Cooking With Fernet Branca (4 page)

Dearest
Marja

Greetings
from
your
exiled
sister,
‘who
holds
precious
thoughts
of
you
&
the
family
as
it
were
a
wren’s
egg
in
her
palm
…’
Do
you
remember?
That’s
how
Grandmother
Vrilja
taught
us
we
should
always
start
our
letters,
all
in
that
old
High
Voyde
style.
There
was
something
else,
too,
about
Mt
Sluszic
continuing
to
stand
guard
over
our
clan
&
lands,
but
I
forget
it
exactly.
Perhaps
that
was
the
correct
formula
for
ending
letters,
not
starting
them?

So
here
is
a
progress
report
on
my
‘crazy
damned
career’,
as
our
beloved
father
calls
it.
I
do
hope
things
have
become
easier
now
I’ve
left.
I
dread
to
hear
that
he’s
still
going
around
the
castle
in
a
black
cloud,
kicking
the
dogs
&
shouting
at
poor
Mili.
Anyway,
I
shall
leave
it
to
your
discretion
how
much
of
my
letters
you
actually
read
to
him.
His
not
being
a
reading
man
is
rather
fortunate
in
some
ways,
ek ni?
(as
the
woodcutters
say.)
Our
menfolk
hold
our
clan’s
fortunes
in
their
hands,
not
flimsy
pieces
of
paper 
–
it’s
true!
But
it’s
also
true
we
women
can
write
things
among
our
selves
that
the
men
have
no
need
to
know.

I
have
settled
in
perfectly
well
here,
as
I
knew
I
should 
–
thanks
in
no
small
part
to
the
bank
account
dear
Ljuka
arranged
for
me
in
Viareggio.
How
is
he,
by
the
way?
Are
his
clothes
still
full
of
Makarov
pistols
when
you
hug
him?
Our
little
brother!
And
he
used
to
be
so
delicate,
too.
He
certainly
came
back
from
the
army
a
changed
boy.
I
think
this
place
would
please
you,
although
Ljuka
pretends
to
find
it
peasant-like
&
infra dig
in
order
to
give
himself
the
airs
befitting
someone
of
his
rising
eminence
in
the
clan.
Secretly,
though,
I
know
he’s
charmed:
it
reminds
us
of
that
house
at
Bolk
we
loved
so
much
on
those
fishing
holidays,
even
though
there’s
no
river
here.
But
there
are
great
crags
&
views
as
well
as
silences 
patrolled
by
eagles.
I
feel
sure
I
shall
fulfil
my
ambition
here 
&
do
some
commendable
work
&,
despite
Father’s
misgivings,
will
bring
honour
to
our
family
name.
I’ve
already
had
such
a
nice
letter
from
Piero
Pacini
welcoming
me
to
Italy
&
saying
he
can’t
wait
to
get
started.
That’s
the
sort
of
encouragement
a
girl
needs!
He’s
terribly
famous
here 
–
the
film
director
of
the
moment.

Despite
that,
I’m
afraid
I’ve
allowed
myself
to
become
a
bit
distracted 
–
no,
diverted
would
be
more
accurate
–
by
the
oddest
neighbour
imaginable.
Yes,
I
know
what
you’re
going
to
say:
that
plausible
little
house
agent
Signor
Benedetti
told
Ljuka
&
me
the
other
house
was
owned
by
a
foreigner
who
was
only
ever
here
one
month
in
the
year.
Well,
we
may
yet
need
to
have
recourse
to
some
lesson-teaching
where
that
rogue
is
concerned.
Anyway,
this
neigh
bour
is
an
Englishman
with
a
little
paunch
&
one
of
those
strange
empty
trouser-seats
that
always
suggest
an
amputated
bottom.
They
may
be
an
English
speciality.
His
name
is
Gerald
Samper
&
he’s
truly
comic.
I
thought
it
would
be
neighbourly
to
pay
him
a
visit
&
introduce
myself,
so
I
picked
up
a
bottle
&
went
over.
I
found
him
up
a
ladder,
very
pink
and
sweaty.
He
was
obviously
put
out
by
the
interruption,
quite
enough
to
make
me
want
to
stay
for
a
bit.
Late
thirties,
at
a
guess,
but
there’s
something
elderly
about
him
so
I
could
believe
ten
years
older.
Almost
certainly
dudi,
I
should
say,
as
well
as
alcoholic,
for
he
seized
the
bottle
(it
was
an
aperitif
called
Fernet
Branca
 
–
a
rather
insipid
version
of
that
galasiya
our
hunters
drink)
with
the
offhand
alacrity
of
the
seasoned
toper
&
started
pouring.
You
know
how
it
is
with
real
drinkers 
–
that
way
they
have
of
always
pouring
about
an
inch
more
into
their
own
glass
than
into
everyone
else’s
as
if
by
accident?
It’s
a
dead
giveaway.

Well,
I
mustn’t
be
unfair
to
poor
Gerald
 
–
though
don’t
ask
me
why.
I
must
admit
things
aren’t
helped
by
my
inadequate
English
but
something
about
him
makes
it
even
worse
than
usual
&
I
can
hear
myself
sounding
like
a
caricature
foreigner.
Too
infuriating
but
I
suppose
it’s
not
his
fault.
Really,
though,
I
suspect
he’s
the
sort
of
person
you
can
fathom
without
words.
I
mean
to
say,
he’s
just
the
complete
dudi,
like
that
sad
teacher
who
tried
to
follow
Ljuka
around
until
Father
had
Captain
Panic
pay
him
a
visit.
Gerald
sings
as
he
does
his
housework:
squally
arias
from,
I
should
think,
wholly
imaginary
Italian
operas.
At
any
rate
I
don’t
recog
nize
them.
But
even
without
understanding
everything
he
says
I’m
sure
I
get
his
gist:
petty
&
snobbish
with
a
kind
of
dandyish
disdain.
Dandyish!
With
that
bottom
&
the
thinning
hair!
Poor
love!
He
was
sitting
there
pretending
he’d
never
heard
of
Voynovia
to
try
&
make
me
feel
like
a
nobody
from
Central
Europe,
can
you
imagine?
I’ve
no
idea
what
he
does
for
a
living,
although
he
claims
to
write
a
bit.
I’ve
got
him
down
as
one
of
those
dilettante
types
who
dabble
in
this
&
that.

I
do
wish
you
could
have
seen
us,
Mari.
There
I
was
at
his
kitchen
table,
taking
the
occasional
sip
&
trying
to
make
bright,
cheerful
conversation.
And
there
he
was,
knocking
back
this
Fernet
stuff
which,
after
half
a
bottle,
began
to
have
a
noticeable
effect.
Funniest
of
all,
every
time
I
reached
over
to
refill
his
glass
or
our
hands
touched
by
accident
he
shied
away
as
though
I
might
launch
myself
at
him,
pin
him
to
the
floor
&
ravish
him.
It
made
me
laugh
a
lot
&
I
was
tempted
to
try
it
just
to
see
his
horror.
I’m
sure
it
would
have
blown
all
his
fuses.