Just South of Rome (3 page)

‘Yes, that’s right.’ She did look like a rosella, I thought. The multicoloured silk cocktail dress she wore reminded me of the vivid crimson-and-green lorikeets and rosella parrots we used to feed by hand during my childhood holidays on the Central Coast.

A young girl of about seventeen, wearing a maid’s cap and a frilly apron, was wiping down the table and replacing the ashtray. ‘This Sarina,’ Umberto said, ‘she speak no English.’

The girl smiled a brief, apologetic smile and ducked as quickly as she could behind the bar. My gaze followed her involuntarily, as anyone’s would – Sarina was a true beauty, a young, radiant Ingrid Bergman.

‘She is shy,’ Umberto said and the girl flushed with embarrassment, ‘but she work hard and she is learning from me good English, yes Sarina?’ The girl nodded and lowered her glorious eyes to wipe a non-existent stain from the counter. ‘You see? She understand English, she just no speak it.’

‘How do you do, I’m Jane.’ I offered my hand to the remaining person seated at the table in order to divert the attention from Sarina. He was a rather good-looking man in his late twenties, but his handshake was disappointingly weak.

‘This Rosella’s husband, Natale.’ Umberto’s tone was rather dismissive, and Natale half-rose and sat again. Rosella’s husband? I was surprised, I had assumed that Rosella was Umberto’s exclusive property. His hand still rested on her bare skin, one arm of the low-cut lorikeet dress having slipped provocatively off her shoulder.

‘What you like to drink?’ Umberto demanded, and I looked around the table to see what the others were having. A demitasse coffee cup sat in front of Umberto, Natale was
drinking a beer, and Rosella sipped at something bright green.

‘A gin and tonic would be lovely. Thank you.’

‘Annita!’ he called loudly, although she was only several yards away, ‘a gin and tonic for my good friend Jane,’ and he pulled up a chair, settling me in between him and Natale.

Rosella leaned over the table, displaying a handsome cleavage. ‘You are famous?’ she asked, her kohl-blackened eyes wide with excitement, ‘
si?
’

‘No,’ I said.

‘Si,
I think so.’ She didn’t believe me and gave a conspiratorial wink to prove it. ‘You are … how you say? … ‘
modesto
’. You are actress. All actress is famous.’

‘I prefer “actor”, actually.’ I knew I sounded unfriendly and cursed myself, but Annita’s broadcasting of my personal details once again annoyed me, and Rosella’s girlish sex-kitten act aroused a further flash of irritation.

Neither hurt nor insulted, Rosella waited for me to go on in breathless anticipation. My remark had clearly been of great interest.

‘That’s a very pretty dress, Rosella.’ It was my gauche attempt at an apology. ‘Lovely colours.’

‘
Si
, very pretty.’ She wriggled and giggled and glowed at the compliment. ‘Is silk. You touch.’ She hitched the fallen sleeve back onto her shoulder and leaned across the table so that I could feel the fabric.

‘Very sexy.’ I smiled. She wriggled and giggled and glowed again with a delight that was obviously genuine, and I realised that perhaps I’d misjudged her. Perhaps it wasn’t an act at all. But then I’d always been awkward with overtly feminine women.

Annita put my gin and tonic on the table in front of me. The tonic was flat and there was no ice, but I decided not to say anything. As I raised the glass to my lips, she said, quite loudly, ‘You wish me to put it on your bill?’

‘Oh.’ A little nonplussed, I glanced at Umberto, who had quite obviously heard her. But Umberto grinned his inane moustache-twitching, eyebrow-raising grin and lifted his demitasse cup in silent salute. ‘Yes, of course,’ I said to Annita, ‘put it on my bill.’ Then, as she turned to go, ‘Do you think I could have some ice?’

‘Ice.’ She froze, staring at the glass I held in my hand. ‘Oh,
si.
’ She came to life. ‘Ice, yes, of course. Ice.’ She headed back to the bar. ‘Sarina,
ghiaccio
.’ Sarina looked equally stunned. ‘
Cucina
,’ Annita hissed, ‘
cucina,
’ and Sarina hurriedly left the bar.

‘To my friend, Jane, the famous actress from Sydney.’ Umberto clinked his coffee cup against my glass. ‘Welcome to the Hotel Visconti.’ The others followed suit – ‘welcome to Genzano di Roma’, ‘welcome to Italia’ – and we clinked glasses around the table.

‘Thank you. Thank you very much.’ I sipped the gin and tonic. It was warm.

Something was very odd, I thought, as the others chatted in rapid-fire Italian and I was left to take in my surrounds. Rosella and Natale were obviously friends of Umberto’s – well, Rosella was anyway – so where were the hotel guests? Given that the party of Americans were off doing whatever a party of Americans did in Genzano di Roma, where were the other guests? There
were
other guests, surely? And staff. Annita the receptionist and Sarina the maid were the only hotel staff I’d seen. Annita kept disappearing with her mobile phone and Sarina, having returned to deposit a saucer with two small cubes of ice before me, had also disappeared.

‘Grazie
,’ I said just before she darted off.

‘Prego
.’ She bobbed a curtsy and was gone.

It was weird, and I was about to query Umberto when there was a commotion at the front door. People arriving. A lot of people. A woman’s voice. Very loud, very brash. ‘My, my Father Ralph, that was some day. That was some day. My, my!’ Then other female voices reverberated until there was nothing but a hen-like babble as the women surged into
the reception area.

‘The Americans!’ Umberto jumped up from the table and vanished in a second. ‘
Signoras
!’ I heard him call before his voice was swallowed up by the babble.

‘The Americans.’ Rosella looked at Natale and they, too, rose and left.

I sat alone in the little bar with the remnants of my gin and tonic and wondered what I should do.

‘Ladies!’ A strong male voice with an American accent. ‘Ladies! Ladies!’ And the babble died down. ‘Umberto informs me, dinner at half past seven. The dining room in a half hour, if you please!’ It started again, the babble, rising to a crescendo as the women made for the stairs.

I decided I’d wait for ten minutes then duck into the dining room before they came downstairs. That way I could order my meal in peace before the onslaught. That was probably what the other guests were doing, I thought. Yes, of course! That would explain it. The other hotel guests were dining early to avoid the Americans.

I rose and studied the bottles of wine on display behind the glass counter. Maybe I’d treat myself to a really good red with dinner. I could drink half, have the waiter re-cork it and save the rest for tomorrow night. It was an impressive-looking collection. Mostly French. ‘’78 Burgundy,’ I read. ‘’82 Bordeaux’. I knew nothing of European wines, only the wonderful Australian reds Roland had introduced me to, but wine with an age like that would have to be magnificent, surely. Magnificent price too, I assumed, chastising myself. I’d look at the wine list and settle on a bottle of local red instead.

The hubbub had died down. The last slamming of upstairs doors. Silence. Time to go to the dining room.

The dining room was as elegant as I’d imagined it would be from my glimpse through the glass doors. A big room with high ceilings, a sea of white-clothed tables beneath a vast crystal chandelier, an impressive floral display on a central pedestal and, here and there, large terracotta tubs with lush green plants.

To the left, a small dance floor and three long banquet tables, I presumed for the Americans, and to the right, tables set for smaller parties. Also to the right, adjacent to the swinging doors which I presumed led to the kitchen, was a servery table with huge bain-maries and baskets of bread.

Two sets of French windows on the opposite wall opened out onto the terrace. They were closed now, as the night outside was gloomy and overcast, but the floodlit view beyond of the garden’s fountains and statues and vines was enchanting.

It was a beautiful dining room. Only one thing was wrong. It was deserted. Deserted and silent – not a sound from behind the swinging doors, no sign of movement at all. I stood there, uncertain. Should I tap on the doors to the kitchen? No, I decided, I would commandeer the table closest to the French windows and enjoy the view until somebody noticed me. But, before I could do so, the swinging doors opened and a young man in a white apron and a large chef’s hat appeared.

‘Ah. Good evening,’ I said, relieved, ‘may I have the table there by the windows? I know it’s set for four, but …’

He looked at me blankly, took off his chef’s hat, folded it and put it in the large front pocket of his apron. Then, without a word, he left, undoing his apron strings as he went.

Very odd, I thought as I positioned myself by the windows.

I studied the menu. It was comprehensive and tantalising. By now I was starving, having eaten nothing since the lunchtime bruschetta at Wendy and Bruno’s restaurant in Castel Gandalfo. I looked for the wine list but there wasn’t one, and I must have sat there for a full five minutes before the doors once again swung open and Sarina, the maid, appeared. She didn’t see me as she scurried towards the main doors of the dining room.

‘
Scusi
,’ I called.

‘Oh.’ She turned, startled.

‘Sarina,
buonasera.
’ I smiled encouragingly. I was about to ask her if she could send the waiter when I noticed that she’d changed. She was wearing a black skirt and white blouse, and a small white apron was tied around her waist. She scuttled over, taking an order pad from the pocket of her apron.

‘
Si
?’ she asked as she stood nervously beside me, and I realised that she was the waitress.

‘May I have the wine list?’ I knew it would confuse her so I picked a wine glass up from the table and mimed sipping from it. ‘Wine …’ I said and tapped the menu with my other hand, ‘list.’

‘Ah.
Si
.’

She scuttled off again. She always scuttled. Someone so startlingly pretty really shouldn’t scuttle, I thought. And two minutes later she was back with a carafe of water, which she placed on my table.

I realised she’d misunderstood. Time to muster my abominable Italian.
‘Acqua … bene … grazie,
’ I said. ‘But,
vino
…’ I tapped the wine glass, ‘list.’ I tapped the menu again – I had no idea what the word for ‘list’ could be – ‘
per favore
.’

‘Ah,
vino, si.
’

She disappeared once again and I wondered what to expect next. She’d probably reappear with a glass of house wine, but by now I didn’t care. By now, my stomach was rumbling and food was the most important thing – I must get my order in before the Americans arrived.

But Sarina didn’t reappear. It was Annita who bustled efficiently out from the kitchen.

‘Wine,’ she said. ‘You wish to have some wine.’

‘Yes, thank you, Annita. If I could see the wine list.’

Again, that blank look. ‘The wine list?’

‘That’s right, the wine list.’

‘Ah. The wine list, yes, of course.’ She started to go but I called her back.

‘Perhaps I could order first.’ She turned and stared at me. There really was something daunting about the woman. I smiled apologetically, ‘If that would be all right, I’m very hungry.’

I opened the menu and she leaned over me, her eyes focussed on my finger as I pointed out my choices. ‘I’d like the
bistecca
, please …’ I hadn’t had a steak once since I’d been in Italy; ‘
bistecca
’ was always the most expensive item on Italian menus. Now on my night of luxury, having decided to satisfy my Aussie red-meat lust, I was positively drooling at the prospect, ‘And I’d like the
spinaci
.’ The perfect meal. I adored the way Italians did spinach, rich and creamy.

I looked up expecting one of her brisk, no-nonsense nods, but her eyes were still focussed on my finger.

‘The
bistecca
with
spinaci,
’ I said firmly, closing the menu. ‘Thank you.’

‘The chef …,’ she said uncertainly, and it was the first time I had seen a chink in her efficient armour. ‘The chef is sick.’ I was at a loss for words. I stared back at her and I think my jaw gaped a little. Then she stood to attention, her armour back in place.

‘But everything is good,’ she announced. ‘One moment please.’ And she marched off.

Only seconds later, Umberto himself arrived from the kitchen.

‘Buonasera, bella signorina
Jane!’ It was the full performance. He beamed, clutched his heart, took my hand in his and closed his eyes in ecstasy.
‘Ah bella, bella signorina.
’ He bowed low, pressed my hand to his lips so that I could feel the tickle of his absurd moustache and kissed it.

‘Good evening, Umberto,’ I said pleasantly, withdrawing my hand. ‘I’d like to order my meal and see the wine list.’

‘Ah, for you I have special.’ He winked and the opposite eyebrow shot up alarmingly. ‘For my famous friend Jane, actress from Australia, I have special wine from my very own cellar. You like a beautiful
vino rosso
, eh? Very good, very old,
si
?’

‘Well …’ Of course I would, but what was he going to charge me?

Umberto read the reason for my hesitation in an instant. ‘Special price for my friend Jane. Other people 35, for you 30 only.’

What the hell, I thought, extravagant as it might be by my normal budget standards, forty dollars for a bottle of red the likes of which I’d seen behind the glass counter was an excellent price. ‘Thank you, Umberto,’ I said, picking up the menu, ‘and I’d like to order the
bistecca
and …’

‘No, no, no …’ He winced as he took the menu from me. ‘You no want the
bistecca
…’

‘Yes, I do …’

‘No, no, no, for you I do Umberto special. I create for you my special dish. My pasta al –’

‘No thank you …’ I was going to stand firm. I’d lived on pasta for weeks now, I was salivating for meat, and meat I was going to have.

‘
Three
special dishes. All Umberto’s secret recipes. I create just for you.’

‘Thank you all the same, Umberto.’ I didn’t want to be hurtful but I was determined. ‘I really do want –’

‘Jane, my friend. Jane …’ He sat beside me and clasped my hand in both of his. ‘Never do I have in Hotel Visconti a famous actress from Australia.’ Before I could interrupt, he held my hand to his chest and continued. ‘I want I should create something special for you. Please you let me.’ I could swear there was the glint of a tear in his eye. ‘Then you go home to your country and you tell them Umberto he make the greatest dish you eat in the whole of Italy.’

For some unknown reason, I thought of the photograph of Omar Sharif in the upstairs bedroom and Umberto’s proud boast of their friendship, and something in the ridiculous man’s need to impress touched me. I heard myself say, ‘Thank you, Umberto, I would love to try your special dishes.’

‘Ah!’ He kissed my hand again and jumped to his feet overjoyed. ‘Never will you taste such food. Never! I bring your wine.’

I cursed myself as he left but, dismissing the image of a succulent steak from my mind, I told myself that perhaps Umberto’s special dishes really would be a sensation and that it was all part of the adventure and that Roland would approve. But I’d been manipulated nonetheless, and I didn’t like being manipulated.

Several minutes later he returned with the wine. He showed me the bottle: French, a ‘98 Burgundy. It looked impressive. But it was already open. And there was no cork. Surely he should have opened it at the table, I thought, but I didn’t say anything as he poured me
a full glass. No taster. I was surprised that the flamboyant Umberto wasn’t making a more showy presentation of the special wine from his private cellar.

‘Do you have the cork, Umberto?’

‘Eh?’ The bottle remained poised for a moment.

‘The cork, do you have it? I’d like to save some of the wine for tomorrow.’

‘Ah, the cork.
Si
, sure, sure.’ He finished pouring, placed the bottle on the table and clapped his hands together in delight. ‘You enjoy, is beautiful, is –’

Loud voices. Heavy footsteps on the stairs. The herd was approaching. As Umberto made a dash for the main doors, I sniffed my wine and took the first reverent sip, preparing myself for the ultimate sensation.

I sipped. I put down the glass. I stared disbelievingly at the bottle. The wine was thin and bitter and instantly reminded me of the cheap cardboard cask reds we used to buy when I was a student at drama school.

I looked at the bottle. ‘98 Burgundy? Impossible, surely. Perhaps it had been badly corked. Perhaps it had gone off. Perhaps … Umberto had brought the bottle to the table already opened … perhaps … No, of course he wouldn’t do such a thing. I sipped the wine again; it was certainly no worse than the cardboard cask reds and, face it, I wouldn’t know what a ‘98 Burgundy tasted like anyway.

I took a large mouthful (I was paying for it, I might as well drink it) and studied the Americans as they thundered through the doors. All thirty-eight of them as I later discovered.

I had never seen so many big women. The two or three tiny ones amongst them only emphasised the heftiness of the others. Predominantly in their late fifties and early sixties, they were healthy, beefy, bosomy and loud, and looked for all the world like a
convention of amiable truck drivers in drag. And they were having a whale of a time. I wondered who they were and what had brought them to Genzano di Roma.

‘
Signoras
, welcome. Welcome.’ A beaming Umberto stood by the door, waving them in and kissing a hand here and there.

‘You come sit next to me and Amy-Lou, Father Ralph.’ It was the same voice I’d heard bellowing from the reception area a half an hour ago. The first woman through the doors, one of the biggest of the group and obviously the leader of the pack, plonked herself at the top of the banquet table nearest to me and pulled out the chairs on either side. ‘Come along now, come along, Amy-Lou.’

The only young member among them, a pretty-faced, huge girl in her mid-twenties sat beside the woman, and it was obvious at a glance that they were mother and daughter. They were joined by a handsome, sixty-something clergyman who looked Italian but spoke American. ‘Happy to, Mary-Jane, happy to …’ The other women took it as their cue and, with much good-humoured jostling, the scramble for seats was on.

Umberto disappeared into the kitchen and there was a flurry of activity in and out of the swinging doors. Sarina and Annita kept reappearing with huge plates of food, which they placed under the silver-domed lids of the bain-maries on the servery table.

I continued to study the women, fascinated as they ripped into their bread rolls, laughed and hollered from table to table.

‘For you.’ Umberto was beside me, a steaming bowl of pasta in his hands. He placed it ceremoniously on the table. ‘Umberto special, for my famous friend Jane.’

‘Thank you, Umberto. It looks delicious.’ It didn’t. Not to me anyway. It was a marinara dish, and I’ve never liked seafood with pasta. But I couldn’t tell him that, I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. I wondered how I could get rid of it without his knowing.

Umberto smacked his lips around his fingers, blew a kiss into the air and disappeared once more into the kitchen.

I managed to catch Annita’s attention as she placed a giant bowl of salad on the servery table. I called her over.

‘You wish for something?’

‘Yes, thank you, Annita. I wonder … um … you see, Umberto is preparing two more of his special dishes for me, and if I eat this,’ I gestured at the marinara, ‘um … well … I won’t have room for –’

‘You do not want the marinara?’

‘Well, I’m sure it’s lovely, but –’

‘I take it away.’ Unperturbed, she picked up the dish.

‘I don’t want to offend Umberto,’ I said. ‘Don’t –’

‘Of course.’ And she was gone.

Several moments later, Sarina stood beside my table, another steaming bowl of pasta in her hands. ‘Umberto
specialita
,’ she announced, as she’d obviously been instructed. Damn, I thought, Annita must have told Umberto I’d returned the marinara and now he didn’t want to serve me himself. How tactless of her. I felt embarrassed.

‘Thank you, Sarina.’

It was a ravioli in a cream sauce. Bland and tasteless, I discovered. I downed my wine, poured another glass, and hoed into the pasta regardless. I’d be drunk if I didn’t. Besides, by now I was starving. So much for Umberto’s special creation. I could only hope the third dish would be an improvement.

Annita was dolloping out great bowls of pasta from the servery table and the women roared their approval as Sarina scurried about delivering their food. ‘More bread please, dear.’ ‘Could we have some more butter, thank you.’ Then the first voice of complaint.
‘Marinara? We had marinara last night.’ Good-natured banter was bellowed across tables. ‘It’s probably the same stuff; they’ve probably recycled it.’ But the women laughed and got stuck into it anyway.

‘Hey, Umberto!’ Mary-Jane yelled in between shovels. ‘What’s for seconds? Ravioli again?’ And the others laughed and clinked glasses of water. I noticed that there was no wine on their tables.