Dying on the Vine (29 page)

“I am.”

“I want you to bring me a chef.”

I put down my fork and stared at him.

“Me?”

“Yes, you.”

“You've noticed I'm not Italian, haven't you?”

“Sure. I played an Italian myself once in a film. Didn't convince anybody. So I can spot other non-Italians with no trouble.” He grinned and disposed of the rest of the salad in two mouthfuls. “No, you don't have to be Italian. You do have to go to Italy though.”

He drank some more wine and I decided not to point out that it was a shame to risk affecting the taste of such a fine wine by eating salad at the same time. He reached inside his jacket pocket and took out a folded sheet of paper. “See, here's what we did, Paul and I. We wrote down all the chefs we could think of who would qualify as candidates for running the best Italian restaurant in London. We looked everywhere—even one in San Francisco and one in Copenhagen. Then we started to eliminate one here, one there, one for this reason, one for that reason. We kept on until we had three left. Happens they're all in Italy, even all in the same general area.”

I was returning to the excellent salad as he asked, “You can see where I'm heading now, can't you?”

“I think so. You want me to check all these three out and rate them for you.”

He grinned his devil-may-care grin—the one that he had used so often and to such good effect in that movie where he was a con man in Monte Carlo.

“I want you to eat at the restaurants where these three cook. I want you to find out everything you can about how they operate, how efficient they are, how ingenious they are, what kind of people they are. I want you to learn anything about them that you think is necessary for making a final decision— that decision being which one is the best chef for the best Italian restaurant in London. Hey, why just London? England, sure, maybe Europe!”

It sounded like a tough assignment, but obviously somebody had to do it. I took the list and studied the three names. I recognized all of them, though I had never visited their restaurants. They were good choices, every one. All had extremely impressive reputations and all were chefs with a brilliant future ahead of them. But where would that future be?

“Do you have any reason to believe they're all willing to come to London?”

“We've done some very preliminary checking. I spent the best part of a year in Italy not too long ago making that film on the life of Don Juan, and I made a lot of friends there at the Cinecitta Studios in Rome. I had them do some minor espionage for me. I think all of these will come for the challenge, the opportunity—and, of course, the money.”

I recalled the film, a stinker of the first order and a resounding box-office crash. I thought it better to step clear of that subject—especially the casting of Lansdown as Don Juan.

“Sounds like an interesting assignment,” I said cautiously. “There might be a problem, though. I can assess their food and cooking from a few visits, but they'll be suspicious if I'm found prowling around their kitchens and asking questions.”

He drank some Amarone with relish as the busboy took the salad plates away.

“Spent quite a bit of time working that one out.” He smiled with satisfaction and went on. “I've put a fair amount of money into a new eating guide. It's time Michelin and the others had some further competition anyway. You'll be our inspector in Italy, researching for the guide. Once they find out who you are, they'll all be willing to cooperate. But bear in mind, they will think you're working for a guide book. There mustn't be a clue as to why you're really there.”

He sat back and watched the waiter bring the main course. “I don't always eat this much at lunch,” he said, “but I'm going to one of those buffet reception affairs tonight and I never get enough to eat at them. All those little bits of this and that on slivers of toast. Oh, they're tasty enough, but how can you fill up on anchovies, capers, and caviare?”

He chuckled. “It's a hard life, my lad. Problems, decisions everywhere. Did you know they want me to play Churchill? He's one of my heroes, how can I do that? Even if they have got—no, I can't tell you—to play Stalin.”

A waiter was firmly shooing away a girl who looked like a reporter as we attacked the lamb. It was succulently tender and the Madeira sauce and the rosemary butter complemented one another surprisingly well.

“At the bottom of that sheet is a number where you can reach me.”

“Country code thirty-four—that's Spain, isn't it?”

“Yes. I'm shooting some episodes for a television series.
Richard the Lionheart
it's called.”

He eyed me in a challenging sort of way and that gave me just enough forewarning not to say “Surely you're not playing him!”

He smiled. “Yes, I'm playing Richard. The writers have made him an older man. Richard was only thirty-two years old when he left on his first crusade, did you know that? We're shooting all the battle scenes in Spain. I'll be a physical wreck when I come back. I went up to Lincoln last week to see that bloody great sword he used. It's still there, in the Guild Hall, you know. I could hardly lift it—it's over six feet long and weighs a ton. Feels like it anyway.”

He had a reputation for collecting unusual and little-known facts and I could picture him going up to Lincoln just to swing Richard's sword.

“They've made me four aluminium and plastic replicas,” he went on, chuckling. “The way I wield that weapon, I'm sure to break one or two.”

He had an engaging way of chatting. There was no boasting and none of the domination of a conversation that many movie and TV stars had. The things he talked about were interesting to him and he liked to share that interest with others.

“Nigel is taking care of travel and hotel arrangements for you. Have you met him? He's here somewhere …”

“No, I haven't. Is he the fellow who phoned me?”

“Yes, that's Nigel.”

“Fine,” I said. “Well, I'm ready to swing a sword or two in my own way. A dinner knife, anyway.”

“Good man.” The way he said that had been used by impersonators who liked to depict him in a command post on the battlefield, nonchalantly sending unwilling volunteers off on impossible tasks.

That was not a real parallel with me though, I reflected. This job would be easy, a real pleasure—with no risks involved at all …

T
HE AIRPORT AT BOLOGNA
is not large but the Alitalia Boeing 737 landed smoothly without even using up all the east-west runway. Traffic into Bologna has increased at a faster rate than airport expansion, with the result that the terminal always seems crowded. Then I remembered that the entire country always seems to have many times more people than it has in reality. I was watching for my suitcase when I spotted a board among the many being held aloft in the baggage claim area.

“Perseus Travel,” it said. Lansdown had told me that he was laying on a service to get me to my hotel. Perseus Travel turned out to be a lanky young man with long black hair that he had to keep pushing out of his eyes. His dark eyes showed no interest in me as he took my one suitcase and told me he had a limo out front.

It was parked in the absolutely-no-waiting-or-stopping zone and the way in which he passed a couple of banknotes to the police officer on guard there was clearly the outcome of much practice and in-depth experience.

It had been about two years since I had been in Italy, and as always when I came here, I was glad I was not driving. Every Italian seems to have aspirations of being a Grand Prix contestant. They drive faster and there seem to be more cars, louder horns, more gestures, and more close calls than anywhere else in the world.

Ignoring the traffic and concentrating on enjoying the countryside was easy to decide, not so easy to do, but I persevered. Away from the airport surroundings, all the familiar impressions returned: the fields of manicured olives, the dusty sideroads leading into small vineyards, and the unfinished houses. Only Mexico can compete in the percentage of houses begun and never finished. They seem to be everywhere, many of them bearing the unmistakable signs of many owners. Brick has been used here, stone there, concrete block elsewhere; then the next buyer, convinced he has a bargain, has a better idea and uses another construction material.

The intermittent row of cypress trees stamps
Italy
indelibly on any scene it adorns. Then from a bony ridge of hills, I could see a squat, ugly, but once-formidable castle, gray with age, still proud and now lonely. In a knife-thin valley, concrete mixers were standing in line, ready to pour the foundations of yet another housing tract, probably new homes for the thousands of East Europeans now finding Italy the next promised land after Germany.

The limo slowed marginally as a sneering condescension to entering the suburbs of Bologna. A church behind iron railings had red and white banners outside proclaiming a clerical congress, and next to it was a row of crumbling almshouses. Just beyond was Il Banco del Spirito Santo, the ubiquitous chain seen throughout Italy.
The Bank of the Holy Ghost
is a name that astounds tourists who see it for the first time, but closer acquaintance with the country brings the realization that only the Italians could blend the spiritual and the financial so blithely.

The traffic thickened as we penetrated the town. My driver shouted curses at a bus that refused to get out of his way, then swerved violently in front of an ambulance with flashing lights. It was no doubt on its way to a hospital carrying an unfortunate pedestrian who had unwisely ventured out of his house. My driver yelled curses which did not reflect well on the personal life of the Holy Family and stamped on the accelerator so that he was not too many seconds late in a race with a traffic signal.

It was with relief that I arrived at the Ambasciatore Imperiale Hotel. The severe stone facade made it appear a little grim on the exterior, but inside, the spacious gray-and-white marble—flagged lobby was divided with mirrors and curved walls. Large modern oil paintings and wrought-iron stairways flanked a wall of stainless steel-fronted elevators while the room was larger than usual, colorful in soft beige and light orange. Every convenience was provided, including a phone and TV in the bathroom, while the minibar was well stocked.

I had unpacked, taken a shower, and dressed when there was a knock at the door. I opened it to find one of those gorgeous girls who have given Italian glamour such a good name.

She flashed me a dazzling smile. “Hello, I'm Francesca from the escort service,” she said in English that carried only the faintest trace of a charming accent. She pushed the door further open and came in before I could protest, although that thought had not crossed my mind. She closed it with a provocative flick of a well-rounded hip.

“Desmond sent me,” she said.

I had not expected Lansdown to supply any auxiliary services of this nature but she broke into a giggle and went on, “He told me to say that. Actually, he explains in this fax. May I sit down?” She handed me a sheet of paper and sat in the armchair by the window. She crossed a pair of elegant legs and leaned back to watch me read. Lansdown's fax explained that he had retained her agency to furnish me with an interpreter and guide for as long as she was needed during my stay in Italy. He had added a note to me stating that he had used her services while he had been making the Don Juan movie. He said she was extremely efficient, has a thorough knowledge of the area, knew a number of people in influential places, and he was sure she would give maximum satisfaction in every regard.

A writing table was handy, and I sat in the chair beside it and looked at her. She wore a light sandy brown-colored business suit with wide lapels and a skirt just to the knees. It was a spectacular fit and I found her a credit to the Bolognese commercial community.

“He speaks very highly of you,” I told her.

She had big, dark eyes, almond-shaped, and a generous mouth. Her nose was unmistakably Roman but only proud not dominating. Luxuriant black hair had probably once cascaded down her back but was now cropped a half inch short of severe. Her figure was curvaceous, with a slim waist that accentuated her bosom and hips. She had long showgirl legs, which she uncrossed then crossed the other way.

“We had some fun times together,” she said in a musical voice that is found in so many Italian women and confirms the nation's eminence in opera. “I was working in the Cinecitta Studios in Rome when Desmond came to make
Don Juan.
I was assigned as his personal assistant. Sometimes I work as a script girl—I want to be a director but nobody has given me the chance yet.”

“You were born in Rome?”

“No, here in Bologna. I grew up in this region, in Verona, Parma … I work for the escort agency in between films—times are hard in the movie business here in Italy just now. American films are what everybody in Europe wants to see.”

“Well, I'm glad to have you,” I told her. “My Italian is passable, but it's much better to have someone who is a native speaker.”

“It sounds like a pleasant task for you,” she said demurely, and I wondered how much she knew.

“Your presence will make it even more pleasurable,” I told her. Italians should not be allowed to think they are the only ones who can be gallant. Before she could respond, I asked swiftly, “What exactly did Lansdown tell you?”

“He has put a lot of money into a new food guidebook. For the Italian section, you are going to review restaurants in this region—where the best Italian food comes from,” she added loyally.

“Good. I am sure you will be very helpful.” So Lansdown had not told her the real reason I was here. Did it really make any difference? was my fleeting thought. Perhaps not.

“Desmond also sent me this list.” She handed me another fax. Eight or nine restaurants were listed. The three belonging to the candidate chefs were among them but not together. Lansdown had evidently added the others as a blind. I noted that the first name on the list was underlined. It was the Capodimonte, owned and operated by Giacomo Ferrero, one of the three chefs on Lansdown's list.