Joy For Beginners (9 page)

Daria looked over at Henry appraisingly. “Really?”

“I mean, sure, why not?”

William held up a small brass cowbell and its mellow clang summoned the group to the tables.

 

IT WAS ALMOST MIDNIGHT. The tables were cluttered with napkins and used silverware, tablecloths rumpled like bedsheets. The diners reclined in their chairs, hands drifting leisurely back and forth between espresso cups and the last sips of port. Tips of fingers caressed the surface of white plates, snaring the last flakes of chocolate left from cinnamondusted truffles. Smells lingered in the air, sliding across bare shoulders, nestling into the curls of hair—risotto and chanterelle mushrooms, sweet and rich and buttery, the bite of Parmesan, the rosemary and white wine and garlic of a slow-cooked pork roast. And bread, of course, the long loaves having been passed hand to hand, chunks pulled off, dipped in small white dishes of green olive oil with dark, molten drops of balsamic vinegar floating in its midst. Wine bottles had long ago lost their ownership, traveling up and down the tables like porters on a train. Artists had met book dealers had met plumbers had met research scientists, people getting up between courses and changing places. Over in the corner, a couple was forming, their heads bending slowly toward each other like candles melting.

Henry was sitting next to Daria on the couch, their shoulders barely touching.

“So, is this how you live?” Daria asked lightly, her hand motioning out across the room, encompassing the scene before them.

“Whenever I can.”

Henry paused, looking over at Daria. “I wasn’t always that way. I remember being really scared when I started traveling. I acted like it was no big deal, but I was terrified.”

“So what happened?”

“I was in Venice one time; I’d been traveling for about five months at that point. It was late November and I got there after dark; it was kind of like here, all foggy and freezing. I remember the cold of the stones coming right up through the soles of my shoes. There was nobody outside, just this strange music that seemed to be coming from everywhere. And then the doors of the churches opened and people came flooding out, all dressed in black. They were all going in the same direction and I just got dragged in with them. I had no idea what was going to happen.

“Finally, we got to the Grand Canal and I saw the church of Santa Maria della Salute on the other side, all lit up. The crowd went across the bridge in front of us—and when I was right in the middle I looked back up the canal and I saw the bridge we should have been on, the last one before the Grand Canal opens up to the lagoon. The bridge I was on wasn’t supposed to be there.”

“What do you mean?”

“Somebody told me later that the city has a Plague Festival and every year they build a bridge across the canal that goes to Santa Maria della Salute. Then a couple days later, they take it down.”

Henry smiled. “I walked across a bridge that doesn’t exist. And after that, being scared just didn’t seem so important anymore.”

Daria looked at him and returned his smile, slowly.

“I like that story,” she said.

As they had been talking, people had started reluctantly putting on their coats, silky linings running over skin, spices mixing with perfumes, traveling out into the night.

“Are you tired?” Henry asked. “There’s something I’d like to do.”

The old inclination for banter, for flirtation rose up in her and then sighed back. Maybe it was the wine, or the hour, but she didn’t want the bob and weave of spicy conversation. She just wanted to hear what Henry wanted to do, to say.

“Okay,” she replied.

 

HENRY’S HOUSEBOAT WAS WARM, the lights soft.

Daria took off her coat and hung it on the hook by the door. “I thought houseboats were always cold. The water and all that.”

“Occupational hazard,” Henry replied, and headed for the kitchen. “Come on in here.”

Daria watched as Henry filled a battered teapot with water and put it on the stove. Then, out of the refrigerator he took a white plastic container and took off the lid, inhaling with satisfaction.

“Here, smell,” he said, holding it out to her. Daria bent her face toward the container, the world disappearing into a tunnel of white walls and the oatmeal-colored mass rising up toward her, bubbling slightly. She inhaled; the scent was complicated, elusive, a cross-weave of sweet and sharp, sand and sea and sun. It reminded her of the Amish guilt-bread starter, but something was different.

“What is it?”

“Sourdough starter. A friend gave me this one—it’s over one hundred years old.” Henry’s voice held more than a touch of pride.

“How?”

“You feed it.”

“Like a pet.” Daria’s expression was amused.

“You know, a hundred years ago, this starter kept someone alive.” Henry’s tone was firm, educational. “All it took was this and flour and water and salt and you had food. There are legends about gold miners in Alaska sleeping with their starters at night to keep them from freezing, and pioneer women passing them down for generations. But you know the coolest thing?”

Daria marveled at the way Henry’s voice accelerated with excitement. How was it, Daria wondered, that anybody could be so thrilled about yeast at one in the morning?

“The starter attracts the wild bacteria that’s floating in the air around it—and the bacteria are different depending on where you are. So if you breathe in, you are smelling all the places it’s been.”

Daria took the container back, bent over it once again. It was so different from clay—cool, yes, with that same slightly sharp, slightly metallic undertone, but while clay smelled quiet, the starter was a flurry of activity. Where had it traveled? she wondered. What part of the smell had come from here, where Henry lived?

Henry clicked on the oven controls and turned to Daria.

“Want to make bread?” he asked.

 

THE DOUGH WAS RISING in a ceramic bowl, set near the oven for warmth. Daria had watched as Henry poured dry yeast into warm water, added some honey, and swirled it all together, the yeast melting into soft brown clouds that foamed and bubbled. He added the sourdough starter and cup after cup of flour, a bit of salt.

“I like to play with the old recipes a bit,” he said with a grin. “Now it needs a chance to rise.” He poured hot water into two cups, added chamomile tea bags and handed one mug to Daria, carrying his to the living room. Daria followed him.

“I love this part,” Henry said as he settled into the couch. “You can smell it all growing. It’s different than when it’s baking. I like that, too, but there’s something about this part. Maybe it’s that you have to wait; I don’t know.”

Daria took off her shoes and sat sideways across from Henry, her head turned slightly, looking out at the water. She didn’t even know what time it was anymore. Henry took one of her feet and pulled it to him, rubbing his thumb along the instep in time with the slight rocking of the water below them.

“I love houseboats,” he said. “They remind me of my grandfather’s fishing camp. My family went there every once in a while. I would take a rowboat out to the middle of the lake and pretend I was fishing, but I would just sleep. I loved the way the water moved under the boat.”

“Hmm . . .” Daria could feel Henry’s thumb working along the curves of her right foot.

“So, what is it about octopus pots?” Henry asked.

Daria’s head rested on the back of the couch. “When I was about six,” she said finally, “my dad took me to this museum. There was an exhibit of Greek artifacts, and they had this ancient octopus pot. I didn’t know what it was; I was a kid—it looked like a place to put your secrets. It was terra cotta, this amazing, warm orange. The base was so prim and fragile-looking, and then it just curved out, and closed in again. I wanted to put my hands on it so badly. When I started working with clay, it’s all I ever wanted to make.”

She raised her head. “My mom always wonders why I don’t make something more practical. It doesn’t even matter to her that I make a living at this.”

“Well, she has a point.” Henry gazed across at her, his face serious. “I can barely remember the last time I caught an octopus.”

Daria shot a look at him and saw the lift at the corner of his mouth.

Her eyes grew wide and she let loose a deep, full-throated laugh. “You know,” she said after a while, “I just never thought of it that way.”

The room got quiet. The air was changing, the smell filtering out from the kitchen. Henry’s hands were warm on Daria’s foot and she closed her eyes, breathing in. When she spoke again, her voice was lower.

“You know, when my dad took me to that museum—we went because, back when I was about five years old, my mom started kicking me and my dad out of the house every Sunday. She said she wanted to make bread and we’d be in the way.

“So Dad and I would go to the museum, or a park, or a movie. I loved spending time with him. And at the end of the day we’d go home, and the house would smell like bread and Mom would just be all lit up. She’d even let me have a slice of bread, before dinner and everything. And each time I’d think, That’s it, she’s happy. She’s going to stay that way.

“But by the next morning, she’d be all tight and angry and nothing I did was right. I remember wondering why she didn’t just kick me out every day and make bread. Dad finally gave up and left but Mom wouldn’t let him take me with him. I don’t know why not.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“I came out here to visit Marion after I graduated from college and I stayed. I went back once, for my grandmother’s funeral a couple years ago.”

“Do you miss her?” Henry asked.

“Who?”

“Your mom.”

Daria just looked at him.

HENRY CHECKED HIS WATCH. It was still dark outside, the houseboat redolent with the smell of yeast.

“Time to work the dough,” Henry said.

In the kitchen, Henry tipped the bowl, loosening the dough from the sides with a thin curve of plastic and letting it fall onto a thin slab of marble where it lay, quivering, an inflated mass with the texture and color of cold porridge.

Daria looked at the dough skeptically. She had been expecting soft, white, fluffy—the baby’s bottom everybody always talked about when they went rhapsodic over making bread. This dough looked distinctly like a papier-mâché project gone bad.

“Doesn’t it need something?” she asked tentatively.

“It’s fine. Just slip your fingers in from the sides.”

The second she touched the dough it seemed to latch on to her skin, clinging to her hands, greedy and thick, webbing her fingers. She tried to pull back, but the dough came with her, stretching off the counter, as unyielding as chewing gum. Clay was nothing like this.

“Something is wrong. Shouldn’t we add some flour or something?”

“It’s fine.” Henry was unconcerned. “Just pick it up so it stretches.”

The dough hung down from her fingers, elongating, grotesque, like a cat dangled by its forelegs.

Bits of dough were working their way up toward her sleeves. In frustration, Daria yanked her right hand out of the mass and used her hip to push her sleeve up. Henry caught sight of the tattoos spiraling their way up her forearm.

Daria looked at him, eyebrows raised. She was used to this moment, although reactions took different forms. The prurient curiosity, the instant come-ons, the self-congratulatory open-mindedness.

Henry smiled, pushed up the short sleeve of his T-shirt to reveal his shoulder.

“Solomon Islands,” he said, nodding toward an intricate black design. He pointed to his other shoulder. “Texas.”

“Well, okay then,” she said, and smiled. She looked down at her hands. “You know, this is a mess.”

“It’s fine. Give it a slap on the counter.”

“What?”

“Slap it on the counter.”

Daria let the dough droop onto the marble surface.

“That was ridiculous. Give it a good thwack.”

Daria looked up at Henry. “Really?”

“It’s okay; you won’t hurt it.”

Daria slid her hands back under the sides of the dough again and raised it off the marble, letting it stretch. Then she raised it higher, slapping the end against the counter like a wet towel. The sound was loud and solid.

“Good,” said Henry. “Now fold it over and just keep doing that.”

Daria hit the dough against the counter with a firm smack. Fold. Smack. Fold. She could feel the dough changing under her hands, becoming more elastic. Still it seemed a far cry from the dough she had expected; she couldn’t be doing it right.

“Are you sure we shouldn’t add flour or something?”

“It’s fine; it’s almost there.” Henry’s voice was unconcerned. “See how you are getting the air in, the way the strands of gluten are forming? It’s lovely.”

Daria pulled her hands out of the dough and stood to the side. “Your turn.”