He looked directly at Francesca, who blushed and lowered her head.
“We have been learning about the Alps, Papa. Great mountains in the North, covered in snow. I would go there, Papa? Niccolo declared. “Mmm, the Alps eh? Great, grand mountains, they are indeed”.
My father paused and turned as the servants had entered the dining room, carrying steaming silver bowls. He turned back and looked directly at Niccolo, who now sat up as straight as a die, and had somehow managed to dispose of his toy knight, God only knew where. In the fruit bowl, I surmised.
“We cannot go there Niccolo. The road to the Alps is a dangerous one, awash with cut-purses, scoundrels and heathens”, my father said and adjusting his biretta, leaned back, motioning to Luciana, who stood poised behind him, with a ladle in her hand.
Niccolo eyes widened. “Whoah…cut-purses, scoundrels, heathens”, my little brother slowly repeated the words and I shivered, gooseflesh on my skin.
“Papa, have you been there? To the Alps?” Niccolo’s voice now shrill and loud. “Mmm….I have..I have indeed…aspetto un momento. Ah Luciana, what do you have there?”
Luciana bowed her head slightly as black wispy curls escaped her headdress, and I noted, her mouth was a pinched smile.
“Ser Alessandro”, Luciana paused a moment and dug the ladle in, stirring the hot steaming broth.
“ We have chickpea soup, followed by civet of venison with an herb salad”, Luciana, stated whilst somehow mastering a curtsey and presenting the bowl to my father, who dipped his head appearing to relish the aroma and nodded approvingly.
“Molto bene, molto bene Luciana. Vieni qui, Vieni qui”, my father slapped his hand on the table, which shuddered slightly as he did so. Niccolo screwed up his face in disgust and Francesca frowned, nudging Niccolo with her elbow. My mother shook her head, giving her only son one of her looks.
My father clapped his hands and Luciana proceeded to ladle out the chickpea soup, as Giovanni poured red wine into my father’s pewter cup. “Madonna - lemon and hot, boiling water?”, Giovanni handed me a white, china cup, the sharp scent of lemon stinging the air.
“Thank you, Giovanni, and some for Niccolo too,” I said.
Niccolo vigorously shook his head and glared at me. “It is so hot today, Caterina”, my mother interjected. “Would you not have some cold, spring water?” I shook my head.
“No Mama. I have told all of you, many times - if you boil the water, it somehow changes its properties and, then it becomes safe to drink. A slice of lemon gives it flavour, and the lemon is good for you too.”
Francesca rolled her eyes, as if in disbelief. I motioned to Niccolo to drink his steaming, hot lemon water. He ignored me and placed his elbows on the table, with his head in his hands. My mother took a sip of her wine.
“Your mother has good sense; a cup of wine is good for the stomach, not some godless hot water and lemon”, my father said.
“Niccolo. Your elbows! A good cup of wine from the Duoro Valley, not Italian, but still the best in all of Christendom. Now that is good for the stomach”.
He slapped the table again, this time causing the crockery and the candelabra to shudder.
“Francesca – Grace please”, he said and then bowed his head slightly, shyly looking at my mother as if he were a child seeking approval from a parent.
“Yes Papa, “said Francesca.
I pressed my hands together, closed my eyes and drifted off as my sister recited the familiar words of our Lord’s prayer.
“Thank you, Francesca”. My mother’s voice soft and low. “Now, we may eat”.
Opening my eyes, I dipped my spoon into the chickpea soup, tasting it slowly. It was earthy, wholesome, and salty with a tang of rosemary and bay leaf.
“Delizioso Luciana, delizioso. Who cooked this?”
“Amilla cooked the soup, Mio Signore”, Luciana answered whilst placing scalding, hot bread onto my plate. Niccolo was playing with the spoon in his bowl, eyeing the thick, brown liquid with suspicion.
“Eat your soup, Niccolo. There will be no dessert, if you do not”, admonished my mother. Niccolo, looked at my mother, then my father, and then attacked his bowl of soup with a fervour, as if the memories of sitting at the table, whilst we ate plums in rose water, and as he stared at his empty plate, doused his mind.
We laughed. It was indeed comical. Nothing on God’s sweet earth could make Niccolo eat anything green. We had all but given up ever trying to force him to eat, even a morsel of Luciana’s fragrant salad.
“Hunger,” my father roared, tearing the hot bread apart and dunking it into his bowl.
Niccolo stiffened slightly, Francesca’s eyes glazed over, and my mother took another sip of wine.
“Bambinis, bambinis, my bambinis…you have never felt hunger like I have. Never. Luciana has… Luciana has, where is she, where is my favourite slave?”
“Servant, Alessandro, servant. Luciana is our servant”, my mother said. “We do not suffer slaves in our house”.
