Page 25 of The Tuscan Child
The combination of wine and tiredness meant that I slept for over an hour. I awoke with my head groggy and had to splash water on my face to make myself feel vaguely normal. When I came back to the kitchen, I saw Paola was working at the big table. She greeted me with a smile. “Ah, the little one who wants to cook. You came at the right moment. See, I am making pici. It is a pasta of this region, made with only flour and water. No eggs. Do you want to join me?”
“Oh yes, thank you. I’d love to,” I said. I washed my hands in the sink, then she showed me her process. “You see, we start with a mound of two types of flour. I like to use semolina as well as the flour we calltipo00. Very fine, no? And then we make a little well in the middle, and we start to pour in the water, little by little, gently, and we mix. And we start to knead.”
I tried to follow along with my pile of flour. It wasn’t as easy as she made it look. Flour stuck to my fingers. It became a sticky mess.
“More flour, I think,” Paola said kindly, taking over until I had a smooth dough in front of me. “Now comes the real work. We knead and we knead. At least ten minutes.”
Again I followed along. It was an effort, but it felt good to have my hands working, to be creating something. I found myself relaxing—smiling. I looked around the kitchen as I worked. Bunches of herbs were drying in a corner, tied to a rack, and along one wall were large terra cotta jars full of olive oil and other things I couldn’t identify from where I was standing.
“Now we must let it rest,” Paola said. “Come, we will have a coffee and biscotti while we wait.”
She poured two cups of thick black coffee and pushed a plate of hard biscuits in front of me. I sat with her and nibbled at them. “Good, no?” she said. “And the biscotti are better when you dip them in the Vin Santo. I will show you later.”
“It’s very good just like this,” I said, although I wasn’t used to such strong coffee, which hit me with a jolt to the system.
“And now we finish the pici.” Paola got up and took the cloth from the top of our dough. “Let me show you how we roll it.”
She broke off a piece and put it onto the floured table. Then she rolled it with her hands the way we used to make snakes with modelling clay when I was a little girl. Back and forth she rolled until it was a uniformly thin, long strand. Then she handed me a piece. My strand was not as uniform and even, but I certainly enjoyed the process.
“We will have it tonight with a rabbit ragu,” Paola said as we worked. “Those rabbits have become a pest to my vegetables, so I invite the boys from the village to come and shoot them for me. They like to shoot, and I like to eat rabbit. I give them one to take home to their mother, and everyone is happy.”
I had to concentrate really hard to understand this, not having learned the word for “rabbit,” but once she mentioned eating her vegetables in her garden, I managed to guess what she meant. “How do you make a rabbit ragu?”
“Also not hard. You start with pancetta and onions and sage and rosemary, and tomatoes and garlic of course, and it cooks gently for a long while. I made it early this morning.”
I decided the time was right to mention my father. “Signora Rossini, I told you I came here because my father had been in this place during the war.” I paused. “He was a British airman. His plane was shot down. Do you remember any of that? A British airman? A plane that crashed nearby?”
She gave me an apologetic smile. “I was not here in the war,” she said. “My mother sent me to my aunt up in the hills, on account of the Germans. I was a young girl and the Germans...they thought it was their right to take any young girl they fancied. Just as they thought it was their right to kill whenever they wanted. They were animals. I cannot tell you how much we suffered.”
I nodded with understanding. Then I asked, “Do you remember a woman called Sofia Bartoli from this village?”
“Sofia Bartoli? Oh yes, of course I remember her. I remember when her husband Guido brought her home right before the war. She was not from here, you know, so the people of this town did not look upon her favourably. They do not like outsiders. And she was an orphan, I remember, with no family. I was only a little girl, but I thought she was very pretty, and kind, too. I heard she lost her husband in the North African conflict.”
“And do you know what happened to her?”
“When I returned to the village when the war was over, she was gone. Nobody said much about it, but it wasn’t good. She went away, leaving her baby son.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
HUGO
December 1944
Hugo had a cold and uncomfortable night. His leg throbbed and sent pain shooting through him every time he tried to move, and the blanket did little to shield him from the damp cold that rose up from the stone floor. He took a small sip of the grappa, and it spread like fire through his veins for a while. He felt in his breast pocket and retrieved his cigarettes and lighter, then lay back smoking one, conscious that the tiny circle of glowing tobacco did nothing to dispel the darkness around him. But at least the inhaled smoke calmed his nerves. He was glad to see the first streaks of daylight and to hear that distant rooster welcoming the dawn. He nibbled a little of the polenta and cheese, leaving the onion for later, then forced himself to go outside and find a place to heed the call of nature. It was a clear, crisp day with occasional white clouds racing across the sky from the west. He managed to hobble out to the rain barrel, wincing with every step, where he drank some water and washed his face and hands. He carried more water back in the tin mug. He also retrieved more stuffing from the pillow and found a spoon lying amid the rubble. That small victory cheered him up. When he felt a bit stronger, he would do more searching. Maybe there was a mattress under some of those fallen roof tiles.
He managed to get the mug of water back to the chapel without spilling too much, then he took down his trousers and tore off some of Sofia’s sheet to clean the wound again. It still looked pretty repulsive, with oozing dark blood, but he dripped iodine on to his homemade rag and tried to wipe away as much of the blood as possible. It stung horribly and he cursed under his breath, conscious of the Virgin and a few damaged saints looking down at him. Then he bound up the wound and used Sofia’s piece of wood to make a splint. He wasn’t sure it was helping. It certainly didn’t support him enough for him to put weight on that leg. There was no way he could make his escape southward.I’ll just have to be patient,he told himself, and was ashamed to find that he felt a small bubble of happiness that he would be seeing Sofia again for at least a few more days.
She came again that afternoon.
“I am in luck,” she said, throwing off the shawl from her head as she stepped into the chapel. “Signora Gucci has told everyone that I brought herfunghi di boscoyesterday and have promised to find more mushrooms for her. What a sweet and kind young lady I am. So now when they see me going up the hill to the woods, they say, ‘Ah, Sofia. She goes to hunt the mushrooms. What a good woman.’”
“I hope you find some, or she will become suspicious.”
“I hope so, too. But it has been wet recently. Good weather for mushrooms. And I think I saw more chestnuts. That is good, too. We use chestnut flour for baking in this region, especially when there is no more real flour.” She had her big basket on her arm today. “But see what I have brought you: it isfagioli al fiasco sotto la cenere.” She handed him a bowl of what looked like white paste.
He didn’t understand the Italian words in her dialect, except that“fagioli”was beans, and this did not look like beans—more like oatmeal. He didn’t think he’d ever seen an oat when he was in Florence, and certainly nobody ate oatmeal for breakfast.
“What is this?” he asked.
