The Wedding Officer

7

LIVIA PERTINI crashed the pans together and glared at her father. “How can I cook without food?” she cried.

Her father shrugged. “Alberto Spenza is here, and he wants to eat.”

“That gangster! He’s had his snout in the trough for so long, it’s a wonder he can fit any more in his fat stomach.”

“Try not to shout,” Nino suggested, although the truth was that Livia was making so much noise banging pots and pans around that nothing either of them said could be heard outside.

“You’ll have to tell him to come back another time.”

“And have him go somewhere else? He’s one of our best customers—one of our only customers, now.”

Livia sighed. “I could make a sugo,” she said reluctantly. “But you’ll have to tell him there isn’t any meat.”

“And some melanzane farcite?” Nino said hopefully. “You know how Alberto loves your stuffed eggplant.”

“I suppose.”

“Good girl. And perhaps a budino for afterward?”

“No! I don’t have time. And there’s only one egg.”

“Then maybe—”

“And I don’t have time to talk to you now,” Livia added bluntly as she started chopping tomatoes for the sugo. Nino smiled and withdrew. He knew full well that when the pasta was sorted, his daughter would make a budino di ricotta, a cheesecake, somehow cooked with only one egg. This was partly because Livia was a good girl, who listened to her father even when she claimed not to, but also because there was almost nothing else to cook. It had been three weeks since they had last been able to buy supplies. People bartered what they could with their neighbors, but now that food was meant to be sold through government-approved agencies, it was simply impossible to obtain what you needed legitimately.

The sauce that Livia cooked now was a simple one, but thanks to the quality of the ingredients it was also extremely good. She chopped up a handful of pomodorini da serbo, tiny tomatoes unique to the slopes of Vesuvius. These she fried quickly with some garlic in a little of the Pertinis’ own olive oil. At the last moment she threw in a few torn leaves of basil from the bush that grew just outside the kitchen door. In less time than it had taken to cook the pasta, the sauce was done.

Marisa took the dish out to serve it, and Livia got on with the other courses. First, though, she poured the hot oil from the frying pan into a steel container—an old shell casing, which she had found in the fields and carefully cleaned out. She topped up the oil with a little cold water. It was an economy measure: The impurities from the cooking would sink to the bottom along with the water, allowing the precious oil to be reused time after time.

Later, as she washed the dirty pans, she became aware that someone had come into the kitchen.

“Oh,” she said. “It’s you.”

Alberto Spenza was watching her from the doorway. She was not surprised—the kitchen was in any case always open to customers, who liked to see what was on offer before deciding what to eat. But the former ribbon seller was a more frequent visitor than most.

Since Enzo went off to fight, four years before, Alberto had rarely passed up any opportunity to drop by. As the war progressed and he prospered—it was widely known that he was a gangster, and possibly even a camorrista, a member of the Neopolitan Mafia—the visits had become more frequent. Livia saw the way he looked at her, and it made her fearful. All Italian men stared—but there was something unpleasant about the surreptitious glances Alberto gave her when he thought she wouldn’t notice, the way a greedy man might eye his neighbor’s plate.

Today, at least, he seemed to be on his best behavior. “A fine meal,” he said with a smile, easing his vast bulk into the room. “Is there perhaps some coffee?”

“Only from acorns,” she said sharply. She pushed some pans around on the stove. There was no one else to cook for, but pretending to be busy meant she didn’t have to look at him while they talked.

“Then it’s fortunate that I brought some myself.”

She did look up then, surprised. Alberto was taking a twist of paper out of his pocket and unwrapping it. An aroma filled the little kitchen that Livia had not smelt since before the war. Despite herself, she inhaled the deep, rich flavor, and her features softened.

“It’s called Nescafé,” Alberto said. “The Americans get it in their rations. It’s not really coffee, to tell the truth, but it’s better than acorns. You have to sweeten it with sugar before it tastes all right.” He smiled, showing his teeth beneath the pencil mustache and beard he grew to hide his double chins. “But luckily I have sugar too.” He put another twist of paper on the counter. “Perhaps you’ll join me.”

Livia hadn’t had sugar for over a year. For any recipe that needed sweetening, she used a tiny dab of honey. “I’ll get a coffeepot,” she said, reaching into a cupboard for a napoletana, the traditional hourglass-shaped jug in which coffee was made.

“No need. You just add boiling water. So simple!”

She shrugged, and put a pan of water on the stove.

“You know,” Alberto continued, “It’s a shame you have no customers here. If this goes on much longer you’ll start to get rusty.”

The same thought sometimes occurred to Livia as well. “I’ve had no complaints. Anyway, the war will be over soon,” she said doggedly.

He raised one eyebrow. “Will it? My sources say otherwise. Another year at least, perhaps three. The Americans are in no hurry to get killed, and the Germans are in no hurry to surrender.”

Livia thought of Enzo. Dear God, would she really not see him for another three years? It had already been four years since they were together.

As if reading her mind, Alberto said, “That’s a long time to try to keep this place going. You must be losing money hand over fist.”

“We’ll manage,” she said defiantly.

He picked at his teeth with a knife. “Of course,” he said thoughtfully, “you could always come and cook for me.”

“For you? At your casa?”

“Why not?” He crossed his thick arms. “The war has been good to me. I can afford a…” He hesitated. “A housekeeper. I’d much rather it was you than someone else.”

She busied herself making the coffee, pouring it into two tiny espresso cups. It smelt delicious, but when she put her nose into the cup the aroma quickly dissipated, leaving only a faint whiff of chemicals. She tried some. It was thin and bitter, delivering far less taste than the smell had promised. “A housekeeper,” she repeated. “So I wouldn’t only be a cook?”

He shrugged again. “I have some other needs as well.”

She shot him a glance. “Such as?”

“Some washing, some cleaning…the kind of things my wife would do, if I had one,” he said casually.

She felt a hot blush turn her face red. Alberto stirred his coffee. “The kind of things you did for Enzo,” he said softly. “He told his friends that you were quite a…quite a catch.” He smiled knowingly. “Though come to think of it, that might not have been the exact word he used.”

Her heart sank. What sort of stupid things had Enzo been saying? That part of their life was private. Why couldn’t he keep his mouth shut? Her cheeks flushed again, this time with shame.

“I heard he had a special nickname for you,” Alberto was saying. “Vesuvietta. His little volcano.”

“Enzo’s my husband,” she said loyally.

“Of course. And he’ll still be your husband when he comes back. In the meantime, though, you should be looking after his interests. Who knows—he could come back with no legs, or blind, or with his hands shot off.” Livia put her hands over her ears to block out the terrible words, but she could still hear him. “Shouldn’t he return to find you’ve managed to put something aside, instead of running up huge debts? I’ll pay you enough to recoup everything you’ve lost. No one else will help you. Your father’s working himself into his grave. As for your sister—no one’s going to marry Marisa, she’s too strange, and I don’t think she’s the sort who wants a husband anyway. Who’s going to look after her when the restaurant closes?”

“It’s quite impossible—”

He shook his head. “It happens all the time now. Haven’t you been to Naples recently? The girls there are selling themselves for a mouthful of bread. It’s the same even in Boscotrecase. After the war, we’ll all pretend it never happened.”

“This is ridiculous—”

“And if by some sad misfortune Enzo never does come back—well, you’ll need a husband who can look after you.”

“Stop this,” she said. “I can’t possibly do what you’re suggesting.”

“Yes, you can. Talk to your father.”

“My father knows you were going to ask me this?”

“He’s a sensible man. Of course, we don’t need to involve him in the precise details.” He ran the point of the knife under his fingernails. In that moment she knew that he revolted her. But for her father’s sake she tried to keep her temper.

“Alberto Spenza,” she snapped, “I wouldn’t go to bed with you if you were the last man in Italy—which, given that you’re already the fattest man in Italy and everyone else is starving, is a distinct possibility. Now get out.”

He shrugged, apparently unconcerned. “We’ll see if you’re so fastidious when you’ve been hungry for a few weeks.” He opened the door and went outside. “Nino, your stubborn daughter doesn’t want my job,” she heard him saying. “In fact, she’s been so rude to me that I doubt you’ll see me for a while. Try to talk some sense into her, will you? And if she wants to come around and apologize—well, that would be best for all concerned, although of course I might have found another cook by then.”

When Alberto had gone Marisa and Nino came into the kitchen. Livia was so angry that for a little while she couldn’t talk to them. Instead she crashed some plates into the sink and began to wash up. Only when one of the plates cracked in two did Marisa say evenly, “So Alberto offered you a job?”

“If you call whoring for him a job.”

“Ah.”

“Livia, I didn’t know—” her father began.

Livia laughed bitterly. “And you couldn’t guess?”

Marisa said thoughtfully, “Livia, we all have to survive.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“The Farellis have sent all three of their daughters to Naples, did you know that? They send back a little money every month. Where do you suppose that money’s coming from? Alberto was right—everything’s different now. No one would blame you if you decided to accept his offer.”

“I don’t see you volunteering to sleep with that fat pig.”

“Well, if it came to it—”

“None of us is going to do anything like that,” Nino said with finality. “Let other people do what they like. So long as we still have food to eat, the Albertos of this world can go hang themselves.”

That afternoon a truck came up the road to Fiscino. It drove slowly right around the village, so slowly that Livia could see the faces of the six soldiers sitting in the back, each one holding a rifle. Then it stopped outside the osteria. The soldiers jumped down. An officer wearing the khaki shorts and lopsided beret of an Australian regiment climbed out of the front.

“We’ve been told you’re hoarding food here,” he said to Nino. “I have to requisition it for my men.”

“Livia, Marisa, go upstairs,” Nino said quietly. “Go to your room and lock the door.”

Livia felt the stares of the soldiers following her hungrily. “This is Alberto’s doing,” she said bitterly to her sister.

“Almost certainly.”

“As if I’d agree to go with him after he did something like this. He’s stupid as well as fat.”

“He’s not stupid,” Marisa said quietly. “He knows he disgusts you, so he’s not bothering to try to make you like him. He’s trying to make you so desperate that you’ll have no choice.”

For three hours the soldiers went through the osteria and the farm methodically, picking it clean. They took all the tomatoes, both the ripe and the unripe; all the zucchini and eggplant, even the tiny ones. They pulled potatoes out of the soil, roughly shook them free of dirt, and tossed them into the back of the truck. They threw the chickens in as well, picking them up by the legs and tossing them in with the vegetables as casually as if they had been cabbages. At this Nino tried to protest. The officer drew his pistol without a word and casually pointed it at the old man, raising his eyes as if to inquire whether being shot was something he really wanted. He might have been offering Nino a cigarette rather than a bullet.

The soldiers worked on. They broke down the door of the barn, and took all the fruit that was stored in the hay. They approached the beehive, but having no protective clothing, and no idea how to get at the honeycomb without getting stung, they simply pushed it over, breaking the combs. In the dairy they found a day’s worth of mozzarelle sitting in a bucket; they took those, too, and a pail of milk left over from the cheese making. Then Livia, watching from the upstairs window, saw one of the soldiers undoing the gate which led to the buffalo pasture.

“No!” she cried. Marisa put a warning hand on her arm.

The soldiers tried to herd Pupetta and Priscilla toward the truck, but of course the two buffalo were big, stubborn old milkers who had absolutely no desire to be maneuvered into a vehicle. One of the men picked up his gun. Two others grabbed the nearest animal, Pupetta, and held her by the horns. The one with the gun steadied the muzzle against her forehead. “Steaks tonight, boys,” he called.

“I can’t stand this,” Livia said, breathless with horror.

“Wait,” Marisa said. “Don’t be stupid—”

But Livia had already unlocked the bedroom door and was running downstairs. As she came out into the yard she heard a shot and saw Pupetta’s head jerk back. The animal’s eyes rolled wildly, her huge bulk swaying on her legs. But she did not fall.

One of the soldiers picked up a rifle and fired into Pupetta’s body. Then, suddenly, all the men were firing wildly, the bullets tearing little pieces of skin from Pupetta’s hide. Dark spots appeared across her ribs. The men were cheering and whooping, reloading and shooting again. Pupetta sank to her knees, wearily, and lay on the ground. Her legs twitched, like a dog running in its sleep. Then she was still. There was a sudden silence, broken only by the echo of the shots bouncing back from the woods.

“We’ll need a saw,” one of the men said to Nino. He mimed a sawing gesture. “A saw, capeesh?”

“You bastards,” Livia sobbed, shaking her fist as she ran forward to kneel by Pupetta.

“Livia, go back inside,” her father said. But it was too late. One of the soldiers had already grabbed her, laughing as he lifted her off her feet. She hadn’t realized before how strong he would be—when she hit him with her fists, it was like hitting a tree. Then another pair of arms had grabbed her too—two men now, whooping as they casually tossed her into the back of the truck along with all their stolen food. She yelled angrily, and the other men cheered. One of the pair who had tossed her in the truck climbed up after her and pulled her arms behind her back, pinning both her wrists in one of his hands.

“Let me go,” she screamed. But the soldiers only cheered more. For the first time she began to feel afraid.

“OK, boys, that’s enough,” the officer said casually. “Throw her out.”

“I’ll only be five minutes,” the one holding her said.

“I doubt you’d be five seconds, but that’s not the point. You want a girl, there are plenty in Naples. We’ve got work to do.”

Reluctantly the soldier released her, though not before he had pushed his hand up her skirt. One of the other men was already sawing off Pupetta’s hind legs.

When the legs had been thrown in the back of the truck along with everything else, the officer pulled out a pocketbook and peeled off some notes, which he handed to Nino without a word. It was a hundred lire—not remotely a fair price for everything they had taken.

The officer’s hand hesitated over the pocketbook. “How much for the girl?” he asked in a low voice.

“She’s not for sale,” Nino said.

After a moment the man shrugged and put the pocketbook away. Saluting ironically, he climbed into the front of the truck. As it drove away, one of the chickens, unsettled by the movement, jumped out over the tailgate with a flurry of wings. The truck didn’t stop. Soon the only sound was Livia’s sobbing as she cradled Pupetta’s great head, still warm but completely lifeless.

“We were lucky,” Nino said heavily when the truck had disappeared from view.

“You call that lucky?” Livia cried. “They’ve taken everything we have.”

“Not everything.” Nino crouched down next to her and stroked her hair gently. “Don’t you understand? It could have been so much worse.”