The Food of Love (23 page)

‘If you want someone to fall in love with you, you cook

them something that shows you understand their very soul.’

‘Such as?’ his friend had asked.

And Bruno remembered, too, every word of the answer he

had given: ‘You’d have to really know the person concerned: their history; their background; whether they are raw or refined, dry or oily. You would have to have tasted them, to know whether their

own flesh is sweet or savoury, salty or bland. In short, you would have to love them, and even then you might not truly know them

well enough to cook a dish that would capture their heart.’

But even though he knew he loved Laura, he found it far, far

harder than he had expected to create a recipe that would do

justice to her. He knew that it would have to be something sweet, and so insubstantial that it was barely more than a morsel, leaving the palate gasping for more. But it would also have to be perfect, and perfection remained elusive. Like an alchemist desperately

pursuing the formula that will transmute base metals to gold,

Bruno tried everything. Again and again he tried, always hopeful of success but never quite attaining it. There was something

missing, some ingredient that he couldn’t name or describe, even by its absence.

And then, one afternoon, Laura herself came round to II

Cuoco. She was looking for Tommaso, who wasn’t in, and she

came into the little kitchen before Bruno was aware of her presence.

He was muttering to himself as he spun barefoot from stove

to fridge to prep surface, trying different combinations of tastes and textures, half demented with his lack of success. He was close, he knew he was close, but something wasn’t quite there … His face glistened with sweat from the heat of the oven, his hair was streaked with flour and oil and his hands were crusted with

splashes of burnt sugar that he had barely noticed, much less

stopped to wash off.

Laura had been drawn into the kitchen by the most extraordinary

smell. She had expected to find Tommaso in there, and her

surprise at discovering Bruno was matched only by her shock at

the intensity of the aroma.

It smelled of baking cakes, which took her back to the kitchen

of her childhood, coming home from school to find her mother

making her cookies … but it also smelled medicinal, and that made her think of being ill and being looked after when she was

tucked up in bed. Then there were spices, and a faint hint of

Christmas: nutmeg, perhaps, and cloves … But underneath all

of those was something else, something insidiously smooth and

emollient, like vanilla or eucalyptus. She had a sudden memory

of touching her father’s cheek as he gave her a kiss goodnight the rasp of his eight o’clock shadow, and that smell … she had

it now: it was the smell of his cologne, the smell of his business suits, the smell of her parents’ bedroom and the big double

bed and the terrifying dark thought of what went on there.

But after another moment she relaxed: there were comforting

aromas in there too: apples, brandy, crisp butter pastry and

cinnamon.

‘What was that?’ she breathed.

Bruno spun around and stared at her like a madman. ‘I’m

making apple pie,’ he said.

Apple pie … Laura hadn’t had apple pie for years. Suddenly

she felt thousands of miles from home, and a tear welled into her eye. ‘I’m sorry,’ she gasped.

‘Here. It’s ready.’ Without bothering to use gloves, Bruno

pulled open the oven door and brought the pie dish out. She

noticed that it was extraordinarily tiny, like something made for a doll. He put it on the counter. She buried her face in the steam and inhaled deeply.

‘Can I have some?’

‘Of course,’ he said. “I made it for you. It just needs a little cream … here.’ He took out a spoon and thrust it into the pie, releasing more vapour. The whole creation was barely more than

a single spoonful big. He poured a little cream on top and held it up to her lips. ‘Don’t worry. It’s not too hot.’

She opened her mouth and he slid the morsel inside. She

couldn’t help gasping. She closed her eyes and chewed ecstatically, unwilling even to swallow lest she make the experience a moment

shorter than it had to be.

‘Bruno,’ she said at last when she was capable of speaking, ‘it’s fantastic’

He kissed her.

Shocked, she pulled away.

Bruno was looking at her with an expression of such intensity

that she was almost frightened. Laura remembered all the situations she’d got into with other Italian men, the ones who’d

groped her and stroked her and tried to sneak her into dark

doorways. Surely not - not Bruno, who was her friend. Who was,

even more importantly, Tommaso’s friend. What was going on?

‘I’m sorry,’ he said quickly. ‘It’s an Italian thing. We - we kiss each other all the time. It really doesn’t mean anything.’

‘No, of course,’ she said, recovering. ‘I know it doesn’t. I was just a bit surprised. Americans don’t do that, you see.’

‘No.’

‘And I don’t think we should mention it to Tommaso.’ She

looked him in the eye. “I think he would misunderstand too.’

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘And I promise you, it won’t happen

again.’

As she hurried back to her own apartment Laura found herself

shaking. Bruno, of all people. I mean, I like Bruno. I certainly don’t want to lose him as a friend. He’s funny and nice and thoughtful.

How could he do a thing like that?

But then, she was in a foreign country, and Italian men were impetuous compared to Americans. Maybe she was overreacting.

Maybe it was the kind of thing an Italian would have taken in her stride.

So long as Tommaso never found out, no harm had been done.

Tommaso, returning from a pleasant morning arguing with friends

over a coffee or two, was surprised to see Laura’s textbooks on the kitchen counter.

‘Laura’s here?’ he asked Bruno, who was busy washing up.

‘She was, earlier.’ Bruno kept his eyes on the sink, afraid that he wouldn’t be able to meet his friend’s gaze.

Tommaso put his finger in the little pie dish, licked it and made a face. ‘Actually, I’m glad she’s not around. I want to talk to you about her.’

‘You do?’

‘Si. I think this thing I’ve been having with her has run its

course. It’s been fantastic and everything, but the truth is - well, I’m getting itchy feet. Actually,’ he added, for he was always

honest with Bruno, ‘maybe it’s not my feet, you know?’

‘You’re going to dump her?’ he said, stunned.

‘Yes, but that’s the problem. This is sort of new territory for

me. I’ve never been in a proper relationship before, so I really don’t know how it’s done.’

‘I’m probably not the right person to ask,’ Bruno said. ‘Since

I’ve never been in a proper relationship either.’

‘But you know things, like how to let her down gently.’ An idea

occurred to him. ‘Maybe you could say something to her for me.

Kind of preparing the way.’

‘I really don’t think that’s a good idea,’ Bruno muttered. ‘This is something that’s got to come from you.’

‘But you could help soften the blow. You know - explain what

an idiot I am, how I’m always messing around with other

women …’

‘Tommaso, there’s something I’ve got to tell you.’

‘Yes? What?’

Bruno kept his eyes on the sink. “I’m fond of Laura.’

‘Ah.’ Tommaso nodded. ‘You don’t want to see her hurt.’

‘No - not that. I’m not making myself clear.’ Bruno struggled

to find the words. “I think I’m in love with her.’

‘Oh,’ Tommaso said. He thought for a moment. ‘When you

say “in love”, you don’t actually mean—’

‘I mean I think about her every single moment of every single

day. I think about her when I sleep, when I wake up, when I’m

doing other things. I even think about her when I cook - especially when I cook. I think about her smile, about her frown,

about her mouth, about the little orange-brown freckles on her

shoulders. I have imaginary conversations with her. I dream of

catching a glimpse of her. Then, when she turns up, I can barely look at her.’

‘Oh. Ah. I see.’

‘Are you angry with me?’

‘Of course not. I mean, it’s not your fault. You’ve done nothing wrong.’

‘That’s not—’ Bruno had been about to say, ‘That’s not quite

true’, but then he realised that he couldn’t. He had promised

Laura that the kiss would remain a secret.

‘Listen, it happens.’ Tommaso slapped Bruno on the back. ‘I’ll

tell you something I’ve never told anyone else. I fancy Lucia,

Vincent’s girlfriend. See?’

‘But you’re not in love with Lucia.’

‘True,’ Tommaso conceded. He began to pack coffee grounds

into an espresso pot. ‘That’s weird, isn’t it? All the time I’ve been going out with Laura, you’re the one who’s in love with her.’

‘Yes. It’s weird all right.’

‘So after I finish with her, are you going to ask her out?’

“I can’t.’

‘Of course you can.’

‘Trust me, Tommaso, I can’t. She’d never have me.’

Laura’s six-month residency permit was about to expire. Being a

law-abiding sort of person she therefore presented herself at the appropriate office of the appropriate authority to get it stamped with an estensione.

When she finally made it to the head of the queue, however,

the polite young man behind the counter informed her that there

was a difficulty. Well, not so much a difficulty, perhaps, as a discrepancy.

Her residenza, wrhile appearing to be correct, had been

stamped not with the stampa di notifica but the altogether different stampa d} identitd, and was thus technically invalid. And since it would be altogether wrong of him - indeed, impossible - to

extend a document that was invalid, Laura would have to provide

an acceptable residenza before he could proceed.

‘But it’s just a mistake, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘The official must have used the wrong stamp.’

The young man conceded that an error was indeed the most

likely possibility. He indicated the device in front of him, a wire merry-go-round with as many tiers as a wedding cake, which held

a dozen stamps of various shapes and sizes. He showed her the stampa di notifica. It was, she could see, not dissimilar to the stampa d’identita. In addition, the identitd had once been acceptable on such documents, although not any more. He produced

from a dusty file a piece of official paperwork, an internal memorandum several pages long which apparently explained the change

from identita to notifica. He pointed to the date, several years ago, and shrugged.

‘So what should I do?’ Laura asked.

Well, that was self-evident. She must get herself a valid residenza and bring it back to him, at which point he would be delighted to extend it.

‘Can’t you give me a valid residenzaV Laura asked with what she

hoped was a winning smile.

Alas, no, the young man decided, giving her an equally warm

smile in return. He would love to, particularly for such a charming foreigner, but he himself only dealt with extensions. It would be necessary for Laura to go back to the office of the residenza.

It was past two o’clock and the office of the residenza was now

closed for the day. Laura returned next morning and presented her papers to another elegantly dressed young man. He was sympathetic; even more sympathetic than the last young man had been.

Yes, yes, there had clearly been a mistake. It was certainly usual in these cases to use the stampa di notifica, not the stampa d’identitd. But in his opinion a stampa dHdentita was also perfectly valid, so she should have no difficulty in getting her residenza extended.

‘And how do I do that?’ Laura asked.

The official frowned. He pulled at his cheek. He frowned some

more. ‘I will go and consult,’ he decided. Twenty minutes later he returned, smelling strongly of cigarette smoke, and indicated that she should come with him.

She followed him down an endless corridor that smelled of

mildewy air-conditioning. Eventually she was shown into a small

office in which an older man, also elegantly dressed, was sitting behind a tiny wooden desk. On the desk he had Laura’s residenza. Another man was sitting with one buttock resting on the edge of the desk.

The owner of the desk, who exuded competence and intelligence,

explained to her what the problem was. He seemed to take

an almost intellectual pleasure in summarising the situation concisely and, apparently, wittily, since his account brought wry smiles

and even appreciative laughter from the other two. The problem,

it transpired, was that their friends and colleagues in the office of the estensione were as stubborn as mules about certain changes in procedure that everybody else had chosen to ignore.

‘So it’s the other department’s fault?’ Laura asked, still hoping that all this was leading to some sort of conclusion.

The older man lifted a warning finger and his voice took on a

certain gravity. No, no, one did not use words like fault when talking about government departments. It was simply a question of

differing interpretations. Laura had a perfectly valid residenza, this was certain, but unfortunately his colleagues in the office of the estensione were correct as well. Laura’s document was valid as a residenza, but not as a residenza-tor-cxtcmion, since a residenza that required extension, as his colleagues in the office of the estensione had pointed out, should have been stamped at the time of issuing with a stampa di notifica. Since Laura had always intended to stay for more than six months, she had therefore acquired the wrong