“You must be pleased to be going home,” James said. “Nice to get back to England, after all this.”
“I suppose so,” Jackson said. He looked up at the crumbling buildings around them—the bombed-out windows, the balconies strewn with washing and geraniums, the walls pockmarked by the ordnance of three armies—and then at the crush of humanity streaming past in both directions. “It’s strange how it grows on one, though.”
7
LIVIA PERTINI crashed the pans together and glared at her father. “How can I cook without food?” she cried.
Her father shrugged. “Alberto Spenza is here, and he wants to eat.”
“That gangster! He’s had his snout in the trough for so long, it’s a wonder he can fit any more in his fat stomach.”
“Try not to shout,” Nino suggested, although the truth was that Livia was making so much noise banging pots and pans around that nothing either of them said could be heard outside.
“You’ll have to tell him to come back another time.”
“And have him go somewhere else? He’s one of our best customers—one of our only customers, now.”
Livia sighed. “I could make a sugo,” she said reluctantly. “But you’ll have to tell him there isn’t any meat.”
“And some melanzane farcite?” Nino said hopefully. “You know how Alberto loves your stuffed eggplant.”
“I suppose.”
“Good girl. And perhaps a budino for afterward?”
“No! I don’t have time. And there’s only one egg.”
“Then maybe—”
“And I don’t have time to talk to you now,” Livia added bluntly as she started chopping tomatoes for the sugo. Nino smiled and withdrew. He knew full well that when the pasta was sorted, his daughter would make a budino di ricotta, a cheesecake, somehow cooked with only one egg. This was partly because Livia was a good girl, who listened to her father even when she claimed not to, but also because there was almost nothing else to cook. It had been three weeks since they had last been able to buy supplies. People bartered what they could with their neighbors, but now that food was meant to be sold through government-approved agencies, it was simply impossible to obtain what you needed legitimately.
The sauce that Livia cooked now was a simple one, but thanks to the quality of the ingredients it was also extremely good. She chopped up a handful of pomodorini da serbo, tiny tomatoes unique to the slopes of Vesuvius. These she fried quickly with some garlic in a little of the Pertinis’ own olive oil. At the last moment she threw in a few torn leaves of basil from the bush that grew just outside the kitchen door. In less time than it had taken to cook the pasta, the sauce was done.
Marisa took the dish out to serve it, and Livia got on with the other courses. First, though, she poured the hot oil from the frying pan into a steel container—an old shell casing, which she had found in the fields and carefully cleaned out. She topped up the oil with a little cold water. It was an economy measure: The impurities from the cooking would sink to the bottom along with the water, allowing the precious oil to be reused time after time.
Later, as she washed the dirty pans, she became aware that someone had come into the kitchen.
“Oh,” she said. “It’s you.”
Alberto Spenza was watching her from the doorway. She was not surprised—the kitchen was in any case always open to customers, who liked to see what was on offer before deciding what to eat. But the former ribbon seller was a more frequent visitor than most.
Since Enzo went off to fight, four years before, Alberto had rarely passed up any opportunity to drop by. As the war progressed and he prospered—it was widely known that he was a gangster, and possibly even a camorrista, a member of the Neopolitan Mafia—the visits had become more frequent. Livia saw the way he looked at her, and it made her fearful. All Italian men stared—but there was something unpleasant about the surreptitious glances Alberto gave her when he thought she wouldn’t notice, the way a greedy man might eye his neighbor’s plate.
Today, at least, he seemed to be on his best behavior. “A fine meal,” he said with a smile, easing his vast bulk into the room. “Is there perhaps some coffee?”
“Only from acorns,” she said sharply. She pushed some pans around on the stove. There was no one else to cook for, but pretending to be busy meant she didn’t have to look at him while they talked.
“Then it’s fortunate that I brought some myself.”
She did look up then, surprised. Alberto was taking a twist of paper out of his pocket and unwrapping it. An aroma filled the little kitchen that Livia had not smelt since before the war. Despite herself, she inhaled the deep, rich flavor, and her features softened.
“It’s called Nescafé,” Alberto said. “The Americans get it in their rations. It’s not really coffee, to tell the truth, but it’s better than acorns. You have to sweeten it with sugar before it tastes all right.” He smiled, showing his teeth beneath the pencil mustache and beard he grew to hide his double chins. “But luckily I have sugar too.” He put another twist of paper on the counter. “Perhaps you’ll join me.”
Livia hadn’t had sugar for over a year. For any recipe that needed sweetening, she used a tiny dab of honey. “I’ll get a coffeepot,” she said, reaching into a cupboard for a napoletana, the traditional hourglass-shaped jug in which coffee was made.
“No need. You just add boiling water. So simple!”
She shrugged, and put a pan of water on the stove.
“You know,” Alberto continued, “It’s a shame you have no customers here. If this goes on much longer you’ll start to get rusty.”
The same thought sometimes occurred to Livia as well. “I’ve had no complaints. Anyway, the war will be over soon,” she said doggedly.
He raised one eyebrow. “Will it? My sources say otherwise. Another year at least, perhaps three. The Americans are in no hurry to get killed, and the Germans are in no hurry to surrender.”
Livia thought of Enzo. Dear God, would she really not see him for another three years? It had already been four years since they were together.
As if reading her mind, Alberto said, “That’s a long time to try to keep this place going. You must be losing money hand over fist.”
“We’ll manage,” she said defiantly.
He picked at his teeth with a knife. “Of course,” he said thoughtfully, “you could always come and cook for me.”
“For you? At your casa?”
“Why not?” He crossed his thick arms. “The war has been good to me. I can afford a…” He hesitated. “A housekeeper. I’d much rather it was you than someone else.”
She busied herself making the coffee, pouring it into two tiny espresso cups. It smelt delicious, but when she put her nose into the cup the aroma quickly dissipated, leaving only a faint whiff of chemicals. She tried some. It was thin and bitter, delivering far less taste than the smell had promised. “A housekeeper,” she repeated. “So I wouldn’t only be a cook?”
He shrugged again. “I have some other needs as well.”
She shot him a glance. “Such as?”
“Some washing, some cleaning…the kind of things my wife would do, if I had one,” he said casually.