Living in a Foreign Language (10 page)

“Risotto croquette?”

We nodded and he placed one on each of our plates next to the sausage en croute. I didn't know where to look first.

“Insalata di farro”
—a salad of spelt, tomato and arugula. Oh, yes.

“Carpaccio di daino?”

We nodded again and accepted the deer carpaccio onto the center of our plates.

“Prosciutto con tartufi,”
another waiter announced, and onto the plate it came. This was the most exquisite house-made prosciutto, thinly sliced—or as they say over there,
“trasparente”
—wrapped around the most decadent paste of fresh, local black truffles. The salty-strong taste of the meat, cut against the funky-woodsy essence of the summer truffles, stopped us in our tracks. Well, almost.

“Salami fatti in casa.”
Exquisite thick-sliced salami—made downstairs.

“Formaggio pecorino con miele di castagno”
—sharp, salty sheep's cheese drizzled with chestnut honey.

“Carpaccio di oca.”
Goose carpaccio—superb.

“Prosciutto in pane”
—this was a number. The waiter had rolled over a cart on which was a long, steaming brioche—like a Wellington, filled with fresh-cooked ham, which was coated with wild mushrooms and truffles. They use the same word—“prosciutto”—for preserved ham or cooked ham; the cooked is called
prosciutto cotto
. The waiter sliced off a very generous portion for each of us and managed to find room on our plates.

“Pomodori gratinati”
—baked fresh tomatoes, drizzled with olive oil and bread crumbs.

“Salsicce di daino”
—deer sausage drizzled with long-aged
balsamico
.

We ate everything. We were in another dimension of eating.

The waiter came back to describe the pastas and Jill raised her arms in the international gesture of surrender. But I had a listen.

“Ravioli con funghi porcini; strengozzi anche con porcini.”
I nodded, and soon large helpings of both were being heaped on my plate. Everything in Da Beppino is served family style. The pastas were wonderful. Porcini were just coming into season and the restaurant was very proud to have found the best of them.

Then our waiter came to the table and with only a hint of a smile, asked us what we'd like for dinner.

Later, we rolled down the hill to our cozy casa, happy to be home and safe, happy to be full and satisfied, smug that such a restaurant is a ten-minute walk from our place, and content—oh, so content—to be living this part of our life in Italy.

Sunday, not having the means to travel, we just hung around the house all day. We watered the garden, moved the
furniture around in the living room and took a long walk through the olive groves. And I cooked three good meals from what was in the little fridge. It was our best day so far.

Monday morning I finally got through to the Avis people to tell them what I did to their car, and they handled it as if it were an everyday occurrence. They gave me the number for
“Assistenza,”
which is like the AAA, who would come out and tow the car back to the rental office in Spoleto. They thought they would be able to drain the tank and get the car back to me by the afternoon.

Of course the
Assistenza
people spoke no English and, given the fact that our house has no address, I was having a hard time telling them where to come. So finally, in a flash of brilliance, I said, “Do you know Da Beppino?” I said this, of course, in impeccable Italian.

“Da Beppino—
il ristorante?”

“
Si
,” said I.

The tow truck driver assured me he knew it very well.

“Let's meet there.”

So I walked up the hill to the restaurant's driveway and leaned against their stone wall to wait for the tow truck—which was promised within a half hour, which I knew meant any time before lunch. After about five minutes, the two dogs that belong to the restaurant—perhaps the two best-fed dogs in the world—came sniffing down the driveway to see who was trespassing, and not far behind them came the owner who had fed us so well the night before.

“
É chiuso oggi,”
he called to me—like many restaurants in Italy, they close on Mondays.

I explained as best I could that I was waiting for the
Assistenza
and was using his place as a landmark. We then got into a very difficult conversation where I tried to explain
what I had done to my car. His English was, if anything, worse than my Italian. When he finally got the picture—with the help of gestures and sounds—of my car bucking up the highway filled with the wrong gas, he beamed from ear to ear.

“Come, have a coffee.”

When I protested and said that I'd better wait below for the tow truck, he waved and called over his shoulder that they would probably be hours.

“But it's your day of rest,” I said.

He just waved and kept walking. He must have thought it was easier to make me a coffee than to try to have any more conversation.

We sat in the bar, had a few espressos and talked for the better part of the morning. And although I would swear that we didn't have more than five words in common, we got to know each other fairly well. I told him that I was an actor who wasn't working much anymore and about how my wife and I had bought the house down the hill, and he told me of all the show business people who have been to Da Beppino. And of a famous Italian director who planned a whole picture while staying in one of the rooms there, plowing through the famous antipasto every night. By the time the tow truck showed up, we were
vicini di casa
—neighbors. And what better neighbor could you have if you want to go up the road to borrow a cup of goose carpaccio?

“M
ARTIN'S A POOR, TORTURED
little German boy, “said JoJo with obvious affection. “He worries everything to death. But you won't find a better architect and he speaks perfect English—and given that I'll be supervising the whole project, I can whip him into shape when he starts losing sleep over the color of your septic tank or some such nonsense.”

She was holding forth under the pergola while Jill and I were picking over the remains of breakfast—prosciutto, melon, yogurt, toasted unsalted Umbrian bread with chestnut-honey and coffee. JoJo was gearing up to negotiate the deal for our
ampliamento
—the addition of two more bedrooms onto the Rustico. One of the real perks when we bought the house was our set of approved plans for doubling its size—“approved” being the operative word, in that it's virtually impossible to get permission to build in the olive groves unless there's an intact structure already there. And even then, permission to improve it or alter it can take years of frustrating negotiations with the
comune
. JoJo has played
this role with many of her real estate clients, serving as a go-between, translator and general gadfly so that their planning and building process doesn't get mired in transcontinental misunderstandings. Just as when she was in the agent business, she protects her clients like a mother lion. She is the agent Jill and I have always dreamed of having—loyal, attentive and fierce. And always amusing.

“I usually work with Maurizio, who's also a good architect. But his English sucks and you guys can't speak enough Italian yet. You'd end up building something you don't want.”

“You've never worked with Martin?” Jill asked.

“No, we've never tried it. He and Karen are good friends of ours and we cook dinners for each other all the time, but I think he's afraid of me. I can be a little outspoken.”

This was a monumental understatement. I told her we were thinking of putting the whole thing off for a year or two, of just enjoying the place we bought and worrying about construction somewhere down the line.

“It's kind of a plus not to be able to have any guests,” I said.

“No argument there,” said JoJo. “But be careful. Restrictions around here are getting tighter, not looser. They don't want this area to become another Tuscany, with little English Tudor tea shops all over the place. In a couple of years, you may well have lost your window of opportunity to build—permit or no.”

Martin's car had pulled up at the gate and I went inside and pushed the electric gate opener to let him in. As he parked and got out of his car, we could see he was carrying a sheaf of rolled-up architectural plans. I offered him some coffee.

Jojo

“No, thank you. I've had my quota of caffeine already this morning. Good morning, JoJo; have you been telling them what a wonderful architect I am?”

Martin is an elegantly handsome man. With his blond hair, steel-blue eyes and pink cheeks, he is the very model of a modern major Aryan. His clothes—even at his most casual—hang on him perfectly.

“Oh sure,” answered JoJo. “I've been singing your praises.”

They smiled at each other. Then Martin turned to us.

“To build in Italy, it's a very good idea to have a German architect. This way, things will get done on time and on budget.”

Martin blushed, acknowledging the German stereotype. We all nodded, realizing it was probably quite true.

“I have here three things to show you. First, Bruno's original plans—just to get an idea of what he had in mind. . . .”

“They don't want to do Bruno's plans. They want two bedrooms.”

“Please, JoJo, let me make my presentation and then—when I have finished—you can give your opinion. Which I'm sure you won't be shy about.”

“Quite right.”

They smiled at each other again.

“Then I have a drawing for an addition with two master bedrooms, each with a bathroom en suite.”

He paused and glared significantly at JoJo.

“And then I have another plan that would completely redefine the house—just to show you that anything is possible here.”

“They don't want to redefine the house. They love it. That's why they bought it. Why the hell would they want to knock it down and start over?”

“I'm not suggesting knocking anything down, JoJo. My God! What do you think I am? I have worked harder to preserve the integrity and history of these Umbrian farmhouses than any Italian architect you can name!”

Martin was getting a little red under the collar, and we could see that JoJo was enjoying every minute of it.

“Good. So we're not knocking it down; we're all agreed on that.”

“But I think—if JoJo will allow me to have a consultation with my clients—that you should open your minds to the possibilities.”

We nodded. It didn't seem like such a bad idea to us. Martin unrolled a drawing on the table.

“In this scenario, I have the kitchen in the new part of the house. That way you can design your dream kitchen from the ground up.”

“I'm pretty happy with the kitchen, actually . . .,” I said, nervously. “I don't want to get into a million-dollar restoration here.”

“Exactly!” piped up JoJo. “Bruno wasn't going to spend any more than a hundred fifty thousand euro on the whole thing.”

“Bruno was doing a completely different plan! My God! Bruno wanted only one bedroom!”

Martin was now turning bright red.

“Correct me if I'm wrong,” JoJo said to us. “You guys want to add two bedrooms, you want to keep it simple, you want to match the stonework so it looks like the old Rustico—and not have all that tortured rusted metal and glass that Martin likes to put on things.”

“If you're talking about the house I did in Trevi, you know very well that you love that house. It's why you recommended me here today.”

“True, that's a great house. I just love making your ears red.”

Then she turned to us.

“Why don't you go and see some of Martin's work—the traditional houses and some of the tortured ones as well. Then you can make up your own minds.”

“Let's make it for next week,” said Jill. “Caroline's arriving this coming Sunday and she'll want to be in on the process.”

We all readily agreed to this. Martin took out his appointment book and we set up an afternoon the following Tuesday for a house tour and lunch that sounded like a lot of fun. Martin was growing on me by the minute. He clearly had a lot of pride in his work.

“Who are you thinking of to build it?” JoJo asked him.

“I've been working with Fidelio and I think finally I know how to handle his little quirks.”

“I won't work with him,” she said flatly.

“I can handle him, JoJo.”

“He's a thief and I'm not gonna work with him.”

Then Martin started to explain to us that JoJo and this Fidelio had gotten into quite a shouting match over a project they were doing together the year before. It had become a much-talked-about local incident.

“He is from the south, and they're not used to hearing a woman talk like that,” said Martin.