The Wedding Officer

4

FISCINO ETIQUETTE was both very liberal and very strict.

Once they were formally engaged, it was completely accepted that Livia and Enzo would sneak off to roll around in the hay barn, kissing and working each other up into a frenzy. It was also expected that they would both be virgins on their wedding night. Anything in between, however, was a gray area.

One of the many advantages of this tried-and-tested arrangement was that it forced the young man to be a lot more inventive than he might have been if he had simply been able to make love in the conventional way, and then fall asleep. Enzo soon discovered that beneath Livia’s practical exterior she was extremely passionate.

“Now listen,” she said, the first time they went to the hay barn. “Let’s get something clear. I’ve come here because I don’t want my sister rolling her eyes and giggling every time she sees us together, not because I want you to stick your tongue down my throat. And I’ll thank you for keeping your hands to yourself.”

“So no tongues, and no hands,” he agreed. “Are there any other body parts you’d like amputated? My legs, perhaps?”

“Your legs are acceptable,” she said, “so long as you don’t try to grope me with them.”

“That’s not very likely,” he pointed out, “since if I did, I’d fall over.”

“Good. That’s settled, then.”

Enzo sighed. Much as he adored Livia, life with the Pertinis seemed to be one long negotiation in which he always seemed to come off worst. “May I kiss you now?”

“If you like.” She came into his arms, and he pressed his lips against hers. She gasped, and after a moment he felt her tongue pushing between his lips. Experimentally, he put his hands on her back, then slid them around her waist. Livia squirmed, but it seemed to him to be a squirm of pleasure rather than disapproval. He kissed his way down her neck, and when she moaned with delight he thought he might as well continue toward her breasts. To his amazement, those seemed to be up for grabs as well. After a few minutes of his kissing and stroking them through her dress, she was clearly impatient to have the material removed, so he pulled her dress down over her shoulders before continuing.

“I thought you said no hands,” he murmured as he lavished attention on her beautiful little nipples.

“Yes, well, that was before I realized how much fun it was going to be,” she said with a shiver as he did something particularly pleasant with his teeth. “Pupetta always makes it look rather boring, and really it isn’t boring at all.”

Livia had a very good time indeed in the hay barn, and by the time she came to be married she was already fairly sure she was going to enjoy that side of things. Meanwhile, she and Enzo were not allowed to kiss in public, and when they danced the tarantella at a festa they had to keep a handkerchief between them, holding one end each so that their hands never actually touched. This Livia found rather amusing, as Enzo’s big blue handkerchief also featured, necessarily, in some of their more enthusiastic encounters in the barn.

A fortnight before their wedding, Enzo took her to Naples to meet his family. She had not realized from his descriptions quite how poor they were, or what cramped conditions they lived in, sleeping three and even four to a bed in a tiny three-roomed apartment in the slums of the old quarter. But she was in love, and she was determined to make the best of her new life.

Enzo’s mother, Quartilla, was a typical Neapolitan, sharp-eyed and shrewd. The first time they met she asked Livia to help her by making a sugo, a tomato sauce, while they talked. Of course, she didn’t really need any help, but she had been told that this country girl was good in the kitchen and she wanted to see if it was true. “Help yourself to whatever you need,” she said, and sat down to peel some fagioli. So Livia cooked, and Quartilla watched her like a lizard watching a fly.

Livia could have made a sugo blindfold—she had been making it almost every day for years. The only difficulty was, there were as many different kinds of sugo as there were days in a month. There was the everyday version, which might be no more than a handful of ripe tomatoes squashed with the tip of a knife to release the juices, then quickly fried in oil. There was the classic version, in which the tomatoes were simmered along with some garlic and onions until they had reduced to a thick, pulpy stew. Then there was a richer version, in which pieces of meat were cooked for several hours to extract all the flavor, and so on all the way up to ragù del guardaporte, the gatekeeper’s sauce, so called because it required someone to sit by it all day, adding little splashes of water to stop the rolls of meat stuffed with parsley, garlic and cheese from drying out.

Livia knew that whichever recipe she chose now would be taken by Enzo’s mother as a kind of statement about her character. She quickly rejected the rich version—that would look extravagant. The classic version, on the other hand, would look as if she wasn’t putting any thought into it, whilst the simplest one, although her own favorite, might look as if she wasn’t prepared to make an effort. So she decided to follow her instincts.

“Do you have any anchovies?” she asked.

Enzo’s mother looked as if she was about to explode. “Anchovies?” In Naples, anchovies were only added to tomatoes if you were making puttanesca, the sauce traditionally associated with prostitutes.

“Please. If you have some,” Livia said demurely.

Quartilla appeared to be about to say something else, but then she shrugged and fetched a small jar of anchovies from a cupboard.

The sauce Livia made now was not puttanesca, but like puttanesca it was powerful and fiery. It was also remarkably simple, a celebration of the flavor of its main ingredients. She tipped the anchovies, together with their oil, into a pan, and added three crushed cloves of garlic and a generous spoonful of peperoncino flakes. When the anchovies and garlic had dissolved into a paste, she put in plenty of sieved tomatoes, to which she added a small amount of vinegar. The mixture simmered sluggishly, spitting little blobs of red sauce high into the air, like a pan full of lava. After three minutes Livia dropped a few torn basil leaves into the sauce. “There. It’s finished.”

Instantly Quartilla was standing next to the pan, dipping a spoon in to taste it. For a brief moment her eyes registered surprise. Then she recovered, and made a show of smacking her lips thoughtfully while she considered her verdict.

“Well,” she said at last, grudgingly, “It’s a bit showy, and it’s got too much heat in it—it needs to be reined in a bit. A lot of men would think it was quite tasty, but that’s men for you, they can easily mistake peperoncino and strong flavors for good solid nourishment, particularly when it’s made to look all pretty on the plate. But it’ll do.”

And you’re an old witch, Livia thought. Quartilla must have read her mind, because she added, “And if you don’t make my Enzo happy, girl, I’ll put you over my knee and beat you with that wooden spoon myself.”

Naples, Livia realized, was going to be very different from the country. She noticed, too, that whenever they went out together for the passeggiata, the evening stroll along the Via Roma that was a ritual for all betrothed couples, Enzo seemed to take great pleasure in the admiring glances he himself received in his uniform, whereas whenever a look or a smile came Livia’s way he was unhappy, and hurried her along.

The night before the wedding Livia wore green, and when she walked to the church a veil covered her face, so that evil spirits would not see her happiness. Enzo, meanwhile, carried a piece of iron in his pocket to ward off the evil eye. Their families walked with them, the little children running alongside catching the sugared almonds that were thrown up into the air. Afterward there was a big party, for which Livia had cooked all the traditional dishes. Each one had a symbolic or superstitious meaning. The sugared almonds meant that there would be bitterness as well as sweetness in their lives. The soup of chicory and meatballs which started the feast symbolized the pairing of complementary ingredients. Even the pastries, fried twists of dough dipped in sugar, were supposed to ensure fertility. The happy couple were toasted by the families with the cry of “Per cent’anni!” and Enzo had to make a formal announcement that Livia was now no longer her father’s daughter; she was Enzo’s wife. Then there was a great chant of “Bacio! Bacio! Bacio!” to encourage them to kiss in public for the first time, which they did to great applause.

I’m Signora Pertini now, Livia thought—for in Italy a woman keeps her father’s surname after her marriage, her change in status denoted instead by the fact that she is no longer called signorina.

It was the custom that when they went to bed, the wedding guests came into the bedroom with them and placed gifts around the room—money, mostly, but also cloth, chinaware and sweets—so that when they were finally left alone, with many a ribald comment from the departing guests, they first had to clear all the coins and sugared almonds off the bed. The ribald comments had made Livia rather shy, in fact, and she was glad to have had all that rolling around in the hay barn to give her confidence. But she was also glad they had not gone any further than they had: In the morning, as Neapolitan custom demanded, she had to take the sheets to her mother-in-law to wash, so that if Quartilla wished she could satisfy herself that Livia had been a virgin. Quartilla only gave her a nudge in the ribs, and commented slyly, “There’ll be a lot more washing from now on, I hope. I want a grandchild.”

Livia blushed. “There’s plenty of time for that.”

“Not this month there won’t be. Enzo goes back to the garrison next week.”

“Next week?” Livia had not realized their honeymoon would be so short. But Enzo reassured her that he would be home again after a fortnight, and a fortnight was not so very long to wait.

When he came home from the garrison, however, something seemed to be worrying him. He cross-questioned her about who she had seen, what she had been doing, and which of his male friends she had seen when she was out shopping in the market.

The next day Quartilla announced that from now on, one of her other daughters would be doing the shopping.

“But why?” Livia asked, appalled. Now that she wasn’t cooking for all the osteria’s customers, going to the market was the only real pleasure she had when Enzo was away.

“People have been talking. Apparently you’re too friendly.”

Livia searched her memory. She had been polite, certainly, and since she was herself bursting with happiness she had probably smiled at the stallholders. But there had been no flirting, of that she was absolutely certain.

She protested, but Quartilla simply said, “It’s different in the city. Besides, you’re Enzo’s wife, and this is his wish.”

Livia accepted the inevitable, and waited another week for Enzo’s next leave. But it was no different this time—again she was cross-questioned about whom she had seen, what she had been doing, whether she had been out and if so what she had been wearing.

“Enzo,” she cried, “This is ridiculous. I married you because it was you I wanted, not someone else. What makes you think I’d even look at another man?”

He refused to answer, until eventually she coaxed it out of him. “If I seduced you,” he said glumly, “it stands to reason someone else could too.”

She laughed, although the assumption that it had been his choice that they were together now, rather than hers equally, actually made her rather cross. “Don’t be crazy. It’s you I fell in love with, and there’s no one else like you in all Naples.”

He smiled, and looked happier. “Yes, that’s true, isn’t it?” Then his features clouded again. “But I’m not here most of the time.”

“Well,” she said, “if you’re really worried about me being bored while you’re away, I think I have the answer. I’m going to get a job in a restaurant, as a cook.”

Enzo looked appalled. “You, go to work in a restaurant? God forbid!”

“Why not? Most of your sisters work.”

“Yes, but that’s in the factory. The lines are separated—the men work on one side, the women on the other, and they all keep an eye out for one another to make sure nothing goes on. If you were in a restaurant, anything might happen.”

She wanted to explode, but she had an idea that she had to be careful how she handled this. “Believe me,” she said, “I am quite capable of looking after my own honor. I’m not like those other girls, who simper and flirt and make eyes at any man who smiles at them.”

After a moment he nodded. “That’s one reason I liked you, right from the start. I could never have married one of those girls who showed themselves off in the beauty contest.”

Again, Livia felt a pang of irritation—not because she had a very high opinion of beauty contestants, but because it seemed to her that a double standard was being applied here. But she contented herself by saying, “Tell you what. How about if I do the shopping in the market, but I take your sister with me? Then everyone will be satisfied.”

Enzo agreed that this was a good idea, and Livia decided to leave the question of working in a restaurant for another occasion. It was the first disagreement the two of them had ever had, and she wanted to think it through before she worked out how to proceed.

On reflection, though, she decided that it had not been such a very big matter. This trait of Enzo’s was by no means uncommon amongst Neapolitan men, and she felt that her ability to handle the situation probably boded well for their married peace together. Things would be better once he had left the army, as he had promised to do by the end of the year.

So all in all things had worked out satisfactorily, and even Quartilla turned out not to be such a dragon when you got to know her, apart of course from her incessant demands for a grandchild, which would happen soon enough anyway if Livia and Enzo went on making love at the rate they did. Although Livia sometimes missed the excitement of cooking for dozens of people at once, she was happy, and her life would probably have followed much the same course as Quartilla’s or her own mother’s, had it not been for a series of events which turned out to be even more cataclysmic than an eruption of the volcano.