Читать книгу Loves & Miracles of Pistola - Hilary Prendini Toffoli - Страница 19
ОглавлениеWhen he finally gets home, who should be there having his third glass of vin santo with Nonno Mario but the man who has just saved his life, Zio Umberto?
The two of them are arguing loudly about an upcoming cycle race in Rome. His uncle is trying to persuade Nonno Mario to go with him to watch it. The discussion is so heated Zio Umberto has totally forgotten the part he played in the festa fracas, while much to Pistola’s relief Nonno Mario doesn’t even register the fact that his grandson’s new and once-camel-coloured suede lace-ups are now a lustrous mahogany, courtesy of the dye Pistola and Teresa bought at the merceria.
When Zio Umberto was twenty-three, far skinnier and with a handlebar moustache, he and his tandem partner, Pepe Santelmo, were cycling champions. A travesty Pistola has never been able to understand since Nonno Mario has always maintained Pepe consistently chose the back seat and let Zio Umberto do all the work.
That was a good few decades ago. Zio Umberto no longer rides tandem with Santelmo or anyone else. And handlebar moustaches are no longer the trend in Campino. But he has remained a dedicated fan of the sport, and if Nonno Mario will go with him on the train to Rome, he’ll pay for them both, including their stay with the priests in a seminary he knows in Trastevere.
Sadly, he’s not getting the enthusiastic response he expected.
‘I’m not as keen as you are on cycling, Umberto,’ says Nonno Mario, ‘and why else would I want to go to Rome? Saw it all when I was in the military. Colosseum. Forum. St Peter’s. Fontana di Trevi. Nor do I need to go and stand in a crowd of smelly people to get His Holiness’s blessing …’
Zio Umberto turns to Pistola.
‘Then why don’t I take you instead, ragazzo? You’ve never even been to Rome and you’re seventeen already! It’ll help you decide what you want to do with your life.’
It doesn’t take Pistola very long to accept this generous offer. The summer holidays are not yet over and he has two very good reasons to go to Rome, he realises in a flash. One has to do with Teresa and the other with the father he has never met.
On top of which, Zio Umberto is one of the few men in the village he actually admires. A huge man with a deceptively sleepy gaze in his large heavy-lidded eyes and an eternal toothpick in his mouth, Zio Umberto has cheeks as ruddy and firm as one of his fillet steaks, and hands so strong that when he pinches Pistola’s cheek, it hurts for two hours. He’s someone all the boys in the village are seriously in awe of. Yet, like a lot of strong men, he’s guileless and sincere. There’s always a good clean smell of fresh meat hanging about him, and he approaches food like an animal himself, chewing and talking at the same time in his deep rolling bass. He married Nonno Mario’s younger sister, Zia Dalia, after his first wife, Nonno Mario’s elder sister, Zia Norma, died from the bite of a stray rabid dog she was giving water.
Pistola is glad they kept Zio Umberto in the family. As a kid, Pistola and his gang would play Tarzan on the walnut tree in the communal back courtyard where his uncle has his tiny slaughterhouse. Whenever a cow was delivered, they’d all rush to the door of the slaughterhouse. Zio Umberto would push them out of the way, press his little Beretta to the creature’s forehead, and shoot. It would all be over in a brief humane minute. Nothing would be thrown away. The cowhide would be salted and sold to the tannery, the hooves turned into glue, the horns sold to the bone merchant to make into combs, and the intestines blanched and sold for trippa. Afterwards, the contents of the animal’s guts would fertilise Pistola’s tomatoes, as happens with the contents of cow guts all over the Italian countryside.
‘No wonder Italian tomatoes are the best in the world,’ is Nonno Mario’s opinion.
Now Zio Umberto raises his glass to Pistola, whose eyes have lit up, drains it, winks and stands up.
‘Okay then! Andiamo! We leave Tuesday. You got two days to pack, then we go to Verona to get the big train from the north.’ And before his bolshy brother-in-law can object, he’s gone.
That night, Pistola has his first major row with his grandfather.
‘Why do you want to go?’ asks Nonno Mario as he stirs his ragù. ‘The food is terrible. You’ll starve. Can’t cook, those Romans. And they’ll steal your money. They’re all criminals.’
‘It’s part of my education.’ His grandson has no intention of revealing his reasons. ‘I’ve never even seen the Fontana di Trevi.’
‘What? Where the urchins fish out your coins as soon as you turn your back?’
‘The Colosseum. Professor Orvieto says—’
His grandfather bangs the spoon loudly on the edge of the pot. ‘Stronzi! Sell you all sorts of shit in the streets. Cigarettes full of sawdust …’
‘It’s part of my education—’
‘And Umberto is no help. Can’t even make a good ragù. Oh no, always on that bike. Determined to be the great damned cycling champ of the world.’
‘I’m going, Nonno. Can’t stop me.’
‘Okay, va via! Leave me here like a dog!’ He turns his back and continues muttering into his ragù.
As soon as Pistola finishes supper, he’s off to speak to Zia Andromaca. She’s the one person who can help him track down the two people he needs to find in Rome. It turns out both Ignazio and his father’s friend Romeo Battisti live in a section of the city called Trastevere. Zia Andromaca, an avid reader of newspapers and Oggi magazine, tells him Trastevere is the oldest and cheapest part of Rome to live.
‘Founded by the Etruscans is what it was,’ she announces with a gleam in her eye as she wraps up one of her delicious brittle sbrisolona tarts for his journey on the train, ‘on the other side of the Tevere River.’
The night before his departure, he visits Teresa. She looks haunted, and still hasn’t told her parents. Their hurried low-voiced conversation in the street outside her house begins with her furiously telling him to mind his own business and ends with her begging him to bring Aguinaldo back home.
That night, Nonno Mario relents and cooks him a special farewell meal. A lean and tasty leg of wild boar he has marinated in herbs and a full-bodied Bardolino from the shores of Lago di Garda, while adding to the pot half a glass of Recioto late harvest towards the end for sweetness. He got the boar from Cecco Santangelo, secretary of Campino’s hunt club, who shoots for the pot, sometimes as far away as Yugoslavia, and considers the British extremely weird because they dress in funny red clothes to go leaping over hedges after some terrified little bony creature not even good enough to eat.
Pistola has never tasted boar before. He tells his grandfather he loves its deep dark unforgettable flavour.
‘Face it, my boy, you’re not going to get anything as good as this past your lips for a long, long time.’ Nonno Mario rolls his eyes. ‘You’re going to starve. I won’t sleep a wink while you’re away. Hope I’m still alive when you get back …’
