Page 24 of The Tuscan Child
She left the door open, letting in a scented breeze. I was tempted to try out the scary-looking shower after my night on the train, but I didn’t want to keep Paola waiting too long. I unpacked a few items, washed my face and hands, put on a fresh blouse, and brushed my hair. Then I closed the door and went back up the path. The table was now laid with brightly painted ceramic dishes and bowls. In the middle was a big platter with tomatoes, a slab of white cheese, a couple of sticks of salami, a bowl of olives, and a big loaf of crusty bread. Paola motioned for me to sit, then served me a bowl of the soup. It was almost too thick to be called a soup, and it smelled of garlic and herbs that I didn’t recognise. I took a tentative sip and felt the explosion of taste in my mouth. How could anyone take simple tomatoes and onions and make them taste like this?
“It is delicious,” I said, hoping that“delizioso”was a word. “Very good.”
Paola hovered behind me, then pulled out a chair at the head of the table. Angelina came to join us. She had picked up the baby again, and to my shock she opened her blouse and put the baby to a large round breast before picking up her own spoon.
“So everybody gets to eat,” Paola said with satisfaction.
“How do you make this soup?” I asked.
She laughed. “So simple. It is what we call part of ourcucina povera—simple food for the peasants. And a good way to use up yesterday’s stale bread. It is simply stale bread soaked in broth, and then we cook the garlic, tomatoes, some carrot, and celery and add these to it, then serve with olive oil. That’s all.”
I ate until I had scraped my bowl clean with today’s still-warm bread. Paola picked up a jug and asked if she could pour into my glass. I nodded agreement and was startled to find it was red wine she was pouring, not water as I had expected.
“Not too much wine for me,” I said. “I am not used to drinking in the middle of the day.”
“But this is an ordinary wine. No strength at all. We give it to our children. Makes them strong. And if you wish, you can mix it with some water.” She handed me a carafe of water, and I poured in a little.
I was now told to help myself to the items on the board. I tried some of the salami and cheese, and the tomatoes were sweeter than any I had tasted before.
“What is the name of this cheese?” I asked. “It is very different from any cheese I have tasted.”
“Ah, that is because it is cheese from the sheep and not from the cow, such as you have in your country. It is the cheese that my husband and I used to make once. Pecorino, we call it. It is good, no? Sharp and full of flavour.”
“It is.” I nodded.
“Have more. And try this prosciutto.” She put more food on my plate, and while I ate, Paola questioned me. Where did I live? What about my parents?
I told her I lived in London and my parents were both dead. She nodded sadly. “It is tragic to lose a loved one. A wound one never recovers from, I fear. My own dear Gianfranco died last year.”
“I’m very sorry,” I said. “Was he ill?”
She shook her head angrily. “No. His truck went off the road and rolled over on the way to the market. It was bad weather. Much rain and wind. But Gianfranco was a good driver. Sometimes I wonder—”
“Mamma, you must not say these things,” Angelina interrupted. I looked at her enquiringly. “My mother thinks that maybe there are men who did not like my father. He was too honest. He would not pay protection money, and he would not sell his land.”
“It’s true. I do wonder, often. All I know is my husband was taken from me. Too young. Too young.”
“So now you have to run the farm on your own?” I asked.
“It was too much for a woman alone,” she said. “We used to have sheep and goats for the cheese, but they are gone now. I had to sell them, and you have their little house. My vineyard is rented out to others. I keep a few olive trees for the oil, and I grow vegetables in my garden, as you can see. I take them up to the market once a week, and I make preserves with the fruit. It is enough to get by.”
We ate for a while in silence. I felt the wine in my head, and the heat of the afternoon was making me sleepy. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to take a little sleep,” I said. “I was up all night on the train.”
“Of course.” Paola got up, too.
“And maybe later you could show me how to cook some of your recipes?” I said.
“It will be a pleasure. You like to cook?”
“I’d like to learn,” I said. “My mother was a good cook, but I have never learned to cook anything more than a fried egg.”
“She never taught you?” Paola asked.
“No. She died when I was eleven.”
Paola came up to me, her arms open, and took me into an embrace. I smelled garlic and sweat and a faint rosewater type of perfume, but the mixture was not unpleasant. “No young girl should have to grow up without a mother,” she said.
I fought back tears.
