‘Buono e delizioso. Two adjectives we use a lot in Italian. They agree in gender and number with the foods they describe,’ Lucia began in her trademark student-friendly Italian on Wednesday morning. She weaved her way around the tables of her classroom on the second floor of La Scuola Rosa, with Foscari her trusty shadow. ‘But, proceed with caution.Attenzione!’ Her right hand flew through the air in warning and she lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘While they are both used to describe food, they are also very . . .’ Her students leaned in closer. ‘BORING!’ she erupted, and the students jolted and laughed in response.
‘That was cheeky, Lucia!’ one student remarked.
‘In Venice we say,A Carnevale, ogni scherzo vale. During Carnival, anything goes!’ Lucia winked. She turned on her heel and made for her desk by the whiteboard from which she retrieved a large platter, covered with an Arlecchino-inspired tea towel in multicoloured diamond print. She placed it in the middle of one of the large desks, and coaxed the students to gather around. ‘Venite!Venite!’
The air was suddenly laced with the comforting scents of vanilla and cinnamon, and a lull settled across the group.
‘Che profumo!’ one student cooed, and others nodded. ‘There’s something sweet under there.’
Lucia smiled. ‘Today we are going to elevate your ability to describe food.Approfondire, to increase, enrich, deepen our knowledge.’
The students shared delighted glances, which only encouraged more passion and enthusiasm from Lucia.
‘We are going to leave the same-samedeliziosoandbuonobehind and expand your linguistic horizons!’ With a theatrical flick of the wrist she removed the tea towel, revealing a decadent collection of traditional Carnevale sweets. ‘Dolce. Both an adjective and noun,’ she reminded them. ‘A treat, and used to describe something sweet.’
A few students made notes in their workbooks.
‘Prego!’ she said, inviting each to make a selection from the platter.
There were two options to choose from:fritole, sugar-dusted bites of deep-fried dough, andgalani, crispy crimp-edged pastry ribbons. One by one the students made their choices and returned to their seats, devouring their sweets with glee.
‘As you taste and enjoy yourdolci, I want you to think about how you might describe them. What sensations do you feel in the mouth?La bocca. How does it smell?Ilprofumo. How does it taste?Il sapore. Remember to use the sensory verb,sentire. And together we will make a vocabulary bank on the board of all the different adjectives.’
Soon hands were raised.Croccante. Friabile. Soffice. Pastoso. Dolce. Fino. Duro. . . The list continued. And eventually they added broader food terms until Lucia’s board was full and she applauded them. Foscari barked along.
Giving them a moment to finish their notes, Lucia went to sit by the window overlooking thecallewith Foscari in her arms.
‘It’s not difficult to find new words. It’s the art of expressing oneself that’s challenging.Non è difficile.’
On that final word –difficile– she turned and gazed across at La Commedia.
YOU need to find the words to express yourself now, Lucia. Go, speak to him. See if he’s home. Make an ally out of him.
Later that day, the postman delivering the day’s mail arrived on foot with his usual navy Poste Italiane trolley in tow, just as Lucia was waving off the last of the students. Francesco and Mariella were tidying up inside, while Lucia was holding a small paper plate of leftoverdolciin her hand. Her plan was to gift them to Alex as a peace offering.
‘Per Lei,’ the postman said, handing Lucia an envelope.
‘Grazie,’ she replied, surprised to see the crest of thecomuneprinted in the top corner. She chewed her bottom lip in confusion. All her usualcomune-directed communication arrived by email these days. What could this be?
Lucia carefully put down the plate, tore open the envelope and pulled out a one-page letter.
Lettera di richiamo . . .
A warning letter? A warning about what?
Her hands began to tremble as she flattened the single page against the glass of the school’s front window.
. . . noise regulation violation . . .
. . . breach of public space laws . . .
. . . required permits. . .
The pounding of her heart reverberated down into her legs, making her feel unsteady.
. . . possible fines . . .
She turned to face La Commedia. She could feel the heat rising to her cheeks, stinging the delicate skin under her eyes. It had to behim! Who else could it be? No one else had expressed any concerns about the work of the school on thecalle. She balled both her fists so tightly that the letter in her hand crumpled between her fingers.
