Chapter 15 A Relentless Hunter #3
As he began to dress the soup, he said, “Gazpacho is typically made with tomatoes, cucumber, bell pepper, bread crust, red onion, garlic, olive oil, sherry, and cumin, salt, and pepper. I add a dash of colatura di alici, an Italian fish sauce made with anchovies that are salt-aged in small chestnut barrels. Do you know it?”
She shook her head.
He professed his love for it in Italian, then returned to his work. “These are basil oil pearls, then a sprinkle of Burrata snow, made with liquid nitrogen.”
She stepped closer to look over his shoulder as he transformed his soup into an art piece. Her mouth watered.
He took tweezers and set several tiny leaves in the center.
“Microgreens I grow on the roof. And then I finish with a crisp of parmesan polenta.” He set it sideways like a glacier poking up in the sea.
“Finally, I top it with a compressed watermelon cube marinated in Campari.” He set the small cube on the other side, creating a sort of landscape on top of the soup.
When he finished, he invited her to take a bite. How could anyone turn a bowl of soup into a masterpiece?
“It’s too pretty to eat,” she said.
He took the spoon and gathered a bite, including one of the pearls. He started to lift it to her mouth, then said, “Hold on. Don’t move.” It felt like he’d pulled away from a kiss.
Setting down the spoon, he raced back out into the dining room and returned with a candelabra. He set it on the steel table and lit all five candles, then switched off the fluorescent lights above.
As the candlelight flickered against his face, he pulled a bottle of wine from the fridge.
“This is a white pinot nero, better known as pinot noir, that’s pressed and removed of its skins so quickly that it barely retains any color.
Grown by a family in Valle d’Aosta who’ve been making wine for eight generations. ”
He slid a glass her way. “Now, buon appetito.”
Her first sip gave her chills.
He watched her every move.
A tear welled up in her eye. Was it the wine or the entire experience, being around an artist of his caliber? And that’s what this was: art. And he was a candle in a world where light bulbs had been guiding her way.
He picked the spoon back up and prepared once again her perfect bite, then guided it to her mouth. As he set it on her tongue, she let the flavors wash over her like a rising tide. It was almost too much, the taste, the texture.
“That’s so good. Who are you, Corrado?”
Only inches from her face, he pulled the spoon away. “You like?”
She licked her lips and looked at his, then at his eyes and back again.
She tasted the lingering flavors of this fresh, cool dish, the basil so lovely still on her tongue.
She then grabbed the collar of his chef’s shirt and pulled him toward her.
An inch closer and she could smell the espresso from earlier on his breath.
Then they kissed, and she nearly lost her balance. Their hearts beat in harmony.
“Dio, ti voglio cosi tanto,” he gently whispered. I want you so badly.
The two of them clamored for each other, grasping for curves, swallowing each other whole.
But as he tore open her shirt, the buttons splashing onto the floor, his hands on her, the shame of who she’d become washed over her. Any further and he’d see that she was nothing like the girl he once knew.
“Stop,” she said. “I have to stop.”
He pulled his head away, and she raced to cover herself. He’d known the better version of her, the happier her, the skinnier her, the younger her. As much as she wanted him, she couldn’t let him see who she’d become.
“What is it?” His chest heaved.
She turned away from him, searching for a way out.
“Did I do something . . .”
“I have to go, I’m sorry.”
Bianca couldn’t even turn back to face him. Her heart flatlining, she left the kitchen and scurried through the dining room toward the lobby of the hotel.
After her walk of shame back to Via Giulia, she ran into a neighbor on the way into her apartment. “Sorry,” Bianca said, almost bumping into the young woman. Half of her was still in Corrado’s kitchen.
“No problem,” her neighbor replied. She was in her midtwenties. A Scandinavian accent, maybe Swedish. Bianca had forgotten her name; they’d made chitchat a few times.
She held the door open, a foot on the sidewalk. “Hey, it’s Bianca, right? I’m Hannah. I just wanted to ask, was that your father cleaning the courtyard?”
“Yes, it was. I hope he didn’t get in your way. He’s very project oriented. If he’s here much longer, he’ll probably try to come organize your closet.”
Hannah shook her head. “How lucky you are. If my parents ever come see me, they don’t lift a finger.”
The idea was rather sobering. “Yeah, I guess I am lucky. He’s painted walls. Reorganized three closets. Vacuumed behind the couches. Rearranged the Tupperware. Did the courtyard.” The pride in her own tone surprised her. “Even pressed our ‘lovely’ landlord to do a few things.”
“Now that’s a feat in and of itself.”
“Tell me about it.”
“If you ever want to trade fathers, I’m on the second floor.” Hannah offered a wave and then let go of the door.
Bianca watched it close. Perspective was everything, wasn’t it?