Part 11 (2/2)

WHEN HE WAS TEN, Ian had discovered computers. There were no computers in his house back then; his mother was more amused than interested by the concept and his father used the one in his office at work. But a friend from school had one, and Ian was smitten from the moment his hands touched the keyboard. Here was a partner of unceasing consistency, whose rules were inviolate, if only you understood them. And Ian did.

He badgered his parents for months, until the next Christmas there was a present just the right size under the tree. Ian sat by the box from the time he spotted it at four o'clock on Christmas morning until the time his family finally opened their presents and he could take his prize from its Styrofoam packaging and bring it alive. From then on, the computer, or one of its various successors, held court in his room. Over the years, more computers entered the home, but they were mere functionaries in the life of his family-mail carriers, research a.s.sistants. Ian regarded his computer as the best of friends, one that would unselfishly step aside for a new model with a better memory, a quicker wit. In a house filled with the ambiguities of color, Ian's first computers offered a rea.s.suring world of black and white.

IAN HAD BEEN DETERMINED not to walk into Lillian's cooking cla.s.s unprepared, so he had spent the month of August in his apartment kitchen. As a software engineer, he reasoned that cooking, like any other process, could be approached as a series of steps to be mastered, fundamental skills that could be applied even, or perhaps especially, when one was confronted by the chaos of complicated recipes, sinks overflowing with pots and pans, shelves of red and silver-green spices, hiding in small, round gla.s.s jars like memory land mines. not to walk into Lillian's cooking cla.s.s unprepared, so he had spent the month of August in his apartment kitchen. As a software engineer, he reasoned that cooking, like any other process, could be approached as a series of steps to be mastered, fundamental skills that could be applied even, or perhaps especially, when one was confronted by the chaos of complicated recipes, sinks overflowing with pots and pans, shelves of red and silver-green spices, hiding in small, round gla.s.s jars like memory land mines.

He started with rice-pure, white, elemental, an expression of mathematical simplicity: 1 part rice + 2 parts water = 3 parts cooked rice. Nothing extra, nothing lost. Cooking it required only a heavy pot and discipline, both of which he had.

It was a disaster. First he had too much discipline, and the rice on the bottom of the pot scorched, sending a sad, brown smell throughout the apartment; then he had too little, and the rice was soggy, refusing to be roused no matter how much he fluffed and encouraged. He added salt and b.u.t.ter, which at least gave the mush a vague resemblance to popcorn in terms of flavor, but it still was not rice. Not the way he wanted it.

It was abundantly clear that he was going to need help.

IAN'S APARTMENT was above a Chinese restaurant that he frequented more often than he would have cared to have his mother know. The dining room was small, its walls painted a color that Ian guessed had once been red, the menus faded almost to the point of illegibility. was above a Chinese restaurant that he frequented more often than he would have cared to have his mother know. The dining room was small, its walls painted a color that Ian guessed had once been red, the menus faded almost to the point of illegibility.

The first time Ian had ventured downstairs to the restaurant was two years earlier, after a long, hot summer day spent moving into his new apartment. He had been tired and hungry, and after being seated by an ancient waitress whose formidable expression made him look surrept.i.tiously at his watch to make sure he wasn't past closing time, he had opted for the safe choice and ordered sweet and sour pork and rice. When the plate arrived, he looked down at a fragrant mix of chicken, ginger, and the brilliant green of barely cooked broccoli tips.

”This is not what I ordered,” he told the waitress, as politely as he could, not yet sure how varied his eating options would be in his new neighborhood.

She raised one impressive gray eyebrow at him, and left.

It was nine p.m. and he was the only customer in the restaurant; as the swinging door closed behind the bowlegged gait of his waitress, he found himself alone with the plate in front of him. Uncertain if she would ever return and distinctly unwilling to follow the woman into the kitchen, Ian picked up his chopsticks and took a bite. The chicken was soft, delicate, the broccoli crisp and distinctly alive, ginger seasoning the mix like the provocative flip of a short skirt. The ache in his muscles from hauling and carrying moving boxes, the general anxiety that always encompa.s.sed him when he was confronted with the new and unfamiliar, left him like the last train of the day, leaving him calm and refreshed. He ate slowly and thoughtfully, disregarding any thought of a take-home container for the next day's lunch. As he finished, the old woman returned.

”Good?” she asked. He nodded gratefully.

Her hands gathered the dishes roughly together into a stack. ”You come back again,” she said.

He did, and never once got what he ordered. He considered acknowledging the situation and simply declaring himself at the mercy of the kitchen, but then again, he realized he already was-his order simply a line in a play already written, without which the rest would not be the same. And so, each time, he stated a request he knew would be ignored and laid his trust at the doors of the kitchen, out of which, as if in recognition of a test he had pa.s.sed, came dishes of delicate complexity and scintillating tastes, rarely if ever to be found on the actual menu.

THE NIGHT of the soggy rice, Ian left his failed culinary experiment and went down the faded red stairs of his apartment building to the restaurant below. The waitress pointed to his usual table by the window. of the soggy rice, Ian left his failed culinary experiment and went down the faded red stairs of his apartment building to the restaurant below. The waitress pointed to his usual table by the window.

”Do you know how to cook rice?” Ian blurted out as he was sitting down.

The waitress stared at him.

”I mean, of course you do; I just wondered if you could tell me how.”

”Why? You eat rice here.”

”I want to learn how.”

The old woman noted the urgency in his voice; she looked at him more closely, nodded. ”You don't cook rice, you take care of it,” she stated. ”I'll get your dinner now.” She returned to the kitchen without even the pretense of asking him for his order.

BACK IN HIS APARTMENT, Ian held a large metal bowl with a layer of rice lying like an ocean floor underneath several inches of cool water. He dipped his hand into the liquid and swirled his fingers in a clockwise motion. He felt the delicate grains slipping between his fingers, watching pearlescent white clouds of starch enter the water like the changing of weather in the sky.

When the water was so thick with starch he could barely see the rice, he placed a colander in the sink and poured the contents of the bowl through it, the rice running out with the water like thick oatmeal until the last of it finally fell into the colander with a thud. He put the rice back in the bowl, filled it with water, and repeated the process, again and again, until the water stayed clear and he could see each grain of rice in the bottom of the bowl.

He drained the rice one last time and put the pot on the stove. He looked at the rice in the colander, plumped from its immersion, thought for a moment, then poured a bit less than two cups of water into the pot and turned on the heat.

ONCE I IAN had perfected rice, he turned to polenta, then to fish lightly grilled on the hibachi he balanced on the pint-size balcony outside his kitchen window. By the end of August, he had placed small pots of herbs out on the balcony as well, the smell of basil and oregano and chives greeting his nose when he opened the window in the morning. He discovered a farmers' market near the bus stop on his way home from work downtown. He bought a good, sharp knife at a culinary store and began experimenting, slicing vegetables straight and julienned, cutting meat with and across the grain, taking scissors to his basil, then ripping it with his fingers, to see if it varied the taste. had perfected rice, he turned to polenta, then to fish lightly grilled on the hibachi he balanced on the pint-size balcony outside his kitchen window. By the end of August, he had placed small pots of herbs out on the balcony as well, the smell of basil and oregano and chives greeting his nose when he opened the window in the morning. He discovered a farmers' market near the bus stop on his way home from work downtown. He bought a good, sharp knife at a culinary store and began experimenting, slicing vegetables straight and julienned, cutting meat with and across the grain, taking scissors to his basil, then ripping it with his fingers, to see if it varied the taste.

He found a store that sold spices in bulk, buying just as much as he needed, which allowed him the excuse to return and wander through the store, smelling containers with names he didn't recognize. One time, he took a packet of an especially intriguing spice into the Chinese restaurant and showed it to the waitress. She inhaled deeply; then, with a look of amus.e.m.e.nt, she took the packet back into the kitchen, returning a few minutes later with a dish redolent in its fragrance. Over time, it became a game of sorts. At first frustrating, the recipes for the dishes became something he looked forward to figuring out, a challenge keeping him company, entertaining him in the middle of a traffic jam or while he waited on hold for a service call. He found himself eating more slowly, each bite a chance to understand a part of the puzzle, until finally the puzzle wasn't pieces, simply the feel of a warm sauce sliding down his throat, the crunch of a water chestnut against the edge of his teeth.

BY THE TIME the cooking cla.s.s started, Ian had more questions than answers. He found himself reading chemistry books after the cake-baking cla.s.s, trying to make pasta on his own after the Thanksgiving dinner. Watching the other members of the cla.s.s, he found himself wondering where they had come from, what it was they brought with them, as if they, too, were recipes he might come to understand. Where Claire's face, that first night, had gotten its mixture of excitement and distrust, what made Isabelle recall the things she remembered, or what had placed Tom inside such an untouchable circle of sorrow. And then there was Antonia, always Antonia, with her olive skin and dark hair, her voice carefully finding its way around the American sounds and syllables that seemed too flat and awkward for her sensuous mouth. the cooking cla.s.s started, Ian had more questions than answers. He found himself reading chemistry books after the cake-baking cla.s.s, trying to make pasta on his own after the Thanksgiving dinner. Watching the other members of the cla.s.s, he found himself wondering where they had come from, what it was they brought with them, as if they, too, were recipes he might come to understand. Where Claire's face, that first night, had gotten its mixture of excitement and distrust, what made Isabelle recall the things she remembered, or what had placed Tom inside such an untouchable circle of sorrow. And then there was Antonia, always Antonia, with her olive skin and dark hair, her voice carefully finding its way around the American sounds and syllables that seemed too flat and awkward for her sensuous mouth.

He had found Antonia's hesitancy with his language endearing, and his desire to protect her was strong until the day he had encountered her at the farmers' market. He had recognized her from some twenty feet away and walked over, hoping he could help her past some language barrier, his a.s.sistance a worthy introduction to some other conversation. But as he got closer, he could see her hands flying, as if released. She was laughing, her words unintelligible to him but completely comprehensible to the Italian produce man in the stall, their faces beaming at the joy of playing in the waterfall of their own language.

Ian stood behind Antonia, breathing in her happiness, until the produce man sent him a sharp look and said something rapidly to Antonia, who turned to him, her face still lit from her conversation.

”Si, si,” she responded. she responded. ”Lo conosco.” ”Lo conosco.”

I know him. ”h.e.l.lo, Ian.” And without a thought, Ian's soul stepped into the radiated warmth of her expression.

A FEW WEEKS LATER FEW WEEKS LATER, Antonia had called and asked him to help her. There were floors, she said, that needed to go away. So her clients would understand how important it was to keep things that were good and true. Ian didn't mention the apparent irony of getting rid of something in order to keep it; he just agreed and thanked the fates that had sent him a construction job that last summer before college, years earlier.

They had spent a long Sat.u.r.day, pulling up squares of linoleum, downing cup after tiny cup of the espresso that Antonia made on the big black stove and that he hardly needed to get his pulse running. Midday, they took a break, and Antonia got out the lunch she had brought for them-hard-crusted bread and prosciutto and fresh mozzarella, a bottle of red wine.

”This is how we make a picnic in Italy,” she told him, beaming.

”No peanut b.u.t.ter and jelly?” he asked.

”What is that?”

Ian smiled. ”So, why did you move here?” he asked, curious.

She pondered the question for a moment. ”Well, Lucca-the place where I grew up-it was wonderful, like a warm bath. So beautiful and everyone so loving. All the time, I knew what to do. If someone invited me to dinner, I knew what to bring. I knew the hours for the market. I could tell you, right now, when to catch the next train to Pisa. There was nothing wrong. I just wanted-how do you say? a cold shower?-to wake up my soul.”

Ian tried to imagine being so sure of what to do that he would leave everything, go somewhere else, just to be uncertain. She spoke so confidently, as if a warm bath was something you could to turn on any faucet to find. Perhaps, he thought, for her it was. Listening to her, Ian realized that he had spent his life in search of exactly what she had stepped out of. He was going to tell her this, but he stopped. Her face was changing expressions like sun moving over water, and he realized that more than telling her what he thought, he wanted to hear what she would say, wanted to watch her hands move in the air like sparrows.

”I remember,” she said, ”getting off the plane in New York. All those big American voices banging into each other. I had never heard so many. I thought I knew English, but I couldn't understand-the words would fly by and sometimes one would hit me and I would try to hold on to it. But they were very, very fast.” She shook her head ruefully. ”I felt so stupid.”

”You are not stupid,” Ian said emphatically.

”No,” she responded, her eyes clear. ”I am not. But you see, in the end, I think it is good to not know things sometimes.”

”Why?”

”It makes everything... a possibility, if you don't know the answer.” She paused. ”I am sounding brave. I am not-I was scared. And it makes you tired, not knowing things. When I got here, I drank half-and-half for three weeks. I thought, Americans are so rich, maybe their milk is, too.” She laughed.

”How is it now?” Ian asked.

”Better. I buy milk now.” She smiled. ”I am joking. But it is better. Every year I am here, I see more things that are familiar. I know that Americans carve pumpkins for Halloween, or send each other Christmas cards, or cook those big turkeys...” Her nose crinkled.

”You know what is best?” Antonia asked. Ian shook his head. ”The cooking cla.s.s. All those people, they all want to see something in a different way, like I did, but we are together.”

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