Читать книгу Catarina's Ring - Lisa McGuinness - Страница 11

Chapter 6

JULIETTE, IMMERSING HERSELF IN ITALIAN, AND SHOPPING FOR MOZZARELLA IN THE CHILL AUTUMN AIR

Out in the market, large crimson canvas tote bag in hand, Juliette wove her way along the market stalls. Taking in new sights and sounds was a welcome distraction—even exciting—but the smells were what she found intoxicating. The aromas of pungent cheese and heavy-scented flowers filled the chilly late-autumn air and woke up her senses. She was suddenly seeing things vividly again after the haze she’d been in since the accident: as if her senses had woken up when the plane touched down in Italy, during the train ride from the Florence airport to Lucca while passing olive orchards and vine-covered hillsides, and finally during her long, dreamless sleep.

She walked up to a cheese stall and stood back, observing the huge variety. She was shy to dive in and speak the language after realizing how rusty she’d been while trying to communicate at the train station.

As she hesitated, a man walked by, accidentally brushing her arm as he approached the vendor.

“Mi scusi, Signorina,” he said, turning to Juliette with a smile.

The response Juliette was forming in her mind immediately left her consciousness and only a confused sound came out of her mouth.

The man was absolutely beautiful as only Italian men can be.

“Ciao, Roman,” the cheese vender smiled and clapped the man on the back in a friendly manner. “Come stai?”

“Bene, bene. I need some cheese for my class this week, Vito,” he said in rapid-fire Italian. “The new term is beginning, so we’re going to start with something simple. I’m thinking about gorgonzola because I don’t want to intimidate the students. Polenta with gorgonzola. How does that sound?”

Juliette stood to the side, trying to comprehend the words he was saying to get her brain into Italian mode. She enjoyed listening to the rich language being spoken all around her. It revived early childhood memories of spending the night at her grandparents’ house and gradually wakening in the morning to the murmur of Italian being spoken in the kitchen, but that was more than a few years ago and she worried about being able to keep up with the torrent of words rushing at her.

She purposefully focused on the cheeses in front of her instead of looking at the two men speaking. They spoke quickly so Juliette didn’t quite catch all of what they said, but the phrases she picked up, while pretending to look around the stall, seemed to indicate that the younger man buying the cheese was some sort of chef, which piqued her curiosity further.

While the gorgonzola discussion continued in Italian, a younger woman who also worked at the cheese stall—instantly reminding Juliette of Julia Ormand in one of her early films—stepped up to help.

Juliette had decided on some mozzarella. She was in the mood for crusty bread with mozzarella slices and olive tapenade to go with a roasted artichoke. Even though she was quite accomplished at sophisticated Italian dishes, Juliette’s real love was basic peasant food.

She gathered her courage and spoke to the young woman in Italian, and was rewarded with a smile and plenty of encouragement.

The younger man stopped speaking and turned towards Juliette again with a look of interest before turning back to the vendor to finish his purchase.

She felt her face flush. She was afraid she had made a fool of herself with her imperfect accent, but she decided to keep going in Italian anyway.

She looked away from him and back to the woman who leaned towards Juliette.

“Watch out for that one,” she whispered in heavily accented English and winked.

Juliette waved her hand to indicate that the last thing she was looking for was romance.

“He is handsome, no?”

“Si, in a different way than American men.”

“Sei americana?”

Juliette nodded and reached across the stall to shake hands and introduce herself. “I’m Juliette Brice. I just moved here.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Juliette. I’m Odessa Savelli.”

“Nice to meet you,” Juliette responded. “Odessa is a beautiful name, but isn’t it French? How did you come by it?”

“Simple, really. My mother’s French and my father’s Italian,” she smiled. “Maman’s family also makes artisan cheese, so when my parents met at a seminar for cheese makers, it was a match made in heaven.”

Juliette couldn’t help but admire her accented English. The way Odessa spoke made everything she said seem more interesting.

“Well, I’m glad to have met you, and thank you for your help today,” Juliette said as she tucked her mozzarella into her bag.

“It was my pleasure, Juliette. Hopefully I’ll see you here next week.” Odessa’s natural warmth added to the invitation and Juliette felt like she’d made a potential friend. As she walked away, she wondered why some people were immediately drawn together with an instant sense of familiarity and companionship while others could be known for eons and yet remain distant. She instinctively knew Odessa was the former and that she’d be back to see her again.

She left the stall and worked her way around the market picking up artichokes here, bread there, flowers, soap, milk, tea and coffee. As the sun began to sink and the air to cool, she had two items left on her list and an aching shoulder from the weight of carrying everything she’d bought. She still needed olives and olive oil. She hadn’t seen any stalls selling either, so she stepped into a corner store with a window display touting several olive oil varieties. When she emerged with her shopping complete, the square was emptying out. She saw Odessa from afar and gave her a smile and a wave, which was returned, as she headed towards her apartment. Then she saw the chef as well, talking and laughing with other local men. She smiled, wondering about him. He seemed nice, she thought. But, as she rounded the corner on her way back to her cozy home, her contemplation ended and she returned to her new kitchen to make dinner and unpack.

Juliette woke with a start. In her dream, the car was speeding towards them and she knew she couldn’t stop it on time. She sat up covered in sweat, light shining in the window. Her alarm hadn’t gone off yet and for a fleeting moment she had no idea where she was. But then she looked around the tiny apartment and a small glimmer of excitement replaced the initial confusion and emotional pain. She rolled over, liking the slightly coarse, foreign feeling of the starched white sheets. She stretched and peeked out the window from her bed and saw clear blue skies. She inhaled deeply, threw off the duvet, and stepped out of bed, pleased to be somewhere new instead of facing the same four walls she’d been bleakly staring at for the previous seven weeks. Her bare feet met the cold floor and she scrambled to the bathroom.

While she showered, she purposely shoved thoughts of the accident into a corner of her mind where she could squelch them as much as possible. Denial was her plan during her time in Italy. She hoped it worked.

Once she was out of the shower, Juliette dressed in comfortable-but-cute faded jeans and a long-sleeved casual tee shirt—her preferred “uniform” for the first day of cooking school so that splatters of food would be nothing to worry about.

Walking around Lucca the previous afternoon had been interesting. She felt like a veritable giant compared to the Italian women. She could just see her mother and her grandmother fitting in perfectly among the population of this country, whereas at home they were tiny. In California, Juliette’s five foot seven was nothing remarkable, but here it was quite tall.

She stepped into her diminutive sun-filled kitchen and put on the kettle to boil water. The strange coffee press that came with her apartment was more medieval contraption than coffee maker. Juliette spent about ten minutes trying to take it apart and figure it out and even then she wasn’t sure that it was going to work, but she gamely spooned in the coffee grounds she had picked up from the market, put them in the top part, which looked like some tiny version of an old-fashioned percolator and drenched them in the scalding water. She steamed some milk and mixed the two together creating a passable caffè latte. An unabashedly heaping spoonful of sugar made it complete. Heady from her small victory, Juliette leaned against the counter and took the first large sip, then turned one of her chairs to face the window and sat down to enjoy her coffee.

She wished she had made the leap of faith to leave her job and pursue her dream of Italy and cooking school under better circumstances, but she believed her mom would have been proud that she had either way. She hoped her mom would have been happy she’d gone to Italy alone to at least make something good happen from something terrible.

Juliette glanced at the box of letters she’d brought with her. She had been intrigued by them from the moment she had opened the lid. Juliette planned to read them while she was in Italy, where her nonna had grown up. She was looking forward to getting a glimpse into her grandmother’s past.

Because she’d woken at the crack of dawn, she was way ahead of schedule and was tempted to slip a letter out of its old, faded envelope, but she decided to wait until later when she could take her time with the Italian. Instead, she finished her coffee and blew her hair dry, then twisted it back in her standard work-style knot. She knew a few strands would undoubtedly escape by the end of the day, but at least it was secured to start. She put on a little makeup, and after eating her breakfast was ready to walk to the school. She knew from looking at the map that it was just inside of the ancient walled section of Lucca. The photo showed a white limestone building, with an arched entry. It looked to her like it was simply the first in a larger row of shops and businesses but she would know soon enough.

Juliette ventured out, map in hand, toward the address of the school. Along the way she peeked into numerous cafés with patrons lined up at the bar, sipping espressos out of tiny cups. The women were fashionable and the men were as coiffed and heavily scented as the women.

She turned a corner and came to an abrupt stop.

“Uh oh,” she murmured, because she was sure she had walked by the same street before.

I hate this about myself, she thought. Why do I always get lost? A familiar sense of panic lodged itself in her chest.

Juliette looked at the street signs and studied the map. She had thought she was on track, and couldn’t figure out where she had gone wrong. She took her bag off of her shoulder and set it down next to her while she leaned against a building to try and sort it out.

She finally saw where she had missed a turn so she started walking again, but decided to pick up the pace.

Pulling her cell phone out of her pocket to check the time, Juliette willed herself to remain calm.

What’s the worst thing that could happen? she asked herself. She might be late, but it wouldn’t be the first time and she would live through it.

Turning the corner, she saw the sign ahead for the street she was looking for and exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding. One more turn and then she would be there. Checking her phone again, she realized she had seven minutes left before class started, so she slowed her pace to a casual stroll to give herself time to stop panting before entering the classroom.

As she passed through the front door she was dazzled by a gleaming industrial kitchen with two long tables—one per side, set at angles, and surrounded by stools. The cooktop was set into a counter between the two tables and had a huge mirror hanging above it, so students could easily see the techniques being demonstrated. In addition, there were a few rows of stadium-type seats facing the kitchen, to allow for larger groups to view the cooking exhibitions. It was decidedly different from the old-fashioned kitchen she had expected, but she was delighted with it. If the instruction was as stellar as the equipment, she knew she was in for a treat.

Others had already arrived, so she followed suit and chose a seat next to a woman who looked about her age. She presumed she was a fellow student and nodded to her.

As soon as she settled into her seat, the door opened again and the teacher entered. Juliette immediately recognized him as the man whom she had seen in the cheese stall at the market the day before.

She surreptitiously snuck another peek, wondering how old he was. She had a difficult time determining the age of Italians. They all seemed more sophisticated and somehow more worldly than Americans, which she associated with being older.

“Buon giorno, il mio nome è Roman Capello, e saro il vostro insegnante,” he said in brisk Italian.

Juliette’s pulse raced. She realized that she understood less than she anticipated. In an instant, she feared that the language was going to be more difficult than she had expected. She picked up the fact that his name was Roman Capello and that he was the teacher, but mostly because it was obvious from his actions.

“Per cominiciare, ognuno mi dica che cosa voule imparare in questa classe.” Let’s begin by everyone telling me what they would like to get out of the class, he continued—again speaking rapidly. He gestured for a young man two seats away from Juliette to begin. Juliette felt the same blind panic she used to get when she was in high-school geometry and was about to be called on to solve a mathematical problem when she only had a vague sense of how to do it. As the student answered, she worked hard to concentrate on what he was saying and was relieved she understood most of it. She took a deep breath as he finished and all eyes moved on to the student who was next to her. Juliette could feel her face getting hot and cursed herself for the hateful blushing trait. It was the bane of the fair skinned, and she had inherited it from her father’s side. Her mother’s Italian genes would never have betrayed her so brutally.

Juliette was able to glean that the woman she was seated next to was saying something about taking the class because she worked in the family restaurant and wanted to expand her skills. Or at least something close to that.

When she finished, all eyes turned to Juliette and there was nothing to do but to dive in, so she took a deep breath and did just that.

“Buon giorno,” she began slowly, thinking about each word and pronouncing it carefully. “Il mio nome è Juliette Brice e mi sono trasferita qui per migliorare la mia conoscenza dell’arte culinaria italiana.” Hello, she said. My name is Juliette Brice and I moved here to improve my Italian cooking. She wished she knew how to say she was on an extended visit, but that was beyond her, so “moved” would have to do. At least that’s what she hoped she said—although she wasn’t entirely sure she had used the correct tenses and wondered if there were different verbs for “to move an object or move residences.” She used to feel so confident in her ability to speak Italian and hoped desperately that it would come back quickly.

She decided not to worry about it and was just happy her turn was over. It must not have been too off base because a quick peek around the room told her that the other students didn’t think she had said anything strange and the next student began to speak about why he was in the class.

She ventured another peek at Roman, and was startled to find him looking at her. On closer inspection, she guessed that he must be in his early thirties. He was tall for an Italian man, and had a slim build. He had dark, slightly shaggy hair, dark eyes and elegant features that seemed intelligent and serious. She smiled when she saw that his jeans were ironed so crisply that there was a perfectly straight line down the middle of each pant leg.

She wondered why he was still looking at her. Had she said something odd after all?

He gave her a slight smile and a nod, and she felt immediately relieved.

There were only about ten students so the introductions were quickly completed and the instructor began to explain the structure of the class. This time he spoke more slowly, she gratefully assumed, for her benefit.

She was listening intently with one part of her brain, while the other part was wondering about her teacher.

What had Odessa said about him? She searched her brain.

“Signorina Brice?”

Juliette looked up, suddenly aware that she had been caught thinking her own thoughts.

“Si, Signor Capello?” she tried to act as if she had been paying attention but was just confused by the language.

“Will you please answer the question I’ve asked the class?” he looked at her expectantly, but with slight humor because he realized he had unwittingly caught her mind wandering.

“I’m sorry,” she replied in her slow Italian. “Could you please repeat the question for me once again? I didn’t quite understand all of it.”

“Certamente,” he said, and then elaborated, “How do you know if a gorgonzola is ripe?”

“Um,” she stammered. She could answer in English no problem, but it wasn’t so easy in Italian. It took three to five months after the cheese mold was added and the cheese was pierced to increase circulation, but saying “pierced” was beyond her skills in the language and she didn’t think “poked” would do. Nonetheless, she took a deep breath and tried. She was pretty sure the class understood that the stabbing motions she made with her pencil were supposed to represent the piercing of the cheese rounds rather than the possibility that she had a violent streak.

From the encouraging look on her teacher’s face, she guessed he understood what she meant, and soon she was so absorbed in the conversation that she was no longer embarrassed about being caught daydreaming and lacking in fluency.

By the end of the day, she was exhausted yet exhilarated. Thinking in and speaking Italian all day was tiring enough, but add standing while chopping, dicing, grating, crumbling and sautéing and she was ready to relax. Juliette was proud, though. She had made it through her first day, and aside from a few language mishaps and a misconstrued gesture or two, it had gone well. The polenta with gorgonzola they made was superb. It never failed to amaze her when simple foods transcended the everyday and became sublime. She didn’t even like polenta much, but what they had made today was truly delicious.

She was almost to the door, trailing a couple of the other students, when she heard her name called.

“Signorina Brice? Un momento, per favore.” Roman called to her from where he was standing in the kitchen, so she turned back to see what he wanted. Her pulse quickened when she realized he was keeping her to chat a moment.

“How was your first day?” he asked her in English, not looking at her, but gathering printed recipes to put back in his leather satchel.

“Meraviglioso, grazie,” she answered in Italian. Wonderful, thank you. She smiled at him, wondering what else he would say. Roman was the perfect name for him, she thought, because his features were, in fact, classically Roman.

“Keep working on your Italian,” he looked up at her and smiled, “and if there’s something you don’t understand, ask me in English. I can try to make it more clear for you. My English is far from perfect, but between the two of us, we should be able to stumble through.”

“Oh, ok,” she stammered, surprised at the generous offer and the unexpected breadth of his ability to speak English. “Thank you. A domani,” she said. See you tomorrow, and she smiled and waved as she walked out into the cool Italian afternoon.