Page 30 of The Tuscan Child
“You see the colour of our olive oil?” a broad-shouldered man sitting opposite me asked. “Bright green. The green of springtime. That is the colour of Tuscan olive oil. The best. Of course it has to come from my trees.”
“Your trees?” one of the men at the far end of the table demanded. “You sold most of your trees to Cosimo. Now it comes from his trees.”
“Not true. I kept the best trees for myself.”
“I heard he made you an offer too good to refuse. Or he had something on you.”
“Not true. You lie!”
Voices were raised again and I thought they might well break into a fist fight. But then an older man said, “The signorina will think she has arrived among wild animals. Behave. Now eat, Signorina. Eat. Drink. Enjoy yourself.”
They all watched as I dipped the bread in the oil and then ate with an expression of satisfaction.
“Good, no?” they asked. “The best olives in the region.”
“And could be even better,” the young, racy one said, giving a look I couldn’t quite interpret.
One of the men put a finger to his lips. “It’s not wise to say such things, Gianni. Especially when someone might be able to overhear us. Watch your mouth or you will be sorry.”
The distinguished old man with a shock of white hair took over the conversation. “So tell us, Signorina. Your father, the British pilot, he is still alive? He sent you here to find Sofia Bartoli?”
“No, Signor,” I said. “He died a month ago. I came here because I found her name mentioned among his belongings. He never spoke of her to me or my mother, but I was curious. Now I see I was wrong to delve into the past. My father would not be happy to learn of her actions. But at least I have seen this beautiful region, and I am glad I came.”
“You will now go back to England?” the older man asked.
“I may stay for a few days. I am happy in the little room at Signora Rossini’s house. I will take walks and enjoy your beautiful countryside.”
This was generally approved of. “You must let me show you my sheep,” the amorous one said. “I keep them up at the top of the mountain where the grass is the best. And I make my pecorino cheese up there. I will show you how I make my cheese, too.”
“You want to watch that one, Signorina,” the distinguished one said. “He has a reputation with the ladies. You can’t trust him further than you can throw him.”
“What, me?” the man who I now remembered was called Gianni asked, putting his hand to his heart. “I am merely showing hospitality to a young stranger. I am a safely married man.”
“Married yes, safe no,” one at the far end commented, causing loud laughter.
Gianni looked sheepish. “We should feed the young lady. Bread and olives is not enough. Let’s call for bruschetta.”
“Oh no, it’s not necessary.” I held up my hand. “I go back to eat at Signora Rossini’s.”
“She won’t serve dinner for hours,” Gianni said. “Not until the sun is well and truly set. You will faint from hunger before that.” He got up and went into the darkness of the trattoria. Then he came back, looking self-satisfied. “They will bring a tray for us. Very good here, you will see.”
I had no idea what bruschetta was. My knowledge of Italian food was limited to spaghetti Bolognese or ravioli of the sort one bought in a tin. Soon a platter was carried out to our table by a skinny young man wearing an apron. On it were thick slices of toasted bread with different toppings. Gianni looked at me with intense interest and said something under his breath to one of the men. The man replied. They exchanged a smile. A translation was not offered to me.
“So now you try the bruschetta,” the distinguished older man said. “Each one is crowned with different flavours that we like in these parts. This one has chicken liver mixed with anchovy, this one tapenade, and this slices of fennel with goat cheese. Eat. They are all good.”
I was all too aware that I was going back to Paola to eat what would undoubtedly be a large meal, but I could hardly refuse. They insisted that I try every flavour, watching my face with expressions of anticipation so that I had to smile broadly and nod satisfaction after each bite. This was not hard to do as each of the flavours was exquisite. I had grown up with simple English cooking—steak and kidney pie, shepherd’s pie, fish and chips, lamb chops—and then as a student my daring experiments in the culinary line were limited by my budget and included Chinese and Indian (or rather the English versions of Chinese and Indian). Therefore I was not familiar with garlic or basil or any of the other tastes I was experiencing. At last, full of food and wine, I was able to plead that Paola would be waiting for me and it would be very rude to be late for dinner.
Gianni, who had volunteered to show me his sheep farm and had insisted on the bruschetta, immediately got to his feet. “I shall have the honour of escorting the young lady home,” he said.
“Oh no, thank you. It is not far and I know the way, and it is still not quite dark,” I said, having trouble with finding Italian words after too much wine.
“It is no trouble,” Gianni said. “I, too, must go home through the tunnel. Come.”
He put a hand on my elbow and assisted me to my feet. I wasn’t too keen to go through a long, dark tunnel with him, even though I didn’t think he’d try anything within shouting distance of the men at the table. Luckily this was decided for me before I could find a way to refuse him.
“Never mind, Gianni,” a voice at the end of the table said. I looked across at a big man in a well-worn undershirt. “I must pass Paola’s house, and it is time for me to leave if I do not want a lashing from my wife’s tongue. Come, Signorina, you will be quite safe with me. I have ten children and a terrifying wife to keep me in line.”
There was good-natured laughter around the table, but the white-haired one said, “Yes, Signorina, you will be quite safe with Alberto.”
