The Tuscan Child(85)

“That would be a wonderful idea,” she said. “And I have a good tapenade here.”

“And will you allow me to make the risotto?” he asked. “It was one of my specialties when I was sous-chef at the restaurant in Soho.”

“With pleasure,” Paola said. “But you must show the young lady how you prepare it. She wants to learn how to cook our Italian food, you know.”

He looked at me with interest. “You want to learn to cook? Lawyers don’t need such skills. They can employ a cook, surely.”

“Not this lawyer,” I said. “At the moment I am still a poor articled clerk, earning almost no money until I pass my exam. And even if I get a good job, I think that coming home to cook a good meal would be very relaxing.”

“You are right,” he said. “When I am cooking I think of nothing else. It is as if all the troubles of the world are shut out and it is just me and the food.”

Paola frowned and Renzo translated for her.

“You should speak Italian to the young lady,” she said. “How else is she going to improve? And already she understands quite well.”

“All right. In future, only Italian, Joanna, capisci?” he said, giving me a challenging look.

I was given the herbs to chop up for the sauce to go on the aubergine—oregano, Italian parsley—and then lots of garlic to crush. I was concentrating hard when Renzo came up behind me. “No, that is not how you hold the knife,” he said. His fingers came over mine. “Straight. Up and down. Swift motion like this. See?”

“Renzo, you will distract the young lady from her task if you flirt with her like that,” Paola said.

“What does this word mean?” I asked. When Renzo translated I felt myself blushing.

“Flirting? Who was flirting?” he demanded. “I only wish to correct the way she cuts parsley. If she wants to cook well she must develop good skills.”

“You say what you like,” Paola said, chuckling. “I say what I observe. See, her cheeks have become quite pink.”

“But she did not push me away, so she must have liked it,” he replied. “Now let me see you cut, Jo.”

I realised he was using the abbreviation of my name that only a few people had used in my life. Scarlet was one and Adrian was another. But coming from Renzo it sounded right. I started cutting, making smooth and even chopping motions. He watched, nodding. “You learn quickly.”

“It’s a shame she is not going to stay longer. You and I could teach her much,” Paola said. “Instead she goes back to London and to her diet of roast beef and sausages.”

“Yes, it is a shame,” Renzo said.

I had to agree with them. I went back to chopping my herbs.





CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX





JOANNA


June 1973

By eight o’clock the meal was ready.

“I think outside, don’t you?” Paola said. “Since it is such a beautiful evening.”

So a table was laid with a white cloth out in the garden under the cherry tree. This time there were no simple ceramic beakers, but silverware and crystal. I took my place looking out away from the farmhouse. The sun was setting over the western hills, and bats flitted through the pink twilight. The air was scented with honeysuckle and jasmine. It was almost like being in a dream.

Angelina came to join us, bringing olive oil and a plate of olives. It turned out that Renzo had brought wine from his father’s vineyards. We started with a crisp white as Paola brought out the tray of crostini. I had to try one of each topping as I had done my first night in San Salvatore in the piazza. The asparagus wrapped in slivers of uncured ham and drizzled with truffle oil; the thin slices of fennel, which was another new flavour for me; the sharp sheep’s cheese served with fig jam. All of these tasted like little miracles and frankly would have been enough for a grand evening meal on their own.

But then we had Renzo’s risotto—creamy rice with mushrooms cooked in a rich broth. When Renzo saw my nod of appreciation he said, “In London I used to make this with seafood. You should try it. The fish broth and the mussels and shrimp are just perfect. It is too bad I can’t make a trip to the coast and bring back the right ingredients to cook for you.”

“I can’t imagine it would be much better than this,” I said. “I grew up being forced to eat rice pudding at school, and I’ve shied away from rice ever since.”

He laughed. “The English unfortunately don’t know what interesting things can be done with simple ingredients. Give them cabbage or Brussels sprouts and they boil them to death.”

“Maybe you can come back to England one day, open your own restaurant, and educate everyone,” I said.

I watched the joy drain from his face. “Maybe,” he said. “But I don’t see that day happening. My father’s health does not improve, and frankly he needs me here. Family comes first, does it not?”

I thought about this—a strange notion to me. I certainly had not put my father first in any of my decisions. Maybe I had failed him. I didn’t like to think about it, but I pictured his body lying cold in the grass. And now it was too late to say I was sorry.

“But we can fix these gloomy thoughts,” Renzo said, “with another good wine. This is the pride of our vineyard. In England the only Italian wine you know is the rough Chianti that comes in a straw bottle. But this is from our premium grapes, perfectly aged in oak barrels. You will taste the difference.”