The Pairing, page 29
They relax with a laugh. “Really? That’s your question.”
“You keep saying that every grape has its own characteristics and personality,” I say, “so, which one is most like you?”
They think about it. “I feel like I have to be a California white.”
“Well, you are a California white.”
“Very original joke from the southern French white.”
“Merci beaucoup.”
“And le fuck you too,” Theo says cheerfully. “I might be a Viognier.”
“I have to tell you, that sounds French.”
“It is, originally, but it’s grown in California too. Full-bodied, rich texture. It might sound weird, but it makes a kind of oily wine? And I think that suits me. Something with weight, that likes to sit there and hang out for a long time.”
“I can see that. What does it taste like?”
“Peach, mostly, but I also get tangerine and honeysuckle with it, and a lot of other florals. Which feels like me, I guess.”
I ponder this. “You know, I think I assumed you would be a red, but that’s perfect for you.”
“Oh, Kit. You are a red.”
“I’m a red? Why?”
“Come on. Deep, indulgent, immortalized in a million Renaissance paintings, made to be poured between ass cheeks at a bacchanal. You’re a red.”
“That does sound like me,” I say, nodding thoughtfully. “But a light-bodied red.”
“I’d say medium-bodied but light on its feet. Fruity.”
“Naturally.”
“French. Rhône-adjacent. If you’re a grape, you’ve got to be Gamay.”
“I’ve heard of that one. What’s it like?”
“Well, versatile, first of all.”
“Famously.”
“Notes of pomegranate and raspberry. Soil. A lot of flowers too. Peony, iris.” With a significant look, they add, “Violets, actually.”
“You’re very good at this. You do know that, don’t you?”
“It’s weird. I think I might almost be … afraid to be good at it?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve been thinking about something,” they tell me. “Today, at the Borghese, I was like, what if I pick one thing in this gallery and spend the whole time with it? Instead of speeding through the entire museum for a hundred five-second hits of dopamine, what if I stand here and let this be the only thing I experience?”
“And how did that feel?”
“It felt … uncomfortable. Boring. And then I started to see things I hadn’t noticed, like the details of the leaves, and the straps of the sandals. And I thought about how long it must have taken to sculpt, and to build up the skill to sculpt something like it, so I looked up Bernini.”
“You looked up Bernini,” I repeat, disbelieving. “After you made me have a Bernini jar.”
“I know! But I looked him up, and he started sculpting when he was eight. Eight! He drew a little and did some architecture, but it was sculpting that he devoted his entire life to, until he was eighty-one years old. And then I thought about Gaudí with Sagrada Familia. And I started thinking about having a thing that you throw your entire self behind, and about my sisters, and my parents, and how they’ve always had that, and they’ve never questioned it and always succeeded at it. And I was like, what’s my thing?”
A waiter drops off our wine, a red Theo chose. They present the bottle to Theo and let them taste. Theo approves, so they pour.
“You were saying,” I prompt when the waiter is gone. “Your thing.”
“Right, so, first it was being the oldest child, and I mean, obviously I spectacularly failed at that.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Did you?”
“Come on,” Theo says with a roll of their eyes. “Sloane is everything the oldest should be. Brave, dependable—”
“Protector, leader, setter of examples?” I suggest. “I distinctly remember you being all of those things for at least one person. Me.”
“Maybe so,” Theo says, coloring faintly. “Or—yeah, I guess I was. But still. It was— I failed at being the firstborn Flowerday. I wasn’t needed. I didn’t have the family gifts. That’s what I mean.”
“Okay,” I say, still unhappy with this characterization but curious to see where Theo is going. “I understand what you’re saying.”
“And so for a while my thing was house parties, and we all know how that went, and then it was swimming, and that was supposed to be the big one, so I went too hard and fucked my body up and lost that too. And after that, I think I got scared, and so I started putting a little bit of myself into a lot of things instead of all of myself into one thing. Like if I’m always just starting something, I can always be in that beginning stage when it’s shiny and new and full of possibility, and if I never try to finish, I never get to the part where I fuck it up.”
In all the years I wished for Theo to commit to being happy, I never thought to consider it this way, but it makes sense.
“So,” I say, “where does this leave you?”
They sip, and they consider.
“Ask me a different question,” they say. “Ask me what you asked me yesterday.”
I lean back in my chair.
“Theo,” I say. “What do you want?”
“I think what I want most of all,” Theo says, “is … peace.”
“Peace,” I repeat slowly.
“I don’t know if I’ve ever let myself have peace. I thought staying in one place my whole life would do it, but maybe I won’t know peace until I choose one thing I want to do and put everything I have behind it and see it through. Even if I fuck it up beyond repair, even if I embarrass myself and my family and have to go live off the grid on Calum’s shark-research boat. At least I’ll finally know how it goes.”
I want to take Theo’s hand and tell them how long I’ve waited for them to decide this for themself. To believe in it. Instead, I satisfy myself with imagining leaving my life in Paris, chasing whatever dream Theo chooses. I picture myself balancing the budget for Theo’s bus bar, or kissing Theo’s hair while they make study cards for the master sommelier exam, or replacing the new pastry chef at Timo that Theo doesn’t like. I could be happy there, as long as Theo wanted me with them.
I ask, “Do you want to know what I think?”
“Yes.”
“I think you deserve peace. And you can do whatever it is you decide.” I take a sip and add, “And you should have let me talk about Bernini more.”
Theo laughs. “I guess so.”
“And for what it’s worth,” I go on, “whatever you choose, you don’t have to do it alone.”
Theo absorbs this, then leans closer.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” they say. “I thought you went to pastry school so you could open your own place. You were going for the diploma in culinary management too, right? Why are you working in someone else’s kitchen?”
The question catches me by surprise; I have to take a beat to think of an answer.
“I changed my mind,” I say.
“Why?”
“I met other pâtissiers in Paris,” I explain as simply as I can. “I saw what it was like, trying to start something from nothing in a city like that, and I realized you were right. Fairflower was a fantasy.”
Theo’s expression softens, something strangely sad playing around their eyes.
“A nice one, though, wasn’t it?” they say. “Do you still think about it?”
“Of course.”
“I do too,” they say. “Sometimes, I wonder if—”
They break off, their gaze flicking past me.
“Oh, whoa.”
“What?”
“That guy over there,” they say. “For a second I thought that was your dad.”
I look over my shoulder, scanning the tables outside the next bar until I see the man Theo must be talking about: sixty-something with a scruffy beard and a vague resemblance to Victor Garber, writing in a notebook with an expensive-looking fountain pen.
“Oh, huh. He does look like him, doesn’t he?”
“It would be so typical Craig to just happen to be on summer sabbatical in Rome and not tell anyone.”
“Oh, sure. He’ll be the writer in residence at St. Peter’s, and we’ll find out when he shows up in a photo with the pope.”
Theo laughs, and as they lift their glass back to their lips, a terrible thing occurs to me.
My dad’s pattern. Deciding what he wants on some romantic whim, fixating on the fantasy, pursuing it without regard for how it will affect the people he loves or if they even want the same thing. That’s what I did to Theo with Paris.
Am I about to do it again?
I said I’d do better this time, but here I am, about to present another dream of my own design, telling myself it’s a better plan if I leave my life for theirs than the other way around. As if romance should mean giving up everything and disappearing into someone else. Theo has never asked for that, not then, not now.
“Kit?” Theo says. “Did you hear what I said?”
I blink myself back to the present.
“Sorry, what?”
“I said, should I pick out another bottle, or do you want to head back to the room?”
I see the promise in their eyes, and there’s nothing I’d love more than to learn what they’ve dreamed up to top last night, but I can’t. I’ve accidentally told them I love them twice now, nearly said yesterday it in bed. I’m one glass from saying it right here at this table. If I touch them tonight, I won’t be able to stop myself.
There are only a few days left on this tour, but those are still days. If I offer them something they don’t want, they’ll be stuck with me thousands of miles from home with an American passport. What gives me the right? Because I still think I know best? Because I’ve grown bored of Paris, just like my father said I would, and I want a new dream to save me from boredom? Because of my ridiculous, incurable obsession with love?
I say the only thing I can think of to deflect.
“Do you remember what our score was?”
For a moment, Theo doesn’t have any idea what I mean. Then it connects, and they set down the wine list.
“Five to three,” they say. “Why?”
“Just—just wondering if we were still counting.”
“Were you planning to catch up while we’re out?”
“No,” I say, “I’m too tired. I need to get some actual sleep tonight.”
Theo nods, and mercifully, they don’t bring up the room again.
I need to step back. I need to lock myself in my own room for the night and hope I’ve gotten ahold of myself by the time we get to Naples.
NAPLESPAIRS WELL WITH:
Generous serving of limoncello, cannoli
There’s a certain flavor to Fabrizio, a bacchanalian ripeness that I haven’t yet identified. I’m sure if I’d asked Theo they could have named it right away, because the same notes are in the wine we’re drinking.
“Body?” they ask me.
“Full,” I say, feeling its weight on my tongue, the intensity of the flavors.
“Sweetness?”
“Barely. Sort of like a—a dark fruit at first. Maybe black currant? But it’s more … savory?”
“That’s good, savory how?”
“Um.” I think about it.
“No wrong answers,” Theo says, “whatever comes to mind first.”
“Smoke? Or … dirt? Peppercorn?”
“That’s good, really good. Keep going, past the first things you taste. What’s back there?”
“It’s … meaty, maybe? Leathery?”
Theo clasps their hands together, pleased. “It is. And do you feel how it’s sort of coating the inside of your mouth, toward the front? Like, holding on to it?”
“Yeah,” I say. “That means it has a lot of tannins, right?”
“Right,” Theo says. “So, this wine is called Aglianico del Taburno. It’s made with Aglianico grapes, which are grown a few miles inland from here, where it’s warm enough for enough of the year that a late-ripening grape like that can thrive, and so they have deeper, darker fruit flavors because of the long growing season, and grapes in hotter climates also have thicker skins, which means they let more tannins into the wine, because tannins are in the skin and seeds, so if you like tannic or savory wines or wines with dark fruit flavors you might like warm-climate wines, and— I feel like you’re just staring at me now.”
I shake my head, realizing I’ve forgotten my glass entirely. It’s hard to remember anything else when I’m watching Theo light up like this. I can barely remember not to put my hand on their waist.
“No, that makes sense,” I say. “Warm-climate wines. Meaty, leathery, ripe, full, but weirdly—”
“Smooth.”
“Smooth. Kind of sounds like—”
As if on cue, Fabrizio swans by our corner of the table, half-open shirt billowing in the late-afternoon sun, melted-chocolate voice languid with laughter, a hot lick of breeze rippling the curls on his chest.
“—Fabrizio.”
“Well,” Theo says, “they are both from here.”
We’ve finally arrived in Fabrizio’s hometown of Naples, nestled along the coast at the shin of Italy’s boot, and Fabrizio is in his element. He is making passionate love to his element. He’s overflowing with compliments and kisses and historical morsels, continuously conjuring paper parcels of street food and reciting relevant stanzas of Neapolitan poems. He loves this city and its weathered streets with an irresistible intensity. The more we soak in his presence, the more I love Naples. And the more I love Naples, the more Fabrizio seems like her favorite child.
Naples has existed uninterrupted for nearly thirty centuries, and it exists so much. Shops and trattorias cram the ancient streets around Centro Storico, festooned with strings of flags and lights and drying laundry, ivy and satellite cables curtaining craggy stone facades. Every inch has something to look at, streaks of graffiti on yellow stucco or lintels with sculpted leaves or old bricks revealed by chipping plaster. Storefronts overflow with tables of puppets and figurines, hand-painted tambourines, paper flowers and cheap sunglasses. Yeast and oil permeate the air, carried by a million sounds all at once—scooters revving, arguments, laughter, old men coughing out cigar smoke, an accordion on the next street. It’s a gritty, glorious feast of overstimulation.
Already, we’ve toured three separate astonishing churches and been whisked down Via dei Tribunali, where Fabrizio taught us the exacting legal requirements of Neapolitan pizza: that the dough must only be stretched by hand, the mandated temperature for fermentation, the clockwise spreading of crushed tomatoes, approved local sources for cheese. We’ve taken forks and knives to bloody red marinara and basil-flecked margherita with soupy middles, and we’ve stood at windows for pizza folded up with butcher paper, a portafoglio.
Which brings us here, to the terrazzo of a wine bar, all of us drunk on overindulgence. The muchness of Naples has caught up to us. Even Orla is boneless on her stool.
Today isn’t only special for Fabrizio; it’s also Orla’s last day. Tomorrow we’ll take the ferry to Palermo, and Orla will drive the bus back to its station in London. We’re all devastated to see her go, and to thank her for hauling us around, we’ve coaxed her out to spend the day with us.
“What do you usually do while we’re out?” Dakota asks her, tipping more wine into Orla’s glass.
She shrugs. “Go hiking. Get a massage. Phone my wife. Read pornographic romance novels.”
“I think I love you, Orla,” Theo says. Orla raises her glass and winks.
In the thick of it all, I’ve barely been alone with Theo for more than a few seconds, but now that they’re beside me, throwing around four-letter words and telling me how to use my mouth, I’m back on the ledge.
I could touch them. I want to touch them. Slip my hand across the back of their neck, press my knee against their thigh. They would like it, even. But everything I shouldn’t say is right under the surface of my skin, and I’ll sweat it out if we get too close.
I pull myself a few inches farther from Theo, tucking my hand under my thigh before I forget myself. The movement doesn’t escape their notice.
“Hey,” Theo says quietly. “You okay? You look like you’re worried you forgot something.”
Yes, my heart in California and my cock in a fifth-story apartment in Rome.
“Just—thinking we haven’t had any Napoli pastry yet.” I drain my glass and call out, “Fabrizio!”
Fabrizio tosses his handsome head toward me. “Sì, Professore?”
“Where can I try sfogliatelle?”
And so, Fabrizio wilds me away from Theo toward a pasticceria down the block, where I can busy myself with papery pastry layers and offload some sexual frustration onto him. It’s always so easy, flirting with Fabrizio. He takes it so well and gives back even better, winks and raises his eyebrows and thumbs the edge of my jaw. I like him so much. It almost helps.
* * *
For dinner, Fabrizio takes us to a little osteria in the Spanish Quarter with walls covered in painted majolica tiles. An older woman bursts out of the kitchen to greet us in a white-collared red dress, her dark, wavy hair cropped close to her face and her eyes keen under strong, mobile brows. She is glorious, commanding the room with the brash, unflappable air of a woman who must have been mind-bendingly hot in her prime. Fabrizio lets her kiss him twice on each cheek and introduces her as his mother.
“It takes me many summers with the tour company to convince them,” Fabrizio tells us, “but tonight, we dine in il ristorante di famiglia!”
The menu is a straightforward tour of Neapolitan staples: pappardelle in eight-hour ragù napoletano, pasta alla genovese, braciola, roasted squid, octopus cooked in white wine. For antipasti, Fabrizio’s mother brings out plate after plate of eggplant involtini and fried nuggets of mozzarella. We devour more pasta than any human should ever eat and follow it with hunks of pork and beef stewed in the ragù. It is, unpretentiously and unassumingly, the best meal I’ve had in Italy.
