Cooking With Fernet Branca (9 page)

Dearest
Marja

Many
thanks
for
your
amusing
letter.
Father
doesn’t
change,
does
he?
Talk
about
Mt
Sluszic!
Your
story
of
the
policemen
reminds
me
of
that
night
we
were
sent
to
bed
early
&
Mili
was
ordered
to
close
our
shutters,
remember?
Heavy
engines,
a
burst
of
shooting
&
that
horrid
screaming.
Then
next
morning
a
landscape
innocent
as
dawn.
The
estate
clean
as
a
pin,
not
a
tyre
mark
anywhere,
looking
as
though
nothing
had
changed
for
200
years.
The
only
way
you
could
tell
something
had
happened
was
by
Father’s
black
rage
that
they
should
have
behaved
like
that
on
our
ancestral
prop
erty.
Well,
by
all
accounts
they
paid
for
it
later
in
Marseilles
&
Trieste,
although
I
definitely
do
not
wish
to
know
the
details.

But
darling
Marja,
for
heaven’s
sake
don’t
imagine
that
just
because
I’ve
gone
away
for
a
bit
&
am
trying
to
make
my
own
life
I’m
forgetting
my
own
sister
or
else
repudiating
the
family.
You’re
constantly
in
my
thoughts,
my
love,
especially
now
Father’s
sounding
so
heavy
handed
about
you
&
Timi.
We’ve
known
Timi
since
we
were
all
kids.
Remember
what
the
huntsmen
say
about
wild
piglets
not
growing
up
into
stags?
Once
a
boar,
always
a
boar.
Yes,
we
know
his
attractions
–
God
knows
he
showed
us
them
often
enough
up
at
Bolk 
–
but
we’ve
grown
up
since
then
&
your
feelings
about
him
tally
exactly
with
mine,
I
assure
you.
Go
along
with
Father’s
plan
&
marry
the
man
&
you’ll
be
waking
up
with
a
snout
&
bristles
on
the
pillow
beside
you.
You
worry
me
when
you
say
you
think
Father’s
holding
you
hostage
there
against
my
return.
Surely
not?
I’m
certain
his
reason
for
not
wanting
you
to
go
abroad
yet
is
partly
because
you’re
so
young
(
by
his
old-fashioned
standards,
I
mean.
In
some
ways
22
is
young…
although
it’s
sure
as
hell
old
enough
not
to
get
hitched
to
Timi
). 
This
new
boy
you
met
in
Voynograd,
Mekmek,
sounds
fun.
Let’s
see
how
things
go
in
the
next
few
weeks.
Maybe
with
our
baby
brother’s
help
we
can
smuggle
you
out
of
purdah,
assuming
Ljuka
hasn’t
lost
his
independence
too.
He’s
becoming
awfully
like
Father
in
some
ways.

Things
are
moving
along
excitingly
here.
A
few
days
ago
I
had
a
call
from
the
boy
racer,
Filippo 
Pacini,
to
say
he
wanted
to
come
up
&
see
me.
An
hour
later
with
a
sudden
roaring
there
was
his
exotic
car
with
him
at
the
wheel
& …
his
father
climbing
out!
The
great
Piero
Pacini
himself
had
come
to
see
how
his
little
Voyde
composer
was
getting
on.
We
drank
iced
slivovitz
in
the
kitchen
while
he
reminisced
at
length
about
cutting
his
filmic
teeth
on
location
in
Spain
with
Sergio
Leone
in
the
sixties.
I
hadn’t
realized
what
shoestring
budgets
those
first
spaghetti
westerns
were
made
on.
Peanuts,
really.
Pacini
was
very
lowly
then,
of
course,
just
start
ing
out,
but
working
on
A Fistful of Dollars
was
a
pretty
good
way
to
learn
the
trade
because
everything
was
improvised
&
you
might
find
yourself
having
to
play
an
extra
in
the
morning
&
in
the
afternoon
looking
for
a
suitable
tree
in
the
desert
from
which
to
hang
someone.
Pacini
periodically
broke
off
to
pay
me
small
com
pliments
with
that
Italian
male
gallantry
that
to
us
often
looks
a
bit
smarmy
but
in
his
case
really
isn’t.
They’d
brought
me
all
sorts
of
little
gifts
including,
curiously
enough,
a
bottle
of
Fernet
Branca
&
kilos
of
the
most
fabulous
florentines
that
must
have
cost 
–
but
what
the
hell
does
it
matter
what
they
cost?
I’m
now
moving
in
circles
where
people
fly
to
New
York
for
a
haircut
&
drive
De
Tomaso
Panteras.

‘
I
love
the
way
you
live,
Marta,’
Piero
said
loyally,
looking
around
at
the
cobwebs
&
laundry
(well,
I’m
not
about
to
clean
the
house
&
mend
my
sluttish
ways
just
because
a
world-famous
film
director
might
drop
in).
‘I
really
like
it
that
you
foreigners
come
here
&
rescue
our
old
houses
by
leaving
them
as
they
are.
Well,
sometimes
you
do.
But
an
Italian
would
have
ripped
out
everything
&
put
in
marble
bathrooms
with
gold
taps.
That’s
the
way
we
are.
Bella figura.
But
this
is
exactly
how
I
remember
my
grandparents’
house.
They
were
just
peasants,
you
know.
I
love
it:
the
same
 
smell,
the
shallow
sink
hacked
out
of
a
block
of
stone,
that
rough
old
chest
to
keep
the
bread
in.
And
I
notice
you’ve
kept
the
original
stone
roof
too.
Almost
nobody
these
days
knows
how
to
repair
them
so
they
get
replaced
with
conventional
tiles.
And 
–
you
must
excuse
a
film
director
talking 
–
dare
I
guess
at
one
of
those
old
iron
matrimoniale
bedsteads
upstairs
with
a
painted
tin
headboard
probably
figuring
the
Virgin?’

He
was
so
enthusiastic 
–
how
could
I
have
not
led
the
way
upstairs
to
show
them
my
delightfully
natural
unmade
bed
strewn
with
the
usual
books
&
hairbrushes
&
knickers
which
has
exactly
the
tin
head
board
he
meant
except
mine
has
hearts
&
roses
all
over
it,
which
I
suppose
stand
in
for
the
Virgin
iconographically.

‘Perfect,’
he
said
as
we
all
trooped
downstairs
again.
‘It
would
cost
a
fortune
to
build
a
set
as
faithful
as
this.
Faithful
to
the
o
ld
Italy,
I
mean.
It’s
hard
these
days
to
find
a
casa colonica
up
here
in
the
north
that
isn’t
a
shell
or
hasn’t
been
tarted
up.
The
first
thing
they
always
do
is
enlarge
the
windows
because
peasants
didn’t
need
a
view
or
fresh
air.
They
were
out
working
in
those
all
day.
Nor
did
they
read
at
night,
so
interior
gloom
was
traded
for
making
the
place
warmer
in
winter.
What
I’m
wondering
is
whether
we
mightn’t
write
in
a
scene
set
in
this
house
–
with
your
permission,
of
course.
It’s
a
crime
to
waste
the
place
&
it
would
certainly
contrast
well
with
the
ghosts
of
all
those
telefoni bianchi …
Perfect
for
the
scene
with
Franco
the
fisherman
and
his
wife.
Make
a
note
of
that
would
you,
Filo?’