The empress of ice cream

Carlo

To make snow: take a pottle of thick cream, and the whites of eight eggs, and beat them all together with a spoon. Then take a stick, and cut the end four square: scent your mixture with some essence of bergamot or rosewater, and beat it hard until it rises.

The Book of Ices

In Florence, Ahmad sometimes told stories as we worked. The stories were about many things, but they were always, in some way, about ice.

One tale concerned our employers and a man who had worked for them a hundred and fifty years earlier. The story went that one winter it snowed in Florence. The children of Piero de’ Medici tried to make a snowman, but being children, and unpractised, their efforts were unsuccessful. So Piero summoned one of his late father’s artists and ordered him to carve them a snowman.

The young man tried to explain that working in the medium of snow was not a fitting use of his talents. Piero di Medici told him to be sure to be finished by morning.

All that frozen night, by the light of the moon, the artist sculpted the snow as if it were a block of the finest Cararra marble, his hands wrapped in soaked, freezing rags against the cold.

In the morning the Medici princes ran out to the courtyard to see what he had done. It was, a contemporary wrote, undoubtedly the most beautiful snowman that anyone had ever seen. But the day brought milder weather, and with the milder weather came rain. Soon there was nothing left of Michelangelo’s first sculpture

except a withered stalagmite of ice, like the stump of a decayed tooth, the only white thing left in the courtyard.

At this point Ahmad would pause. ‘Some people take this story to illustrate the transience of beauty and the tyranny of time, boy. I take it to mean something else. Two things, in fact. First, when a Medici tells you to jump, you ask how high. And the second . . .’ His eyes rested thoughtfully on my eager gaze. ‘And* the second is, always keep your ice away from rain.’

I made Louise de Keroualle a snowman.

It was probably not as spectacular as Michelangelo’s, but then, Michelangelo’s had not been edible.

First I had to make my snow. Milk and sugar, flavoured with rosewater, mixed with the white of eggs and beaten with a plaited whisk. Only when the froth was so light it floated off the whisk did I chill it, turning it to flakes of the purest, most delicate snow.

From this I fashioned two balls for the body and the head, adding a hat of crisp caramel and a smile of candied orange. The eyes were dried sultanas, the nose a cherry that had been preserved in liqueur. In one hand the snowman held a broom made of rosemary, while on his chest he bore a single slice of candied strawberry for a heart.

And, finally, I made it snow. .

This was a feat, supposedly invented by the great Buontalenti, that even Ahmad had rarely attempted. When a fine mist of rosewater was sprayed over a mixture of ice and saltpetre, the droplets turned to crystals so light they neither rose nor fell, but floated in the air like specks of glittering gold leaf.

It did not take long for Louise to visit me - every day now there was another order for an iced chicory water to aid Madame’s digestion, and either Louise or one of the other ladies-in-waiting would come to collect it. I waited until she came with her usual request, and said gruffly, ‘I have prepared that one already.’

Her eyebrows rose as she looked around. ‘I can’t see it.’

‘In there.’ I indicated with my head the door she should go through.

She looked suspicious, but said nothing as she went. I heard her gasp, and then there was silence.

I stayed where I was. I suddenly realised that I had no idea whether she was going to Hke it or not.

Then something cold and wet smashed into the side of my head. I whipped round. I caught a glimpse of laughing, gleeful eyes before a second snowball, launched from her other hand, hit me in the neck.

‘Signor Demirco - are you coming or not.^’ she demanded. ‘I can’t possibly have a snowball fight on my own.’

I followed her. The gust of air as I entered the second pantry made the snow billow and eddy around me, glittering in the light of a beeswax candle.

She turned, her hands already laden, and hurled another snowball, but she was too soon, and it disintegrated harmlessly on my coat. Then - I could not help it - I had taken two paces and she was in my arms; and her lips - her cool, pale lips - tasted of rosewater and sugar, dusted with flakes of frost like some soft, fragrant pollen.

For a long moment I kissed her, and she kissed me back -1 was sure of it - her mouth warm against my own. And then, with a sudden gasp, she pulled away from me, horror written across her face.

‘What are you doing?’ she cried.

‘Wait,’ I said. ‘Louise, let me explain. I want—’

But she was already gone. Through the open door I felt warm air sweeping in, like seawater breaking over a sandbank, and all around me I saw my snow melting back into water, like fool’s gold.

I tried to write her a letter, but the sheet of paper was a field of pristine snow that I only ruined by covering it with my pen marks.

So I sent her the snowman instead, on a platter born by two footmen, directed *to Louise de Keroualle in the apartments of Madame Henrietta, Duchess of Orleans.

It was returned to me an hour later, unaccepted, half-melted from its trip around the palace.

*

I went to see her, but I was not admitted. So I lingered near the garden where the medlar trees were, hoping for a glimpse of her.

At last I caught sight of her going in the direction of the groves. She had something in her hands - a shawl, it looked hke.

‘Louise!’ I called.

For a moment she turned her head, and I thought she hesitated, but then she hurried on again. I lost sight of her behind a hedge, and broke into a run to catch her up. The gardens in this part of Versailles were like a maze; a series of interconnected courtyards and lawns, each one hidden from the next. She was not in the next garden, but through a gap in the hedge I glimpsed the billowing of her gown.

Finally, rounding a corner by a fountain, I saw her. ‘Louise!’ I called again, but now I saw that she was joining a small group. Amongst them was her mistress, Madame Henrietta, sitting on a stone bench. Even at this distance I could see how frail and bowed she looked. Beside her stood the king, along with; Buckingham and two of the king’s ministers. ,

‘Really, it is nothing,’ Madame was saying weakly as Louise put the shawl around her shoulders. ‘Just a litde faintness. Your Majesty.’

‘The air is rather chilly,’ Buckingham offered. ‘Perhaps you would prefer we move indoors?’

The king had seen me. ‘Signor Demirco. Who do you seek?’

I realised I was standing there gawping foolishly. ‘Your Majesty - that is, I wondered if Madame la Comptesse would like a cordial. I know she takes iced chicory sometimes, for her digestion.’

Louis looked at Madame enquiringly.

‘Perhaps later,’ she said faintly. ‘You might send one to my rooms.’

‘Signor Demirco?’ the king called as I retreated.

‘Your Majdsty.^’

‘How do you fare with the ice for the English king.> We are hoping for something marvellous, you know.’

I bowed again. ‘I have not thought of anything suitable yet, sir.’

A look of mild surprise crossed the king’s face. ‘Well, do not leave it too long.’ He turned back to the others, and as I walked away, my ears burning, I caught the words ‘Italian - unreliable but inventive: you will see, milord Duke, you will see.’

I waited until they were all walking back towards the palace. The king was pointing to either side, no doubt explaining to the Englishman his plans to extend the already magnificent grounds still further. Louise walked a litde way behind. Seizing my chance, I caught her up.

‘I need to talk to you.’

She glanced at the king. ‘Don’t you think you have offended him enough already for one day?’

I looked at where the king’s hand traced imaginary fountains in the air. ‘I told him I have not yet made his ice. How is that offensive?’

‘You implied in front of a foreign visitor that chasing after a lady-in-waiting takes precedence over a royal command. The slight may be a small one, but you can be sure he will remember it - if he chooses to.’

‘I was not chasing after you.’

‘I am glad to hear it. Clearly you had some other pressing reason for running in my direction.’

‘I came to tell you that I love you.’

She stopped dead. Then, her face set, she strode on towards the palace. ‘Don’t mock me.’

‘Louise, I’m not joking. My feelings for you are entirely genuine.’

‘Olympe de Soissons has thrown you out, has she!*’ She saw my look of surprise. ‘Oh, did you think no ohe knew about thati* This is the court, signor. Secrets are all people have to talk about.’

I made a gesture. ‘She means nothing to me. A diversion, that’s all.’

‘Whereas I, of course, would be so much more.’ She spoke sardonically, but she slowed her pace a little. ‘Please understand: I do not mean to be abrupt with your feelings. But when I first came to court I made a foolish mistake. I allowed my name to be associated with that of a man - a person of noble birth, as it happens, but he had been mixed up in some scandalous affairs. Nobody criticised him for that, of course: but they saw me with him, and assumed that I was behaving as those other women had, and my reputation became tainted. If it had not been for Madame, I should have had to leave court in disgrace. I won’t make that mistake again.’

‘Nor would I want you to. I mean to marry you, Louise.’

She stopped again, her eyes wide.

‘I have the king’s favour: my position here is secure,’ I went on quickly. ‘And you would be an asset to me: you understand the ways of the court—’ I halted, brought up short by the look in her eyes. ,

‘ WhatT she said incredulously.

‘I want to marry you,’ I repeated.

For a moment she looked at me as if I was quite mad.

‘I am Louise Renee de Penacoet, Dame de Keroualle, the eldest daughter of the oldest family of Brittany,’ she said slowly and deliberately. ‘Our lineage goes back to before the crusades.’

‘So? You told me yourself that your parents sent you to court to find a husband—’

\

‘They sent me here to find a duke. Or at the very least, a duke’s younger brother.’ She shook her head, as if she could not quite

‘'V

72

believe that this was happening. ‘Please understand this, signor: I have nothing against you personally. If you were of a noble family, I am sure that my father would overlook the fact that you are a frivolous, pleasure-seeking Italian libertine who spends his time doing nothing more worthwhile than producing titbits for greedy courtiers - when you are not seducing ladies-in-waiting, that is. But unless you are actually a Medici or a Mazarin, I’m afraid he is unlikely to take quite so broad a view.’

Angry now, I said ‘I don’t know who my parents were. Only that they were poor, and left me to make my own way in the world.’

She sighed, and it seemed to me that she spoke a litde less acerbically. ‘Well, I am sorry for it. But you know, being free to make your own way can be a blessing.’

I caught her meaning. ‘So you do not actually want to marry a nobleman—’

‘I have no choice,’ she said flatly. ‘I do not necessarily share my parents’ obsession with breeding and nobility. But they are my parents, and I must accede to their wishes. It is my duty.’

‘No marriage then,’ I said stubbornly. ‘Very well. But that does not mean—’

‘Oh, no,’ she interrupted. ‘Do not for one moment think that I am like your friend Olympe.’

‘I didn’t mean to suggest you were,’ I muttered.

But Louise was staring at me as if she had just been struck by a thought. ‘Did shepnt you up to this?’

The answer must have been written on my face, because she added, ‘Of course. How lovely. This is her idea of a joke, isn’t it.’

‘No,’ I protested.

‘Really? Teasing me about my predicament is just the sort of thing she finds amusing.’ She smiled thinly. ‘It pays me back for what I think of her and her kind, I suppose. Well, you may congratulate yourself, signor. By nightfall this merriment of yours will be all round the court.’

‘Wait,’ I called after her as she turned away. ‘Wait. Louise I was not joking. That is, it may have been Olympe’s idea, but—’

I was too late. She was already hurrying back to the house. But not before I had seen that there were tears in those green eyes.

I returned to the palace. Where, almost immediately, I encountered Olympe. She had clearly been watching from one of the windows that overlooked the gardens.

‘Well?’ she asked.

‘She said no,’ I said curtly.

‘Really?’ Olympe’s face was the picture of innocence. ‘Any particular reason?’

‘She said marriage with an Italian confectioner of no particular birth was unthinkable.’

Olympe nodded seriously, but there was a gleam of amusement deep in her eyes. ‘Did she mention her noble hneage, by any chance? The oldest family in Brittany? Did she mention -’ her eyes grew round - ‘the Crusades?’

‘She did,’ I said. ‘She also asked if it was you who put me up to this. Our association is widely known, it seems.’

Olympe’s eyes had closed and her shoulders were shaking. ‘Priceless!’ she managed to gasp. ‘Priceless!’

‘I am glad you’re amused.’ ,

‘Oh, Carlo, don’t be like that,’ she said, wiping her eyes. ‘You have to see the funny side - she must have been furious-^ it serves her right for being such a virtuous litde prudefemme'

I laughed, but a little mirthlessly; although there could be no doubt that Louise de Keroualle had shown herself to be overly proud, and quite lacking in that sense of frivolity which so enlivened our time at court, I could not help feeling that I had not emerged terribly well from this episode myself. Tt seems I have been your dupe,’ I said shortly.

Olympe smiled. ‘You have duped yourself. I have done you a

favour. You were in danger of letting your emotions get in the way of your pleasures. Sometimes it is necessary to step back a little.’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’

There was no point in arguing further with Olympe; and she was right, of course: I held allowed my feelings to cloud my judgement. But I could not help reflecting on how very different I would be feeling now if Louise’s answer to my proposal had been ‘yes’.