Chapter Text
László squints out to the sea, an expanse of dark blue beneath grey clouds. His clothes cling to his body as the wind whips around him. He imagines the sentry who must have stood in this very spot thousands of years ago looking out for enemy ships on the horizon. He wonders if they would have foreseen their fortress falling to ruins, not from an invading army, but through the neglect of indifferent owners. It’s a shame, though László supposes it would be safer for the Castello di Moneta to remain unnoticed by the current state. It would be a far better fate for it to slowly decay back into the earth than for it to be restored as some monument to Mussolini and his cronies.
A soft crunch afoot catches his attention. Orazio, one of the local lecturers of the seminar, walks up next to him.
“Ah, Mar Ligure. Have you visited the beaches yet?”
László shakes his head no, the weather hasn’t been favorable. It’s been an awfully grey week, Orazio laments. He still recommends several spots for when the weather clears up; a touch of sun would do László’s complexion good. Many attendees of past seminars found it easy to split a taxi fare and visit in the afternoon, after the day’s lectures wrapped up. László isn’t in the mood to visit the beach, but he accepts Orazio’s suggestions with a tight smile. No, he thinks to himself, he’d rather spend his time in places where he could indulge in quiet introspection without worry that his brooding may be disrupted by hordes of people enjoying themselves.
“We should move along,” Orazio says, nodding forward.
The rest of the cohort has gone on ahead with the tour, heeding the nasal voice of the interpreter like a flock. Lászlo nods, taking one last look at the sea before walking alongside the Italian.
“You studied architecture, didn’t you, Mr. Tóth?” For such a grizzled-looking man, Orazio has a surprisingly soft, unassuming voice.
“Yes, in Dessau. And please–just László.”
Orazio grins, pleased that the young man returns his conversation. László tells him about the Bauhaus, and how it was forced to close the previous September by the National Socialists. He made arrangements to leave Germany when the book burnings started.
“It is very unsafe to stay there,” László says solemnly.
“For Jewish people?”
“Yes, for Jews, but also foreigners who are seen as undesirable. And for anyone who makes undesirable things, like those writers of books they are burning now.” László shoves his hands deep into his jacket pockets, slouching as he walks. “Not even their own countrymen are spared from this ideological purge.”
“The world is mad,” Orazio says. He recounts to László about Mussolini’s rise to power, and the parallels to the German situation now. “But, at least we don’t treat Jews as an enemy here.”
László wasn’t aware he had been holding tension in his jaw until he found himself unclenching it. His last months in Germany were filled with increasing alarm at the reactionary rhetoric around him, and the threat was so prevalent that his neck and shoulders were constantly knit in an anticipatory defensive hunch.
Silence settles between them. László lets it linger to take in the ruins. He ought to try and catch the rest of the tour to learn more of its history, but he’s too preoccupied with his own gloomy ruminations to take in the information.
A spot of white in the distance catches his attention. Orazio follows his gaze. “Yes, you can see the quarries from here.”
“Did you cut any of the marble that went to that stadium in Rome?” The question tumbles out of László’s mouth with much less caution than he ought to have exercised. He looks around to see if anyone nearby may have overheard, but they’ve fallen out of ear- and eye-shot of the group.
Orazio huffs and grumbles. “If I had known that’s what the marble was going to become, I would have blown it up myself before it left the mountain.” He rants freely while they are out of earshot from the rest of the group. He laments his complicity in the creation of such a vapid monument to the Fascist regime.
A crooked smile twists across László’s face, and his green eyes glint mischievously in the sunlight. “It’s not too late, you know–to blow it up.”
“Bah, you’ll have to do it for me. I won’t leave Carrara if I can help it. Maybe except to piss on that bastard’s corpse.”
László smiles at the older man’s bold words. “Have you always stayed here? In the mountains?”
“Yes, just as my father did, and his father before him. We were all stone cutters.”
Orazio tells László about how he was born during the revolts. His father would have marched down the mountain with the other striking workers had his mother not gone into labor. He talks animatedly about the tough life in the quarries, and how the anarchists took root in the area. László listens quietly enthralled, only uttering a hum of comprehension or a request for a rephrasing when Orazio strays too deep into regional dialect.
“And will your son–if you have one–will he be a stonecutter too?”
“He will continue in the family tradition,” Orazio says. “But these days, he talks some nonsense about becoming a footballer. Bah! We produce marble here, not footballers! He should embrace his heritage. The mountains are in his blood–our blood!”
“You must really love it here, then,” László replies with a small smile. “It’s a blessing to belong to a place.”
They’ve caught up to the rest of the cohort. They reintegrate with the group, but silently continue a private conversation. Orazio nudges László to look at details the tour guide glosses over: ancient tool marks left on the stones, the spots of renovations from the Middle Ages, wildflowers spilling out from crevasses between rocks. Orazio bends down to pluck one and presents it to László, threading it through his jacket buttonhole. To his surprise, a mournful expression passes over the young man’s face.
“Did I offend you?” Orazio asks quietly, hanging back while the group moves ahead.
László shakes his head. “Ah, no, it’s just–” he takes a heavy sigh, “–we had these on campus where I studied. I used to sit out with my lunch and draw them.” He fumbles around for his satchel and pulls out a soft leather-bound book. He flips it open to a series of vermillion watercolor blots dotting the textured cream page. A heavy pencil line glides around each dab, a gesture more than a render. Through these simple forms, the field of poppies from the Bauhaus campus lawn are in full bloom as László saw them.
“This is lovely,” Orazio says, handing the sketchbook back. “I’m sorry you had to leave it behind.”
He puts a hand on László’s shoulder and gives it a squeeze. László’s heart skips a beat under the other man’s strong hand, and then sadness washes over him. It’s been so long that he’s felt a friendly touch. Orazio nudges him to keep up with the others, and then the warmth is gone.
László fiddles with the poppy in his buttonhole for the rest of the tour, at least to ensure it doesn’t accidentally slip out and get lost. When the group boards the minibus to their next excursion, he carefully tucks the flower between two blank pages in his sketchbook for safekeeping.
***
They dine at a restaurant just large enough to fit the dozen-odd students in tables of three or four. László straggles in last, looking around the cramped dining room for an empty seat.
“Looks like you’re stuck with the teachers,” Orazio says with an apologetic smile. He guides László to a table where the English language interpreter is already seated.
Ironically, of all the students in the cohort, László’s Italian is amongst the strongest of the group; although he benefited from the interpreter’s explanations of the niche technical terms, he could have handled the lectures fully in Italian. Maybe this was why Orazio was so chatty with him. László’s pessimism guessed that the older man might have pitied him for not integrating well with the other students, completely overlooking the plain reality that the majority of students in the cohort couldn’t hold a prolonged conversation with him.
When everyone is settled, Orazio introduces the group to the chef and owner of the establishment, Paolo, a longtime family friend. Chef Paolo launches into an animated lecture about the ancient art of curing pork fat in marble vessels, gesturing so energetically he practically pantomimes the whole process. The menu will feature this lardo in various preparations, along with dishes typical to the region and paired with wines from local vineyards.
Orazio turns to László. “Are you allowed to eat pork?”
László shrugs. “It’s not illegal, is it?” He considers giving a proper explanation into the variety of ways people adhere to kosher diets, but he’s wary of putting himself in the spotlight in a room of loose acquaintances. He dreads the well-intentioned curiosity that inadvertently leads to feeling like a zoo animal—and that would be considered one of the more favorable outcomes.
Orazio smiles at the non-committal response and lets out an exaggerated sigh of relief with a mock wiping of his brow. He expresses excitement that László will be able to partake in such a traditional meal, especially one that he finds so much comfort in. It’s not simply familiar flavors or fond childhood memories that anchor him to the dish. He feels a profound sense of belonging when he eats the foods of his grandparents, and their grandparents before them, knowing that his grandchildren and their grandchildren will continue in the tradition. Perhaps, he says, László too might find his sense of place through this meal.
The first preparation is a slice of toasted bread blanketed with gossamer ribbons of lardo crowned with diced tomatoes. Orazio picks one up and raises it up like a glass.
“A toast,” he says in English with an impish grin. It’s such a silly, obvious wordplay, and Orazio is clearly very proud of it. His delight is infectious, or perhaps László couldn’t bear letting Orazio know how corny his joke is, but he feels the gloom in his chest lifting.
“A toast.” László raises his own portion and taps it against Orazio’s. The older man’s eyes crinkle with delight that László has played along.
“Oh–a toast ‘toast’!” the interpreter laughs, catching the attention of the rest of the cohort.
Chuckles ripple through the small dining room. The students ‘toast’ each other with their appetizer, first with their neighbors, then reaching across tables to share the joke with each other. László twists this way and that to toast with members of his cohort, some with whom he’s never exchanged so much a ‘hello’. Once Orazio explains the joke to Chef Paolo, even he embraces the new ritual.
The restaurant falls into silence as everyone begins to eat. Chef Paolo explains the flavor notes and common variations to serving lardo on toast while everyone chews thoughtfully and hums in approval. As the course wraps up, the dining room fills with murmurs of praise.
Thanks to the impromptu icebreaker, the distance between tables has closed. Students freely lean in towards other tables to share their thoughts on the dish, leading to some swapping seats to further mingle across the dining room. László migrates around the restaurant too, hopping seat to seat between bites. The conversations flow one after the other like the courses in their meal. It’s as if László’s paging through an anthology, catching excerpts from every person over the duration of their lunch.
He joins a table of students from Australia and the States who compare the wine industries in their respective countries, inspired by the pairings at their table. He meets two professors, a Canadian and a Singaporean, chatting about the upcoming British Empire Games. One of the eldest participants, a woman who announced all her thoughts with ‘back home in New York,’ talks about the souvenirs she plans on buying for her neighbor’s grandchildren before she leaves the country.
“Gorgeous little angels,” she gushes with a vibrant mid-Atlantic affectation. “They’re twins, you see–a boy and a girl. Such little darlings! You’d never know their mother has the most frightful case of nerves…”
The dessert course arrives. A pit begins to form in László’s belly as he realizes that their time together will soon end. He hopes someone would find some critical flaw with the dish, something so severely inedible that they’re forced to send it back and have it completely remade. Anything that will allow them to stay in this place, in this moment for even a few minutes more. He’s the last to take his portion from the plate, dragging the finale out as long as he can.
They finish with a lardo-wrapped grilled peach slice topped with a dollop of fresh ricotta, a drizzle of balsamic reduction, and a sprinkle of chopped roasted walnuts. The savory richness melting into sweet smokiness with a tart, creamy finish is the perfect way to cap off the lardo showcase.
László chews slowly. The flavors and textures seem to echo the last few weeks: the sourness of his departure from Dessau, the warm comfort of going home, concluding with brief bright notes from the seminar cutting the heaviness in his heart. If someone were watching him, they might perceive him as a gourmand savoring every little bite. Maybe they wouldn’t notice that his throat threatens to close up with emotion. He focuses his eyes down at the table to keep any tears from spilling. If he keeps on chewing, he thinks, it’ll keep the sniffles at bay. He swallows hard, and his food is so thoroughly masticated that he hardly feels it going down. It’s a rather anticlimactic end to a lovely afternoon.
The voices around him blur and fade into a dull roar. He hears some farewells and thank yous. He can’t take his eyes off the crumbs scattered on his plate, but he senses people moving around him, gathering their belongings and slowly filing out of the restaurant.
A firm hand presses down on László’s shoulder. The extra weight feels like reinforcement to hold down all the emotions threatening to bubble over in him.
“It was a good meal, wasn’t it?” Orazio looks down at László knowingly and gives him a squeeze.
László nods silently, sniffling into his napkin. Orazio strokes László’s back soothingly, and then massages the nape of his neck. László unclenches his jaw, shrugging off tension that crept up on him. He’s suddenly aware of how full he is, and his face is flush from sampling all the wine at lunch. The deep sorrow that filled him earlier ebbs into a mild bloated sensation. He lets out a deep exhale and gathers himself. The magnificent cuisine they just had comes into bittersweet focus, like seeing sunlight breaking through rainclouds after a storm. He feels incredibly lucky to have experienced this once-in-a-lifetime meal, and to have shared it with such a wonderful group of individuals.
“Are you ready?”
László nods, and he follows Orazio out the door.