Interesting Stuff

A couple of deleted scenes

Anthony Capella writes:
In earlier drafts, Bruno and Laura meet for the first time immediately after her first meal with Tommaso. I eventually decided that Bruno should already be in love with Laura before the book started, from having watched her in the market, so the scene became redundant. And I was in any case never sure whether it was necessary to be explicit about the fact that Laura ultimately finds Tommaso a rather unfulfilling lover… Still, I always liked this scene, which originally ended the book's second section:

    His body next to hers was far too hot, his snoring a grating irritation in her ear. She sighed, and her thoughts returned to the supper. My God, it had been good. That zabaglione, in particular, a warm, delicate spume of egg yolk and rich wine… heavenly.
    Better than the sex, in fact.
    She suddenly realised she felt hungry. Or horny. Or both. In some strange way, her lack of sexual fulfilment was translating itself into a craving for another spoonful of Tomasso's fantastic zabaglione.
    She swung her legs out of bed. There was a T-shirt over the back of the chair and she pulled it on. Then she padded out of Tomasso's bedroom towards the kitchen.
    Everything was dark. She could just make out the shape of the fridge, and she pulled open the door. In the sudden white fluorescence she could see a glass bowl of the golden-brown zabaglione on the top shelf. She pulled the bowl towards her, cradling it, scooped her hand in, and sucked the sweet froth straight off her fingers.
    Fantastic.
    She reached into the bowl again.
    "Buonnotte, signora."
    A young man was standing by the window, his face in shadow. She shrieked, and dropped the bowl.
    "I'm sorry," he added in low murmur. "Did I startle you?"
    She recovered herself. "Yes. A bit."
    "I'll get a cloth."
    He took something from the sink and knelt down to wipe the mess off the floor. As he did so she got a better look at him. He had a heavy, rather sleepy face. It was unmistakably Italian, but where Tomasso had the high cheekbones and big, pretty eyes of a Renaissance angel, his roommate was thickset and solid.
    "I'm Laura," she said.
    "I know. How was your supper?"
    For some reason she felt herself blushing in the near-darkness. "Oh, supper was magnificent. First rate. I couldn't sleep, that's all."
    "Indigestion?" he asked, concerned.
    "Oh no," she assured him. "Just – well, insomnia, I suppose."
    "I know what you need." He lifted a bottle of wine out of the fridge door and poured her half a glass.
    "I shouldn't, " she said. "I've drunk too much already."
    "We have a saying in Italy. 'Anni, amori e bicchieri de vino, nun se contento mai.'"
    "'Three things can never be counted,'" she translated hesitantly. "'Years, lovers, and glasses of wine?'"
    "Exactly." He handed her the glass. "It will settle your stomach, honestly. Cin!"
    "Cin," she said, drinking. He was right: the wine made her feel better.
    "And some bread," he said, tearing a crust off a loaf. "You need some carbohydrate after so much rich food."
    She took the bread and nibbled it. She felt him watching her.
    "Tomasso is a fine fellow," he said quietly.
    "Yes."
    "A good friend."
    "I'm sure."
    "I know he thinks a lot of you."
    For an instant she had the feeling that this strange, quiet roommate of Tomasso's knew all about her evening – about the dinner, and the sex, and the waking up unsatisfied. "Yes," she said. "And it must be wonderful living with such a talented chef."
    Bruno sighed. "Yes, Tomasso is a lucky chap. And I'm lucky too, to live with him."
    Laura finished her biscuit. "Well, I'm off to bed," she said. "It’s nice to have met you."
    He inclined his head. "And you."
    "Aren't you going to bed?"
    "Soon. When I have washed some of these dishes. Tomasso is," he hesitated, "let's just say washing up is not his strong point. And I'm not really tired."
    On an impulse she stepped forward and kissed him on the cheek. "Goodnight then, Tomasso's friend."
    "Goodnight, Laura," he said, and there was a note of sadness in his voice that she didn't quite comprehend.
    It was, of course, a remarkable irony. Of the two people standing in that little kitchen, the one who fell head over heels in love that night was the one who had not eaten so much as a mouthful of that sensuous lover's feast.

Later in the book, Bruno and Laura visit an art gallery together and have a picnic – without Tommaso:

    Suddenly their allotted time was up, and the guards were clearing them out in preparation for the next influx of visitors. They went and sat in the sun to eat their picnic. While Laura spread the rug on the grass, Bruno arranged the food, deftly creating various combinations of tastes and flavours - wrapping slices of Parma ham around sticks of grissini, and pushing tiny salted anchovies inside plump pitted olives.
    "It's hot today," she said. She sat up and pulled off her sweater. As it came over her head the static made her fine hair cling to it briefly, a crackling blonde dandelion that subsided gently around her face. It was the same colour as the tiny hairs on her forearms. Bruno closed his eyes for a moment, his heart aching.
    "I'll open the wine," he said.
    "Okay. But better be quick. You haven't had any of these olives yet and they'll be gone if you don't hurry."
    "I'm fine. You finish them."
    "But there's only one left now, and I've already had all the others. No, Bruno, please, I insist." When he still demurred she sighed, exasperated, and popped the last olive into his mouth.
    He could not help it. As soon as her hand touched his lips he ignored the fat bullet of juicy olive and tasted instead the fingers that were holding it. They were smooth and slippery, coated with olive oil and anchovy, but just for an instant, as he touched them with his tongue, he tasted something else as well, something so heady and so perfect he almost fainted. It was just as he had imagined her to taste, but stronger, in the same way that a jus is more intense than the flavours from which it has been concentrated. He sucked the fingers gently, trying to glean every morsel of the impossible flavour from her skin, and a moment later he saw the expression - part puzzlement, part panic - in her eyes.
    "They're very good olives," he said quickly. "Delicious. I should have brought some more while I had the chance."
    "Yes, of course. Fantastic olives," she said, recovering. "Where did you say you found them?"
    And so the moment passed without either of them saying anything irrevocable, and when she thought about it later Laura decided she must have imagined the whole thing.