He makes a face. ‘Do I want to know what a Boozy Bubbly Sherbet Punch is?’
‘Oh yes, you do. It’s frozen raspberries, ice-cream, vodka, ginger ale and pink lemonade, and all of that goodness is topped with champagne.’
He smiles. ‘I seem to remember you are partial to White Russians too.’
I grin. ‘That’s true, I have to admit a weakness for those.’ I pause. ‘Now favorite movie.’
‘Matrix.’
‘Really? Is that why you named your restaurant Matrix?’
‘Yeah. What about yours?’
‘Pretty Woman.’
He stares at me blankly.
‘Have you never seen it?’
‘Nooo,’ he says slowly.
‘Well, it’s a romantic comedy.’
‘That’ll be why I haven’t seen it.’
‘OK. Let’s get to serious stuff. Name a leader you admire.’
‘Putin,’ he answers promptly.
My eyes widen. ‘Putin? As in the Vladimir Putin? The President of Russia?’
He nods. ‘Uh … huh.’
I lean forward and wave my breadstick at him. ‘Are you kidding me?’
He shrugs. ‘He’s a strategic leader.’
‘You can’t be serious!’
‘Why not? He’s good for Russia.’
‘He’s a criminal,’ I exclaim passionately.
‘I really don’t think we should talk politics,’ he says mildly.
As Stella would say: ‘Why ever not?’
He grins lasciviously. ‘Unless you want to end up fighting and having rough make-up sex.’
I look at him with raised eyebrows. ‘Aren’t you able to have a civilized discussion about politics without fighting, then?’
He looks amused. ‘It’s not me I’m worried about, little fox. It’s you who won’t be able to control yourself.’
‘Whoa! I think I am perfectly capable of controlling myself. Perhaps you are afraid that I might destroy your untenable position that Putin is as pure as the driven snow.’
His amusement deepens. ‘I didn’t say that, but out of curiosity, how much do you know about him?’
‘Enough,’ I say confidently. ‘I read the newspapers and I catch the news on TV.’
‘Yes, I thought so.’
‘What the heck is that supposed to mean?’
‘It means you are not qualified to talk about the issue at hand.’
I jerk my head back. ‘Why not?’
‘All right, I’ll enter into a discussion about him with you if you can tell me one positive thing about him.’
‘Well, I … um, I don’t—’
‘See what I mean. Nothing in this world is either totally bad or totally good, rybka.’ He grins. ‘Yet all the material you seem to have read and heard about him is negative. It means you’re getting all your information from biased sources. That makes you unfit for a rational discussion of the subject at hand.’
I don’t know what I could have said to that, but thank God, divine smelling plates of food arrive. I’ll have to think about what he said later when my adventure as Zane’s wife is over. Now there is the matter of a food to deal with.
Luca himself comes over with a mini grater and a small truffle the size of a pigeon’s egg. He handles the truffle with the care and deference a jeweler might employ to show a rare and precious stone to a customer. He actually waves it slowly under my nose to let me have a whiff of the mushroom.
To be honest it doesn’t exactly endear me to it. Musky, earthy and kind of garlicky. Maybe even reminiscent of the faint odor of old sweat, or dare I say it, urine. With theatrical flourish he shaves a tiny amount of paper-thin flakes on the top of our pasta.
‘Bon appetito,’ he cries gaily.
We thank him and he moves away looking extremely pleased with himself.
‘Have you had truffles before?’ Zane asks.
‘Only chocolate truffles.’
‘In that case,’ he says and lifts a fine shaving on his fork and moves it towards my mouth. Not wanting to let the side down I obligingly part my mouth. It lands on my tongue. The taste is well, strong and unique, but surely this is not what the fuss is all about. I move it between my teeth.
‘Well?’ Zane asks.
‘Unusual,’ I say vaguely.
‘Now try it with the pasta,’ he suggests.
I roll a bit of pasta on the tines of my fork making sure a few flecks of truffles get caught in the pasta, slip it between my lips and let it settle on my tongue. Suddenly my eyes widen with surprise.
He grins. ‘Good, huh?’
‘Fuuuuuck yeah,’ I say rolling the food around my tongue.
He laughs, as carefree and happy as I have ever seen him.
We leave the restaurant and walk down the street. The temperature is lovely and cool and stars stud the sky.
‘Where are we going?’ I ask.
‘Nowhere, but we might see some beautiful sights along the way.’
He is right. There is beauty everywhere; in the stone fountains, the cobblestones streets, the beautiful squares full of stylish Italian youth, the illuminated ruined buildings.
We stop to buy chestnuts from an elderly man roasting them in a huge round pan. His face is rosy from the fire and his hands are blackened with soot. He fills a paper cone with hot, sweet smelling nuts, and holds it out to us. Zane hands him two euros and we walk to a stone bench to eat the nuts.