Cooking With Fernet Branca (20 page)

No matter how dubious the enterprise on which you’re embarked, you can’t beat the red-carpet treatment. I fizzed across the Alps from Pisa and was met at Munich airport by a Bavarian fixer with a turd-coloured Mercedes limo. There-after I was wafted to a hotel. Asked to guess, I might have imagined the Kempinski Four Seasons or the Bayerischer Hof would be adequate lodging for a ghost writer. To my surprise and pleasure we drove through the old city on the inner ring
road straight towards the Hofbräuhaus, by which time I realized Nanty’s minions had booked me into the Hotel Rafael.

My suite would have made the Centre Court at Wimbledon look poky. And until the words ‘by their fruits ye shall know them’ popped into my head it hadn’t occurred to me that St Matthew had divided his time between being an Apostle and being a researcher for the
Guide
Michelin
, for his observation is that of a seasoned traveller. Whereas in most hotels the complimentary fruit basket contains the bananas, oranges, apples and flavour-free grapes recently relieved from a long spell of duty on the dessert trolley in the restaurant downstairs, that of the Hotel Rafael was full of rambutans, mangoes, passion fruit, guavas, soursops, pomeloes and the fabled Nepalese persimmon.

In an envelope propped on my pillow in a nest of Mozartkugeln was a note from Nanty and a ticket for next evening’s farewell Freewayz gig in the Olympiahalle. The note suggested we meet on the hotel roof after dinner for a swim. In due course I ate in the restaurant, one of those meals one only ever eats in a first-class hotel when someone else is footing the bill. There was a little too much of everything and I had the unsettling feeling that it was improper to read and eat at the same time. As a matter of fact, reading a book over a solitary evening meal in a foreign restaurant is normally one of my greatest pleasures, following the particular enjoyment of choosing a meal from a menu in a language I can’t understand. Not knowing what I shall shortly be eating is just as exciting as not knowing what I shall be reading in half a chapter’s time. The most extraordinary things arrive at the table, like the ‘gourmet’ dish I didn’t realize I had ordered in Romania and which seemed to consist of tubing and flames, a sort of urinary tract flambé. It was full of Georgian brandy and rather good. I also well remember a meal in Dakar last year (Per Snoilsson was awarding prizes in the Paris-Dakar rally) which began with fig blancmange, went on to a soup that tasted agreeably of roast bricks, and ended with a
deep-fried camel harness that was unaccountably delicious. You never can tell. Adventure – that’s what I crave; and the older I get the fewer the lines I draw.

This dinner, though, was a little too perfect, too comprehensible (menu in English, English-speaking waiters), and it was plain that the Hotel Rafael’s guests didn’t much like surprises. There were also too many men with starched shirtfronts hanging about, waiting to scurry at my behest. No sooner had I become engrossed in chapter 2 than I could feel their accusing eyes on me and would look up guiltily as though I were deeply insulting the chef by not giving his creations my fullest attention. The result was that I couldn’t really enjoy either book or meal. After the joys of Alien Pie (half of which was waiting for me in a fridge up a mountainside three hundred miles away) there was something depressingly
ordinary
about this five-star meal.

I always think rooftop swimming pools have a cachet all their own. For one thing, they represent a rigid digit waved gaily in the face of all human intuition and convention. The abominable folk wisdom of the human race just
knows
that pools of water form in holes in the ground. Nonsense, says technology, and promptly builds them in mid-air above historic city centres. This architectural chutzpah pays off by providing a genuinely new kind of experience – in this case lying afloat high above Munich’s Altstadt on a hot summer’s night. Each time I belched, a faint cloud of white wine and
Sp
ä
tzle
drifted aromatically away. I decided I loved Bavaria. My only worry concerned my rented swimming trunks. These were made of an over-elasticated material and clenched me in a manner that did nothing for my profile, as I had observed with a pang in a mirror by the changing rooms. Somehow they made my derrière vanish almost entirely. A cruel illusion, and I –

‘Gerry, hi there! You made it!’

A small Olympic swimmer surfaced next to me complete with racing cap and almond-lensed goggles.

‘Nanty,’ I gasped, spluttering. ‘Good to see you. Wow – dig the racing cap.’

‘It’s getting old, that joke,’ he said, briefly dipping his face beneath the surface and enabling me to view his clearly naked scalp. Oh God, not again. He came up with a smirk. ‘Dig the trunks.’

‘This underwater lighting produces some very odd distortions,’ I told him earnestly.

‘What you don’t see is what you get,’ he said, and laughed.

Was there just a smidgin of cruelty here or was he just trying to be witty, a job far better left to Samper? ‘You sound like an AIDS awareness poster.’

‘I was quoting. It’s the title of one of our biggest hits. You really, really don’t know anything about the biz, do you? It’s great. It’s like coming across an undiscovered tribe. Come and meet the boys.’

I had already noticed a group of likely lads sitting with some girls in one corner at a table covered in costly bottles. From a distance they looked reasonably harmless. Not actually cute, perhaps, but at least professionally winsome, like the Osmonds as I could dimly remember them from my infancy. I could tell that alcohol was rapidly eroding this patina to expose a solid stratum of brattishness. Now and then a raucous, champagne-fuelled laugh went ricocheting round the pool, for the rich we have always with us. (You’re beginning to wonder about my easy lapses into Biblical knowledge? Wonder no more. My wicked stepmother Laura – she of the spotted bottom and frizzy hair – belongs to an evangelical sect and I grew up to scriptural quotations.) I hauled myself out, bathrobed myself securely and followed Nanty. He introduced me to Sput, Zig, Johnny and Petey. Sput had touched up his acne with dabs of Zitaway, nearly invisible to all but Samper’s practised eye. Petey was trying to grow a moustache and wore the same sloppy expression as the others, which I recognized easily as that of people whose facial muscles are becoming temporarily paralysed by alcohol.

‘Petey’s our bass player, best in the biz. Zig’s keyboards, Split’s drums. Johnny and me just fill in. Okay, the girls. This is Mel, Moonshine, Lissa, er, Beate? And Lisbeth?’

These last two, who looked young enough to be at home doing their homework, were clearly local girls signed on for the occasion. I filed them all away as best I could as I stood dripping beside the table. So this was a boy band off duty? True, once I’d troubled to see beyond the slightly ageing effects of drunkenness I could appreciate they were all quite young. None of them struck me as outstandingly good-looking but that was probably quite deliberate. It was the boy-next-door looks that had the widest appeal. Even so, we were a long way from Sunnydale. The ghost of Fothermuckers was beginning to materialize, with its hint of pubic lice and promise of blowing chunks into hotel swimming pools. Petey’s tattooed arm thrust an open bottle of champagne at me. I noticed that it was by no means The Champagne Top Drivers Squirt, being a vintage effort by the widow Clicquot. Nothing but the best for these lads. Well, I was an old hand at this when-in-Rome lark. We Sampers are veritable chameleons. I took a respectable swig from the bottle. Then another.

The evening became increasingly blurred. I remembered bottles smashing. I remembered many more arriving at the table together with more girls and people I took to be groupies and road managers or something. A good deal of skinny dipping took place. I remembered squeezing Mel’s behind experimentally, and then my own surreptitiously, to reassure myself that it was merely a matter of my swimming costume. And I remembered Mel giggling as Nanty came over and said, ‘I see you’ve met the wife.’

‘You’re not
married
?’

‘Why not? Sure, not where the fans are concerned, we’re not. But in the real world yeah, Mel and me’ve been together six years now. She’s my guru.’

‘Golly, not the vegan queen?’

‘Oh bollocks!’ said Mel, maybe cheerfully, and pushed me backwards into the pool clutching a champagne bottle.

It all went on a long time, I think. Once the skinny dipping had begun most of the hotel’s other guests willingly abandoned the pool to Freewayz and their entourage so the general boisterousness and noise were largely contained on the rooftop. Some meaty young men in jeans hovered in the background trying not to look like bouncers. At one point one of them rescued either Lisbeth or Beate from a watery grave. The Hotel Rafael was on top of it all, clearly used to these celebrity goings-on. As Nanty observed, when you’ve had Mick Jagger and the Stones staying many times, to say nothing of Rod Stewart, you learn to roll with the punches. In my function as fact-gatherer I strolled about, now admiring Munich’s skyline (particularly the Olympic Tower, which more or less marked the site of next evening’s gig) or else the Roman bathtime cavortings with what I hoped was the benign half-smile of an older brother. I’m afraid I became what Nanty had called ‘totally stocious’.

Some time in the small hours I drifted down to my suite on a cloud and found Mel in my bed, fast asleep.

Dearest
Marja

Your call the other evening was a lovely surprise. As I told you, from time to time I’d been looking up from work thinking ‘Why don’t they ever ring me? Why does it always have to be me that takes the initiative?’ but I wasn’t including you in that, my love, just the men, just our brother and father … Of course you were right
–
it’s partly Voynovian males being Voynovian males & this image they have of the phone only being good for barking orders down. Any other use such as long gossipy calls keeping in touch with family & friends is strictly for women. Inevitably Pacini’s film makes it easy to visualize: a young woman in a silk nightdress
–
probably a countess
–
curled up on her vast double bed amid rumpled pillows in mid-morning (read: after a night of passion), gossiping to her cronies about her husband’s impotence & her latest lover’s performance, the fingers of her hand sunk deep in the crisp white curls of a toy poodle … A dated male fantasy,
Der Rosenkavalier
meets
telefoni bianchi.
I
bet
that’s
still
Father’s
image
&
it
could
even
be
Ljuka’s
as
well
Incredible.

But I think the real reason they won’t call me is more awkward. Because I’ve gone abroad they imagine it’s me who’s rejected them so it must be up to me to get in touch & reassure them I still love them. A girl’s job. Something like that, do you reckon? And that in turn covers up for Father’s phobia of telephones & especially of calling abroad & perhaps getting the wrong number or someone who doesn’t speak Voysk or even
–
my God!
–
somebody who doesn’t know who he is. Honestly, it’s so damned
feeble!

Anyway,
thanks
to
your
last
call
(&
far
from
taking
it
on
a
poodle-strewn
bed
I
was
in
the
kitchen
mending
that
lovely
little
metronome
Father
gave
me
for
the
Conservatory
and
which
Gerry 
had
drunkenly
sat
on,
knocking
off
one
of
the
tiny
marquetry
pan
els
from
the
tip
of
the
case)
I
can
quite
see
this
news
about
the
date
for
Voynovia’s
joining
the
EU
will
have
given
Father
more
urgent
things
to
worry
about
than
daughters
who
defect
abroad
to
write
pornographic
movies.
I
think
you’re
right.
Parts
of
the
EU
are
vaguely
law-abiding,
others
more
patchily
so,
but
all
are
bureau
cratically
self-pleased.
Either
way
it
will
inevitably
mean
the
clan’s
old
high-handedness
having
to
be
moderated
to
some
degree.
Perhaps
this
seems
more
obvious
to
someone
living
abroad?
Maybe
Father
will
have
to
retire
to
somewhere
like
Marbella?
Or
rather
no,
not
there.
Apparently
it’s
full
of
Russian
mafiosi,
half
of
them
ex-KGB
officers
whom
Father
no
doubt
knew
in
the
OKU.

These
are
things
I
can’t
say
to
you
over
the
phone,
my
dear,
you
know
why.
I
also
like
writing
these
letters
to
you.
In
a
funny
sort
of
way
I
feel
closer
to
you
when
writing
than
I
do
talking
on
the
phone 
–
explain
that
if
you
can:
definitely
uncontessa-ish.
(Inci
dentally,
I
was
a
bit
surprised
the
other
night
to
hear
you
say
my
voice
sounded
‘slurred’.
I
most
certainly
was
not
drunk.
I
think
there’s
something
the
matter
with
this
line
up
here
in
the
moun
tains.
I’ve
noticed
it
before.)
In
any
case,
the
important
thing
is
my
premonitions
grow
stronger
that
something’s
going
to
happen 
–
or
at
least
going
to
change 
–
& I
really
wish
you’d
come
here.
You
could
use
this
house
as
a
base
for
as
long
as
you
wanted
–
you
absolutely
would
not
be
in
my
way
or
‘disturbing’
my
work
as
you
sweetly
put
it.
It’s
so
lovely
here,
relaxed
&
civilized.
Listen
to
me
Mari:
I
truly
think
you’ll
have
to
make
a
break
sooner
rather
than
later.
I
increasingly
feel
we
two
daughters
must
make
our
own
way
in
the
world,
otherwise
we
will
always
be
compromised.

Are
you
shocked?
I
mean,
by
a
sort
of
distance
you
can
feel
opening
up
between
me
&
the
family?
I
am.
I
admit
it.
I
feel
I’ve
changed
quite
a
lot
since
coming
out
here,
&
entirely
for
the
better.
Who
knows
where
this
‘career’
of
mine
will
lead,
if
anywhere?
But
it’s
making
me
feel
truly
independent
for
the
first
time
–
I
never
did
in
Moscow 
–
or
at
least
the
mistress
of
my
own
fate.
It’s
exhilarating.
Dear
Mari,
you’re
so
talented
I
just
know
you’ll
have
no
problems
here.
That
gift
of
yours
for
languages
means
you
can
head
in
practically
any
direction.
It’s
so
enviable,
&
never
a
day
goes
by
as
I
struggle
with
Italian
or
English
when
I’m
not
jealous
of
you
&
your
facility.
Really,
my
only
fluent
language
is
music.
I
think
my
Italian
probably
is
becoming
fairly
reasonable
now
altho’
I
catch
myself
in
the
most
awful
lapses.
The
other
day
I
heard
myself
ask
Pacini
‘Cos’ hai fattato?’
I
mean,
can
you
imagine,
after
all
those
conversation
sessions
with
la
Santoliquido
in
Voynograd 
–
the
poor
thing
would
have
a
fit.
It’s
pure
baby-talk:
‘What
have
you
didded?’
No
wonder
he
laughed
&
laid
his
hand
rather
intensely
on
my
arm.
He
must
have
thought
I
was
ironizing
our
intimacy
(which
of
course
exists
only
at
the
professional
level
of
getting
his
film
successfully
into
the
can,
but
he’s
galant).
And
as
for
my
English,
I’m
afraid
I
probably
sound
like
a
dudi,
altho’
it’s
true
I
have
no
idea
if
Gerry
himself
sounds
like
one.
I’m
just
assuming,
which
I
probably
shouldn’t.

Great
excitement
here
a
few
days
ago.
Pacini
decided
he
wanted
to
shoot
my
house
for
a
scene
in
the
film
involving
a
fisherman
and
his
wife.
He
saw
the
place
some
time
ago
&
thought
it
just
right
in
its
unreconstructed,
time-warped
squalor
(like
its
inhabitant).
At
the
time
I
said
Why
not?
without
really
thinking.
But
really,
filming’s
no joke.
Had
I
known
how
much
time
it
would
involve
(3
days!),
not
to
mention
invasion
&
the
turning
upside
down
of
all
one’s
private
stuff,
I
would
have
told
Piero
to
go
off
and
build
a
set.
Anyway,
it’s
over
now.
For
a
while,
though,
there
was
endless
noise
&
bustle
outside
as
they
were
setting
up
establishing
shots
of
the
exterior
–
you
wouldn’t
believe
the
cranes
&
dollies
&
lights
&
cables
&
clutter
&
technicians
wandering
about
with
a
sandwich
in
one
hand
and
a
screwdriver
in
the
other
looking
for
something
to
screw.
Mercifully
Gerry
turned
out
to
be
away
&
has
been
for
almost
a
week
now
so
far
as
I
can
tell.
I
don’t
know
why
I’ve
got
an
uneasy
feeling
about
him,
&
his
absence
makes
me
wonder
if
he
really
mightn’t
be
seeing
lawyers.
Did
I
tell
you
he’s
claiming
Uki’s
helicopter
scared
off
his
alleged
celebrity
client?
He
sort
of
implied
he
might
have
to
‘consider’
legal
action.
Silly
pompous
man 
–
the
fuss
he
makes
over
trivia.
But
I
guess
that
comes
with
the
type.
Plus,
of
course,
Gerry’s
real
problem
is
he’s
bored
(&
drunk 
&
lonely)
&
it’s
only
the
bored
who
have
the
time
&
energy
to
waste
dreaming
up
vengeful
legal
actions
that
couldn’t
possibly
succeed.
All
the
same,
as
I
say,
I’m
uneasy
but
quite
glad
he
wasn’t
around
this
week.
For
one
thing,
I
shouldn’t
have
been
able
to
keep
him
away
from
the
house.
The
great
Piero
Pacini
alone
would
have
been
enough
to
guarantee
Gerry’s
hanging
around,
probably
with
supplies
of
bizarre
snacks
from
his
kitchen
to
excuse
his
presence.
But
add
to
that
filming
&
muscular
young
technicians
wandering
around
without
their
shirts
on
…
Surely
irresistible
to
the
Gerrys
of
this
world.