Open Writing

...Every morning Catarina took her place at the window overlooking the lane to watch Franco and Rosa pass. They looked so happy together. Very soon they were holding hands and then he was walking with his arm around her tiny waist. By the end of the fortnight he was kissing her on the cheek before they parted. Then he started to kiss her on the lips and hold her as if he never wanted to let her go. Catarina felt she had lost any hope of Franco becoming hers...

Ah, but there is more than one way to ensnare a man's affection, as Eve Marie-Wilson's tasty tale reveals.

Rosa and Catarina had been friends since they started school in the small Italian town of San Bartolomeo, fifteen years ago. In all that time they had shared their thoughts, dreams and desires, with never a disagreement. That was until the day Caterina confided she was in love with Franco Freni, a young man who sometimes dined in the cafe where she and her widowed mother worked. Although Catarina’s young heart filled with joy each time she saw him, sadly he showed no interest in her at all.

“That cannot be,” said Rosa, “I also love Franco Freni and I mean to marry him. You must find yourself another boyfriend, Catarina.”

Caterina looked at Rosa. She was tall and slim with small pert breasts that forced themselves against the ‘one size too small’ tops she always wore. She had a confident smile, a perfect complexion and long blonde hair that cascaded to her shoulders. On the other hand, Caterina thought, I am short, slightly overweight and have large round breasts which I hide under ‘one size too large’ tops. I have short dark hair and a complexion always marred by the odd spot. I am anything but confident, so if Rosa wants Franco, what hope have I got?

“We can’t both have him,” said Rosa, interrupting her thoughts. “Watch and learn little friend, in a month he will be mine. In fact if you watch from your window tomorrow morning as Franco and I pass by on our way to work you will see me begin to slowly reel him in.”

That night Caterina’s mother noticed her daughter looked sad and forlorn. She went to sit beside her. Brushing the tears from her daughter’s eyes, she placed her arms around her. “What is troubling you Catarina, you look so sad?”

“Oh Mamma,” she cried, “I am in love with Franco Freni, but so is Rosa. What hope do I have beside her as she is pretty and I am plain?”

“What nonsense, you are not plain, although you could do more to accentuate your good points. Wearing clothes that fit you and a little make up would help. But, take the advice of your Mamma, Caterina the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. You are an excellent cook and what I hear is Rosa can’t even boil an egg.”

Next morning, Caterina sat at the window which overlooked the lane beside the cafe. As Franco approached she felt the familiar feeling of pleasure that engulf her each time she saw him. As if from nowhere, Rosa appeared. She was wearing a very short, tight, red, dress which clung to her body like a second skin accentuating her narrow waist and long shapely legs. She stood where she was for a moment to be sure Franco had noticed her before walking away from him, her small tight buttocks swaying slightly as she sashayed down the narrow cobbled lane.

Franco’s eyes brightened and a small smile played on his lips as he quickened his pace. Just before he came into line with Rosa she deftly dropped her handkerchief on the ground. As she had planned, Franco swooped on it. “Scusi, Signorina,” he called, “you have dropped your handkerchief.” Rosa stopped. She looked Franco directly in the eye as she licked her bottom lip seductively. As she took the handkerchief from him, she let her fingers lie in his hand just a moment longer than necessary. “Why, thank you,” she simpered, then she turned and continued on her way.

Franco came into step beside her. “Are you going far? May I walk with you?” he asked. Rosa stopped again. “I am going to my place of employment at Salon Ella,” she cooed, “but I cannot walk with you signor as you are a stranger.”

“My name is Franco Freni," he said, “and I work as the curator at the museum. So now may I walk with you?”

“Not today,” she replied, “as I am almost there, but maybe tomorrow. I usually pass the fountain in the piazza at 8.30 every morning.”

That evening before Franco came into the cafe for his evening meal, taking her mother’s advice; Catarina washed her hair, applied a little make and took more care than usual in choosing what she wore. At 7pm Franco appeared in the cafe. “Ciao, Signor Freni,” called Caterina's mother. “What would you like for your meal tonight? Can I suggest some zuppa di vedura followed by tagliatelle aglio verde con insalata misto, all freshly made today by my daughter, Catarina.”

“That sounds great,” replied Franco, taking a table by the window.

“Catarina get Signor Freni a large helping of zuppa,” called her mother.

Obeying her mother instructions, Catarina took the soup across to where Franco was sitting. “Thank you, Caterina,” he said. “I may call you Caterina?” he asked, looking at her as if he knew of the carnal thoughts she indulged each time she saw him. Caterina felt herself blush.

“Yes, of course,” she whispered.

“Then you may call me, Franco. This is very good, Catarina,” he said as he savoured a spoonful of the soup. “If the rest of my meal is as tasty, I will never dine anywhere else.”

“Maybe Mamma is right,” thought Catarina. “Maybe, Franco will grow to love me for my culinary skills.”

The next moment this thought was dashed as Franco asked, “Catarina, do you know a girl about your age with long blonde hair who passes this way to the hair salon each day?”

Should she tell the truth, or say she had never heard of such a person? Perhaps she should play dirty; tell him Rosa had a fiancé or she was married, or even tell him Rosa was not a nice person. Nevertheless the amity she felt towards her friend would not let her lie. “Yes,” she said, “she is my friend Rosa Di Leva.”

“And does your friend, Rosa Di Leva have a boyfriend?” he asked. Catarina felt tears about to overflow her eyes and she hurried back towards the kitchen.

Every morning Catarina took her place at the window overlooking the lane to watch Franco and Rosa pass. They looked so happy together. Very soon they were holding hands and then he was walking with his arm around her tiny waist. By the end of the fortnight he was kissing her on the cheek before they parted. Then he started to kiss her on the lips and hold her as if he never wanted to let her go. Catarina felt she had lost any hope of Franco becoming hers.

Nevertheless he continued to go the cafe every evening and as she learnt his likes and dislikes, Catarina continued to cook especially for him. It came to the stage where he no longer had to order a meal, but simply accepted what Catarina had prepared for him. Often it was soup followed by a dish made from meat, chicken or fish, or occasionally antipasti followed by pasta or gnocchi. On Sundays she cooked rabbit or chicken followed by a dessert. Ever conscious of his athletic physique, Franco only ever ate two courses which he washed down with water rather than wine.

He often stayed long after the meal was finished, chatting to Catarina in between her serving customers. She hung on his every word as he recounted his day at the museum, told her about his life when he was at university in Bologna, lamented the plight of the local football team which was on a losing streak, or cursed the behaviour of the politicians in Rome. However, he never asked her out, but neither did he ask Rosa.

On the Saturday morning almost a month after Catarina had confided to Rosa her love for Franco, Rosa called into the cafe. “I have asked Franco to my apartment for dinner tonight,” she gushed. “Oh, Catarina, I feel sure this is the night Franco will become mine.”

“But you can’t cook,” cried Catarina.

“Oh my poor innocent friend,” laughed Rosa. “I shall feed him oysters au natural and fat red strawberries dipped in chocolate, washed down with a glass or two of champagne. But it is what I propose to give him for the main course,” she laughed wickedly, “that will make him lose the desire for any other woman but me.”

When Catarina sobbed to her mother that Rosa had invited Franco to dine at her apartment that evening, her Mamma advised her it was time to act. She must invite Franco to their home for a meal the following evening, as he would be starving after dining with Rosa.

All day Sunday Catarina cooked for Franco. She was breaking the two course rule as Franco would have time to savour the meal slowly. She would start with insalata caprese which she would follow with a small helping of pasta. Then she would serve pheasant, cooked with tomatoes and olives. After allowing this to be digested, she planned to finish with torta di ricotta con limone, an aperativo then coffee.

As evening approached her family came to prepare her for her big evening. Zia Gina, who worked on the beauty counter in a big department store, did her makeup; Zia Maria, who worked in the same store ‘borrowed’ a few items of clothing that would flatter Catarina’s figure. “Don’t get them dirty,” she ordered, “I must return them to the store tomorrow.” Cugina Paula, who worked in the same salon as Rosa and disliked her intensely, styled Catarina's hair.

“I feel like Cinderella with more than one fairy godmother,” giggled Catarina.

“And you know what happened to her,” they laughed, “she got her prince.”

After they had left Mamma kissed Catarina, wished her good luck and went out for the evening.

As Catarina expected, Franco consumed the meal she had prepared with gusto. “Up to your usual excellent standard,” he said as he finished his last mouthful of lemon cheesecake.

He pushed his chair back from the table, and then asked, “Is your Mamma home?”

“She’s out tonight,” Catarina replied, hoping Franco had romance in mind.

“That’s a pity,” said Franco, “there is something I need to ask her.”

Curious, Catarina asked, “What is it you want with her?”

“I would like to ask for her permission to court her only daughter, who is the girl I intend to make my wife.”

“But, you love Rosa,” Catarina stammered.

“Rosa? No, Catarina, Rosa is...” shrugging his shoulders, he thought for a moment, “just an amusement,” he finished. Looking earnestly into Catarina’s eyes he said, “Do you really think I would want to marry a skinny girl like Rosa who can’t cook and is so free with her favours? No, my cuddly virtuous little Catarina you are the girl for me. Then looking hopefully towards the table he asked, “Do you think I could have another helping of that delicious torta.”