Chapter 9
Alessandro pulls up on the mobility scooter and points towards a house. It’s at the end of a row at the bottom of the hill, not far from where I’ve parked the car. I remember raised voices and a heated argument over a washing line … I look at Alessandro anxiously. ‘Here?’
He nods solemnly. ‘This is Teresa.’
I get the feeling I’ve been set up. The newcomer, who doesn’t know what lies behind the door, has been sent to deliver and sit with the resident for dinner.
The resident no one else wants to visit.
I don’t know whether to laugh or be cross.
But it’s just a quick visit, I think. Drop off the meal and check they have everything they need. Make some small-talk and leave.
I straighten and see something moving outside a neighbouring house in the row. I’m sure I’m being watched, and feel a strange foreboding. But I’m just doing the village equivalent of Meals on Wheels, I think crossly. Why should I feel unsettled? I take another look at the houses.
Alessandro hands me the meal from the basket on the mobility scooter and the little plastic bottle of red wine. He nods at me, as if to give me courage. ‘I’ll go back to La Tavola, collect the next meal for delivery and meet you here,’ he says.
I take a deep breath and walk towards the front door. I don’t have to tell them about my circumstances. I don’t have to say anything I’m not ready to say. I just make polite conversation. I knock at the door.
It opens slowly. A woman squints at me. ‘ Sì? ’
‘Teresa? Buonasera ,’ I say. ‘I’ve brought your dinner. From Giovanni, at La Tavola.’ I point.
‘Where is Giovanni? Is he here?’
‘He sent me, with your dinner.’
She looks at what I’m holding.
‘And I brought your dish back, from the delicious lasagne.’
Her face softens and she opens the door wider.
‘Oh, Giovanni, he has so many to think about. He needn’t think about me!
He is always thinking of others.’ She puts her hand to her chest for her glasses, suspended on a length of string.
She pulls them onto her face and studies me.
‘Ah! You are in Casa Luna?’ She opens the door wide now and I smile.
We’re just making small-talk. ‘The one with no husband.’
My spirits slump. So much for keeping my business to myself.
‘Come in, come in.’
The table is laid for two in the brightly tiled, tidy kitchen. Clearly expecting someone to arrive with food.
‘Come, sit!’ She takes the dishes from me, and I can see Giovanni was right. She’s clearly glad of the company.
I sit on the cushion on the upright kitchen chair and look around the room, the walls filled with photographs and a dresser with crockery. I put the basket with dishes to be returned under the table. Now all I need to do is work out which is whose.
It’s early evening. There is a window at the back with heavy nets across it, presumably to keep insects at bay.
She puts the food on the table.
‘Can I serve for you?’ I hover over the seat.
‘No, no. You are my guest. Sit!’ she commands, waving a hand at the chair and I do as I’m told, without question.
I hear the whine of a mosquito. I itch.
‘Lemon juice, squeeze,’ she tells me. ‘No more mosquitoes!’
‘Right,’ I say.
‘Here.’ She takes a lemon from the bowl on the table, cuts it in half and gestures for me to rub it over my skin. It stings in the bites, but I’ll try anything.
‘Now, mangiamo ,’ she says, putting two plates of pasta on the table.
‘This is for you! Not me.’
She stops. ‘There is plenty here. Eat,’ she commands. It would be rude not to so I take a bite of the pasta, courgette and Parmesan. Lots of pepper and garlic. It’s delicious. I eat the whole bowl, forgetting to talk, and my worries about being interrogated disappear.
‘That was wonderful,’ I say. ‘Just like my hu—’.
‘Giovanni is a good cook,’ she says. ‘He will make a good husband. But he would be so much better if he took advice from those who have been cooking much longer.’
‘You don’t like his cooking?’
She shrugs. ‘It’s good, but he doesn’t listen.
He has worked in kitchens all over the world, Michelin stars,’ she waves a dismissive hand, ‘but we learnt from our mothers, who taught us everything we know.’ She pauses.
‘Well, most things.’ Her eyes narrow. ‘And their mothers before them. It is not just in the recipe but in the way we cook. How we slice, chop and serve the food. It is an experience.’
‘Well, I enjoyed it,’ I say, indicating my empty plate.
‘You ate it all!’ She clasps her hands over her chest.
‘Thank you.’ I get up to leave.
‘I will bring you dessert. My tiramisu.’
She tops up my wine glass from the little terracotta jug into which she has poured the wine. I try to refuse, to no avail: ‘Oh, no …’
There’s no stopping her. She’s like a juggernaut gathering pace. I’m here for the meal, to the end.
‘Just piccolo ,’ I say. ‘A little bit.’ I hear her laugh under her breath. She turns from the kitchen and places a glass dish in front of me.
I’m very full, but it would be rude not to eat some.
I lift my spoon. Her eyes are on me, watching intently.
I put it into my mouth … and it is just heaven.
Gorgeous. Just like I remember when we sat down after service in the restaurant, with a cold thirst-quenching beer on a hot summer’s evening after a busy service, the waiters happy with their tips, and customers’ promises of reviews on Tripadvisor.
Or a coffee, with some brandy and a bowl of tiramisu from the fridge.
A quiet time in the restaurant kitchen, like backstage in the theatre, enjoying the buzz of an appreciative audience.
‘This is wonderful,’ I say, after a second mouthful.
‘ Buono .’ She beams. ‘Now, tell me about you. What are you doing here?’
I scoop more tiramisu onto my spoon, trying to work out how much I’m prepared to say. I mustn’t feel bullied. I take another mouthful of the delicious pudding. To leave any would feel like a crime, especially with Teresa watching me like a hawk.
‘Well …’ I start, taking little spoonfuls quickly, buying myself time to decide what to say ‘… I’m doing up Casa Luna.
’ I’d like to leave it there, but she’s waiting silently, watching me.
‘And I’m here with my children for the summer.
’ That should be enough. I put a big spoonful of cream and sponge into my mouth so I can’t say any more.
‘Ah, yes, Casa Luna.’ She shakes her head. ‘So sad she had no one to pass the house on to. All that time alone after her husband died.’
I choke a little on my big mouthful, not wanting to talk about dead husbands. I swallow quickly and drink some wine, which clears my mouth, throat and mind all in one go.
‘Oh, of course,’ I say, ‘I brought back your dish. Grazie mille for the lasagne.’ I lift the basket onto the table. ‘But I’m not sure which is yours.’ I pull out the three.
She stares at them, then up at me. Her face tightens and she purses her lips. ‘I see you had some other visitors.’
Her mood has changed from friendly to frosty.
‘Erm, yes, all very lovely,’ I say. ‘And very welcome.’
She sniffs. ‘But they were all very different?’
‘Yes,’ I say quickly.
‘Did you have a favourite?’
Suddenly I’m answering the million-pound question on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? , and I’m hot, sweaty and terrified of getting it wrong. I feel the colour drain from my face. ‘Er, which dish is yours?’ I ask, my throat tight.
She smiles, and I think we’re back on friendly terms. And then she says, ‘It was the best one, of course! My lasagne recipe has always been the best in the village. It helped me win my husband’s heart.
It was his mother’s recipe. When he discovered I could make lasagne like her, he decided I was the woman for him. ’
I stare at the dishes. Now what? ‘Tell me more about your husband. Is he here?’ I’m playing for time.
‘He died. I am a widow.’
Gah! Back to widowhood.
I know it’s not the blue dish. That was the last one and I actually took it from the woman who brought it. It’s the orange one or the white one with flowers.
‘And you?’
‘We’re doing up the house. I hope to finish by the end of the summer. My husband bought it, but we didn’t have time to get out here and renovate it. Now it has to be done by the end of August. Or I’ll have to pay lots more money,’ I say, wishing I hadn’t said that.
‘Ah, yes, the housing scheme. A bargain for some who want to come and live in Italy. Maybe not so when they realize how remote this village is and how it is dying on its feet. Like its men.’
‘So,’ I try to move the subject along, ‘I’m here and we’re doing it up.’
‘And your husband?’ she persists.
‘My husband?’ Then I spot it. A matching white dish with flowers on the heavily laden dresser.
‘Yes, your husband.’
‘My husband is … Marco,’ I say.
‘Marco. Your husband?’ She raises her eyebrows.
‘Yes.’ I smile. ‘Did you meet him when he was here?’
‘I did,’ she says. ‘A charming man.’
‘Anyway,’ I stand, ‘ grazie mille for dinner. And here,’ I hold out the dish, the one with flowers on, ‘ grazie for the lasagne.’
She looks at the dish and smiles. ‘My recipe is still the best in the village!’ She practically blooms in front of me.
I pick up my basket with the two other dishes in it. ‘I’ll return these too,’ I say, clearing away the empty containers from the work surface and scooping them into my basket, to return to La Tavola.
‘Tell Giovanni grazie ,’ she says. ‘One day we will find him the perfect woman to make him a happy man!’ Again she clasps her hands over her chest, and I fear for her glasses. ‘If only I were ten years younger,’ she says, as I walk towards the door.
Ten years! That’s optimistic but it makes me smile. What’s wrong with optimism? We could all do with a little hope.
‘He is a good man. If only we could find him someone to be a husband to. What a shame you still have yours.’
And this time I have no words …
‘I must go,’ I say. ‘I’ll tell him you said grazie . And, yes, I hope he finds a wife, if that’s what he wants.’
‘Ah, men do not always know what they want. Like my husband. He thought his mother made the best tiramisu … until he tasted mine!’ She beams, and I feel full all over again.
I pull open the door, hoping for a little coolness in the air. Alessandro is waiting for me with the mobility scooter.
‘ Ciao, Nonna Teresa ,’ he calls.
‘ Ciao, Alessandro . How are you and your brother?’
He says they’re fine.
‘ Ciao – sorry, what’s your name?’ asks Teresa.
‘Thea,’ I say.
‘I will bring you another lasagne,’ she says to me.
‘Really, no need.’
‘I insist!’ she calls after me brightly, waving, as I hurry back to the scooter, where Alessandro is waiting as the bats flit in and out of the stone walls.
‘Right, who’s next?’
‘Nonna Lucia,’ he says. ‘She can be scary, but she’s fine once you get to know her.’
‘Okay,’ I say, as he leads the way on the scooter to the house next door.