The Food of Love (24 page)

stamp, and was thus technically not in possession of a valid residenza, and was technically an illegal alien. She saw, he hoped, the distinction he was making. It was not the residenza itself that was invalid, but Laura’s possession of it, and therefore the understandable mistake lay with her and not with either department.

He sat back, smiling the satisfied smile of a theologian who has succeeded in reconciling two apparently contradictory principles.

‘But what shall I do?” Laura asked, not caring very much whose

fault it was.

The question seemed to take the man by surprise, and

prompted some further consultation with his colleagues. At last he declared that she must bring all her papers to him and he would

see if he could sort something out.

It was at this point that Laura made a crucial error of judgement.

Had she consulted any of her Italian friends, they would

have told her precisely what to do, which was nothing at all,

since there was absolutely no reason whatsoever why anyone

should come knocking on her door to check that she had a

permit. But Laura was a tidy-minded person, and she assumed,

quite erroneously, that it would be a time-consuming but

straightforward matter to get one. She therefore went straight

back to her apartment, called the administrator of the college to organise a letter of authorisation, found the necessary papers and returned to the office of the residenza the very next day, thus

establishing in the eyes of the officials that she undoubtedly had something to hide.

‘I have all the papers,’ she announced to the theologian and his two colleagues. She laid them on his desk with the confidence of a poker player laying out a winning hand.

The theologian picked up her letter of authorisation and read it.

Yes, he agreed, these were undoubtedly the right papers.

Unfortunately, while they were undoubtedly the right papers, they also showed that Laura, as an illegal alien, had also been engaged in studying, something that was not permitted. Only if she had

been in possession of a valid residenza would it have been permissible for her to have been studying in this way.

Once again, she asked what she should do.

She was obliged to return to America and reapply for permission to visit Italy, came the answer.

‘What?

The theologian gave an eloquent shrug, which expressed quite

clearly the impression that while he himself, as a civilised person, would not require such a. course of action, the logic of it was

quite inescapable.

With a heavy heart Bruno prepared a very different meal to all the others he had cooked for Laura. A simple chicken stew, rich and

hearty, to be eaten with chunks of dense Italian bread. Comfort

food - all he could do to soften the heartache to come.

‘It’s ready,’ he told his friend, ‘I’m going out. lust take it off the stove when you want to serve it.’

It occurred to Bruno, as he went down the stairs, that this was

probably the last meal he would ever cook for Laura. He hoped

Tommaso would at least break the news to her gently.

Tommaso tried to steer the conversation round to the subject of

breaking up, but Laura was preoccupied.

‘Tommaso, I need to find a lawyer,’ she said as they ate the

stew.

‘A lawyer?’ Tommaso would have crossed himself if he hadn’t

remembered in time that he was an agnostic. ‘What on earth do

you want a lawyer for?’

Laura explained the predicament in which she found herself,

and Tommaso laughed.

‘So you’ve discovered the muro digomma*. Congratulations.

It’s one of our oldest and most treasured monuments.’

He explained that in Italy, the state traditionally curried favour with the electorate by providing a large number of jobs for life.

This in turn meant that government ministries were staffed largely by statale; people who had turned doing nothing at all into an art form. Laura’s problem would be now bounced backwards and

forwards between departments for ever, or at least until someone did something to resolve the situation.

Rubber wall.

‘But they’re talking about throwing me out!’

No, Tommaso assured her, she was perfectly safe. The officials

simply required a bustarella - a little envelope.

‘A bustarellaV

‘Si. A bribe.’

Laura was horrified. Surely that was illegal. What if he was

wrong? Then she’d be arrested and deported for sure.

‘Trust me, Laura. Siamo in Italia. It’s the way things are done

here.’

‘How did it go with Laura?’ Bruno asked when he returned.

‘I haven’t told her yet. It’s hard, I’m picking my moment. And

she’s got some problems right now.’

‘Well, there’s plenty of stew left for tomorrow,’ Bruno

muttered.

The following day Laura returned to the office of the theologian and once again laid her papers on his desk. This time, however,

she also produced an envelope containing three hundred euros,

which she placed next to them.

The theologian did not so much as glance at the envelope. For

one horrible moment Laura thought she had made a dreadful

mistake. But when he picked up her letter of authorisation, it now seemed to be, magically, perfectly acceptable. A substitute residenza was quickly found, and just as speedily stamped.

Throughout this procedure the bustarella lay on the desk, apparently unnoticed, and it still lay there when she was ushered to the

door.

Laura found that she was strangely exhilarated. When she had

finally taken the bustarella out, her heart had been thudding.

When she had placed it on the desk, it had been like getting into bed with a new lover. She felt authentically Italian at last.

She rushed back to the Viale Glorioso.

‘Ah, Laura,’ Tommaso said when he saw her. ‘I’m glad you’re

here. There’s something I want to talk to you about.’

‘Is Bruno here?’ she asked him.

‘No. Why?’

‘Why do you think?’ she whispered, gluing her lips against his

and sliding her hands inside his shirt.

If there was one thing Tommaso was never averse to, it

was quick, uncomplicated sex. ‘Whoo,’ he said thoughtfully.

And, a few minutes later, ‘Whoa.’ And a few minutes after that,

‘Whee.’

‘So what did you want to talk about?’ Laura asked later, when they were done and were lying on the bed among a mess of rumpled

bedclothes and abandoned underwear.

Somehow Tommaso suspected that these conversations were

better held before wild, panting, exuberant sex rather than after, but he decided he was honour-bound to seize the opportunity.

‘The thing is,’ he began, then stopped. How was he going to

put this? ‘The thing is, it’s like a meal. When you’ve had beef every day for two months, you’re ready for some lamb. Which is not to

say,’ he added hurriedly, ‘that there was anything wrong with the beef. The beef was perfect. Unforgettable, in fact. But eventually the time for beef is over.’

‘You mean, like the seasons?’ Laura asked, not understanding.

‘Exactly. Beef season is followed by lamb season. Well, actually there isn’t a beef season, but there is a season for lamb and it’s over, and soon it’ll be time for something different. Game, for

example.’

‘So you’ll take lamb off the menu, and put game on.’

‘Exactly’

‘And how will you cook game at the restaurant?’

Ah.’ He saw the difficulty now. ‘I’m not talking about the

restaurant,’ he said helpfully. ‘I’m talking about us.’

‘Us?’

Yes.’ He struggled again. ‘Let me put it another way.

Sometimes, when two people linger over a long meal, it takes

them a while to realise they’ve reached the end. They have a grappa, perhaps some biscotti, then they order some coffee, but really it’s time to call for the bill. To say goodnight, and goodbye, and of course to tip the waiter. But instead they linger until the last possible moment.’

‘And when that happens, the staff can’t go home. They have to

wait.’

‘Yes. Exactly.’

‘I understand, Tommaso. Sometimes you have to stay late. It’s

not a problem.’

‘It isn’t?’

‘No. It’s your job, and I love the fact that you’re a chef. Even if it does mean that you sometimes fall asleep during sex.’

“I do not!’ he said, offended.

‘Not asleep during your bit. Asleep during my bit,’ she

reminded him. ‘Remember two nights ago, when—’

‘OK, but that was an exception.’

‘But it’s all right,’ she assured him. ‘I don’t want to change

you. You’ve got your cooking, I’ve got art history. That’s why

we’re great together. We’ve both got other interests.’

‘Talking of other interests—’

‘I love you,’ Laura said happily. ‘And I love it when we

talk about food like this. What’s on the menu at the restaurant

tomorrow?’

“I will tell her, honestly,’ Tommaso said to Bruno later. ‘I’ve

planted the seeds. It just takes a little time.’

‘There’s only a little stew left now. It’ll keep until tomorrow, but no longer.’

‘Yes, that was Laura. She’s developing quite an appetite.’

“I had the strangest conversation with Tommaso last night,’ Laura reported to Carlotta.

‘What about?’

‘That was the weird thing. He didn’t seem to be able to say.

He’d cooked this wonderful stew, and he kept saying there was

something he wanted to tell me, but instead he started talking

about what a shame it was he had to work so late at the restaurant.’

There

was an intake of breath at the other end of the phone.

‘Maybe he’s trying to propose.’

‘No!’ Laura laughed. ‘We’ve only known each other a few

months.’

‘But he’s sleeping with you. If you were an Italian girl, that

would mean you are practically engaged.’

‘But he knows I have to go back to America this summer.’

‘All the more reason to ask you to marry him now.’

‘Carlotta, that’s crazy’

‘Is it? You said yourself that he adores you.’

‘Yes, but - my God,’ Laura said. ‘Engagement? Do you really

think so?’

‘Maybe. And if he does ask, what will you say?’

“I don’t know,’ Laura admitted. ‘It’s so complicated. I’ll have

to think about it.’

Tommaso walked to the restaurant with a heavy heart. He had

tried to spell it out to Laura, but it was so hard to say the blunt words that would break her heart. Everyone was going to be cross with him. There was Laura, of course, but there was also Dr

Ferrara, his main backer, who was the father of Laura’s best friend.

The atmosphere at II Cuoco was difficult enough already. Ever

since he had revealed that he wasn’t actually a chef, Marie had

begun treating him with apparent disdain, while deferring with

exaggerated respect to Bruno. Bruno, meanwhile, had fallen into

a huge, inexplicable depression and barely spoke. The only time he opened his mouth was to ask whether Tommaso had dumped

Laura yet.

He looked up. It was a girl who had spoken to him. She was

blonde and pretty’, and she was wearing shorts. There was a rucksack on her back and she was holding a guidebook.

‘&’?’ he said.

‘Can you tell me how to get to the Piazza Navona?’

A tourist. Tommaso had forgotten how much he liked tourists.

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘In fact, I’m going that way myself But I’m afraid,’ he dropped his voice gravely, ‘that there has to be a fee for guiding you there. It’s a city regulation.’

‘It is, is it?’ the girl asked sceptically.

‘Absolutely.’

‘And how much is this fee?’

‘The fee is that, when we get there, you have to allow me to

buy you a grappa.’

The girl laughed. ‘And if I don’t want to pay that fee?’

‘Then you have to give me a kiss.’

‘I’ll settle for the grappa. For the moment.’

‘Excellent. What’s your name?’

‘Heidi. I’m from Munich,’ she said, putting out her hand for

him to shake.

‘Hello, Heidi. My name is Tommaso and I’m—’ He hesitated.

He had almost said, ‘I’m a chef,’ but at the last moment he

stopped. ‘I’m a waiter/

As he said it he felt a wonderful sense of liberation, as if a great weight was lifting from his shoulders.

Two hours and many drinks later, Heidi and Tommaso went back

to the apartment. Bruno was at the restaurant, cooking; Laura was at classes. Tommaso told himself that he wasn’t actually cheating on Laura, since in effect they had broken up already, even if he hadn’t quite finished making that clear to her.

So many women, and only one Tommaso. As soon as they

were inside, he started making up for lost time.

Laura runs up the stairs to Tommaso’s apartment. Her diet, and

the exercise she’s doing at the gym, are definitely starting to have an effect.

‘Tommaso?’ she calls. ‘Bruno?’

There’s no answer. But someone has been here recently. The

CD player is playing one of Tommaso’s favourite songs, ‘The

Boys of Summer’. Which means, she thinks, that Tommaso has

been here very recently. Bruno tolerates his roommate’s taste in music but he doesn’t share it.

Then she hears the shower hissing. He must be in the bathroom.

She smiles and goes through to his bedroom to wait.

The printer by Tommaso’s computer is whirring. Idly she goes

to see what he’s printing. And watches, dumbstruck, as a picture of a pretty’ blonde girl, taken in this very room, scrolls out, line by line.

She hears footsteps on the stairs. The door of the apartment