Lunch on the terrace

A chafer flails down on a rose bush, a few feet away from me, its
skittering
flight causing it to land a bit approximately. The fine turned legs of
this
handsome insect are almost Jacobean. They are footling all over the
place.
Large transport helicopters have this wobbly quality about them.
Anyway,
it's finally come to rest, furling its wings under the glittering
carapace
of its wing covers. It settles heavily down to lunch. The antennae
are
marvellously wrought, balletically mobile. It's June, and the bud
juices are
abundant. The delicate probings of its complex mouthparts are a
distinct
contrast to the creature's clumsy flight. I reckon it's enjoying its
meal.

And I'm settling down to lunch with a similar gusto. It's one of those
hot
days in Rome, and I'm in one of my favourite places, Angelo's, in
the
Trastevere. Technically, I suppose it's more accurate to say I am on
one of
my favourite places, for this is the restaurant's terrace. I'm taking
my
meal alone and the wine is going down easy. It's quiet, not many
diners
around. Presumably the heat is drowsing the city. Even the usual rasp
of
traffic seems muzzled by the soporific warmth. But this doesn't worry
me too
much, because I'm reading a good book, (Augustus Carp, Esq.) and the
only
part of the day that matters at all is this evening. I'm
interviewing
Nigella Lawson for a foodie piece I'm writing for a magazine. I feel
pretty
nervous about that. I've never met her, but she's my ideal woman.
The
thought of being with her in the flesh - the right word ! - after
imagining
so many nights with her before, is bound to result in me feeling just a
tiny
bit foolish. Good evening Miss Lawson, you don't know me, but I've
slept
with you in my fantasies.

The terrace has a blessed canopy of shade, formed by vines in the
overhead
pergola. Augustus Carp is telling his dad about 'the unbelievable sin'
he's
witnessed in Greenwich Park. I know I'll be in for a chuckle when I get
to
the bit where his trouser braces smack up against the back of his neck.
Carp
is one of the great characters in English, introduced to me by my
friend
Moira, when I was staying at her apartment in London. The morning was
drear,
and I was stuck inside all day, wind and rain strafing the place.
Moira, off
to a meeting, suggested I read Augustus. If it rained the entire day,
I
wouldn't have known, because I was hooked. Yes, I'm now a
'Carpomane'.

The book was hard to find when I went off in search of a copy. I was
fussy;
the book couldn't be just a serviceable paperback, you know. I'm
a
collector, and wanted a jacketed first edition. Eventually I found a
copy,
signed, no less, in one of those glorious secondhand bookshops in
Bloomsbury. A mere ninety pounds. And right now it's leaning against
a
bottle of San Pellegrino. Which I drink for the liver, you know.
Thus,
preoccupied with this supremely pompous little twerp, I haven't noticed
the
couple sitting at the next table. When I do notice I see she's a
delightful
little thing, though a bit sloppily dressed. In Rome you're expected to
wear
your clothes, not merely occupy them. This city is full of subtle
codes.
It's not a question of rules, that's too easy. But eating out here
involves
all the senses. You're expected to dress to please others, as well
as
yourself. This girl is falling down on both counts. But she's
undeniably
beautiful, with a cool ivory skin, a dramatic mouth, and deep auburn
hair. A
curl of this hair is enviably twined around the column of her long
neck. I'm
imagining how pleasing it would be to touch that skin, to twine that
curl of
hair in my fingers. The bag at her feet has a picture of one of
those
tourist boats, with ' Maid of the Mist' printed in a semi circle over
it.
Beneath the boat it says, 'Niagara. One of nature's wonders'.

If she's not well dressed, the man she's with is beyond surgery.
Standard
brand name all over, he's no more than a walking ad site for
NikeHardRockDodgers. He's a fairly disgusting red on the bits that
are
exposed, and too much of him falls into that category. The legend on
the
baseball hat says 'Orlando'. He's wearing multi coloured shorts.
Thick
golden hair covers him, most of it matted with suntan oil. The
man's
clashing colours, his oleaginous surfaces, reminds me of a pizza. And
you
don't eat pizza in this place.

But it's too easy to bitch, and my saltimbocca has just arrived. I'll
give
due attention to this lemony, Italianate masterpiece, from the kitchen
of
Angelo Cacciatelli. I put Augustus aside. Angelo's cooking deserves
respect,
and I intend to offer up my dutiful portion of it. Respect for Rome's
great
cooks is part of the code.

And respect is something I'm not discerning from the red mountain next
door.
He's speaking with his mouth full of bread and olives. He's
complaining, in
an accent that says Milwaukee to me. I'm not interested, naturally,
in
listening in to their conversation. But it's conducted as if I'm not
there,
at a high rate of decibels, and I can't fail to be party to it. And
it
gradually dawns on me; there is a reason for this. They think I'm
Italian.
Yes, of course, that's it. They've presumably only heard me speaking
Italian
to the waiter, and because I speak it with no trace of Boston these
days
they assume I don't understand what they are saying. My American
origins are
not apparent, and even my clothes are purest Roma. It's a bit of
a
compliment to be assumed a native of this city. But then, I've lived in
Rome
four years now, off and on, and my chameleon ability to absorb,
to
acclimatize, has allowed me to go native quickly. When you write for
the
world's magazines, you can base yourself pretty well anyplace you want
to.

This is a good Rocca delle Macie Classico. Perfect for the veal and
sage. I
wouldn't choose such a wine with this dish, but Angelo recommended it.
It's
typical of Angelo to go for the unconventional. You know, I may just
have to
drink the whole bottle.

The chafer on the rose bush is still sluicing away. Still enjoying his
lunch
as much as I am. I can just make out his back legs, scrabbling away in
a
rose bud. And the two on the table next door are still sticking to
their
Bud, and it makes me cross. Why bother to come to one of Rome's
great
restaurants and drink imported American beer ? Budweiser is not even
what
they think it is. It's the dull chemical approximation of it's
Czechoslovak
original. Not enough of my countrymen know that. The Czechish original
is a
fine beer, a proper beer, but you still don't want to drink it here.
This
place has a perfectly acceptable house wine that costs less than this
gassy
import. Alas, these two Americans are boringly, and predictably,
imperialistic...

Ah, now I notice a jay is prospecting around the shrubs, looking for
tasty
morsels, and no doubt my green chafer will fit the bill. Or even fill
the
bill. You have to admire the sheer dash of the jay. It's enjoying the
sun on
its feathers. The keen eye is as black as a bead of jet.

Orlando, next table, is complaining about the lack of hygiene in
Europe. And
then he drones for a while about that which constitutes a frigate,
which I
find completely baffling. What the hell does constitute a frigate ? And
who
the hell cares anyway ? I mean, come on. A frigate is a boat, and
that
constitutes all you need to know of frigates. Meanwhile, Maid of the
Mist is
moving in on her pasta. She prongs a forkful to Orlando, who inhales it
with
gusto. I acknowledge the pair of them are at least enjoying
Angelo's
matchless way with tortellini. They're oblivious to the drama playing
out on
the rose bush, though. Which, I have to say, isn't looking good for
our
chafer. The jay has seen the bright metallic green amongst the leaves
duller
shades. It's in the general area occupied by the beetle. Given the
acute
sight of the bird, my money's on the demise of the six legged crunchy
jewel
case. If there was anyone to place a bet with, I reckon I'd clean up.
The
bird's definitely moving in for the kill.

I finish my second bottle and move in on marron ala crema, which
Angelo
makes himself with fresh marrons. Try it and you'll never eat it anyway
else
again. At such times you're a world away from sticky confections that
share
the name. A small, and very cold, glass of Amaretto is the very thing
with
this dolce concoction. I confess to you, I'm fairly soused.

How these things happen I'm at a loss to explain, but suddenly I'm
starting
to fall for this Maid. Can't take my eyes off her. She's got all the
sparkle
Orlando lacks. It isn't long before I'm convinced this is a brute of a
man.
A dull macho mound of prejudice, yes sir. She must be saved from his
foul
clutches. Within the next ten minutes. She's petite, bright and
animated.

Maybe it's the heat, but I feel roused by this woman. She's reminding
me of
one of the figures in Botticelli's Primavera, the left hand one of the
three
Graces, but with darker hair. The painting is one of the greatest
temperas
in the world. I've stood before it in the Uffizzi, and marvelled at
its
sensuality many times. It's a sensuality that has nevertheless
retained
control over the feelings it represents. It's one of the great
Renaissance
springboards, the summation of tempera technique. Yes, she could've
stepped
from that painting to be here now. Maybe today is a strange moment
of
coincidence in my life. One of my erotic icons is going to be talking
with
me tonight; and another of those icons is with me now, on this terrace
in
Rome, and it's a kind of destiny. There's an elemental surge of
feeling
within me. It's even distracting me from my food.

And then I see she's got this big bruise on her leg. Her beautiful
shapely
and refined leg. This guy must knock her about. He's a monster, a
slavering
beast. Look at his swarthy arms, his low neanderthal brow, the
grotesque
splat of his hairy nose.There's a wart on his neck, with hairs emerging
from
it. He needs a shave.Peeling skin scrolls down his forehead. He's a
crude
operator, with all the delicacy of a toilet seat. You can tell that
from the
way he tears the bread; the manner with which he lobs the bread into
his
slavering jaw. Ejected olive pits have been spattered into the
bushes.

He's reminding me of another painted character, but I'm not thinking of
the
refined world of Botticelli. This guy is straight out of the Musee
des
Beaux-Arts, in Ghent. I'm looking at the very model of one of the
ragamuffins in Bosch's Christ Bearing the Cross. Bosch touched his peak
of
technical mastery in that painting, and the reincarnation of one of
his
models is sitting right here. Next table to me. I've decided he isn't
good
enough for my slender, elegant Maid.

Yes, elegant. Just look at the shape of her legs. The way the small
breasts
move under her cotton top. Her delicate make up. She's been forced by
this
pugilist into adopting ways of dress that are foreign to her
instincts.
Instincts which would, if allowed expression, be of the most
sophisticated.
Released from his clutches she'd slip effortlessly into the Beau Monde,
be
the brilliant centre of sophisticated European attention. Dare I become
the
agent of her release ?

Meanwhile, she's offering him her pen, which I notice he takes from her
pale
delicate hand with a brusque snatch of his stubby fingers. Maybe the
very
fingers that bruised the poor creature in the first place. These
porcine
pinkies of his are covered in the same curly golden matted hairs that
cover
the rest of him. His nails are all bitten down. A large crested
ring
glitters cruelly, malevolently, upon his third fat finger, the
flesh
squeezing out either side of it. The ring has a crude monogram.

He's obviously punched her with this fist. That's the origin of the
bruise.
And how many other bruises lie hidden ? I dread to allow my thoughts
to
dwell on the sexual ravishing he inflicts upon her. There is, surely,
a
hidden life of brutality here. A hidden, secret, suffering life; a
crying in
the wilderness; she's a trapped bird, a caged creature of the wild,
longing
for the bolt to be slipped from her bars, longing for the free flowing
air
to course through her glorious hair.

Her hands are a distinct contrast to his in every way. She's a
different
species if you compare them. Hers are exquisite, tiny, and slender
fingered.
The sort of hands that, no matter what task they are performing,
look
elegant. They're the hands of... why, it's only just come to me. These
are
the very hands Botticelli used in his gorgeous Madonna del Magnificat;
the
circular perfection of such images. That, too, is in the Galleria
degli
Uffizzi, and is another consummate masterpiece in tempera.

I take a deep breath. Something must be done. I'm no match, physically,
for
this obviously experienced homicidal killer. He has the look of a hired
gun.
He's the chief contractor in the missing persons game. The bulge in
his
pocket is a Magnum or two at the very least. He certainly runs
whatever
organization took over from Murder Incorporated. Drug baron ? Master of
the
whorehouse ? His money is laundered through the world's banking
systems.
Crack cocaine is everyday currency to this gangster. The gun hasn't
been
made that could accommodate all the notches he's chalked up during
a
lifetime of killing.

He's sweating because he has to wear body armour for his own
protection. And
that big chain around his thick red neck is easily converted to a
killing
thing. My god; he must threaten her with it. That's how he secures
his
sexual favours. The great medallion at the end of the chain is probably
a
relic from the days he spent as a Hell's Angel, cruising around America
on a
trail of slaughter and cruelty.

She must be saved. The world would be a better place without him or
his
kind. There are too many bullies, destroying the gentle lives of
perfect
feminine creatures like this. When did he last strike her ? This
morning ?
An hour ago ?

Thoughts shoot through my head that will no doubt result in my death.
But
I'll take him with me. Her release will be secured. And, over my
grave,
she'll weep that we never got to know each other. She'll live out her
life
with the memory of me forever inside her released heart. She's never
known
love. He's denied her the right to children, which she craves as
her
birthright.

At which point, enter Angelo, smiling broadly, with two children
holding on
to him. The children have school bags emblazoned with 'Scola
Americana'.
Angelo booms a greeting to the two diners, and they answer in, I must
admit,
perfect Italian. The children call out to their parents, also in
Italian,
and run across the terrace. Kisses are exchanged. And my elaborate
theories
and speculations are all dashed to pieces.

At which precise moment the jay takes off without my chafer, and I'm
feeling
somewhat less sophisticated and worldly wise than I was a short while
ago.
The wine has delivered a heck of a kick to my head. And my wallet
is
missing. I'm embarrassed to tell Angelo this news. He's a great cook,
sure,
but; well, really, I have to admit I hardly know him, actually. And
I've
heard he's pretty unforgiving about diners who use his skills, eat his
food,
and blithely admit they can't pay.

This is humbling for me. As I tentatively beckon the maestro over to
try and
explain, I knock over one of the wine bottles. It smashes on the tiles
and
everyone is looking my way. But Orlando observes my anguish and
introduces
himself and his lovely wife, and his children. Her hand is soft, just
the
way I knew it would be. And his, I have to admit it, is a firm and
friendly
handshake, ebullient, and palpably welcoming. She asks me why I'm
so
distressed. As I tell them, he embarrasses me further by saying he'll
cover
my bill with his platinum Amex, and we'll say no more about it. 'Be
my
guest, old buddy. I'm loaded. What's a few measly dollars between
fellow
Americans. Lemme see... yeah, I reckon you must be a Bostonian, right
?'

I just hope Nigella doesn't let me down this evening.