Fermentation (5 page)

PARMIGIANO REGGIANO

A medium- to strong-flavoured cheese with a distinctly sharp flavour. Works well as a dessert cheese served with pears, melon or figs. Initially its texture is hard but this is swiftly replaced by a wonderful melt-in-the-mouth quality. Sample the cheese before purchasing. If the taste does not linger or disappears too quickly, the cheese is not fully ripened.

I tried to take a walk every day now. Sometimes I would only get as far as the bar on the corner, where I would stay and watch the TV, but usually I tried to reach the public gardens to sit under what was left of the trees. I would watch the passers-by in their paper-thin clothes, their legs and arms visible, their skin pink and sticky with sweat. I could smell their skin burning under the sun and I would undress them as they paraded in front of me, releasing them from the burden of their clothing. I unbuttoned their shirts and slipped off their dresses and skirts and trousers and laid them down in my mind on the dry hard ground while they walked on oblivious. Everyone walked on by as I sat, quite still, on the park bench under the trees, changing shape in front of them, an invisible miracle, while their eyes were raised to the sky waiting and praying for the first fingers of rain.

I also took to visiting churches and the city's many museums. There was one in particular, a small museum on a narrow road off one of the main squares, which was always cool after the heat of the streets. I liked to walk
across its polished wooden floors between the marble figures. Each part of the museum was hung with gilt mirrors, presenting room after room of illusionary space. It intrigued me how something as simple as sand could perform the magic of reflection and my reflection always appeared to be cool, as though I were floating in water.

That day was different, though. That day I headed in the opposite direction, over the Pont Rochelle. The river was low; all the detritus that usually sank in its depths or was washed out to sea now floated to the top of the slow, shallow waters, a huge slick of greeny black effluence. And anything that didn't float stuck to the riverbanks, matted together with river weed like huge hairballs from a sick cat's stomach. As a child I had loved to wander along the dirty rim of the sea, scuffing my shoes against the rubbish that had washed up with the tides: the old boots, a doll's head, a car tyre, once even a computer terminal whose glass had been smashed out and which was crawling with fat pink butterfly crabs. I would make my way along this marine aisle with my mother's shopping basket hung over my arm, picking out violet sea urchins and long thin razor-shells. I loved their shapes, their creamy interiors and iridescent inner chambers; ice-blue whelks and baby starfish, fluted argonauts and green-lipped mussels. My mother had given me a conch shell for my tenth birthday. She said I would always be able to hear the sea as long as I kept the shell. I still have it now. It sits by my bed.

I crossed over the bridge as quickly as I could and on
the far side walked along the shaded boulevard of chestnut trees. Presently I came to a turning on my right and took one of the cobbled streets that led me down towards the markets. My destination was an old shop I could vaguely remember seeing on a previous walk through this quarter of the city. I continued to wander through the twist of the streets, trying to recall its precise location, until finally, more by chance than good memory, my goal appeared before me. It was a specialist cheese shop called, appropriately enough, Le Fromage.

A small silver bell rang as I pushed open the door. It was cool and dark inside and the first thing that hit me was the mossy aroma of the cheese which instantaneously made my mouth water. The line of customers moved slowly. They filed past the shining glass counters which were piled high with huge cheeses of all different shapes, sizes and colours. There were firm cheeses with deep-green veins and large round buttery cheeses that slowly oozed out on to plates. There were giant domes of cheese with orangey rinds and creamy pale cheeses that looked as though they had been rolled in black pepper. Waxy Edams and bloomy Bries were piled next to close-packed rows of blues. Some of the cheeses were bedded in straw while others lay on thick green leaves and were studded with walnuts. They came from all over the world, from Switzerland and Italy and France and China. The owner had arranged them alphabetically, according to country, so that they were positioned from East by the door, to West by the till. There were small
white cards pinned onto each of the cheeses with their names written in black: Raveggiolo, Cheddar, Jizrael, Petit Bessay.

Behind the counter stood two boys and a girl, none of whom seemed older than twenty or so. The girl and one of the boys had the complexion of Brie and their hands looked pale also. But it was the second boy who caught my attention almost immediately. He was albino and it was hard not to stare at his eyes, which were absolutely pink, and his snow-white hair. Each of them wore a fresh white apron and each of them served the customers methodically in turn, but it was the albino to whom everyone looked. And then an older man appeared behind them. He didn't wear an apron and he stood with his hands behind his back smiling around the shop. There was something silvery about his appearance. He nodded at certain customers and served only occasionally. He seemed to choose his customers and it soon became apparent that it was he who owned the shop. I listened while he advised a young woman in front of me on the type of cheese she should serve at a dinner party she was giving. She explained that the main dish was to be salmon poached in vermouth.

‘A dry white with the fish and a medium-to-mild cheese to follow would be appropriate,’ he said, almost whispering his words into her ear.

She nodded appreciatively and he took down a small square cheese from a shelf behind him to let her taste. I could tell she was entranced and when she came to pick
up the neatly wrapped package she smiled at him and I knew that smile.

When it was my turn, the albino was serving. His skin was white and pink like strawberries dipped in milk. I asked for something that was not too mild or too strong.

‘I feel like something that will complement fruit,’ I said, and the boy with the smooth, pale skin said, ‘This came in just this morning.’ He pointed to a huge cylindrical drum of cheese and then tapped on it with his fingers.

‘Parmigiano Reggiano,’ he said triumphantly, taking a wire device from under the counter. He pulled the wire taut and then carefully spliced the cheese open, revealing a wonderful, caramel-coloured granular paste. ‘Come closer,’ he said and I leant forward. ‘Can you see?’ There on the surface shone a film of moisture like sweat.

He slid his knife through a damp cloth and then gouged out a small piece which he offered me on the edge of the blade. The cheese tasted sweet with a slight pear-like bloom. I watched as he took a morsel and nibbled on it too.

‘It's good?’ he said.

‘Yes, it tastes good.’

‘About this much then?’ he asked, indicating with the sharp metal edge just where he would cut.

I nodded. He weighed the cheese, wrapped the piece in a square of greaseproof paper, then slipped the whole into a blue and white striped bag.

It was only after I had made my purchase that the old gentleman spoke to me.

‘You haven't been in here before, have you?’ he asked timidly.

‘No,’ I said, taking the package from the counter.

‘What is it you have bought?’

‘Parmigiano.’

‘A beautiful cheese. A beautiful cheese,’ he said quickly and then continued to talk to me in a low, almost urgent voice. ‘The way most people treat cheese is criminal. They plan their meal as carefully as a murderer plots the perfect crime, but they always forget about the cheese so then they trot off to the nearest supermarket and buy anything that's on offer – just like the murderer returning to the scene of the crime because he's forgotten something vital. That's when he makes his mistake. That's when he's caught out. Cheese should never be an afterthought. That's very important. Do you understand?’

I nodded my head.

‘There is an old English rhyme which I forget in its entirety, but the main points are simple. Cheese should not be too salty like Lot's wife, nor too full of eyes like Argus. Never buy cheese that weeps like Mary Magdalen because that means it is full of whey, nor cheese that is hairy like Esau. These are good guidelines, don't you agree?’

‘I'll remember,’ I said.

‘This Parmigiano comes straight from Italy, from the banks of the Po. It is just the right time of year for a good Parmigiano. It was sweet, wasn't it?’

‘Yes, it tasted of pears.’

‘What you tasted was the fullness of summer. It's the flavour of fruit and grass and flowers under the sun that gives cheese its true taste. Buttercups and pears, gentians and plums, sweet pink clover and tender green grass.’ The old man put his hands together like a child and then spread out his fingers like a flower in bloom or a seashell opening in the warm tides of spring. ‘It is alchemy. Chemistry at its finest,’ he said. ‘First the cow turns the grass into milk. A miracle. Then the milk is transformed. Golden cheese from pure white milk. You have to admit?’

I smiled. ‘Yes. A miracle.’

‘Of course,’ he said, ‘no two fields will yield the same crop. It is the earth and the minerals that truly define a cheese's flavour. One farmer I know grazes his cattle in an old graveyard. He swears that the grass that grows there is the richest in the area, and his milk does produce one of the sweetest cream cheeses I have ever tasted.’

The old man stopped talking. Then he made a little bow to me and turned away and I took this as my signal to leave.

Outside the shop I put the package into my basket and then walked slowly over to the City Library. A few people sat at the dark oak desks fanning themselves with magazines; an old woman slept in one corner. I thought I saw Serge disappearing behind one of the shelves, but when I followed him it turned out to be a much older man who didn't look like Serge in the slightest and I felt
disappointed. It was as though Serge could appear to me at any time he wished and then disappear again. It was what he did when he lived with me. Now the same thing was happening after he had left. He kept reappearing. I'd see him walking down a street, crossing the park, sitting in a café, but each time I looked again it turned out to be a stranger and I'd miss him twice, three times as much.

I walked over to the Food and Cookery section which was situated on two shelves at the back of the library. The selection was scant. There were a couple of dogeared books on cooking with woks, several volumes of a series called
The Fantasti-chef,
a book entitled
Success with Soups, Soufflés and Salads
and one or two cookery books for children with pictures of ginger men and jellies on the front. Tucked in between the aforementioned and a misplaced copy of
A Tale of Two Cities
was a tiny volume with the title
Cheese Lover’s Handbook – A Complete Guide.
I took this book and then went and found a couple on pregnancy. The woman at the desk stamped them out for one month and I put them in my basket alongside the cheese.

When I returned home I sat down at my desk and opened my book at the page which referred to Parmigiano Reggiano. The book described the cheese in detail. It talked of the cheese-making process, using words such as ‘skimming’ and ‘coagulation’, and then of cauldrons and vats and infusing the cheese with rare moulds and salting it. By the time I had finished reading, my mouth was salivating and I knew I couldn't wait until
supper to taste the Parmigiano. I cut three large slices and began greedily to eat. The cheese was rich and tasted fruity on my tongue.

It was night-time and I was travelling on the Métro. I believe I had been travelling for some time. The stations, which blurred past like glass tubes of neon, seemed familiar. So too did the people who stood on the platforms and stared in at the windows.

I sat smiling at all the beautiful passengers in my carriage and then a man came over to where I sat, leant down so his face was close to mine. He whispered gently in my ear.

Some time later I found that we were walking back to a house he said he owned in the suburbs.

When we arrived he showed me his room which was empty apart from a bed and various items of clothing scattered carelessly over the floor. I felt comfortable in this room. It smelt of new paint and wasn't cluttered with furniture or ornaments. I lay back on the soft downy bed and watched as the man took off his coat and draped it over the door. ‘I'll be back in a minute,’ he said and disappeared. I undressed and lay back down on the bed waiting for him to return. The house was very quiet. I thought I might detect the sound of running water or his footsteps down the corridor but, much as I strained to hear, the house was silent. When he didn't return I got up and went in search of him. The living-room and
kitchen and bathroom were all empty. Presently I saw a dim light showing under a door at the far end of the main corridor. I turned the handle and very slowly pushed the door open. In the half-light thrown from candles scattered about the room, I saw a young girl, completely naked, squatting on her knees on a bed in the centre of the room, her hands tied to the bedposts and a piece of white cloth tied around her eyes. The man who had brought me here stood over her, roughly brushing a blue silk scarf between her thighs. For a moment I watched transfixed as the young girl's back rose and fell, the muscles in her body tensing at the pleasure of feeling the soft silk rubbing against her. I could almost see how moist and dark the lips of her sex were and how open to the touch of the silk. ‘Come and join us,’ the man said and at the sound of his voice the blindfolded girl lifted her head in my direction. ‘You can sit over here and learn,’ he said, indicating a chair near the bottom of the bed. I sat down and watched as the man continued to brush the cool blue silk over the young girl's sex and the young girl's body arched and fell in a hypnotic movement. I could feel my sex growing wet and an excitement enveloped me. Part of me wanted to be the girl and part of me wanted to be the man. I wanted to be the man and place my hands on the young girl's hips and feel the movement of her body as it rose and fell. I wanted to be the girl and feel the touch of the silk as it was drawn over and over across my sex.