Page 22 of A Place in the Sun
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.
