Flanked by two beaming bimbettes wearing smiles as big as their boobs and very little else, Romano Rinaldi grasped the wooden handle of the Parmesan dagger and held it dramatically above his head.
‘And now, like an Aztec priest performing the ultimate sacrifice, I open the heart of this cheese, the very heart of Italy!’ he cried, plunging the cutter home and simultaneously bursting into a rendering of Verdi’s ‘ Celeste Aida ’ that went on, and on, and on.
In the soundproofed control booth, Delia’s glance met that of the director.
‘Coked again,’ she muttered.
‘You amaze me,’ the director replied drily.
He touched a button on the console before him.
‘Technical edit,’ he said. ‘Romano, the teleprompt script to camera three, please.’
He switched off the microphone link to the studio beyond the triple-glazed window.
‘I’ll cut in some of that promotional footage the producers’ association sent us,’ he said with a brief, harsh laugh. ‘Maybe one of those scenes with lots of cows. Then lay Lo Chef’s big aria under, fade it out and meld to the teleprompt VO with cutaways to him gabbing to camera.’
‘You’re a star, Luciano.’
‘Thank God for digital is all. The trailer segment has to be ready to air tomorrow. In the old days, that would have taken Christ knows how many man-hours. Even with the money the parmigiani are slipping us under the table, we’d still have had a hard time costing out.’
Delia nodded vaguely. She looked, and was, preoccupied.
‘How much longer till wrap-up?’ she asked.
‘Where our Romano’s involved, who knows? The studio’s booked till noon, just to be on the safe side. As long as he doesn’t manage to eviscerate himself with that Parmesan cleaver, we should be finished by then.’
Lo Chef’s voice boomed out over the speakers set against the padded wall.
‘…sixteen litres of the finest, richest, freshest milk to make a single kilo of this, the Jupiter of cheeses lording it over the rabble of minor gods. And then as much as two years of completely natural ageing, according to traditions handed down over seven centuries of continuous production, with no artificial manipulation to influence the process…’
Delia walked over and kissed the director lightly on the forehead.
‘Do me a favour, Luciano. Keep him at it for at least another fifteen minutes. I’ll have to hose him down and mother him when it’s over, but I need a coffee first.’
‘No problem. If he goes all speedy and rushes through the rest of the script, I’ll just tell him he was a bit flat on a couple of bars of that Verdi aria and get him to repeat the whole thing.’
Delia smiled her thanks.
‘Hey, did you see that thing that Edgardo Ugo wrote about him in Il Prospetto?’ Luciano added. ‘Got him bang to rights, no? I laughed myself sick!’
Without answering, Delia went out to the corridor. Almost immediately her mobile started to chirp. She checked the screen and said ‘Damn!’ before answering.
‘Have you told him?’ the caller asked.
‘Not yet,’ she replied, ignoring the stairs down to the street. ‘He’s in one of those moods this morning. You know what he’s like when he’s taping.’
‘Delia, he’s going to find out sooner or later, probably within a few hours. The damn magazine is on the streets now. It’s essential that he hears the bad news from us. How are you going to spin it?’
Delia pushed open the door to the fire escape, blocking its automatic closing mechanism with her briefcase, and stepped out on to the metal platform.
‘More or less as we discussed. The big question is how he’ll react. You know how he feels about having his competence called into question.’
‘Naturally, since he hasn’t got any. But the show is making a fortune for us here at the station, another fortune for Lo Chef and a very nice career for you, my dear. Don’t let’s screw any of that up just because Romano Rinaldi can’t take a joke. And that’s all it was meant to be.’
Aplane flying low overhead on the final approach into Ciampino put the conversation on hold for some time.
‘You’re sure about that?’ Delia yelled over the final resonant rumbles.
‘One hundred per cent. My people checked with Ugo’s people today. In any case, none of our audience is going to care less what some professor of semiotics in Bologna thinks. All Romano needs to do is ignore the whole incident and it’ll be forgotten in a couple of days.’
Delia checked her watch.
‘I’ve got to go. He’ll be off-stage at any moment.’
Actually there were at least five minutes to go, but Delia had never mastered the art of taking a mobile phone call and lighting a cigarette at the same time, and it was the latter rather than a coffee that she desperately needed before bearding her highly-strung client. Unmarried, very ambitious, with a baker’s dozen years of ova already addled and a molto simpatico but totally ineffective significant other, Delia knew that she couldn’t afford to lose this job.
After graduating with a modest degree, she had worked her way up through several jobs in corporate communications and public relations before landing her present position as personal assistant to the celebrity chef whose television show, Lo Chef Che Canta e Incanta, regularly pulled in millions of faithful viewers every week. Moreover, the figures were always rising, and there had even been approaches from other European broadcasters interested in acquiring the rights for their own territories. And then this left-wing academic and obscure novelist pops up and lets the cat out of the bag, jokingly or otherwise, thereby threatening to ruin the whole sweet deal.
She tossed her cigarette down into the car park below and went back inside. To her horror, the light mounted above the door to the studio was glowing green. She was late, and Romano Rinaldi didn’t like to be kept waiting. She shoved the door open and ran up to the stage where he stood, sweating and hyperventilating, in the toque and white uniform which had had to be changed four times that morning after being spattered with assorted ingredients.
‘I’m so sorry, Romano!’ Delia said breathlessly. ‘I had to pop out for a moment to take a very sensitive business call. I didn’t want Leonardo listening in. Actually, it was about something we need to…’
‘It’s nothing,’ the star interrupted, jerking both hands outwards as though to symbolise the jettisoning of redundant cargo. ‘I don’t need any praise or applause. The great artist is always a great critic as well. Today I was magnificent. I know that instinctively, in my belly, in my heart!’
He grasped her arm and broke into the gaping, toothy, beard-framed smile that was one of his professional hallmarks, an image of which featured on the labels for the evergrowing list of sauces, oils, cookware and other products branded under the Lo Chef trademark.
‘I’m getting better and better, Delia,’ he confided. ‘This is only the beginning of the rich, prolific middle period for which I shall always be remembered. The years to come…’
Lost for words to describe adequately the splendours of the future that awaited him, he relapsed into a long heartfelt sigh. Delia patted his shoulder.
‘I understand, Romano, and I completely agree. Now you go and get changed, and then we must have a brief discussion. I realise that this is a difficult moment for you, after putting on such a superb performance, but there are some very important and urgent issues that we need to address.’
6
‘Yes, yes! Give it to me! Give it to me hot and hard!’
King Antonio perched naked on his throne, sweating, groaning, imploring. Then his expression changed to one of alarm, almost of fear.
‘Oh my God, it’s coming! Ah! Oh! No, I can’t! It’s too big! It’ll tear me apart! Please God, I can’t take it!’
At the last moment, just when he knew from the pangs below that he was about to do himself a serious injury, his sphincter relaxed that crucial millimetre or so. After that there were only the gasps, tears and moans, followed by a triumphal flush and the glowing sense of absolute fulfilment.