Cooking With Fernet Branca (16 page)

The
poor
lamb
went
on
like
this
for
ages.
He
was
aching
to
know,
positively
eaten
up
with
curiosity.
In
my
role
as
Ms
Mis
chief,
of
course,
I
just
sat
there
with
an
innocent
look
on
my
face
–
&
as
you
know,
I’m
pretty
good
at
that.
Eventually
he
ran
out
of
possible
identities
for
our
little
brother.

‘Well,
we’re
both
adults,’
he
ended
incontrovertibly
&
opaquely.
‘Have
you
heard
of
Brill?’

The
name
of
a
place?
Something
for
cleaning
saucepans?
I
said
I
hadn’t.

‘I
can’t
say
I’m
surprised‚’
said
Gerry
loftily.
‘No
doubt
in
Voynovia
you
have
a
nationally
famous
balalaika
player
or 
something.
Brill
is
one
of
the
most
famous
pop
stars
in
the
West.
His
real
name,
actually,
is
Nanty
Riah,
but
most
people
don’t
know
that.
I
wasn’t
going
to
tell
you
any
of
this,
of
course,
but
I’m
afraid
you’re
rather
forcing
my
hand.
Well,
that’s
who
my
guest
was
the
other
night.
An
international
celebrity.
And
I’m
not
telling
you
this
for
the
sake
of
boasting
–
I’m
hardly
a
pop
fan
myself.
He
was
here
for
professional
rather
than
social
reasons.
I
was
supposed
to
be
writing
his
life
story.
I
say
“supposed”
because
it’s
no
longer
going
to
happen.
And
it’s
no
longer
going
to
happen
because
your
helicopter
visitor
has
driven
him
away.’

‘He’s
frightened
of
helicopters?’
I
asked.

‘Not
as
such,
probably.
No,
he’s
convinced
your
helicopter
was
a
UFO. UFO?
You
understand,
from
space?
Like
a
flying
saucer?
Martians?’

‘We
call
them
CSU,’
I
said
weakly.

‘Well,
Brill’s
got
a
thing
about
them.
Rightly
or
wrongly,
he’s
convinced
your
visitor
was
from
outer
space.’

I
couldn’t
help
myself,
Mari,
I
simply
howled
with
laughter.
The
idea
of
our
little
Uki
dropping
in
from
Alpha
Centauri …
Half
an
hour
earlier
Gerry
might
have
looked
like
a
cock
on
its
dunghill
but
by
now
I’m
afraid
he
resembled
the
way
our
hens
used
to
look
when
they’d
got
at
those
rotten
plums
in
the
lower
orchard
–
you
remember
how
alcoholic
the
falters
used
to
get
lying
in
the
sun?
He
was
woozy
with
Fernet
&
indignation.
My
laugh
ter
goaded
a
sudden
squawk
out
of
him.

‘Morta!
It’s
all
very
well
your
laughing
but
that’s
my
livelihood
we’re
talking
about.
You
know:
money?
Earning
a
living?
You
might
be
able
to
live
on
a
shoestring
and
faff
around
all
day
with
your
song-thingies
but
we
ordinary
folk
have
to
work.
I
don’t
wish
to
come
all
heavy
but
the
fact
is
this
visitor
of
yours
–
whose
existence
you
so
deny
in
the
face
of
witnesses
–
has
done
me
out
of
a
job.
Not
to
get
all
pompous
about
it,
here
in
Western
Europe
we
might
consider
that
worth
a
legal
enquiry
with
a
view
to
compen
sation
for
loss
of
earnings.’

He
raised
his
hand
as
if
to
forestall
a
protest
I
was
not
about
to
make
&
then
tried
to
perch
himself
on
the
arm
of
the
sofa,
I
suppose 
with
the
idea
of
adopting
an
informal
posture
more
suited
to
a
change
of
conversational
tack.
Unfortunately,
what
with
all
the
Fernet
he
misjudged
it.
His
hip
skidded
off
&
he
collapsed
onto
the
sofa
&
went
‘Ooh!’
Then
he
began
scrabbling
urgently
beneath
him,
his
face
very
red,
&
came
up
with
that
antique
mahogany
metronome
of
mine
that
Father
gave
me
when
I
went
off
to
Moscow.
I
must
have
dumped
it
there
off
the
table
when
the
keyboard
&
computer
arrived
&
some
sheets
had
fallen
over
it.
I
was
wondering
where
it
had
got
to.
These
new
keyboards
turn
out
to
have
built-in
electronic
metronomes
that
go
clack-clack-clack
at
any
speed
you
like
&
I
suppose
pretty
mechanical
metronomes
like
mine
are
now
antiques
&
obsolete.
Still,
I’ve
got
a
soft
spot
for
Father’s
&
evidently
Gerry
had,
too.
I’m
afraid
I
collapsed
again.

‘That’s
a
bloody
dangerous
thing
to
keep
on
a
sofa,’
he
said,
grimacing
&
in
obvious
discomfort.

I
pulled
myself
together
&
hastily
plied
him
with
more
Fernet
‘to
take
the
pain
away’,
as
we
say
to
children,
&
because
he
had
slopped
what
remained
of
his
glassful
all
over
his
shirt.
I
even
offered
to
‘rub
the
place
better’
&
his
face
was
a
picture.

‘Poor
Gerry,’
I
said,
trying
to
sound
contrite.
‘I’m
really
very
sorry.
But
I’m
grateful
to
you
for
finding
it.
It’s
a
genuine
Maelzel
from
Vienna;
1817,
I
believe.’

‘Well,
I
do
hope
I
haven’t
damaged
it,’
he
said,
heavily
ironic
&
still
very
tensed
about
the
thighs.

‘I’ve
been
thinking,
Gerry.
Maybe
a
fence
isn’t
a
bad
idea
after
all.
I
tell
you
what:
if
you’d
like
to
do
some
research
and
find
out
roughly
how
much
it’s
going
to
cost
I
shall
be
happy
to
go
halves
with
you.
After
all,
we’re
friends
as
well
as
neighbours.’

At
this
he
perked
up.
‘Really?
You’re
sure?’
Clearly
he’d
been
expecting
bitter
resistance
&
was
surprised
by
my
sudden
capitu
lation.
To
be
frank,
Mari,
I’d
suddenly
realized
how
inconvenient
it
would
be
to
let
a
neighbour
stew
to
the
point
where
he
starts
wanting
to
sue
me
for
damage
to
his
livelihood,
to
say
nothing
of
his
bottom.
As
our
family
history
brilliantly
shows,
it
pays
to
know
when
to
be
emollient
as
well
as
tough.
So
there
we
left
it.
Gerry
went
off
again,
walking
stiffly,
to
get
estimates
for
the
fence
while
I
made
myself
some
coffee
to
recover
from
his
visit.