The Italian Effect
May
TODAY IS THE DAY I will find a job. Any job.
I scan the parade of shops as I pedal by – heaps of possibilities: there’s the bakery, off-licence, newsagent’s, cut-price bargain store, chemist, the kebab shop – then a hazy memory of Wendy’s birthday, and being served a dodgy doner on the way home by someone resembling Hannibal Lecter’s brother seeps through my brain. Maybe not.
Panting like a bloodhound, I arrive at the top of Richmond Hill and notice the dry cleaners, which has been closed for months, now boasts a green, white, and red awning with Il Mulino and a windmill emblazoned across it.
I peer through the window, and spying someone inside, tap on the door. It is opened by a small man with a weatherworn face and crinkly-kind eyes, a stripey apron accentuating his barrel-like girth.
‘Sì?’
‘Buongiorno! Do you have any vacancies for waiting staff?’
‘Do you have experience?’ he asks in his thick accent. I nod.
‘Prego,’ he smiles, raising his heavy eyebrows and beckoning me inside.
I am immediately transported to some little corner of Italy. The spine-tingling tones of Pavarotti percolate through the coffee-filled air. The rustic furniture is covered with red and white gingham tablecloths, and behind the bar sits one of those old, 1950s’ Gaggia espresso machines.
‘Coffee?’ Luigi asks, tipping beans into the grinder.
‘Mmm, please.’ I smile, squinting at a sepia photograph of a little urchin boy standing next to an old windmill.
‘Do they have windmills in Italy?’ I ask.
‘Sì,’ he replies. ‘No many. This windmill, it is in Sicily. Allora, you want to work in my restaurant …’
One cappuccino later, I’ve got a job starting tomorrow. Luigi prefers to employ native Italians, but I manage to persuade him by promising to learn a little of the language (at least enough to enable me to pronounce the names of the dishes correctly, like talliatelli and not tagliatelli, which caused Luigi to crack up when he asked me to read the menu aloud).
I believed my waitressing days were well behind me, but needs must; it’s either this or the dole queue, and the hours will fit in with my busy audition schedule. Now, there’s positive thinking for you.
* * *
Tonight is my debut at Il Mulino, and the restaurant’s first preview night, ahead of the official opening next month. Luigi introduces me to Rosalba, his daughter, a soprano singer, who’s helping out her father in between classes and auditions. With her jet-black hair, flashing eyes, and hourglass figure, she was born to play Carmen.
(Sound like I’m some opera buff, don’t I? But I’m only familiar with Carmen and Madame Butterfly: the former, because in 1982, I was dragged along to see my Aunty Ailsa perform the title role in Glenderran Amateur Operatic Society’s production – that’s how she met my Uncle Jim – and the latter, because Miss Saigon, which is based on the Puccini opera, used to be my favourite musical; I saw the original touring production twelve times, because back then I worked as a Saturday usherette at our local theatre. The story left a huge impression on me, not least because I had a major crush on the guy playing Chris, the American GI.)
‘Come with me, cara, I show you the kitchen,’ says Rosalba, sweeping through the double doors, hips swaying like a pendulum.
She and the chef exchange some words in Italian, then with sleight of hand, he tosses fresh herbs and brightly coloured peppers from a giant, sizzling pan, high into the air, like a conjurer, performing his very own brand of magic.
‘Bravo!’ I cry, and immediately wish I hadn’t. He grunts something tetchy under his breath and angrily sloshes more red wine into the sauce. Not a good start.
‘Don’t mind Sergio,’ says Rosalba over the hiss. ‘He just likes everyone to know he’s the capo – the boss. And this … is Nonna Maria,’ she says fondly. A bird-like lady all in black sits on a stool in the corner, long ribbons of potato peel falling from her knife into a huge, dented, aluminium pot on the floor. Her face creases into a wrinkle-etched smile. ‘Ciao.’
Luigi enters, and they all start babbling at once, their voices becoming louder and higher, their gestures more vehement. There’s soon enough passion and melodrama unfolding to rival any opera, and I half expect a brawl to break out amongst the colanders and carving knives. Every word is fuelled with passion and sounds to me like the Italian equivalent of Eh, whaddayamean, you sonofabitch? Showa soma respect. Youworka for this family now – forget Don Cannelloni.
‘What was all that about?’ I ask Rosalba as we head back to the dining room.
‘Allora, my father,’ she says with a careless shrug of her shoulders, ‘he just wanna know why Sergio put cannelloni on the specials menu again. Benvenuti!’ she calls, breaking away as six more customers materialise through the door.
The bell rings furiously. ‘Via la quattro! Adesso!’
I spin around full circle and then back again. Rosalba’s busy taking coats and Luigi is deep in conversation with a customer. Oh, well, I can’t hang around looking like a nun at an Ann Summers party, so taking a deep breath, I head towards the kitchen. Sergio darts me a surly glare and nods towards the counter. I scoop up the two plates of steaming minestrone soup, then pirouette back out through the swing doors.
As I approach table four, the lady in the group is in mid-conversation, gesticulating wildly. I stand there patiently waiting for her to finish, but I’m invisible.
‘Scusi,’ I whisper, fingers now burning. I attempt to navigate my way around and aim for the empty space in front of her. But just as the plate is about to make contact with its target, she waves her arms again, and it smashes to the floor, the warm roll shooting across the table, hot minestrone soup flying everywhere: over her, me, the tablecloth, the wall. ‘Scusi,’ I say, grabbing her napkin, frantically plucking cubes of celery and carrot from her doubtless designer suit.
I feel every pair of diner’s eyes drilling through me. A concerned Luigi emerges from behind the bar.
‘Mamma mia, va bene?’
I’ve poured countless glasses of red wine and cups of hot drinks through tropical storms and clear air turbulence without spilling a drop, but I am to learn that there’s a certain knack to negotiating one’s way around the arms of excitable, gesticulating Italians.
Luigi rescues the situation by offering the table complimentary wine and an invitation to the opening.
My proud ego is telling me to run out of the door, never to return. Mindful me is telling me to let go of who I used to be: the super-efficient, confident purser, in charge of a 747 cabin. The rules are different here, and I must give it time and be open to learning new skills.
* * *
The final customers gone, and the tables cleared. Nonna Maria shuffles in from the kitchen, bearing a huge casserole dish, and beckons for me to sit down. Luigi opens a bottle of red wine, and Rosalba places a basket of warm bread on the table.
Sergio sits scowling in the corner, long legs crossed, chewing on a cocktail stick.
‘Mangia, mangia! Eat!’ says Nonna Maria, nodding to me as she drizzles olive oil onto the bread; and more and more food keeps appearing.
Rosalba recalls that Nonna Maria used to make the main dish every Sunday for the family when Luigi was a little boy living in Naples. The Agnello All’Albertone is the best lamb I have ever tasted, and the Montepulciano slides down deliciously, making me feel all warm and cosy inside.
As air crew I’d wolf down my food, standing up in the galley, eye on the clock, frequently interrupted by demanding passengers. Tonight I savour the flavour of each mouthful, happy to be here, in this moment – even if I don’t understand most of what’s being said, or that the chef has taken an instant dislike to me.
Pedalling home, I stop on the bridge and look out over the river, the moon and the lights from the bars and hotels reflected on the glassy water. I breathe in the cool air. A train rumbles in the distance, a flock of Canada geese honks as they fly low over the river, disappearing into the black distance.
For the second time tonight I’m aware I’m living in the present, appreciating what’s going on around me, instead of allowing things to pass me by unnoticed, because my mind is tied up elsewhere. Could this be the effect of the Montepulciano, or am I at last learning to slow down and let go of the past?
* * *
Now with some cash to spare, I invest in new publicity photographs, a showreel, a voice demo, and the latest edition of Contacts. I make calls and send e-mails every day to agents and casting directors. Replies are rare and mostly negative: too old, too young, too tall, too short, too fair, not famous enough. It’s pointless griping about the situation; frown lines are ageing, and besides, no one’s listening. So I immerse myself in writing my play, practising yoga every day, and chant I am opening myself to new possibilities whenever I am out of earshot.
I now know my conchiglie from my tortellini, and when I’m waiting to take orders, I’m honing those all-important character observation skills, which Portia taught us are crucial to becoming a truthful actor.
When the mood takes him, the ice-cold Sergio is starting to thaw a little now and manages to crack the odd smile. To be honest, he’s becoming a tad too friendly these days. There’s an outdoor, walk-in fridge, and when I go to fetch the butter and the ice he sometimes creeps up behind me and kisses the back of my neck. His breath reeks of garlic and nicotine.
‘Reeeelax, cucciolo,’ (puppy dog – eek!) he says, massaging my shoulders. ‘You are verrrrry tense.’ I’ve learned a few choice words like basta! (enough!) and finiscila! (bog off!), which I deploy with as much firmness as I can muster, but it doesn’t make the slightest bit of difference, even when accompanied by emphatic sign language; in fact my attempt at acting Italian encourages Sergio to tease me even more.
What can I do? He’s married to Valentina, Luigi’s youngest daughter, so I can hardly go running to him, can I? I have to deal with this on my own. I don’t want the situation to be blown out of proportion. No, definitely best to keep this under wraps. Godfather-like blood feuds to be avoided at all costs.
My favourite part of the night is when the last customer has left – my cue to flip over the CHIUSO/CLOSED sign. Luigi calls, ‘A cena!’ and we gather around the table.
My spoken Italian may not be up to much, but I’m learning to eat like one: i.e. slowly and a lot. So how come the majority of Italians stay healthy and trim? Those time-tested recipes from nonna’s kitchen contain more wisdom than any fad diet, that’s why. The courses may be many, but the portions are smaller, tastier, and leave you wanting more. No mounds of soggy spaghetti, topped with sauce from a jar and a shake of Italian-style cheese powder here, but home-made pasta cooked al dente, served with sauces made from sweet, buffalo tomatoes, rosemary, basil, ricotta, aubergines, and oregano, sprinkled with shavings of fresh parmesan.
* * *
OPERA CABARET JUNE 16th
JOIN US AT IL MULINO FOR WINE,
SONG & HOME-COOKED, TRADITIONAL FOOD.
A TASTE OF THE WARM SOUTH BROUGHT TO
RICHMOND-UPON-THAMES.
Luigi beams. ‘Perfetto!’ he says, smoothing the local newspaper out on the table. ‘Allora, is everything ready for tomorrow? Sergio, I need your final shopping list by the end of tonight, d’accordo?’ Sergio loosens the collar of his chef’s jacket and gives a bad-tempered shrug.
‘Rosalba, the piano tuner will arrive at five o’clock. Have you made a final decision about the music?’
‘Sì, babo.’ She sighs, her long, curling lashes almost touching her eyebrows as she looks up to the ceiling.
Rosalba and her fiancé, Luke, a dentist (they met and fell in love three years ago, when he serenaded her during painful root canal treatment), have been rehearsing tirelessly at the community centre, putting together an eclectic programme of popular Italian songs and various arias from well-known operas; nothing too high-brow, just something to complement the Italian dining experience, and to hopefully set Il Mulino apart from the many other, well-established restaurants in Richmond. If this goes well, it could also provide the duo with the ideal platform to showcase their musical talents.
‘Allora,’ says Luigi, rising, ‘the flowers and wine will arrive in the morning. If there are no questions, then ci vediamo stasera! Until this evening!’
* * *
I’m in the changing room at H&M during my break, trying on black dresses for the opening, when my phone rings.
‘Emily? Lionel of LB Management.’
‘Sorry? Who’s this?’
‘Lionel. Susannah’s agent. We met at Three Sisters a few months ago.’
‘Hi. Yes, I remember now,’ I say, heart quickening.
‘I realise this is short notice, but I’ve got a free slot for a commercial casting. A client let me down at the last minute, so I was wondering if you’d like to go in her place?’
‘Er, sure. When?’
‘This afternoon at three.’
‘Erm, but it’s one o’clock now.’
‘Up to you. Just thought I’d run it by you. It’s for a pasta sauce commercial and the fee, minus my commission, is two and a half grand.’
Two and a half … that’s the equivalent of … around fifty shifts at the restaurant. I glance at my watch again.
‘Where is the casting?’
‘Dean Street, Soho.’
‘Okay, I’ll do it!’
‘Great! Give me your e-mail address and I’ll send you the details.’
* * *
It’s bang on three by the time I reach Alpha Advertising in rain-washed Dean Street.
‘I’m here for the tomato sauce casting,’ I pant, a puddle forming around my feet.
The receptionist scrutinises me with her oh-I’m-so-bored expression, and mumbles through her Angelina pout, ‘Fill in this form and take a seat.’
‘Where’s the ladies’?’
‘Emily Forsyth and Ninian Moncrieff!’ calls a shrill voice from the corridor.
A middle-aged, Bertie-Wooster type in cords, checked shirt, and squeaky, Church’s brogues places The Times under his arm, scrapes a comb through his slicked-back, greying hair, and swaggers over to the young woman with headphones slung around her neck.
‘Emily Fors…!’
‘Just coming!’ I cry, nervously unbuttoning my dripping-wet mac.
The studio door slams shut. At the far end is a long, leather sofa, crammed with young, trendy, advertising executives, sipping their takeaway Starbucks.
‘This is Ninian and Emily,’ says the woman with the headphones.
‘Okay, you’ve read the blurb,’ says a man with a goatee beard and small crucifix dangling from his left ear. I’m about to explain I haven’t yet had the opportunity to read the blurb, on account of being late, due to signal failure on the District Line (again) and not being able to run very fast in my new wedge shoes, but he ploughs on without pausing for breath.
‘Now … Emma …’
‘Actually, it’s Emily.’
‘Let’s have you first. Stand on the white cross please, and when you’re given the nod, say your name and agent’s name to camera. Just leave your things on the floor. Okay?’
Dilemma: do I just give my details deadpan, or do I smile and say it with feeling, thereby conveying my warm, sincere personality and versatile acting talent? Never having been for a commercial casting, I don’t know the protocol.
‘When you’re ready please.’
I plump for a bit of both – not too serious, not too gushing.
Ninian opts for the cool, I-do-these-all-the-time approach.
‘Thank you,’ says Goatee, leaping up. ‘Now, just to recap – the scene is a small, intimate Italian restaurant. If you’d like to sit down here, please,’ he says, propelling us over to a metal table and chairs. ‘In front of you is a plate of pasta cooked in Pino Pinuccio sauce. I’m afraid it’s cold, but I assure you it was freshly cooked this morning. Now, I want a bit of improvised chit-chat to begin with, and then as you start to eat, you, Emma, go into wild raptures at the taste,’ he says, clicking his fingers whilst simultaneously stamping his foot, like he’s about to launch into a paso doble. ‘You, hubby, on the other hand, carry on eating, oblivious to the stares and sniggers from the other diners. Okay?’ He claps his hands, then leaps backwards onto the arm of the sofa, eyes boring into me, chin cupped in his hand.
‘Camera rolling … and … action!’
Looking around me at the stark, white walls, I say in a thin voice, ‘I’m so glad you brought us here for our anniversary, darling. What a lovely surprise.’ Ninian looks at me expressionless.
I poke the oily pasta with my fork.
‘Mmm, this pasta is really delicious,’ I say through a mouthful, resisting the urge to gag. Goatee jumps up, tugging at his beard, crucifix swinging wildly back and forth.
‘No, no, no! We want a bit of va-va-voom! Let us feel our mouths salivating, let us taste that pasta sauce, let us be swept along with the sheer enjoyment, the passion … think When Harry Met Sally, think … think … orgasmic!’
He flops back down, eyes twirling in annoyance. Ninian sighs and fires me a withering look. I’ve a good mind to chuck the bowl of pasta over his perfectly coiffed head. I know he isn’t supposed to say anything, but God almighty, it’s like sitting opposite a tailor’s dummy.
I wonder if he works much; perhaps MORTUARY CORPSE is his speciality, and he has a string of enviable TV credits to his name: Silent Witness, Law & Order, Casualty, Holby City, Midsomer Murders, Lewis; the possibilities are endless.
‘Now let’s try it again, please,’ hisses Goatee, chewing gum furiously as he glances at his watch. I glimpse the panel: a stony-faced woman with half-shaved hair yawns, a young guy sporting a man-bun and grungy jeans waggles his sneaker-clad foot, while the cool rock chick in denim skirt and cowboy boots plays with her iPhone.
Okay, you arty-farty advertisers, you want va-va-voom? I’ll give you va-va-voom!
Two and a half grand may be a drop in the ocean to Ninian Moncrieff, but to me it’s a fortune. And that cheque with my name on it is just within my grasp. All that stands between it and me is a few moments of humiliating myself in front of a bunch of strangers. That’s not so bad, is it?
I close my eyes, draw a deep intake of breath, and fling my head back, diving into a frenzied attack on the mound of pasta, stuffing it into my mouth with both hands, covering my face with Pino Pinuccio sauce, panting and moaning.
‘Mmm. More … more … Yes, yes, YESSSS!’
Ninian looks at me, open-mouthed, eyes wide.
‘Thank you!’ booms Goatee eventually, jumping to his feet, a faint smile hovering over his lips. ‘Well, what can I say? Meg Ryan, eat your heart out! We’ll be in touch.’
Ninian scarpers, doubtless terrified he may end up having to escort me back to the tube. I am left to pick up my bag, coat, and last morsel of dignity in stunned silence. I fumble in my pocket. Where’s a tissue when you need one? Head held high, I exit, leaving behind a blob of pasta sauce on the door handle.
I enter the crowded waiting area, woefully aware of the other candidates’ eyes boring through me as they pretend to read their casting briefs.
I clear my throat. ‘Where’s the loo?’ I ask the receptionist.
‘Second door on the left,’ she mumbles, without lifting her eyes from her Heat magazine.
Dammit, it’s engaged, so I about-turn and make a break for it, leaving behind a trail of bloody devastation.
* * *
I pedal up Richmond Hill that evening, shouting into the wind things like, ‘You can keep your two and a half grand and your disgusting sauce!’ and ‘“Like Mamma used to make”? Er, I don’t think so!’
By the time I reach Il Mulino I’m feeling much better, though after today, how can When Harry Met Sally still be my number one go-to film when I’m feeling blue?
On the plus side, Lionel considers me ‘a prospect’ (thank God he wasn’t witness to this afternoon’s performance) and has agreed to take me on his agency’s books. He may not be the crème de la crème of agents, but he has far more contacts than I do, and unrepresented actors are taken less seriously by casting directors. So despite another ego-bashing, something positive has come about to balance things out, and will be toasted in red wine at the end of the shift.
* * *
I wish I hadn’t decided to break in my new black heels tonight. With a full restaurant, I’m multitasking like a woman possessed: meeting and greeting, hanging up coats, taking multiple orders from large tables, uncorking wine, answering the phone, making reservations, clearing and laying tables.
Since that unfortunate mishap with the minestrone, I have now ditched my tentative Britishness when faced with large tables of vociferous, gesticulating customers, and have adopted Rosalba’s serving technique. It can best be described as a kind of simplified cha-cha-cha (minus her hip action) and goes like this: holding the dishes high, take to the floor, approach the table, step forward, step back, step forward, side-together-side, side-together-side, aaand place the plates on the table (carefully), turn, step forward, and return to the kitchen. Missione compiuta! Mission accomplished!
The bell rings angrily. Napoli lost to Manchester City in the Champions League earlier, and there’s been a lot of banging and crashing coming from the kitchen tonight, accompanied by ‘Vaffanculo!’ ‘Cazzo!’, ‘Che cavalo!’ which even Pavarotti at full pelt is unable to drown out.
Drawing a deep breath, I straighten my skirt, smooth my hair, and enter the lion’s den with a wide smile.
Sergio tuts and waves his hand at the two starters. ‘Vai! Go!’
This is all I need after the afternoon I’ve had. Thank God this is the last order.
‘Vai!’
I think I prefer Sergio the Sleazy to Sergio the Surly; in fact neither would be preferable. Things would be so much better were he not around.
Grabbing a knife from the wall, he starts furiously chopping up parsley.
‘Vaiii!’
Okay! I’m going, I’m going.
Blinking back hot tears, I pick up the starters and am just sailing through the doors, when he lets out a blood-curdling howl. My plates smash to the floor, sending tomatoes, mozzarella, avocado, and basil hurtling through the air. I spin round to see thick liquid, the colour of claret spurting from his hand, splashing the white-tiled walls. A waxy, grey hue floods his skin; his strangely wide eyes roll back as he drops to the floor like a stone.
‘Luigi!’ I scream. Oh God, oh God, what’s the first aid procedure? Something about elevation? Is that right? Grabbing two vegetable crates from under the sink, I remove his blood-splattered clogs and raise his legs.
‘Che cosa?’ says Luigi, appearing through the door. ‘Madonna mia!’ he exclaims, raising his hands, horror sweeping across his face.
‘Ambulanza! Pronto!’ I cry, a stab of panic piercing through me.
Now what? Control the bleeding, yes, control the bleeding – but how? Nonna Maria appears at my side clutching a tea towel and kneels by Sergio, mumbling in Italian, tugging at her crucifix. I grab the towel and his slippy, blood-soaked hand. My stomach lurches as I see his lifeless, fleshy fingers dangling like broken twigs. I feel sick and giddy. Please God, this is not a good time for me to pass out. I bind them tightly with the towel and raise his arm above his head, pushing his hand hard against my chest. Blood trickles through my fingers, dripping onto my crisp, white shirt. I must keep my cool, practical head on until the ambulance arrives.
‘Maria, ice! Erm … gelato?’ (No, no, that’s ice cream.) ‘Glace!’ She looks at me, bewildered. No, that’s French. ‘Ghiaccio? Yes, ghiaccio!’
Sergio’s eyes flicker open and he twists his head sideways, moaning like a wounded animal. The sound chills me. I gently squeeze his other hand and we hold one another’s upside-down gaze. The pain in his expression slices through me. I want to tell him he’s going to be okay, but can’t think of the right words.
‘Ambulanza – here pronto. Tutto bene. Tutto bene.’
I look towards the door. Where are they?
‘Dio mio!’ cries Rosalba, appearing at my side, face blanched with shock.
‘Rosalba, we must keep him warm. Get his coat.’
Where the hell are they? Please hurry, please.
* * *
A siren screams, and like a scene from ER, two paramedics burst through the swing doors wheeling a stretcher.
‘We’ve got you, mate,’ says one of them, kneeling as he opens his medical bag. ‘I’m just going to give you some morphine to relieve the pain and steady that racing heart of yours, okay?’ I look away as the needle is produced. I feel Sergio’s body judder.
‘You can let go now,’ says his colleague, laying a reassuring hand on my shoulder. ‘All right, Phil? One, two, three. There we go.’
I stagger to my feet and look down at Sergio’s face, his eyes wide with shock and fear.
‘Tutto bene,’ I whisper, as he is whisked out to the waiting ambulance. ‘Tutto bene.’
I just stand there, staring at my blood-drenched shirt and hands. There’s a swimming sensation in my head as my legs buckle beneath me and I slump down onto the floor.
* * *
I jog past the bins and piled-up garden furniture early next morning, entering the restaurant through the kitchen, where Nonna Maria is by the sink, chopping onions, humming and crying at the same time.
‘Ciao, Maria,’ I pant, removing my earphones and kissing her on both cheeks.
‘Any news from the hospital? Er … notizie da Sergio?’
These three little words unleash a torrent of Italian, of which ‘aeroporto’ and ‘ospedale’ are the only vocabulary I understand. I just do my customary nodding routine, interspersed with the odd ‘sì’ or ‘no’, then escape to the dining room with a ‘mi scusi’ the moment I’m able to get a word in edgeways. It’s empty and silent. I put on some Madame Butterfly to soothe my frayed nerves. Grabbing a stiffly starched tablecloth from the pile, I start laying up.
A retro flower power van mounts the pavement. A woman in dungarees jumps out.
‘Let me give you a hand,’ I say, propping the door open. Back and forth we go, until all the floral arrangements are inside.
‘Twenty individual centrepieces, three large,’ she says, handing me the consignment note and a pen. ‘Hope it all goes well.’
‘Wine order for Il Mulino,’ comes a voice behind me.
‘Ah, yes, that’s us,’ I reply, chewing on a fingernail as the delivery man negotiates his trolley around the obstacle course of rosemary, white freesias, and red roses.
‘Twelve cases of Valpolicella, Chianti, Lacryma Christi, Verdicchio, Pino Grigio, and Prosecco,’ he says, unloading. I begin to check the boxes off against his inventory, but with so much more to do, I abandon this task and just pray that nothing’s missing.
Help! Where is everyone? I can’t do this on my own. The evening hasn’t even begun and I have this horrible sense of foreboding. I feel panic rising inside me, mixed with guilt about Sergio’s accident; just moments before, hadn’t I wished him gone? Next minute, bam. He was lying on the floor in a pool of blood. My visualisation powers have taken on a telekinetic life of their own, like in some Stephen King horror film.
‘That’s your lot. Sign here please,’ says the deliveryman, thrusting his clipboard into my hand. ‘When’s the party?’
‘Tonight, believe it or not,’ I reply, rolling my eyes.
His eyebrows shoot up and he gives a low whistle. ‘I’d get the white in the chiller as soon as you can.’
‘Sure,’ I say with a hint of sarcasm, scooping up a handful of cutlery. Now, will that be before I’ve laid up twenty tables, folded eighty napkins into birds of paradise, put fresh towels in the loos, sliced up the lemons, polished the wine glasses and cutlery, and filled the butter dishes?
‘Good luck!’ he says cheerily, shutting the door behind him.
I flop into a chair, surveying the war zone: boxes of wine, flowers, glasses, tablecloths, bread baskets, bunting, cutlery everywhere. I feel exhausted and emotionally drained, and have absolutely no idea how I’m going to get through the day, let alone the opening night. With the local press, not to mention Michelin and Egon Ronay representatives invited, the future of Il Mulino is riding on the success of this one night. It’s going to take an Oscar-worthy performance to pull this off. I haul myself to my feet, turn up the volume of the CD player, and resume laying up.
* * *
Only three more tables to go. This is my favourite bit of Madame Butterfly: the finale, where Cio-Cio San reads the inscription on her father’s knife: ‘Who Cannot Live with Honour Must Die with Honour.’ She stabs herself just as that two-timing, naval love rat Pinkerton is heard calling out her name.
Cutlery in hand, I allow my eyes to close for a moment and breathe deeply. That feels so good. The notes flow through me, as I surrender to the flood of heart-rending, dramatic, sorrowful emotion …
‘“Con onor muore, chi non puo serbar vita, con onor amore, addio, addio! Piccolo amor! Va, gioca, giocaaaaaah!”’
‘Emileeee!’
‘Aaaah!’
‘This is my nephew, Francesco Rossi,’ says Luigi, switching off the music. ‘He will be in charge of the kitchen until Sergio returns.’
‘Zio Luigi, you tell me in the car she is British, but she can sing like an Italian,’ says the dark stranger, brimming with amusement.
‘Piacere,’ I say, flushing to the roots of my unwashed hair as we shake hands.
‘You dropped this,’ he says, bending down and handing me a knife.
‘Grazie,’ I say in a low voice, averting my gaze, sorely tempted to do a Madame Butterfly and die with honour then and there.