She looked up. “Yes, he is. He’s a great little boy.” She set her spoon to the side of the range then went to the refrigerator and brought out a package of buffalo mozzarella and a bowl of tomatoes.
“I’m making Caprese salad. I hope you like tomatoes.”
“I do. Here, I’ll help.”
Ross took a knife and began slicing tomatoes while she opened the package of mozzarella over the sink, letting the white milk drain from it.
“Does buffalo mozzarella really come from buffaloes?” Ross asked.
“That’s what they say.”
“Have you ever seen a buffalo in Italy?”
“No. But I’ve never seen one in the U.S. either.”
“I’d like to see someone milk a buffalo.”
Eliana laughed, then took a knife from a drawer. “Here, the blade on that one’s dull. Use this one.”
“Thank you.”
“Prego.”
Ross cut the last of the tomatoes, leaving them on the cutting board. “Anything else?”
“No, I’m just about done.”
Ross went to the sink and washed his hands. “You have a really nice place here.”
“Thank you.”
“I approve of your choice of art. Especially the oil paintings. I have some by the same artist in my place. She’s really gifted.”
Eliana hid her pleasure at his comment. “How do you know the artist is a
she
?”
“I don’t really know. It just feels like it.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know how you can usually tell if a book was written by a man or a woman? It’s the same thing. I guess it’s a little like handwriting analysis. I tried to make out the signature but couldn’t. Whoever the artist is,
he or she
has a remarkable touch. I mean to ask Anna about the pictures when she returns from holiday.”
“I know the artist,” Eliana said.
“You do?”
“Quite well, actually. And yes, she’s female.”
“At least I’m right half the time. What is she like?”
“You tell me. Analyze the handwriting.”
“All right.” Ross walked over to one of Eliana’s paintings. “First, I think she’s older. Definitely older, maybe in her late sixties, seventies.”
Eliana looked up with an amused smile. “Why is that?”
“The depth of feeling. Sometimes someone young has that, but it’s rare. It usually takes a lifetime to acquire. Either that or a hard life.” He looked back at her. “Am I right?”
She went back to slicing the mozzarella. “I’ll tell you when you’re done. Continue.”
“Okay. This is between us, right?”
“I won’t tell a soul.”
“I think she’s a little repressed. She’s afraid to say all that she feels, so she limits her palette.”
Eliana cocked her head. “Interesting.”
Ross looked back at her. “And, wherever she is, I think she’s lonely.”
At this Eliana stopped cutting. “Why do you say that?”
“Because that’s how I feel when I look at her pictures. There’s a sort of quiet, beautiful desolation to them. If that makes sense.”
Eliana was silent.
Ross walked back to the counter. “So how’d I do?” She arranged the tomatoes with the cheese on the plate. “I think you’ve pretty much got her figured out. She’s not old—though she would tell you that she feels it.”
“I’d like to meet her someday.”
Eliana drizzled a thin layer of olive oil over the salad then sprinkled it with basil. “I can arrange it.”
“I’d like to ask her something. There’s a picture in my place of a field of sunflowers. It’s my favorite of the four in my apartment. But if you look carefully, one of the flowers isn’t following the sun. I wanted to ask her about it.”
You noticed,
she thought. She turned the stove off, then opened the oven and looked inside, then shut it again. “What do you do, Ross? Where do you work?”
“I work as a tour guide at the Uffizi.”
His answer surprised her. “Really. So you’re not just an armchair art critic.”
“No, art is my life.”
“The Uffizi. That’s impressive. You must have some pretty major credentials. That’s not an easy job to get.”
“No credentials, just dumb luck. I got in through the back door.”
She stepped back from the pan. “Would you watch this for a minute? I need to check on Alessio. He already ate, but he wanted to say hello.”
“Sure. Should I stir it?”
“Yes. But gently.”
She left the room and returned a few minutes later. “Darn, he fell asleep. He’s been asking about you all day.”
“Really?”
“Yes. He’s pretty hungry for male companionship.” She looked into the pot then took the spoon from him. “This is ready for the rest of the ingredients. You can help me here. I mixed them together in that bowl. Go ahead and pour them in while I stir.”
“Got it.”
He poured the mixture while she continued stirring everything together for a minute longer. Then she poured the steaming pasta into a glazed ceramic bowl that was on the counter next to the stove. “Would you mind grabbing that bowl of spinach from the counter?”
“Sure. And where are your wineglasses?”
“In the cupboard next to the stove. The far side.” They brought everything over to the table. “Why don’t you sit there,” she said, motioning to the seat across from her. “The Batman glass is Alessio’s. You don’t have to use it. Unless you want to.”
She untied her apron, then folded it and laid it on the counter. She took Ross’s plate and ladled a large serving of pasta onto it, then did her own. “
Primo piatto.
The second course is in the oven. You do eat meat, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I baked
cinghiale in umido
. It’s wild boar meat marinated in red wine and garlic.”
“Sounds delicious.”
“I hope so. It’s my first time making it. But there’s a good restaurant near here that serves it and they gave me the recipe. It’s traditional Tuscan cuisine.” She straightened out her napkin. “Do you mind if I say grace?”
“Of course not.”
She bowed her head. He watched her, then bowed his as well. She said the prayer then crossed herself, looked up at Ross and smiled. “Okay, I think we’re finally ready.
Buon appetito.
”
“Buon appetito.”
Ross rolled the noodles on his fork and took a bite. He smiled with pleasure.
“Is it all right?”
“It’s delicious.”
“Thank you.” She took a bite herself. “So, where are you from?”
“I was born near St. Louis, a suburb called Charlestown. But I call Minnesota home. Or I did.”
“What brings you to Italy?”
Ross hesitated. To her surprise he looked slightly uncomfortable with the question. “I guess I just needed a change.”
She smiled reassuringly. “We could all use a little change.”
“How about you? Where in the States are you from?”
“You’ve never heard of it.”
“I get around. Try me.”
“It’s a little town in eastern Utah called Vernal.”
Ross’s brows came together in thought. “I’m pretty sure I’ve heard of Utah. What state is that in?”
“Stop it.”
“You’re right, I’ve never heard of Vernal. What is Vernal famous for?”
“Famous?”
“Every town in America has something they’re famous for. It might just be chocolate pecan pie or big potatoes or Bruce Willis slept there or something.”
She smiled. “Vernal is famous for dinosaur bones. We have a big excavation site. It’s where they found the Utah Raptor.”
“Dinosaur bones,” he repeated. He lifted the bottle of wine. “Wine?”
“Yes, please.”
He poured the red wine into her glass.
“How long are you planning to stay in Italy?” she asked.
“Forever.”
She gazed at him in surprise. “Forever? So you really meant a change.”
Ross nodded. “How about you?”
“I’d go back to America tomorrow if I could.”
“You don’t like Italy?”
“I love Italy. I love Tuscany. But after six years it still doesn’t feel like home.”
“Why don’t you go back then?”
“My husband doesn’t want to go back. He doesn’t really like America. He thinks we’re a cultureless society. What we call a melting pot he calls mongrelization. Anyway, his job and property are all here. Besides it’s all I can do to take care of Alessio most of the time.” She forced a smile. “But it’s not so bad. If you’re going to get stuck somewhere on the planet, it might as well be here. The people, the scenery and the food are all great.”
Ross put his fork back into his pasta. “
This
food is certainly great.”
“The secret to carbonara is making sure the noodles are hot enough when you pour on the raw egg. Do you usually eat at home?”
“No, I eat in cafés or trattorias most of the time. But I’m teaching myself to cook. I bought myself a pasta machine a couple days ago.”
“There’s nothing like fresh pasta.”
“I’ll bring some over as soon as I figure out how to make it.”
“I’ll look forward to it. It’s not that hard to make.”
“You’re talking to a man who considers TV dinners a challenge.”
“That will change here.”
“It’s already started. I didn’t realize how serious the Italians take their cooking. My first week in Italy I was in a
ristorante
and I committed a major faux pas.”
“What happened?”
“I ordered fettuccine noodles with shrimp; then I asked for Parmesan cheese. The waiter asked what I needed the cheese for. I said,
For my pasta
. His eyes got really big; then he shouted out to the entire restaurant that I was putting Parmesan on my shrimp fettuccine. Then he handed me the cheese and a grater, looking the other way as he did, so he wouldn’t be an accessory. After he left my table, the couple next to me told me that I should never put cheese on seafood. I realized then that food in Italy is a religious rite and I had committed sacrilege.”
She laughed. “I have also defiled many a dinner.” She looked at his plate. “I’ll get the next dish.”
She cleared their plates then brought back two plates of carefully sliced meat, garnished with rucola leaves.
Ross speared the meat with his fork and lifted it to his mouth. Eliana watched expectantly as he chewed. When he swallowed, she raised one eyebrow. “Well?”
“You are as fluent in the kitchen as you are in the language.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“How about a toast?”
“Oh yes. What shall we toast? We could toast your new life in Italy. Or the wild boar.”
“How about your son’s health.”
Her mouth rose in a gentle smile. “Thank you.” She raised her glass.
“Alla salute di Alessio.”
“Salute.”
They touched glasses then drank.
“It’s good wine.” He held up his glass, turning it to the light. “L’incanto?”
She nodded.
“What’s it like being in the wine business?”
“For me it’s one of the good things about being in Italy. If you’re here in October you can join us for the
Vendemmia
, the harvest. Then, after it’s all done we have a big feast in the winery. All of the workers dress up in their Sunday best and come by with their wives or lovers”—she stopped herself—“not both of them, of course . . .”
Ross grinned. “Of course.”
“. . . and then we have a big Tuscan feast.”
“Anna was telling me about it. How long does the harvest last?”
“It depends on the weather, but usually a couple weeks.”
They ate a moment in silence. Ross finished his meat then laid down his fork. “How long have you lived here?”
“In Italy?”
“The villa.”
“The same. We’ve lived here since we came to Italy.”
“You seem to have plenty of room. How big is your apartment?”
“I don’t know how big in meters or feet. It’s big. We have six bedrooms and four bathrooms.”
“For just the three of you?”
“It’s far more than we need.” She looked down at his plate. “What else can I get for you?”
“Nothing. Everything was perfect.”
“Thank you. There’s dessert, but if you’d like to wait I’ll give you the nickel tour of the place.”
“I’d like that.”
He stood up and went for her chair, but she had stood up before he could help her. She only noticed afterward and smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry. It’s been a while.”
She led him upstairs through the arched stairwell door. She grasped the handle on the first door they came to. She said softly, “This is Alessio’s room.”
“If he’s sleeping, we don’t need to go inside.”
“I need to check on him anyway.”
She opened the door slowly. Alessio was asleep. The room was lit by a small nightlight. Ross could see that the walls were covered with posters of soccer players from Team Italy and the Fiorentina. In the corner of the room was a net with several soccer balls, and even the wooden bed knobs were painted to look like soccer balls. Eliana listened to Alessio for a moment then closed the door behind them.
“I take it he likes soccer?”
“All Italian boys like soccer. But it’s his father’s thing, really. He gave him the posters. In America every father wants his son to be a baseball or football hero—same thing here, just a different sport. Alessio wants to be good. He wants his father to be proud of him.”
Two doors down she stopped at the doorway. “I probably shouldn’t show you this.”
“Ah, skeletons.”
She looked at him then opened the door to her art studio and stepped inside the darkened room. He followed her in. She flipped on the light switch. There were pictures and canvases scattered around the room and an unfinished landscape on the easel. After a moment he said, “Well, you’re not seventy.”
“That’s about the only thing you got wrong.”
“So you are repressed?”