glimpse the edges of a leer behind her dun curtain of hair, like one of those hunting spiders of dark design that lurk beneath leaf mould.

  39

  It is sometimes hard not to succumb to banality and reflect a little on life’s ironies. Had I not deliberately bought this charming house on the lip of a precipice as a retreat from the world? Was the scenery not well stocked with sighing forests, mewing buzzards, the occasional clatter of rocks? Weren’t the nearest shops two miles below in Casoli and wasn’t that idle slob of a postino reluctant to bring me letters on his motor scooter all the way at road’s end? In short, everything ab
out living up here stands successfully in opposition to the turmoil of towns, office hours, parking spaces and the importunings of double-glazing salesmen.

  And yet ever since I’d taken up residence and finally got the place looking as I wanted it (the mushroom and eau de Nil kitchen gives me frissons of pleasure still), my life up here had been nothing but punctuated uproar. An insane neighbour who looked like a bag lady, a daily stream of helicopters and sports cars: I might as well have gone to live in the short-term car park at Heathrow. Oh well, no one ever accused me of not being fair minded. Given that the uproar had occurred, I admit this latest development did offer interesting possibilities. As you will appreciate by now, Samper’s ways are ways of wiliness and all his paths are peace, to improve a favourite saying of stepmother Laura’s.