A short story by Richard Walmsley:

CLARISSA

The blazing Tuscan sunshine beat down on the sleepy farmhouse on this sultry summer afternoon. Only the tall green trees surrounding the house spared the occupants from the sun’s avowed intent to drive them into the cool cellar beneath the house where its rays could never penetrate.

The Bertolli family were lying down, keeping still, staying as cool as possible until the sun was forced by the slow turning of the Earth to dip below the hills surrounding the dell where they lived a few kilometres outside the town of Poggibonsi. “Poggi WHAT? Poggi WHERE?!!” most people said when they first heard of this relatively obscure little town. A few foreign tourists – mainly Germans – ventured down to this part of the world; probably because its name made them think that its inhabitants must walk around in clown costumes or permanent carnival dress.  They drifted in and drifted out again obviously disappointed by the town’s total normality.  Some of them drove back up towards the better known towns such as Siena.  A few, tired by a day’s sightseeing, followed the unobtrusive B and B sign that pointed casually down to the Bertolli farmhouse – not grand enough to be classified as an “agriturismo” – and decided to stay there the night. Guests were few and far between, but those who stayed there could bask in the homely surroundings and simple hospitality whilst savouring Mamma’s Tuscan bean and sausage stew.  “Just like life was a hundred years ago,” they told their friends, showing them the photos of the Bertolli family, united, smiling and seemingly perfectly content with their lives. “Just like those TV programmes that get people to live as they did in the 19^th century,” they told everybody, colouring their summer holiday memories with a cosy romanticism that was a few steps removed from reality.

The Bertolli family would have been slightly put out if they could have heard this interpretation of their lifestyle being expressed. They were not deprived of modern conveniences; there were two televisions, two fridge-freezers, showers, a washing machine and even a dish-washer fed by a water supply pumped up from a hundred metres below the surface.  The Bertolli children, Marco 13 and Elena 10, had mobile phones to keep in touch with their friends. Otherwise, even these placid, happy children might have rebelled and run away from home.  During the school term, they were bussed into town six days a week – having to catch the yellow scuolabus at 7.15 in the morning to return at about 3 o’clock in the afternoon.

For the Bertolli parents, there was always an underlying anxiety about the future.  Income was modest but adequate. For food and even wine and olive oil they were almost self-sufficient. But country life was difficult and they knew in their heart of hearts that theirs was probably the last generation to live in this manner, more or less as countless generations of their families had lived before them.  They grew their own vegetables.  They raised pigs, chickens and even ducks, selling the surplus to various farm cooperatives or directly to local restaurants. But how would they feel when their children had gone to university in Florence or Siena – or even further afield?  No, it was a matter of time before their simple farmhouse, beautiful, solid with its yellowy-ochre stone walls, green shutters and faded pink roof tiles would have to be sold to some wealthy businessman or, heaven forbid, to some foreign buyer seeking to realise some vague, bucolic retirement dream of escaping back to nature – until the harsh winter had them scuttling back to their city residences.  The old stone walls would be sand-blasted to a state of cleanliness that it had not known since it had been built some two hundred years previously.  There would be brand new hardwood shutters on all the windows and en suite showers in every bedroom. They might even apply for planning permission to build a swimming pool. 

The children would not return, but seek jobs and partners in the city. Signore and signora Bertolli would have to “downsize” – which meant living in some newly constructed modern box with the nearest tree requiring a pair of binoculars to spot it.  They resolved this impending dilemma by simply living for the present, taking each day as it came.  After all, ten years into the future was a long way off. But secretly, Signora Bertolli would pray every night to the Madonna to help them find a way out of their impending fate. And Signor Bertolli did more or less the same – probably not through the mediation of the Madonna, but more directly to his invisible and elusive God. His prayer was to let him live until he was a hundred years old and then be buried in this warm and magical land of tall cypress trees, undulating vine-covered slopes, hidden lakes and medieval hilltop villages, where he had spent his never-ending childhood.

The children, on the other hand, fruit of a less spiritual age, did not pray – or need to pray.  They just took it for granted that one day they would be living somewhere else with jobs – if they were lucky – and their own families.  But there was nothing pressing. If they thought about their parents’ future, it was based on the assumption that they would live here for ever. 

“Don’t worry about the future,” they said. “We will become famous doctors or lawyers and send you money every month.”

“Not lawyers, please!” said Signor Bertolli. “Lawyers are more prolific than olive trees. And not nearly so useful.”

On this particular summer’s day, the latest B and B guests had gone after breakfast. An English couple with a small child.  Marco had practised his flourishing English and shown them round the farmyard.

“There are thirty chickens.  You see that one? She’s called Clarissa. She’s different to the others. We don’t know why. She doesn’t squabble like the other hens.” Indeed, there was a knowing look in her beady eyes as she pecked at the grain in the yard. The chickens were, it goes without saying, all free range.  Marco had recently read a scientific article about a university study which stated the obvious (to anyone who has had anything to do with animals in their daily lives) that even chickens have feelings and, above all, a kind of sixth sense about the fate that awaits them.

“We have one rooster,” he told them. “Over there. We call him Berlusconi.”

“Why do you call him by the name of your prime minister?” the man asked.

“Because he struts around as if he owns the whole place – and he is very fond of changing partners as often as he can,” stated Marco without a smile on his face.

And that is how things stood on this normal summer’s day – 22^nd July 2008.

At 7 o’clock the following morning, Elena did as she had always done and went out to the hen coops to collect the fresh eggs. She noticed that Clarissa was standing looking at her with an even more knowing look in her eyes.  “Ciao, Clarissa!  Have you managed to lay an egg today?  You haven’t been laying anything for quite some time, have you?” A self-satisfied clucking noise was the only answer she received.

Just two minutes later, Elena was back inside the house, breathless, eyes wide with disbelief.

“I think you should all come and look at something,” she said. Nobody questioned her, such was the look on her face that was signalling something very unusual.

The family followed her outside to the hen coops.  There she pointed to the indent in the straw where Clarissa had been.  There was just one white egg. But what had caused Elena to run indoors and summon her family was that the egg was a perfect sphere – just like a snooker ball.

There was a silence that seemed to last ages.  Finally, and very gingerly, Signor Bertolli picked up the egg and held it in the palm of his hand.  It was warm just like any new laid egg.

“Ma non è possible!” was all he said. For another five minutes that was all anybody said.

Finally, Marco broke the silence:“But what are we going to do with it?”

 “We can’t eat it,” said Elena.  “It’s unique. Clarissa may never lay another one like it.”

“It’s just a freak accident,” said her father.

“We must put it in the fridge,” said Signora Bertolli. “It will give us a bit of time to think.”

And so, the impossible egg was placed reverently in the family fridge and they sat down to a breakfast where you could only hear the crunching of biscotti and a quiet slurping of milky coffee.

The only other mildly unusual event during breakfast time was that Clarissa strutted uninvited into the kitchen, looked at them with her beady, knowing eyes – or so it seemed – and clucked contentedly a couple of times. Nobody moved to chase her out as they usually did when the hens or ducks – or occasionally Berlusconi – strayed into the kitchen. But Clarissa clucked again and went out of her own accord to resume her independent farmyard lifestyle. There was a kind of uncanny self-assurance about the gesture that defied explanation.

“It’s as if she is trying to tell us something,” hazarded Marco.

“Or that she knows something that we don’t,” added Elena.

“And has anyone noticed how even Berlusconi never tries it on with Clarissa?” said Marco.

The others nodded in tacit recognition of this hitherto unspoken observation.

After breakfast, they opened the fridge door again and looked at the egg in case it had resumed its normal oval shape in the meantime.

“It’s a freak,” said Signor Bertolli. “It will probably never happen again.”

“Madonna mia,” said la Signora Bertolli with a hint of religious fervour that did not quite escape the notice of her family.  The first unspoken hint of a mystery from that other dimension.

It is possible that the whole incident might have just faded away and become part of family history, but it was not to be so.

The unlooked for transformation to their lives began with an innocent phone call on her cellulare by Elena to her closest friend, Amelia.

“You’ll never guess what, Amelia.  Clarissa has just laid a perfectly round egg!”

The giggle on the other end of the magically decoded digital message showed Amelia’s willingness to go along with her friend’s latest inventive fantasy.

“No, honestly, Amelia,”  said Elena. “I’m afraid I’m not joking.

Amelia persuaded her mother to take her from the town to the Bertolli farmhouse to spend some time with Elena.  Amelia’s mum needed little persuasion;  anything to stop her spending yet another day in front of the computer forming transient friendships with half the children from the known nations of the world.

By sunset, Amelia had told half a dozen other children in Poggibonsi, who told their friends and, eventually, after some of their classmates had come to see this unbelievable thing, even a handful of sceptical parents, who smiled at the inventiveness of their offspring, were let into the secret that was no longer a secret.

One of these parents, Sergio, just happened to be a reporter on the local newspaper,”Il Messaggero Toscano”. And that is how it all started.

The reporter was the father of a boy called Aurelio. He was a decent man at heart – as well as being a reporter. He phoned up the Bertolli household and asked to speak to the “head of the family”, thereby proceeding correctly according to Italian lore.

There is some legitimate doubt in Italy as to whether it is the husband or the wife who is the true head of any family.  Officially, it is the man; more often than not, however, it is the mother who is the unofficial head. The more correct title for the father would be “breadwinner”.

In this instance, Mamma Bertolli decided to relinquish her unofficial role and handed the receiver to her husband.

“Pronto,” he said. “Con chi parlo?”

Only the Italians, who are experts when it comes to using telephones, say “Ready” as soon as the receiver is in position relative to ear and mouth – and then ask “Who is it?” just in case they may be less ready to talk on discovering who is on the other end of the line.

“Buonasera Signor Bertolli.  My name is Sergio Gigante. My son , Aurelio, is in your daughter’s class at school.” Sergio explained who he was and asked very graciously if he might be the first outsider to report “this extraordinary event.” You see, he was a wise man.  Italians have many faults – not the least that they drive cars without strapping in their children – but, at their best, they are true diplomats and know how to weave words together to persuade others.  If the reporter, Sergio Gigante, had implied, “I want to see this thing for myself because I don’t believe you,”        Signor Bertolli would have felt slighted.  So, after due hesitation, he replied, “Sì. Certo Signor Gigante.  Con piacere.”

It is certain that Signor Bertolli could never have foreseen the consequences of these few simple words.

The reporter, with his son Aurelio in tow for good diplomatic measure, arrived nearly at the appointed hour. “Nearly” means 15 minutes late because Italians consider it vulgar to arrive on time. 

“Avanti. Prego.  Accomadatevi.”  The whole Bertolli family were there as the proud reception committee – and Clarissa made herself available for the camera just outside the back door in the courtyard.  The egg had been gingerly taken out of the fridge by the only member of the family whose hands were not shaking and placed in the centre of the kitchen table in a small straw-lined wicker basket.

“Remarkable!” said Sergio, with genuine amazement, taking pictures from every angle.  “Can you tell me how this all happened?”

It fell to Elena to explain, seeing as she had been the one to discover the egg.

“With your permission, I would like to publish a short account of this in our local paper.  Of course you will be compensated,” added Sergio smoothly on seeing a shadow of resistance passing across Signor Bertolli’s face.

But it was la Signora, reasserting her true position as head of the family, who decided the matter.

“Dai, Claudio,” she said to her husband. “This is no ordinary event.  It was meant to be.  Yes, Signor Gigante.  You may publish this story.”

Her husband shrugged his shoulders.  After all, what harm could it do?

The story appeared the next day on the front page where nobody could miss it – not even those readers who usually turned immediately to the sports pages at the back. There were photos of the egg, Clarissa and the whole family.

LOCAL HEN LAYS PERFECTLY SPHERICAL EGG

There is, as yet, no scientific explanation for this unique phenomenon in our midst. I have seen and touched this egg and I have no reason to question the Bertolli family’s account of this strange event…..

And so on.

The Bertolli bank account was credited with a modest €200 the following week – which is remarkably quick for Italy.  The circulation of the paper had leapt by 30% in one single day. A follow-up column was promised.

A steady trickle of visitors from the town and the surrounding area began to arrive at the gates of the farm.  A local radio station came and did an interview with each member of the family. Signor Bertolli told the reporters to interview the children since he was too busy to stop. “Foreign” visitors – in Italian terms “foreigner”  means anybody who doesn’t live within a radius of ten kilometres – turned up on the doorstep expecting the evening meal and B and B and were treated to a sighting of what appeared to be a perfectly round egg.  Naturally, the Germans thought it was a hoax, uttered a few guttural words, laughed openly and eventually drove off in their Audis and BMWs.  The English smiled indulgently, said “wow” an awful lot, but still stayed and appreciated the meal and hospitality.

Everyone was introduced not only to the egg, which had a notice on the basket saying in several languages, “NON TOCCARE” , but also to a free range hen named Clarissa and a slightly huffy rooster called Berlusconi. Then one day the following week, another wave of excitement swept through the Bertolli homestead – Clarissa had laid another round egg.  Any fears that the first and only egg so far had been a fluke were allayed.

In a moment of inspiration, Elena and Marco hatched a simple plan. They decided to crack open the first egg in front of a selected audience, and then invite someone to eat it. But word of this story had spread beyond the confines of Poggibonsi, thanks to a bit of not entirely disinterested prompting on the part of the local newspaper.

On the appointed day, two journalists from the national TV channel Rai Uno plus, naturally, not wishing to be outdone, a contingent from the rival private channel Rete 4 – owned by the Prime Minister, Berlusconi - arrived with cameras and microphones.

The assembled company, including the local mayor, friends, cousins and, of course, Clarissa waited with bated breath in the courtyard where a trestle table had been erected with a small camping burner on it. The TV cameras were set up.  There had been some heated debate as to whether the egg should be boiled or fried.  Signor Bertolli had made the mistake of asking the public for its opinion; an error of judgement in Italy since no Italian can resist the urge to give his or her own opinion, inevitably in a very loud voice to drown out the person next door, on any matter under the sun. The debate had to be settled by someone so they asked one of the TV reporters because he, sensibly, had not joined in the general melee of voices.

“Fried”, he replied. “We can’t stand the suspense of waiting another ten minutes while the water boils and the egg has to cook.”  Cheers went up all round at this piece of wisdom – except the crew of Rete 4, who felt they had been upstaged.

A dribble of oil and a slither of butter were heated in a small frying pan and Signora Bertolli gingerly cracked the egg shell amid total silence. In a couple of seconds, a deep yellow yolk was shining brightly surrounded by a sizzling white halo.

There was a great round of spontaneous applause. Only one or two people – notably the parish priest – who were hoping for some kind of spiritual manifestation were secretly a little disappointed.  The egg was offered to the journalist, who happened to be young and good-looking.  He took a deep breath and ate the egg with a piece of bread.

“It tastes good,” he said. “Very good.  Just like…….. an egg,”  he added rather lamely. Clarissa looked scornful and strutted off.

Some visitors, including the journalists, stayed late and enjoyed a home cooked meal of strozzapreti (priest stranglers) and coniglio in tegame (rabbit stew) which were declared to be the best that anyone had eaten.  The Bertolli farmhouse was voted to be better than any restaurant. The Bertolli kids acted as waiters, la Signora, of course, cooked and Signor Bertolli went round the tables talking to the twenty or so guests.

By 11 o’clock, that is to say 23.00 hours in European parlance, the stars were resplendent overhead with a dazzling Milky Way spangling the unpolluted night sky.  A crescent Moon hung just above the deep blue hills and the darkling, silhouetted trees  stood on watch above the farmhouse.

Although nobody in the family was vulgar enough to gloat over the evening’s takings the following morning, the truth was that they had made more money in one night than a whole summer of sporadic visitors.  Furthermore, nobody felt overcharged and everyone had gone away with that contented feeling of having spent a pleasant time amongst friends - which is how a good meal  should make you feel.

With the Rai Uno journalists, who had stayed the night, it was agreed for the sake of honest reporting that an unobtrusive video camera should be set up in Clarissa’s coop. “Otherwise, there will always be some cynics who will say that you have managed to fake the whole thing,” said the young journalist. “Of course, you will be compensated for any inconvenience.

They were, indeed, compensated.  €1000 this time; it arrived three months later by which time they had ceased to even think about compensation.

The rival TV channel’s journalists had escaped earlier in a bid to get the story out on the next day’s news before Rai Uno could break the story. It was the Director of Rete 4, an incredibly pompous and self-opinionated gentleman called Emilio Fede, who insisted that he should be the one to broadcast this unique piece of news, abrubtly dismissing his minions and taking centre stage (as usual). Since Mr. Fede (who is nicknamed Emilio Fido by most Italians because he is considered to be Mr. Berlusconi’s lap dog) is more or less the laughing stock of Italy unbeknownst to himself, only a handful of devoted Emilio Fede disciples and a few thousand doting elderly ladies actually believed the story.

The video camera installed by the Rai Uno team duly recorded the laying of a third perfectly round egg some five days later and the news went out at the end of the 6 o’clock news, reserved for the “cheerful slot” after the depressing realities of wars, financial scandals, empty reassurances from leading politicians and the Italian football team losing 3 – 1 to Rumania.

Clarissa appeared to enter into the spirit of her wondrous, nature defying role.  There could be no doubt about the egg’s authenticity. The Americans have had more difficulty convincing the world that they really did land men on the Moon than Clarissa had persuading the millions of Italians who watched the news that a small miracle had taken place. The family became national celebrities overnight. The renown of their cooking and homely hospitality put their farm on the map of Italy.  “Poggibonsi?  Ah yes, that’s where that hen laid a round egg, isn’t it?”

As this is history, we can now cheat and, instead of a “flashback”, we will have a “flash forward”, twelve years ahead;  just for an instant.

The Bertolli parents are still in their own house. Up on the hillside, a comfortable distance away from the Bertolli farmhouse, there is a new building constructed in traditional Tuscan style.  It has a restaurant with a wide, open fireplace with a log fire burning warmly during the winter months, a spacious, well-equipped kitchen and five traditionally furnished bedrooms.  There is a modest swimming pool for  guests surrounded by a lawn and shady trees.  It is an agriturismo – that splendid Italian invention which provides simple, local food based on its own farm produce.  La Signora Bertolli supervises the kitchen and she employs a host of young people – who might otherwise be jobless – as assistant cooks, cleaners and waiters. Papà Bertolli works his farm and is happy because he now knows that his wish will come true;  he and his wife will stay in the farmhouse and grow old there.  Elena and Marco are at university studying veterinary surgery and agriculture in that order at Milan University.

The agriturismo is called “La casa dell’Uovo Rotondo” – “Round Egg House”.  It is famous throughout Italy and beyond for its excellent cuisine and warm hospitality.  Set high in the wall above the diners stands a life-like hen and a perfectly round egg – for all posterity to wonder at. A plaque states simply, “In memory of Clarissa – our deepest thanks.”

All this change came about because of the visit of three important people to the Bertolli household twelve years previously.

The first person – and by far the nicest – to arrive as a direct result of the RAI news item about Clarissa was a wonderful man called Franco who was the Professor of Agriculture at the University of Milan.

He was a man who was deeply involved in his work, which took him all over Italy supervising the installation of innovative milking machines, advising about the cultivation of organic crops or the production of DOC wines to rival the wines of the world. He was driven by a deep-seated curiosity concerning everything that grew, moved, breathed or bred. He told the Bertolli family that he thought it was almost a sin that the State paid him a salary to do a job that was not work but sheer unmitigated pleasure.

He had phoned up the Bertolli household and said who he was, asking if he might visit their house and satisfy his own curiosity as to this hitherto unheard of phenomenon of a hen laying spherical eggs.

“It should go down in the annals of farming history,” he said.

When he arrived, in a modest FIAT Punto and stepped out of the car, Elena looking out of the window exclaimed in amazement to her family:

“Look! Sean Connery has arrived.”

Indeed, the likeness was striking – even if the salt-and-pepper beard had an awful lot to do with the likeness.

Franco was one of those people who just inspire instant trust, with his easy, friendly manner and sincere concern and sympathy for all around him.  He arrived as a university professor – Prof 007, as Marco nicknamed him – and left two days later as a friend, taking Clarissa, Marco and Elena with him.

“They can stay with me and my partner, Sandra,” he said. “They will be spoilt and they can see that no harm comes to Clarissa. I will bring them all back next Saturday,” he promised.

The visit to Milan University had a direct bearing on the children’s choice of career, as you might guess.

As well as being “spoilt” in terms of food and sightseeing, Marco and Elena were present, in green tunics, boots and face masks, while Clarissa was probed and scanned from every angle – all of which was suffered with disapproving dignity.  She even laid another round egg which was duly probed and scanned, and its chemical content analysed.

“But why are eggs egg-shaped?” asked Marco, whose intelligence made him question nearly everything that he saw.

“We’re not really sure,” replied Franco. “It seems that the top heavy oval shape just evolved that way.  Maybe to give maximum growing space to the bird or reptile inside. Probably because – have you noticed this? – an egg tends to roll round in a circle, not in a straight line. Could this be to stop it rolling out of the nest?  Also an oval egg is surprisingly strong and can resist a lot more pressure before it breaks.  And yet it can’t be too strong because the bird or reptile wouldn’t have the strength to break out. Nobody really knows.”

Clarissa was declared to be a “normal” hen.  No explanation could be found to explain why her eggs were round – especially as she had previously laid normal shaped eggs.  “It’s nothing short of uncanny,” stated the analysts.

RAI 1 picked it up and the story of the “miraculous hen”, which brought ever more fame to the humble household, went out across Italy in the form of a short documentary on “Voyager”.

Clarissa was left to roam freely during the daytime. But at night, she had the sense to hide away somewhere under the house after a gang of criminals had tried to kidnap her. Not all Italians are good people, unfortunately, in a country where, it should be remembered, the biggest employer is the Mafia. The family had to take the precaution for a while of removing the “B and B” sign to ensure that the idly curious and the ill-intentioned were thrown off the track.  The local police also obliged by patrolling their stretch of the countryside every day and night.

The second important visitor was a cardinal from the Vatican, which had decided that the juxtaposition of the words “miraculous” and “hen” came too close to blasphemy to be allowed to go by unchecked. But the cardinal in his purple robe was an old man too close to God to dismiss such a marvel as a mere quirk of nature.

So when la Signora Bertolli told him that she thanked the Madonna every night for bringing a modest prosperity into their lives, the Cardinal agreed at once. “The Good Lord and the Madonna move in mysterious ways,” he said. “I shall inform his Holiness Benedict XVI that there has indeed been a small miracle here.”

“Unfortunately, we cannot sanctify a hen,” he continued with a wry smile and a twinkle in his faded blue eyes.  “But I will most certainly bless this wonderful household”. As well as being a holy man, he had certainly been mellowed by a shared bottle of Chianti Montalbano and a big plate of peposo.(a spicy veal stew)

And last, but not least, there was an all-determining and totally unannounced visitor, who arrived in a big black car with tinted windows, armour plating – and body guards to boot. His name was Silvio Berlusconi, the billionaire Prime Minister of Italy.

The only warning of his arrival had been a mysterious phone call two days beforehand, purportedly from the Security Police informing the Bertolli family that their presence at home was required on that day.  They were to remain at home to greet a very important visitor. They noticed a discreet police presence after the phone call. As they did not need to go anywhere, it didn’t really matter.

La signora was out in the garden when the limousine arrived.

“O Dio, Madonna Santa!” she cried out on recognising this short man of seventy-three with his black hair – dyed - as he stepped out of the car.  She ran indoors to warn the children to get dressed smartly – SUBITO!! Il Signor Bertolli was tending the pigs and was made to go and have a shower before he presented himself.

“WHO!?” he shouted. “What is that fascist b……..?”  (Like all true Tuscans, Signor Bertolli was a staunch socialist). He was instantly silenced by his wife and dispatched to the bathroom while Berlusconi was treated to coffee and almond biscuits. Berlusconi was all charm and smiles – a worrying thing, since a smile from Silvio looks more like a wolf preparing to devour Red Riding Hood.

When all the family were gathered together including a fresh smelling breadwinner in his Sunday suit – Italian hospitality requires this whoever the guest – the Prime Minister wanted to know everything about the family, their lives, ambitions and financial status.  He insisted on a conducted tour of the farm and surrounding land, praising the well organised, clean operation and admiring the incomparable Tuscan countryside. He was introduced to the round eggs, to Clarissa, who eyed him with great suspicion before strutting off to continue pecking unconcerned in the yard.

“What an imposing rooster!” exclaimed Silvio on spotting his namesake in a very apparent pose.

“What do you call him?”

“Ahh,” said Elena. “We call him B………”

“Bertoldo”, interrupted Marco in a loud voice.

“He is a magnificent bird,” said the prime minister. “From now on, you must call him Berlusconi, because he rules the roost here just as I rule the whole of Italy.”

The two children could hardly suppress their laughter at the irony of the cockerel reassuming its own name – with official blessing.

“Of course, sir,” said Marco, ever the diplomat. “It will be an honour.”

After a copious lunch of galatina di pollo – fortunately already prepared since it takes twelve hours to make – and a bottle of their best Chianti Colli Sinesi, sitting round the family table, Silvio announced that he saw an interesting business potential. “To your benefit as well as to our wonderful Tuscany,” he said. “And financed, of course, entirely by myself,” he said exuding extraordinary generosity.  “My lawyers will be coming to visit you soon to make proposals for an agriturismo to be set up. Proposals which, of course, you are free to decline,” announced the great man with one of those smiles, which were more threatening than the jaws of a car crusher.

La Signora Bertolli looked at her husband before he could open his mouth to protest.  Her look plainly said, “Hold your tongue or else…”.

And so it came about in slightly more time than it took to rebuild l’Aquila after the earthquake, that the Bertolli house was tastefully renovated from top to bottom and the agriturismo was built on the nearby hillside. Signor Bertolli had had the last word, refusing point blank to allow the project to go ahead until Silvio’s lawyers – after due consultation – had agreed a 50/50 split of profits rather than the 70/30 split that the lawyers had first proposed.

After the visit of Berlusconi, a strange thing occurred that nobody could explain. Clarissa began to lay egg-shaped eggs again. She continued to live for another three years, content in knowing that her task was complete, her mission accomplished.

The rest, you know already………..

October 5^th 2009