The Food of Love by Anthony Capella Page A

murmuring
    behind the door, but it was only Tommaso breaking into
    song as he cooked.
    At last the door opened and Tommaso came out, holding a
    platter from which emanated the most amazing aroma. ‘Fixed it.
    Tell you what, why don’t you take this to the table?’
    A few minutes later they were eating the asparagus. It was
    breathtakingly good. The stalks, nestled in their foamy sauce of beaten egg yolk and wine, were so tender at the tip that she could almost suck the plump heads off, but got progressively firmer as she chewed down towards the crisp base.
    ‘Tommaso,’ she said rapturously, “I have to tell you—’
    “I know,’ he said, smiling at her, and she felt her whole body
    bathed in a languorous, sensual glow.
     
    In the kitchen, Bruno carried the pans over to the sink and carefully, so that they wouldn’t make any sound, lowered them into
    the water.
    ‘So what are you doing in Rome?’ he heard Tommaso say.
    “I wrote an essay on art history for a competition,’ a girl
     
    answered. ‘The winner got to come to Rome for a whole year. It’s sort of like a scholarship.’ There was something about her voice that made Bruno think of dolci, of meringues and sweet zabaione and peaches bubbling as they poached in wine. Unable to help himself, he listened for just a moment longer.
    ‘But you can have some fun as well?’
    ‘Are you kidding? Art history is fun.’ Bruno, imagining
    Tommaso’s expression, smiled. ‘No, really,’ the girl was saying. “I mean, I guess you’re used to it. You can go and look at a
    Caravaggio every day if you want to, but for me it’s the chance of a lifetime.’
    ‘Caravaggio?’
    ‘You don’t know Caravaggio?’ The girl sounded surprised.
    Tomasso said quickly, ‘Si. Of course. All Romans know
    Caravaggio. Which is your favourite?’
    ‘Well, it’s hard to choose one—’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘—but if I absolutely had to, it would probably be The Fortune
    Teller, in the Musei Capitolini.’
    Hands in the sink, Bruno nodded. It was his favourite, too.
    Tommaso’s girl had taste.
    ‘If I were a painter,’ Tomasso said reverently, ‘I would only
    paint you, Laura. Then all my pictures would be beautiful.’
    Bruno’s smile broadened. When it came to the art of seduction
    there was no one to match Tommaso. Drying his hands, he tiptoed
    to the door that led out of the apartment.
     
    Eventually even the ricotta lay in crumbs on its plate. Tommaso
    carried the biscotti and vin santo to the battered old sofa.
    I’ve drunk so much already,’ Laura murmured.
    In Rome we have a saying: l”Anni, amori e bicchieri di vino, nun se contano mai?”
    ‘Years, lovers and glasses of wine; these things must not be
    counted,”’ she translated.
    ‘Exactly.’ He dipped one of the biscuits in the golden liquid
    and held it gently to her lips. She hesitated, then opened her
    mouth. The sweet, raisiny taste suffused her tastebuds. She closed her eyes ecstatically. ‘My God, that’s beautiful.’
    lSei bellissima,” he murmured. ‘Like you, Laura.’ Now he
    dipped two of his own fingers in the wine. Again, she hesitated for just a moment, then allowed him to slide them into her mouth.
    She licked the sticky, honeyed wine off him until every morsel of sweetness was gone. A few drops fell on her neck and he kissed
    them off greedily even while she was still sucking his fingers.
    He unwrapped her slowly, peeling off her clothes as if he were
    pulling the leaves off an artichoke, kissing her between each layer. This is exactly what I hoped for, she thought. Who would have believed it? Carlotta, of course. Carlotta was right all along.
    He was untying the red basque now, pulling at the little bows
    that fastened it. She felt it loosen and arched her back, waiting for him to finish. He was pulling at one particular tie with a frown of concentration. Then he tugged at it.
    ‘Wait,’ she murmured. ‘You’ll tighten it.’
    ‘I’ll get a knife,’ he said