At this point the publicist-a smugly jovial man with the air of a retired circus ringmaster-held up his hand.
‘Has anyone from that period ever tried to contact you?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘Any family members still living?’
‘None that I know of.’
‘If someone shows up claiming to be related to you, do we have deniability?’
‘Why not? I can’t even prove anything myself.’
The publicist beamed and released a long, lingering sigh.
‘I’ve been waiting all my life for someone like you,’ he said.
An alternative version of the star’s early years had duly been invented, featuring a poor but happy upbringing in working-class Rome, with a classic salt-of-the-earth mother who ruled her numerous brood with a rod of iron but saw them through the hard times, of which needless to say there were many, and above all served up the delicious, nourishing traditional meals that had first awakened the young Romano’s interest in cooking. For a time, an out-of-work actress had been hired to represent this redoubtable personage, but she had threatened to sell her story to a celebrity gossip mag and had had to be bought off and written out of the plot. After that the surrogate family had been kept strictly off-stage, ostensibly to protect the sanctity of Lo Chef’s private life, which was particularly precious to him following his mother’s tragic stroke.
Romano’s actual roots had however left their mark on him, not least in his conviction that the only thing worth achieving was the long-term certainty of short-term pleasure, and that any attempt to analyse or understand life was a complete waste of time. He was therefore unaware of the irony involved in the fact that once the money started rolling in to the point where he could invest in the construction of new apartment blocks, he himself had chosen to live exactly where he had grown up: illegally in a hole in the ground. The owners of properties such as his typically had a phantom abusivo dwelling constructed on the roof and classified for rating purposes as a storage facility; Romano had done something similar, but deep underground, and it was in this bunker that he was now planning the opening blitzkreig of his total war against Professor Edgardo Ugo.
To be honest, he was still furious with Delia, although a smidgin or two of the good stuff had phased his anger down from the screaming fit he had treated her to when she originally pitched the idea to him after the recording session that morning. But his core position hadn’t changed one iota, and the sooner she realised this the better. He had no interest in a negotiated solution to Ugo’s scandalous provocation. What he wanted was the arsehole’s arse on a plate, and Delia’s job, as his highly-paid gofer, was to jiggle her brisket cutely under his nose and enquire sweetly if he wanted fries with that, not tell him that he should have ordered something else.
The computer emitted a soft gong-like sound, indicating the arrival of an email. Sensing his mood starting to darken again, Rinaldi quickly snorted another line. Cooking might be problematic for him, but when it came to coking he was a wizard. He crossed the minimalistically furnished expanses of the concrete coffer-dam that had been constructed amid the foundations of the apartment block and glared at the screen.
I can’t take your refusal as absolute, Romano, there’s just too much at stake. This was potentially a great crisis. I’ve turned it into an equally great opportunity. I completely understand your justifiable feelings of hurt, but the fact remains that you’d be a fool not to grab this chance of both clearing your name and garnering positive publicity for the show, the products and the Lo Chef brand name. FWIW, the whole team is in agreement on this.
Rinaldi sat down at the keyboard and fired off his reply.
I don’t do live.
The little bitch was obviously handling this in real time-her own job was on the line, of course, although so far she hadn’t mentioned this-because she came right back at him.
The jury will be rigged. I explained all this to you when we met. I’ve already got five judges signed up and am working on the rest. You will also be informed of the list of ingredients in advance-in fact we can more or less dictate them-and will be intensively coached by Righi as usual. By the time the show goes on stage even you will be able to whip up an acceptable pasta dish within the time limit. You have everything to gain and nothing to lose. For God’s sake think about it.
He let the coke reply to this one.
There’s nothing to think about. Where I grew up, down in the streets, among people who had nothing but their pride, we had a saying. ‘If you lose your money, nothing is lost. If you lose your health, much is lost. If you lose your honour, all is lost.’ This arrogant bastard has impugned my honour. He shall pay for that.
Romano clicked this off and then fiddled around until he had programmed the stress-reducing ‘Pure White Noise’ audio file. Barely had the unvarying swishing pervaded the room than the computer gonged again. Rinaldi was tempted to ignore it, but he knew that this issue had to be resolved, and far better by email than in person.
Fine, go right ahead. FYI, our legal consultant has advised us that our chances of winning a court case are at best fifty-fifty. Technically speaking, Ugo did not libel you. His comments were simply a ‘hypothetical illustrative example’ designed to sex up one of his the-way-we-live-now pieces. But if you sue, he will hire the very best lawyers in the country and quite possibly a few muckraking hacks to dig around and see what they can come up with. Disgruntled former employees, etc. Remember little Placida, who turned out not to be? It could get really nasty. At best we’ll win a ‘moral victory’ that no one will care about, which will cost a fortune in fees and still leave everyone wondering whether you can actually cook or not. But once you have demonstrated your skills and superiority live on TV at the Bologna food fair-and don’t forget that the contest is sewn up in your favour whatever happens in the kitchen-then the prospects for your future career are assured, not just here in Italy but world-wide. Professor Ugo may be an arrogant bastard, but he is also a huge international personality. Out-takes from this event are going to be shown on hundreds of foreign channels, maybe thousands. You know those little feel-good stories they stick in at the end of the news after the politics and wars and atrocities? ‘And now, on a lighter note…’ You’re going to own that slot, Romano. I personally guarantee you that if you accept the opportunity that I’ve set up then by the end of the year Lo Chef Che Canta e Incanta will be global, and all the spin-off branded products along with it. We’re talking potentially millions. And one more thing, for what it may be worth. If you pigheadedly insist on going to court despite all the above, consider me fired.
Feeling his resolution beginning to weaken, Rinaldi sidled over to the modest kitchenette, where he occasionally warmed up a cup of instant soup or burnt a defrosted slice of bread under the grill, and snapped open a bottle of Coke. He well remembered the days before his current success, when he had eked out an exiguous livelihood voicing jingles for advertisements to be aired on local radio stations. It had been a studio director for one of these who had come up with the original idea for the Lo Chef show, and originally it had been intended as little more than a joke. But the director had contacts at various television production companies, and after a few embellishments, such as the singing, had been added to the pitch, one of these had agreed to make a pilot at a discounted fee refundable if they could find a broadcaster willing to take it on.