“I’ll have to think about it,” he said grudgingly. “And if it ever occurs to you to dishonor her before her wedding day,” he added, looking the boy hard in the eye, “just remember what happens to the calves.”
Enzo and Livia spent the afternoon together, and that evening the first customers at the osteria were pleased to hear the sound of singing coming from the kitchen.
Livia was so happy that she was barely aware of what she was cooking. But everyone remarked on how her lemon pasta seemed even sweeter than usual, whilst the baked mozzarella with roast peppers was a triumph. Admittedly, Livia absentmindedly ate all the cheesecake that was meant to be for dessert herself, while she was sitting in the kitchen daydreaming about Enzo, but as the customers later agreed, it was worth it just to see her so happy, not to mention to avoid the risk of any more burnt onions.
4
FISCINO ETIQUETTE was both very liberal and very strict.
Once they were formally engaged, it was completely accepted that Livia and Enzo would sneak off to roll around in the hay barn, kissing and working each other up into a frenzy. It was also expected that they would both be virgins on their wedding night. Anything in between, however, was a gray area.
One of the many advantages of this tried-and-tested arrangement was that it forced the young man to be a lot more inventive than he might have been if he had simply been able to make love in the conventional way, and then fall asleep. Enzo soon discovered that beneath Livia’s practical exterior she was extremely passionate.
“Now listen,” she said, the first time they went to the hay barn. “Let’s get something clear. I’ve come here because I don’t want my sister rolling her eyes and giggling every time she sees us together, not because I want you to stick your tongue down my throat. And I’ll thank you for keeping your hands to yourself.”
“So no tongues, and no hands,” he agreed. “Are there any other body parts you’d like amputated? My legs, perhaps?”
“Your legs are acceptable,” she said, “so long as you don’t try to grope me with them.”
“That’s not very likely,” he pointed out, “since if I did, I’d fall over.”
“Good. That’s settled, then.”
Enzo sighed. Much as he adored Livia, life with the Pertinis seemed to be one long negotiation in which he always seemed to come off worst. “May I kiss you now?”
“If you like.” She came into his arms, and he pressed his lips against hers. She gasped, and after a moment he felt her tongue pushing between his lips. Experimentally, he put his hands on her back, then slid them around her waist. Livia squirmed, but it seemed to him to be a squirm of pleasure rather than disapproval. He kissed his way down her neck, and when she moaned with delight he thought he might as well continue toward her breasts. To his amazement, those seemed to be up for grabs as well. After a few minutes of his kissing and stroking them through her dress, she was clearly impatient to have the material removed, so he pulled her dress down over her shoulders before continuing.
“I thought you said no hands,” he murmured as he lavished attention on her beautiful little nipples.
“Yes, well, that was before I realized how much fun it was going to be,” she said with a shiver as he did something particularly pleasant with his teeth. “Pupetta always makes it look rather boring, and really it isn’t boring at all.”
Livia had a very good time indeed in the hay barn, and by the time she came to be married she was already fairly sure she was going to enjoy that side of things. Meanwhile, she and Enzo were not allowed to kiss in public, and when they danced the tarantella at a festa they had to keep a handkerchief between them, holding one end each so that their hands never actually touched. This Livia found rather amusing, as Enzo’s big blue handkerchief also featured, necessarily, in some of their more enthusiastic encounters in the barn.
A fortnight before their wedding, Enzo took her to Naples to meet his family. She had not realized from his descriptions quite how poor they were, or what cramped conditions they lived in, sleeping three and even four to a bed in a tiny three-roomed apartment in the slums of the old quarter. But she was in love, and she was determined to make the best of her new life.
Enzo’s mother, Quartilla, was a typical Neapolitan, sharp-eyed and shrewd. The first time they met she asked Livia to help her by making a sugo, a tomato sauce, while they talked. Of course, she didn’t really need any help, but she had been told that this country girl was good in the kitchen and she wanted to see if it was true. “Help yourself to whatever you need,” she said, and sat down to peel some fagioli. So Livia cooked, and Quartilla watched her like a lizard watching a fly.
Livia could have made a sugo blindfold—she had been making it almost every day for years. The only difficulty was, there were as many different kinds of sugo as there were days in a month. There was the everyday version, which might be no more than a handful of ripe tomatoes squashed with the tip of a knife to release the juices, then quickly fried in oil. There was the classic version, in which the tomatoes were simmered along with some garlic and onions until they had reduced to a thick, pulpy stew. Then there was a richer version, in which pieces of meat were cooked for several hours to extract all the flavor, and so on all the way up to ragù del guardaporte, the gatekeeper’s sauce, so called because it required someone to sit by it all day, adding little splashes of water to stop the rolls of meat stuffed with parsley, garlic and cheese from drying out.
Livia knew that whichever recipe she chose now would be taken by Enzo’s mother as a kind of statement about her character. She quickly rejected the rich version—that would look extravagant. The classic version, on the other hand, would look as if she wasn’t putting any thought into it, whilst the simplest one, although her own favorite, might look as if she wasn’t prepared to make an effort. So she decided to follow her instincts.
“Do you have any anchovies?” she asked.
Enzo’s mother looked as if she was about to explode. “Anchovies?” In Naples, anchovies were only added to tomatoes if you were making puttanesca, the sauce traditionally associated with prostitutes.
“Please. If you have some,” Livia said demurely.
Quartilla appeared to be about to say something else, but then she shrugged and fetched a small jar of anchovies from a cupboard.
The sauce Livia made now was not puttanesca, but like puttanesca it was powerful and fiery. It was also remarkably simple, a celebration of the flavor of its main ingredients. She tipped the anchovies, together with their oil, into a pan, and added three crushed cloves of garlic and a generous spoonful of peperoncino flakes. When the anchovies and garlic had dissolved into a paste, she put in plenty of sieved tomatoes, to which she added a small amount of vinegar. The mixture simmered sluggishly, spitting little blobs of red sauce high into the air, like a pan full of lava. After three minutes Livia dropped a few torn basil leaves into the sauce. “There. It’s finished.”
Instantly Quartilla was standing next to the pan, dipping a spoon in to taste it. For a brief moment her eyes registered surprise. Then she recovered, and made a show of smacking her lips thoughtfully while she considered her verdict.