Cooking With Fernet Branca (10 page)

We
talked
in
that
mixture
of
English
&
Italian
I’m
beginning
to
get
the
hang
of
–
those
lessons
in
Voynograd
with
Signora
Santoliquido
were
really
useful.
Then
Pacini
asked
me
to
play
what
music
I’d
written
so
far
for
the
film,
which
was
mostly
the
atmospheric
stuff
inspired
by
my
visit
to
Pisorno
Studios.
So
I
obliged
on
the
piano
&
I
must
say
he
was
very
flattering,
said
it
was
absolutely
right
for
what
he’d
got
in
mind,
&
could
I
think
about
inventing
a
suitable
‘sound’for
each
of
the
main
characters?
It’s
the
Peter & the Wolf
approach
to
film
scoring.
Apparently
Italian
directors
of
his
generation
are
famous
for
doing
everything
post-production.
They
shoot
a
zillion
metres
of
film
&
then
spend 
months
in
editing
suites
&
dubbing
sessions
because
they
don’t
like
doing
voices
live.
That’s
when
the
music
usually
gets
written,
to
fit
the
cuts.
But
Pacini’s
different.
He’s
like
Leone:
he
likes
to
get
the
music
written
upfront
&
recorded
so
he
can
play
it
while
they’re
shooting
to
establish
the
mood
of
each
scene
for
the
actors.
I
think
it’s
a
brilliant
approach
&
I
wish
Vasily
had
done
that
with
Vauli M.
&
made
an
even
better
film.

Now
I’ve
got
a
script
to
work
from
&
Pacini
has
sent
all
sorts
of
computer
gear
to
help
me
record
it
as
soon
as
I
write
it
&
send
it
off
to
him
for
his
reaction.
I
told
him
I
couldn’t
understand
the
equipment
so
he’s
promised
to
send
me
a
tame
geek
or
nerd
to
teach
me.
I
can’t
remember
if
I’ve
already
told
you
that
Gerry,
my
dudi
neighbour,
has
unwittingly
provided
me
with
one
of
the
film’s
defining
sounds?
He
compulsively 
–
&
repulsively 
–
sings
as
he
works 
–
sort
of pastichey,
bogus,
all-purpose
sub-Rossini
ramblings
with
a
characteristic
yodelling
effect
that
is
absolutely
perfect
for
my
score.
Pretentious,
vapid
&
amateurishly
earnest.
Piero
said
it
was
a
brilliant
inspiration.
Unfortunately
I
couldn’t
tell
him
I’d
stolen
it
from
the
Englishman
next
door:
I
want
to
keep
Gerry
very
much
at
arm’s
length
&
certainly
well
away
from
Pacini.
I
just
know
he’s
one
of
those
showbiz
groupies
who,
once
he
gets
wind
of
what
I’m
working
on,
will
never
leave
me
alone
for
a
minute.
Just
let
him
learn
that
Piero
Pacini
has
dropped
by
&
he’ll
be
over
here
every
other
hour
trying
to
borrow
a
cup
of
Fernet
Branca
(his
preferred
tipple)
or
else
bringing
me
some
inedible
example
of
British
cuisine.
Story
follows,
incidentally,
after
I’ve
had
a
shower
&
a
break.

But
to
round
off,
the
Pacinis
stayed
late
&
were
excellent
com
pany.
As
I
said,
Filippo
may
be
a
bit
figlio di papà
but
he’s
growing
on
me.
He’s
certainly
a
very
handsome
creature
even
if
the
dash
he
cuts
in
that
ludicrous
car
is
over
the
top.
He
really
does
look
like
a
celebrated
film
director’s
spoiled
brat,
but
there’s
more
to
him
than
that,
I
think.
He
has
nice
manners
&
pretty
ears.
He
&
Dad
roared
off
together
in
the
small
hours
leaving
a
strange
silence
behind
them
in
the
house,
although
less
so
out
side.
Long
after
they’d
gone
I
could
hear
that
burping
snarly 
noise
Filippo
likes
to
make
on
the
corners
dying
away
further
&
further
below.
I
bet
they
woke
everyone
in
Casoli
as
they
passed
through.

Later

I
now
smell
of
rosemary,
having
used
that
shower
gel
you
gave
me.
It
made
me
all
nostalgic.
I
really
do
miss
you
&
am
determined
you
shall
come
here
as
soon
as
possible.

Apart
from
anything
else
you
would
get
a
big
laugh
from
Gerry,
who
nearly
came
to
grief
terminally
the
other
day.
It
was
lucky
for
him
I
happened
to
catch
sight
of
him
in
‘off
to
work’
mode,
yodelling
away
in
the
campest
outfit
you
ever
saw:
yellow
con
struction
worker’s
hat,
thick
leather
toolbelt
holding
up
his
shorts
&
toting
a
crowbar
he
could
barely
lift.
He
could
have
strolled
unnoticed
onto
the
set
of
any
gay
porno
movie.
I
happened
to
know
he
also
had
most
of
a
bottle
of
Fernet
Branca
inside
him.
So
there
he
is
in
the
distance
warbling
&
striding
off
to
work
like
Disney’s
eighth
dwarf
–
call
him
Doody,
what
else? 
–
& he
disappears
around
the
corner
of
his
house.
Stage
wait.
Then
a
wail
like
Callas
being
goosed
followed
by
a
distant
crash.
Well,
you
know
me:
we’re
none
of
us
exactly
neighbourly
by
instinct
but
I
can’t
resist
a
laugh,
so
I
grabbed
a
bottle
of
medicinal
brandy
&
hurried
over.
At
first
I
couldn’t
see
anyone
but
then
I
made
out
his
yellow
hat.
He
was
lying
right
down
below
on
an
overgrown
terrace
in
a
heap
of
mouldy
planking.
He
looked
quite
dead,
actually,
&
I
wasn’t
too
keen
to
go
down,
but
then
I
saw
him
twitching
so
felt
obliged.
When
I
got
there
he
had
his
hat
over
his
face
&
seemed
to
be
knocked
out
but
when
I
removed
the
hat
he
came
to.
I
knew
he’d
be
all
right
then
because
the
first
thing
he
did
was
blaspheme
quite
inventively
(I
think)
&
reach
for
the
bottle
I’d
brought
–
not
good
Voynovian
slivovitz,
I’m
afraid,
but
more
to
his
taste.

Eventually
I
got
him
back
up
to
his
house
&
into
bed.
Remind
me
to
tell
you
some
day
about
this
house
of
his.
For
the
moment
it’s
enough
to
say
that
I
glimpsed
a
teddy
bear
wearing
a
blue
waistcoat
sitting
on
the
cistern
in
the
downstairs
lavatory.
That 
will
tell
you
all
you
need
to
know.
The
next
morning
I
called
around
with
home-made
kasha
to
aid
recovery.
You
can’t
say
I
shan’t
be
going
to
heaven.
He
was
a
bit
stiff
but
there
was
nothing
wrong
with
his
appetite.
He
said
he’d
been
demolishing
an
old
lavatory
that
had
collapsed
with
him
inside
it.
‘Of
course,
Gerry,’
I
said
soothingly.
A
likely
tale.
You
don’t
wear
a
tool
belt
to
knock
down
a
flimsy
old
hut.
No,
I
think
he
was
going
to
mess
about
with
the
fussy
little
balustrade
he’s
put
up
along
the
edge
of
his
terrace,
lost
his
footing
in
his
alcoholic
stupor,
crashed
down
onto
the
hut
&
took
the
whole
lot
with
him
to
the
bottom.
He’s
lucky
to
be
alive.
One
of
his
eyes
was
slightly
black
&
he
looked
so
pathetic
sitting
there
woozily
eating
kasha
like
an
obedient
small
boy
in
a
nursery
I
suddenly
couldn’t
help
feeling
sorry
for
him.
Stranded
up
here
in
mid-life,
blundering
around
in
DIY
outfits
in
a
daze
of
alcohol
while
singing
fake
arias,
I
mean
excuse
me.
He
really
is
none
of
my
business
and
quite
awful.
As
a
matter
of
fact
his
singing
was
so
obtrusive
the
other
day
my
lineage
asserted
itself
&
I
wrote
that
little
rodent
Benedetti
a
good
strong
letter.
I
told
him
bluntly
he
had
shamelessly
lied
&
that
the
neighbour
who
was
‘only
ever
here
one
month
of
the
year’
was
in
fact
a
permanent
&
highly
irritating
fixture.
Still,
after
Gerry’s
accident
I’ve
repented
somewhat
&
now
feel
sorry
I
sent
the
letter.
I
think
Gerry
is
disturbed
in
some
way.
Perhaps
it’s
this
that
manages
to
press
a
maternal
button
deeply
hidden
inside
me.
But
it’s
a
very
small
button
&
only
connected
to
some
extremely
basic
circuitry.