Maria Boccara was a thin faced woman and wife to Vittorio Boccara the editor of the local newspaper. They had only one child, Margaretha Anna, who was studying for a diploma in beauty therapy at a local further education college. Margaretha Anna had been an unhappy child but she had been blessed with an innate ability as a skilled beautician and was predicted to finish top of her class, almost certainly with a Distinction in Cosmetology. She had already received a number of enticing job offers from beauty salons in the big cities. Margaretha Anna had seen her future and it lay in beauty therapy. In this she was supported by her mother, for whom personal beauty care was a lifelong crusade. Maria Boccara was delighted that her daughter had inherited the primping gene.
It may come as no surprise to learn that Maria Boccara abhorred domestic chores and employed a housekeeper, Costanza Guidi, to do them for her. Costanza also prepared meals for the family which she then packaged, labelled and chilled in convenient portions. Tonight Vittorio Boccara was dining alone on a portion of her lasagne with ricotta cheese, a particular favourite.
It wasn't as if Maria Boccara couldn't cook, her vermicelli with clams in a white wine sauce was only outdone by her lobster with cognac, parmesan and cream. But Maria didn't enjoy cooking: it was too messy. The olive oils, balsamic vinegar, raw meat and vegetables, the herbs and spices, not to mention the raw fish, all did unmentionable things to her skin. The smells of the kitchen - the garlic, the onions - clung to her hair and her clothes. Maria had once almost fainted when fresh turmeric root she was grating stained her finger tips bright orange. Kitchen duties meant there was the added risk of damaging nails when chopping or slicing.
While her husband enjoyed his lasagne Maria was having dinner with Isabella Egido, owner of the café 'la Pietra.' The two women met regularly to swap skin care tips and they always ate at the restaurant 'Il Mediterraneo'. The owner's handsome slim hipped son Toma Passalacqua made fabulous pizza, and he occasionally came out of the kitchen for a breath of fresh air, so that the two women could gawk at him. Tonight they ordered Venetian oyster and seafood pizzas, along with a bottle of Pomposa bianco wine from Emilia-Romagna.
Isabella told her friend the bizarre story of the obscenely phallic Christmas tree that Gaetano Ricci had recently installed on the roof of 'al Rifugio' and Maria couldn't believe she had missed all the excitement. Over a dessert of chocolate torrone Maria described in plaintive tones the problem she was having with dry, cracked skin which gave her, she said, the appearance of a Galapagos tortoise. She blamed her housekeeper Costanza Guidi for using too much powdered bleach in the bathroom.
'The fine particles scour my skin and give it the texture of coarse sandpaper,' she moaned, rubbing her fingers together to demonstrate the faintly rasping sound they made.
'Have you tried almond cream?' asked Isabella. 'Or essence of f honey?'
'I use almond cream all the time, but not essence of honey,' said Maria. 'Wouldn't it be a bit sticky?'
'You apply it after a shower and then leave it to soak in. It is a little bit sticky but it makes your skin wonderfully soft and smooth. The scent is glorious: wild herbs and flowers.'
Maria wondered if using the essence would involve remaining undressed for any length of time. Common sense suggested it would, otherwise your knickers and bra would become messy. 'Sounds like an excellent suggestion,' said Maria, strongly attracted to the idea of a natural remedy to solve the problem of her naturally diminished beauty. 'Where do you buy it from?'
'Parrino Bruno sells it,' said Isabella. 'Would you like me to get you some?'
'Thank you, yes,' said Maria, distracted by the kitchen door opening. It might be Toma coming out of the hot kitchen - all that gleaming perspiration trickling down his back, his thighs. But she was to be disappointed. It was only his sister Rosetta, the fat one, who really shouldn't wear thin white tee-shirts, Maria thought.
