Plain Pasta, Part 1

Author's Note: I wrote this story first in Russian, for the friend who is mentioned in it. Real names are changed, but everything else is true to the best of my recollection.

Once upon a time — sometime in late 1997 or early 1998 — when I had just started teaching at a university, my friend Kira was working as an interpreter for an Oxford student, a multi-lingual Italian who had come to Bishkek to collect data for his doctoral dissertation. His trip was funded by some organization that had awarded him a modest grant, so he tried to save on all his expenses.

Kira kept telling me how brilliant and fascinating he was, with encyclopedic knowledge about absolutely everything. She secretly nicknamed him “Gianni Rodari,” after the Italian author of a popular children's book about anthropomorphic onion named Cipollino who was fighting political oppression and injustice in the vegetable universe. Here, I'll call him GR for short. Kira thought the writer and our Oxford Italian friend shared decency and empathy for humans in suffering.

She also kept lamenting that GR was already taken: His Filipina girlfriend had stayed behind in Oxford, where they had met. Apparently the girlfriend called GR every day to assure him at length of her undying love. And he, in turn, never failed to report those conversations to Kira in detail.

Deeply impressionable and romantic (we were 27-28 at the time), Kira would recount those phone calls to me with dreamy melancholy in her voice. For background, as this is somewhat important: Kira also liked setting up other people, mostly our friends, on dates, for which we teased her saying she always had a backup career if the interpreting thing didn't work out for her.

“Looks like Slavic brides are out of vogue,” she would sigh thoughtfully, trying to make sense of the new trend. “For some reason all Europeans are falling for Asian women now. What do they even see in them? Ah, my dear girl friend, we've missed the wave!”

“Oh, come on, Kira. Our time just hasn’t come yet,” I would try to console her. “We’ll meet our love. It doesn’t have to be foreign, either. Maybe there are still some decent guys around here?”

“Are you kidding me? Where? If there were any, they’ve all been long taken. Snatched, while you and I were busy studying at the university and being too picky.”

This conversation would inevitably end with Kira concluding that real men had disappeared from the land of Bishkek and that we were both doomed to die as old maids.

Jumping ahead a bit: Two years later, Kira married a handsome, calm, and thoughtful Russian man with whom she still lives in a stable marriage and shares two beautiful children.

But back then, one evening Kira called me and blurted out:

“Don’t make any plans for tomorrow evening! Gianni Rodari invited us for dinner!”

“Who’s ‘us’?”

“You and me, who else?”

“What do I have to do with it? I've never even met him!”

“Well, this will be a perfect opportunity to get acquainted!”

“Why exactly? And what for? Spill it — what’s the catch? Who else is coming? Trying to play matchmaker again, are you, our certified Cupid?”

“No, what are you talking about!” Kira even sounded slightly offended. “You know how I’m just curious about people. I've been wanting to see how and where he lives. I’ve jokingly invited myself over several times before, and he always brushed it off. So yesterday I just told him straight: ‘I want a real Italian to treat me to real Italian pasta!’ He agreed very reluctantly — but only if I brought a friend.”

“And why does he need a friend? Listen… maybe he’s into threesomes?” I pretend-panicked.

“Oh, stop it!” Kira burst out laughing. “You’ll see him and understand he’s no sexual maniac. On the contrary, I suspect he’s afraid I’ll throw myself at him and he won’t be able to resist. That’s why he asked me to bring a third person, for safety. Come on, what’s it to you? Aren't you even curious to meet him?”

“All right, you convinced me. What shall we bring?” (in Central Asia, we never go as guests empty-handed, always bring something for the table).

“Dunno. Maybe some wine? And something to go with it, like a dessert? I'll bring some fruit.”

“Fine. I’ll think of something.”

***

The next day after work I stopped by what was, at the time, the most well-stocked supermarket in town. I bought a box of high-quality chocolates, a package of real Parmesan, and lingered in the wine section trying to decide: Italian or Georgian? Could one surprise an Italian with Italian wine? And was there any guarantee it was really Italian and not a locally bottled fake? Would he like Georgian wine?

In the end, to avoid making the wrong choice, I bought two bottles — an Italian Riesling and Georgian Kindzmarauli. I still had time before dinner, so I went home to change from my business clothes. Thinking what else to bring, I inexplicably grabbed a half-liter jar of tomatoes preserved in their own juice, my mother's best canning product. Why on earth I did that, I don’t know — but it turned out to be a brilliant decision...

Part 2 is here: