The Wedding Officer

32

SOMETIMES LIVIA found herself comparing James with Enzo, and it never failed to amaze her that one can love two people in two such different ways.

With Enzo, she had fallen in love com’ un chiodo fisso in testa, like a nail in the head. Yet looking back, that had been a schoolgirl’s love, a crush; and although she mourned her husband, she found that she was no longer heartbroken at his absence. Sometimes she wondered, a little guiltily, what her feelings for him would be now if the war had never happened, and they had spent all this time having babies and struggling to manage in his parents’ apartment. Would she still love him the way she had on their wedding night, or would she be like so many of those other women, who sighed the little rhyme as they scrubbed at their endless laundry:

Tempo, marito e figli,

vengono come li pigli.

Husbands, sons and weather,

Must be endured whatever.

Her feelings for James were very different. For example, she liked the fact that he was kind, even though he could also be correct, even a little pompous. She took a quiet pleasure in driving him to the point of exasperation sometimes, since it was always amusing to see him go red in the face, and as for his ridiculous attachment to army rules and regulations, well, she had soon seen to it that none of those applied to her. Fairness, decency, kindness, compassion…These were not qualities she would ever have thought would have attracted her to a man, but after four years of war, it struck her that they were actually rather rare.

There was another big difference between the way she felt about James and the way she had felt about Enzo. When she first met Enzo, she had been a girl, unaware of how pleasurable the physical expression of love could be. For four years she had put the memories of their love-making out of her mind. Now, her kisses with James were stirring up recollections and desires that she had long kept buried. Of course, a woman was not expected to admit to such feelings, nor could she expect to experience those pleasures again until she was engaged to be married. But war, Livia realized, was changing that, as it had changed so many other things. It was effectively up to Livia to decide how much of a relationship she was going to have with James. It was a choice that few women of her background had ever had before, and the enormity of her freedom almost took her breath away when she thought about it.

Nevertheless, it was not a decision she intended to make lightly. Apart from anything else, she had already grieved for the loss of one husband. If she allowed herself to become too attached to James, the choices they would have to make later would be all the more painful.

But, as she ruefully acknowledged to herself, sometimes it was not a question of what you allowed or did not allow yourself to feel. Sometimes the heart makes its own decisions, and all you can do is decide whether or not you are going to act on them.

In the market James found some strawberries, the first he had seen since the war began. Excited, he spent far too much money on them. Back at the Palazzo Satriano, Livia was appalled.

“The season hasn’t started yet,” she scolded him. “They won’t be ripe.”

“They look fine to me.”

She tried one. “Just as I thought,” she said dismissively. “No flavor at all.”

“But how is one meant to know when the season has started?”

“One just does, that’s all.” She saw his crestfallen expression. “But we can have them with a little balsamic vinegar.”

“Strawberries with vinegar?” He made a face. “It doesn’t sound very enticing.”

“Trust me. They’ll be sweeter that way.”

As she sliced the berries into a bowl she said thoughtfully, “You’re a typical man, James. You want everything to always be ripe, so you can have it straightaway. But waiting until the right time is half of the pleasure.”

He looked at her sharply. Were they still talking about strawberries? But she was rummaging in a cupboard for the vinegar, a tiny bottle of ancient black stuff she had swapped for some rations, and he couldn’t see her face.

As she unstoppered the bottle and drizzled a little of the thick liquid over the fruit she said quietly, “Anyway, you won’t have to wait much longer.”

“Nearly strawberry season?”

“Maybe.”

Certain things, he learnt, always go well together. Balsamic vinegar and citrus fruit was just one example. Parsley and onion was another, as was chicory and pork, or radicchio and pancetta. Seafood was a natural partner for zucchini, mozzarella went with lemon, and although tomatoes went with almost anything, they had a special affinity with anchovies, basil or oregano.

“So it’s a question of opposites attracting?” he asked.

“Not exactly.” She struggled to explain. “Anchovies and tomatoes aren’t opposites, really, just complementary. One is sharp, one savory; one is fresh, the other preserved; one lacks salt, while the other has salt in abundance…it’s a question of making up for the other one’s deficiencies, so that when you combine them you don’t make a new taste, but bring out the natural flavors each already has.”

She glanced at him, and she knew that he was thinking the same thing she was thinking. The merest smile, a lift of an eyebrow…a quick kiss, in parting, planted on the back of her neck…her hand, trailing his as she let it go. Like parsley and onion.

“So what does tuna go with?”

She smiled. “Many things. But particularly with lemon.”

“So if I’m tuna, you must be lemon.”

“Hmm.” She thought about it. “I think I’d like to be a lemon. At least with a lemon, you know when it’s there. And I’d rather be sharp than too sweet.”

It never ceased to surprise him how many of her dishes were cooked without meat. Her pasta sauces often consisted of just one or two ingredients, such as garlic and oil, or grated lemon zest and cream. Many more were based on a vegetable, with peperone, anchovy or cheese providing a subtle kick. Often it didn’t occur to him that he hadn’t eaten meat until after the meal was over. His very favorite dish was her melanzane alla parmigiana, but it was only as his palate became more trained that he realized this, too, contained nothing more substantial than dense chunks of eggplant. As for gravy, he had never missed it once.

He mentioned this to her, and she laughed. “We’ve never had a lot of meat to spare in Campania. Even before the war, it was expensive. So we had to learn to use our ingenuity.”

The money in the tin mounted daily. Most was put there by Carlo and Enrico—James thought it best not to inquire too directly into its provenance. He assumed they were selling titbits of information, dispensing unofficial licenses for street vendors, helping to settle old scores between criminals, and generally supervising all the other little scams by which those in power make themselves useful to those they have power over.

Meanwhile, it seemed only appropriate that the filing cabinet, which had once held so many records of weddings refused, should in its new incarnation as an oven be responsible for their disappearance. James stuffed the bottom drawer full of papers, weighted them down with kindling, and set a match to them. For lunch that day he enjoyed a very good wood-roasted fish, served on a platter of salt and herbs.

The girls all had to be reinterviewed, and new reports written of a more positive nature. James was careful, however, not to go over the top. His approval was couched in the kind of subdued, dry officialese calculated not to arouse suspicion. No direct mention was made of Gina Tesalli’s pregnancy, other than an oblique reference to her “evident enthusiasm to become a good wife and mother.” Violetta Cartenza would, he wrote, “be a great asset to her husband’s regiment, having made friends already with a large number of servicemen in Naples.” Rosetta Marli was “according to many reports, unusually industrious and obliging at her work.” Even Algisa Fiore was “sober and demure,” a fact she demonstrated by pulling him to her bosom and covering him with kisses when he explained what he was up to.

He had decided against adding to his war chest by asking the girls for donations. Occasionally, however, they pressed on him an envelope stuffed with lire; these he took back to the Palazzo Satriano, where he added them to the tin.

One day Livia cooked him a new dish for breakfast, a kind of spring omelette, filled with fresh peas and mint. Then she announced that she would go to the market while he worked. For lunch that day they ate borlotti beans with pancetta, and a fish James could not identify but which Livia said was called orata, and highly sought after.

“My predecessor told me that seafood had an inconvenient effect on the libido,” James said thoughtfully as he wiped his plate with a piece of bread.

“That depends what you think is inconvenient,” Livia said enigmatically. “There’s a Neapolitan saying too: fish for lunch, no sleep during siesta. But I think that’s just because it’s such a light meal.”

It was certainly true that after lunch he felt no need for a nap. But that may also have been because Livia hadn’t served any wine. He hung around the kitchen, trying to engage her in conversation, but she seemed disinclined to talk to him. Eventually he gave up and went and lay down on his bed.

He couldn’t get her out of his mind. Every time he closed his eyes he saw images of her, sliding into his brain: Livia laughing, Livia cooking, Livia’s slim hands deftly cleaning a fish or scrubbing a potato; the flash of her eyes as she danced the tarantella. He groaned, and tried to think of something else, but it was no good. In his fantasies she was standing in front of him, unbuttoning the top of her dress….

A sudden sound at the door made him open his eyes. It was Livia, slipping into his room. A number of responses rushed through his mind, but he settled for, “Oh, hello.”

She smiled. “Hello.”

He felt stupid. An Italian would have greeted her with a stream of compliments and effusive protestations of love. But now his throat had gone dry. “Livia…”

She was kicking off her shoes. Now she was climbing onto the bed. “Such a huge bed,” she said, looking around. “I’ve never slept in a bed like this before.” She glanced at him, to see that he had understood.

He reached for her. But for a moment, she held his hand in hers, making him wait.

“Now listen,” she said sternly, “because this is something we need to be very clear about. In the village I come from, it is absolutely forbidden to make love until you are married. And this is a very good rule. Some things should be special.”

“Oh,” he said. Now he was confused. Had she not come here to sleep with him after all?

“So everyone is a virgin on their wedding day. But everyone is also very experienced at sex.”

He was getting more confused by the minute. “I don’t understand.”

Her smile broadened. “Don’t worry, you will soon. Just think of it as a meal without meat.” She slipped into his arms, wriggling against him, and her laugh—that delicious, throaty laugh, thick with promise—was suddenly very close to his ear.

Technically, he thought, I am still a virgin. Nothing has changed.

He lay on his back, with Livia snuggled against his side. Her sleeping breath tickled his armpit. When he looked down he could see one pink nipple, pressing against his ribs.

A virgin, but not a virgin. What a very Italian distinction. A rule that was not really a rule, but which turned out to have a very good purpose. Because he would, he knew, have been a fumbling idiot if he had tried to be a Casanova with her on his very first time. Instead, she had been able to show him what she liked, and show him what he liked, and he had all the time in the world to map that sleek beautiful body with his kisses, to caress her with his mouth and fingers, to hear the lovely gasps of pleasure whenever he did something she particularly liked.

He felt her stir. As she did so, the memory of everything they had done made him stir, too, his cock thickening where it lay against his leg.

“Mmm,” she said, putting her hand on it. After a moment she began to stroke, brushing him gently with her slim fingers.

“I hope,” he said, “that I can go on being a virgin for a very long time.”

“That can probably be arranged.” She increased the movement of her fingers slightly.

“Though if you’re doing what I think you’re doing,” he said after a moment, “you might be a little premature.”

“L’appetito viene mangiando. Appetite comes with eating.”

After a little longer, he found that she was quite right.

As they started to explore each other’s body again, the sound of jangling bells came through the window. Church bells, he thought, but not like the bells that rang every morning for Mass. They were ringing wildly, and he tensed, fearing some sort of alarm.

“It’s all right,” she said, not stopping what she was doing. “You know what that is, don’t you?”

“I’ve really no idea,” he confessed.

She laughed. “They’re wedding bells. Someone’s getting married.”