The Food of Love (30 page)

When they had harvested a dozen mushrooms from the fairy

ring they went into the woods, each plucking a hazel stick on the Way to push aside the undergrowth. After a few minutes Benedetta stopped and sniffed the air. ‘Can you smell it?’

Bruno sniffed too, but all he could smell was the dank, mouldy

scent of the woods.

‘Over here.’ She pushed a little way off the path and there, like a tiny neolithic henge in the forest floor, stood a cluster of squat mushrooms. ‘These are good,’ Benedetta confirmed. ‘Make sure

you snap them off without pulling them or you’ll damage the roots.’

‘What are they?’

Bruno plucked one. It was lighter than the chocolate-brown porcini he was used to in Rome, but it had the same heady, pungent smell.

‘And tap the spores on to the ground,’ Benedetta added. ‘That

way you’ll make sure it grows again.’

After the ceppatelli they followed a tiny trail left by a deer,

pushing deeper and deeper into the woods.

‘There’s one,’ Bruno said, pointing with his stick to where a tall, pale mushroom with a spotted cap stood at the base of a beech tree.

It seemed to glow faintly with phosphorescence in the dim light.

‘Now! that is poisonous. It’s an Amanita phalloides. You can

guess why it’s called that from the shape.’ She had crouched down beside the mushroom and was plucking it carefully, her hand

wrapped in a tissue to avoid touching the mushroom’s flesh.

‘Why are you taking it?’

‘Oh, poisonous ones are useful too. We use these to kill mice.

And there are others we put into remedies.’

Nearby was a tree stump covered in undulating black rills of

fungus. They looked deeply unappetising, and Bruno was surprised when Benedetta said they were edible.

‘And here, look,’ she called, moving on to a neighbouring

beech tree, ‘this is what we call an apartamento - an apartment

block. There are gelone at the bottom, and then a layer of pioparelli, and then pleurate, oyster mushrooms, all the way up. If we

don’t pick them they’ll destroy the tree.’

By mid-morning it was hot. Both baskets were full, though

Bruno was frustrated to find that he was still unable to follow the scent trails Benedetta was tracking so easily.

‘We may as well give up now,’ she said at last, sitting down in a wide clearing on a bank of moss and thyme. ‘The smell of the funghi isn’t so strong any more.’

Bruno sat down next to her. Below them, the village basked in

the sun. Trails of smoke and the distant sound of chainsaws

reached them. Benedetta stretched and lay back.

‘It’s so quiet up here,’ he said.

‘Yes. No one from the village ever comes up this high.’

The weight of their bodies was crushing the thyme, releasing

wafts of warm scent that mingled with the dank smell of the funghi in their baskets. Benedetta began unbuttoning her shirt.

His surprise must have shown on his face, because she added,

“I’m going to sunbathe.’

‘Oh. Right. Go ahead, I won’t look,’ he said, averting his gaze.

Out of the corner of his eye he could still see her, though; a flesh coloured shape lying back on the warm moss. Was he blushing?

And if so, how could he have so much blood in him, that it was

rushing to his cheeks and his groin at the same time? He lay back and closed his eyes.

There was the rustle of cloth on skin. A few moments later,

Benedetta rolled over and slipped her hand under his T-shirt.

‘Oh,’ Bruno said, his eyes opening again. There was a pert

nipple dangling inches from his face, as ripe as a fruit, and that warm pasta-making hand was stroking his stomach in slow, circular movements. ‘Benedetta,’ he said. His voice came out hoarse.

‘You should know - I’m just - just—’

‘Passing through? Of course. That’s why I can sleep with you.’

‘What do you mean?’ He gasped as her fingers slid under the

waistband of his jeans.

‘Isn’t it obvious? If I sleep with Javier, I’ll have to marry him.

If I sleep with one of the other men from the village, they’ll tell each other and I’ll be labelled a puttana and a witch. Whereas

you -‘ she stood up and pulled off the remainder of her clothes, before lying down again and easing herself against him, skin

against skin - ‘aren’t going to tell a soul.’

‘How do you know?’ he asked, as she undid his jeans and freed

his cock with both hands.

‘Because you never tried to grab me in the kitchen. Not even

after I started putting the special herbs in your food.’

‘You’ve been putting what … ?’

She laughed softly. ‘Couldn’t you tell? And you such a great

chef One long leg lifted itself over his hips, and then she was

straddling him. He felt wetness on his stomach, and realised that it must be hers. Reaching out, she plucked a sprig of thyme and

crushed it between her lips, then bent forward to kiss him. As the flavour flooded his mouth like wine his hips bucked impatiently, but he was securely held captive under her and she had no intention of allowing him to hurry.

‘When did you—?’ he whispered.

‘The first night. When you smelled the nutmeg.’ She pushed

his arms over his head and pinned them to the forest floor with

one hand, leaning forward over him so that her breasts brushed

his mouth. He found a nipple and bit it gently. It was hard, and salty as a pistachio with her sweat. He groaned. ‘Please—’

She rose up and positioned herself. ‘Like this?’ she said softly.

And, still teasing him, ‘Or like this?

And then everything was cinnamon and cream, fennel and

strawberry, the scent of crushed thyme and sweat and sweet

honey, and he was amazed at how ridiculously easy it was.

They walked back down the hill in a companionable silence. That

afternoon, as well as pasta con funghi, Benedetta cooked salame

da sugo, the traditional wedding meat of Ferrara: ground pork,

liver and tongues, enriched with spices and wine, said to maintain a bridegroom’s potency.

The next day they went to pick fragole di bosco, wild strawberries, and made love in a deserted old barn above the pastures, their lips still smeared with the pulp of the fruit. The next day it was misticanza, wild leaves for salad. Benedetta was scrupulous that they

must always pick first. If anyone saw them walking home with

empty baskets, she warned, tongues would start wagging instantly.

So they filled their baskets with rocket, wild fennel, dandelion and lamb’s lettuce before temptation overcame them and they

collapsed into a quiet corner of a field, hidden only by the tall fronds of the finocchio stalks. Bruno made her close her eyes, teasing her naked body with a spray of fennel: when he kissed her

between her legs the aniseed mingled with the faint, faraway taste of the sea. We were all fish once, he thought, and this is the proof of it, this whisper of oceans in the deepest recesses of the body.

The day after that it was wild currants, and the day after that

they took a gun with them and shot hares. Their lovemaking was

different after that hunt, fast and furious and urgent, while the dead animals with their bloody noses watched them from the

baskets.

The next morning she woke him very early again, while it was

still dark, and took him to a dense wood they had never visited

before. She wouldn’t tell him what they were after, but when they were deep inside the trees she told him to smell the air. He sniffed obediently.

‘Can you smell it?’ she whispered.

‘No. Can you?’

‘Yes. Over here.’

He followed her into the dense undergrowth. She was turning

her head this way and that, sniffing like a dog. He understood that whatever scent she had caught, it was elusive and precious, so he kept quiet, not wanting to disturb her concentration.

‘Now,’ she whispered. ‘Smell again.’

This time, just for a moment, he thought he caught it - a faint, feral reek, almost sexual.

‘Wild boar?’ he whispered back. But Benedetta shook her head.

She tracked backwards and forwards between the trees, her

nose close to the ground. Abruptly she stopped, and began to

lever up the earth carefully with the end of her stick. The smell was stronger now, heady in the cold clear air of the dawn. Then, suddenly, Benedetta was pulling a knobbly object like a tinv

misshapen potato from the roots of the tree - a tartufo, quite

small, still caked with earth, its reek filling the air.

‘Alberto would kill us if he knew,’ she whispered. ‘We shouldn’t really pick them at this time of the year.’

She broke the truffle open and pressed it to his nose. The scent was almost overpowering: sex and old socks and musk. He felt

himself becoming aroused, and saw by her eyes that she was too.

He reached for her, pulling her towards him.

Afterwards, she took some of his seed on her hand and wiped

it on the tree roots, to encourage the precious fungus to spore

again in the same place.

Tiny as it was, the truffle lent its intoxicating flavour to enough dishes to feed the whole village. Taglierini, sauteed in a frying pan with lesser funghi such as cardoncelli and orecchietti, had some truffle shaved over them before they were served. Then a leg of

kid was served from a giant casserole into which the rest of the truffle had been diced, along with tomatoes, marjoram and rosemary.

There was a noticeable air of excitement in the little piazza

that evening during dinner. Laughter was louder, flirting more

obvious, more wine was consumed, and afterwards the accordions

came out. Bruno had no idea how much Gusta charged for the

food - there was nothing so straightforward as a price list, let alone a menu, and the electronic cash register, as required by the tax authorities for every retail business, sat untouched in a corner, gathering dust. However, he saw her folding up a great wad of

banknotes and tucking it away carefully in a pocket, so presumably she was doing quite well out of the truffle too.

Javier was sitting with a group of his friends. They were drinking beer rather than wine, and vast quantities of it at that.

Benedetta and Bruno helped Gusta wait tables by carrying plates

outside when the food was ready, and Bruno noticed that there

was much ribald laughter and joshing between Javier and his

friends whenever Benedetta went out.

Suddenly he heard a yelp. He looked up. It was instantly clear

what had happened. The young farmer had just grabbed

Benedetta’s behind. The two of them were frozen in a tableau: she had jumped away from him, her eyes blazing, and he was laughing

at her. Bruno took a step towards them, his fists clenched.

Benedetta’s eyes swivelled towards Bruno and saw what he was

about to do. Instantly she took the plate she was holding and

smashed it down over Javier’s head, breaking it in two. There was a moment of stunned silence, then his friends started applauding and whistling. Bruno stepped back, his fists unclenching.

At first Javier sheepishly joined in the applause. Then his eyes followed Benedetta’s own gaze, over to where Bruno was standing, and his face darkened.

She came to his room after Gusta was asleep and slipped into bed beside him. ‘That was quick thinking earlier,’ he whispered.

“I only did it because I thought you were going to hit him.’

“I probably would have done,’ he admitted.

‘But you mustn’t. Promise me, Bruno. As soon as you do

something like that, he’ll think he has to fight you. And let’s face it, he’d beat you to a pulp.’

‘Don’t you think he’s guessed anyway?’

‘He may suspect. But so long as it isn’t obvious - so long as

there’s nothing public - he’ll tell himself that it’s just gossip.’

‘People are gossiping?’

‘Of course. We work together in the kitchen all day - people

would talk even if we were a nun and a priest. But that’s to our advantage. Because everyone here gossips all the time, and most of the time it turns out to be nonsense, no one quite believes anything they hear. As long as they can tell themselves it isn’t true

when they need to, they’ll even believe two different things at

once.’

‘Like the councillors coming to the restaurant on Fridays, but

eating fagioliniV

‘Exactly.’ The local council was staunchly communist, like most

of the rural councils in this region. However, there wasn’t a communist in the area who would eat meat on Fridays, and every Friday

the osteria kitchen was kept busy shelling a vast pile of borlotti beans, fresh from the garden, for vegetarian stews and pasta dishes.

‘But if Javier knew, it might stop him making a nuisance of

himself.’

‘No, it wouldn’t,’ she said firmly. ‘I’ve known him all my life.

Besides, I don’t think I want Javier to lose any sleep over you. I may want to marry him one day.’

‘What! Are you serious?’

‘Of course.’ She put her hand on his chest. ‘You won’t be here

for ever, and I don’t intend to be an old maid. Javier is a good man. Any woman would be lucky to have him.’

Bruno felt awkward. He knew-he ought to tell her that he

loved her, that he wanted to stay here with her for ever. But he couldn’t, because it wasn’t true. He thought she was the warmest, most generous person he had ever met; he adored her; she was

beautiful and sexy, and she was a soulmate and a friend. But his heart had already been given to someone else. So he said instead, ‘You’re wonderful, Benedetta.’

“I know.’ She wriggled on top of him and opened his lips with

her tongue, the way a fisherman opens an oyster with a knife. ‘So let’s enjoy it while we can.’