Cooking With Fernet Branca (15 page)

Dearest
Marja

It
seems
an
age
since
I
last
wrote
but
it
isn’t
really.
It’s
just
that
enough
domestic
trivia
have
been
going
on
here
to
make
the
exact
sequence
of
things
hard
to
remember.
Have
you
noticed
how
just
trying
to
impose
any
sort
of
chronology
on
events
makes
it
seem
as
though
a
lot
of
time
has
been
occupied?

By
now
Ljuka
will
have
told
you
of
his
flying
(literally)
visit
here.
Really,
he
gave
me
the
shock
of
my
life.
Can
you
imagine,
a
helicopter
landing
in
your
back
yard
in
the
middle
of
the
night
&
you
go
out
to
find
someone
looking
like
Special
Agent
Z-57
stand
ing
there
all
in
black?
I
nearly
had
kittens.
I
was
more
scared,
&
consequently
crosser,
than
I
let
on.
I
don’t
believe
it
ever
occurred
to
him
that
he
might
have
given
me
a
shock.
Boys:
they
have
no
imagination
whatever.
They
just
star
in
their
own
private
film
&
that’s
enough
for
them.

I
must
say
the
Red
Cross
parcel
he
brought
from
home
did
make
me
homesick.
Mili
sent
me
some
jars
of
her
blackberry
kompot
&
a
box
of
goose
grease
just
as
if
I
were
still
10.

I’m
working
well
&
all
that
film
stuff’s
coming
along
brilliantly.
The
only
cloud
on
the
horizon
(and
it’s
a
very
small
one,
and
pass
ing)
concerns
my
dudi
neighbour.
That’s
my
only
real
news,
to
be
honest 
–
just
to
tell
you
that
a
sort
of
temporary
war
has
broken
out
between
us.

How
on
earth?
you’re
wondering.
Well,
the
night
Ljuka
turned
up
Gerry
had
a
guest
staying
with
him
(&
although
it’s
hardly
my
business
I
can’t
say
I
think
much
of
his
taste.
Bald
as
a
goose
egg).
Apparently
they
were
sitting
out
when
Uki flew
in
directly
over
their
heads!
I
must
tell
him
to
land
from
a
different
direction
next
time
because
Gerry
came
across
in
the
morning 
after
breakfast,
ratty
&
moaning
about
damage
to
his
precious
pergola.
That
weird
roundabout
way
he
has
of
saying
things:
had
I
by any chance noticed
a
helicopter
around
these
parts
last
night?
Well,
Mari,
you
know
me:
Ms
Mischief
herself.
What
could
I
possibly
do
but
feign
complete
ignorance?
I
mean,
our
little
brother
had
practically
landed
several
tons
of
howling
machinery
on
his
roof,
but
instead
of
laughing
&
telling
me
what
a
dreadful
liar
I
am
Gerry
was
completely
thrown.
He
went
all
baffled
and
sulky.
I
still
don’t
know
if
it’s
just
him
or
whether
all
Englishmen
avoid
being
direct
(lack
of
courage?)
and
are
forced
instead
to
become
tetchy.
It
was
also
unfortunate
that
when
he
came
in
I’d
happened
to
be
playing
my
pastiche
of
his
singing.
I
couldn’t
tell
if
Il
Falsetto
recognized
it
with
thirty-six
tracks
of
synthesized
orchestral
backing
&
I
now
suspect
he
can’t
have:
he
would
surely
have
been
much
angrier
if
he’d
realized
what
I’ve
been
up
to
at
his
expense.
Poor
Gerry!
Memo
to
self:
in
future
only
play
those
bits
of
the
score
through
headphones.

He
went
away
still
nonplussed
by
my
literally
incredible
lying
but
came
back
again
the
following
morning,
slightly
strutty
like
a
cock
mounting
its
dunghill
to
make
an
announcement
to
the
farm
yard.
‘I’ve
been
thinking,
Marta,’
he
said,
‘and
it
seems
to
me
it
would
make
sense
if
we
established
some
sort
of
visible
boundary
between
our
two
properties.
Those
little
red
pegs
the
geometra
put
in
the
ground
when
I
bought
my
house
are
obviously
a
short-term
way
of
marking
our
confini.
As
it
cost
me
money
to
have
the
survey
done
I’m
suggesting
we
put
up
a
fence
by
way
of
some
thing
more
permanent.’

‘Like
the
Berlin
Wall?’
I
couldn’t
help
asking.

‘
Obviously
not,
Marta.
No 
–
just
something
rather
more
tangible
than
a
few
sticks
of
wood
that
any
passing
helicopter
could
blow
out
of
the
ground.’

This
showed
spirit,
and
I
mentally
awarded
him
a
point.
To
make
things
still
easier
for
him
I
poured
a
glass
of
his
favourite
tipple
which
he
accepted
with
an
admirable
show
of
reluctance.
I
remarked
that
a
fence
would
probably
be
even
more
susceptible
to
helicopters
than
pegs.

‘
Certainly
it
would
if
the
helicopters
became
a
habit
&
if
they
were
flying
low
enough
to
contravene
every
possible
air
safety
regulation,
like
the
one
the
other
night‚’
he
said
with
what
he
probably
thought
was
witty
aplomb
but
which
just
sounded
petulant.
‘But
at
least
if
our
fence
were
blown
flat
we
would
have
tangible
evidence.
Certainly
enough
to
show
to
the
carabinieri.
A
valuable
fence
destroyed.
So
might
I
ask,
Marta:
would
you
be
willing
to
share
the
cost
of
this
fence?’

‘No,’ I
said 
–
& I
suddenly
heard
Father’s
intransigent
voice
in
my
own.
Breeding
will
out,
ek ni?
‘No,
Gerry,
I
wouldn’t.’

‘I
thought
not,’
he
said.
(I
then
topped
up
his
glass
with
Fernet
&
the
poor
addict,
powerless
to
resist,
was
reduced
to
a
social
blithering:
‘Really
oughtn’t …
Barely
ten a.m
…
Frightfully
naughty’.)
Then
obviously
emboldened
by
the
stuff
he
went
back
to
being
‘the
coward
who
kills
tigers
in
his
sleep’,
as
our
huntsmen
say.
‘Marta!’
he
said
with
an
attempt
at
sternness
that
made
me
turn
away
to
hide
my
smile,
‘This
is
all
terribly
silly!
I
may
as
well
come
out
with
it
and
tell
you
that
my
guest
and
I
saw
that
heli
copter
land
here.
Not
only
that,
but
we
came
over
to
see
if
you
needed
help
and
watched
you
greet
the
pilot
and
bring
him
into
this
very
house.
So
it’s
useless
your
going
on
with
this
pretence
of
not
knowing
anything
about
it.
Now,
I
don’t
want
to
know
who
it
was.
I
couldn’t
care
less
who
it
was.
It’s
not
my
business
who
it
was.
As
far
as
I’m
concerned
it
could
have
been
the
CIA
or
else
your
groceries
being
delivered.’