The copyright of this thesis vests in the author. No quotation from it or information derived from it is to be published without full acknowledgementTown of the source. The thesis is to be used for private study or non- commercial research purposes only. Cape Published by the University ofof Cape Town (UCT) in terms of the non-exclusive license granted to UCT by the author. University A Time of Angels A novel Patricia Schonstein Pinnock Dissertation submitted in fulfilment of the requirements for the award of the degree of Master of Art in Creative Writing Under the supervision of Professor John M Coetzee Department of English Faculty of the Humanities University of Cape Town 31st May 2002 Declaration: This work has not been previously submitted in whole or in part for the award ofany degree. It is my own work. Each significant contribution to, and quotation in this dissertation from the work, or works, ofother people has been attributed and has been cited and referenced. Signed: Patricia Schonstein Pinnock Student number: SCHP A T009 Word count: 52 300 Acknowledgments Through Professor John Coetzee's supervision ofthis thesis, I came to understand the true precision and economy required in the crafting of words, and the very careful reflection needed in their choice. For this, and for his gentle, astute and non-invasive commentary, I thank him. It was a privilege to write under his mentorship. I pay tribute to Primo Levi and Susan Zuccotti, whose works I made extensive use of. I am grateful to Romeo Biccari, Ruth Bloch, Geraldine Benun and the late Anthony Clarke for sharing with me certain memories and experiences which I made use of in my novel. These are the experience as a prisoner of war at Zonderwater of Romeo's father, Umberto; Ruth's memory of her father checking the list of Holocaust survivors' names, posted outside Salisbury Synagogue, as it was updated; Geraldine's description of her elderly neighbour'S drawers full of embroidered linen - his mother's trousseau - unused and perished by time; and Anthony's experience as an Allied gunner officer in Sansepolcro, Italy, during World War 2 when he did not fire on the building that housed Piero della Francesca's mural, the Resurrection, though German soldiers were thought to be in the town. I thank Dr Lionel Jedeikin - for whom I worked as personal assistant for a number of years - for the insight he gave me into plastic surgery, and through whom I came to confront issues of beauty, ageing, human frailty and compassion. I thank Dr Ute Ben Joseph, chieflibrarian of the Jacob Gitlin library and her staff, as well as the staff ofUCT libraries for help in accessing appropriate research material. I also thank Adam Solomon, Adam Sack, Joel Bregman, Alon Stern, Adi Lazar, Kyle Biccari, Adam Baldinger and :ply daughter, Romaney, for lending their names to characters and for teaching me to play poker. A special mention is due to Professor Stephen Watson for his kind assistance with official matters; to Leone Oram and Lisa Compton for their valuable commentary; to Roberto Busetto for proof-reading the Italian component; and to Irene Steele for her inspiration in the development of one of the characters. I also thank Henrietta Dax of Clarke's Bookshop, Gerald Baldinger of Baldinger Jewellers, Phillip Steffny and Sam Mvule ofPhinda Reserve and Cynthia Querido of the South African Museum's planetarium, for the information they so kindly gave. Finally, I thank my husband and children, as well as my dear friends Margaret Evans and Esther Falconer for their creative encouragement. 2 How is the face of God? Is that God weeping, over there on the bench in the park all alone his back bent, his head down? Why does he weep? Is it because life is tearing all along its seams and across its grain? Has he come down from his place to look at what we do to Creation? Has he come to witness the unravelling of his work? Figure on a Park Bench 2002 3 hen Primo Verona's wife, Beatrice, left him for Pasquale Benvenuto, their close friend who ran the delicatessen on the comer of Long and W Bloem Streets, Primo cast a spell on Pasquale's shoes so that ever afterwards their laces would spring undone as he walked out his front door. It was an easy enough spell to sidestep. Pasquale, not aware that it was magic he was dealing with, merely cursed the quality of modem laces and wore shoes that did not need them. Primo also prepared two spells designed to harm Pasquale's reputation as the best baker and salami maker in Cape Town. One of these would bring sourness to his renowned salami, his salarne Fiorentino in particular. The other was to impart the bitterness of aloes to his extraordinary fruited bread and so undermine his culinary confidence. However, Primo did not activate the two damaging spells; he merely composed them and put them on hold. He withheld them because he was not a malicious magician and had no real wish to harm Pasquale Benvenuto. He wanted only to remind him, often, that Beatrice was a married woman and that she did not belong in another man's bed. This message Primo hoped the shoelaces would convey. Creating the spells gave him a certain satisfaction, but, the truth is, they did nothing to relieve the feelings of betrayal that he harboured in his heart, for he and Pasquale had been good friends for many years. He could not live without Beatrice and slid into a depression. asquale Benvenuto made such delicious meals that he had driven many competing chefs to hang up their aprons and break wooden spoons in P despair. (The suicide of the Mount Nelson's Sous Chef, Vincent Martineau, was attributed to the acrimonious and protracted legal battle fought between him and Pasquale over the origination and proprietorship of the recipe for polenta alia Madiba.) For Pasquale, the preparation of food was not unlike the creation of a fresco or a painting. His kitchen was his canvas; his pigments the reds, greens and golds of tomatoes, peperoni, fresh meats, herbs, eggs and cheeses. So good was his culinary art that even Atheists, when eating at his tables, might be driven to believe that a God did indeed exist a God of the kitchen and that his name was Pasquale. 5 He worked with great confidence and passion, often calling out to his ingredients, urging them, encouraging them towards the masterpiece they were destined to be a part of. He listened to opera or recited poetry as he worked, delivering from memory Shakespearean sonnets as he carved meats and cut up vegetables. People who worked with him adored him, loved his volatility, were in awe of his skills, never argued about measures or weights and never ever spoke with any favour of other cooks and eateries while in his presence. Most other cooks, Pasquale believed, worked in only one dimension. They threw ingredients together, without thought to perspective, simply to arrive at a plateful that merely satisfied hunger. Cooks who were artists of the culinary and he considered himself master of them all - took into account the essentials of depth and balance with every meal prepared. Most importantly, they chose their ingredients with great care and combined them with respect and not a little homage. "The English cuisine must be the worst in the world," he once told Primo when they were discussing the merits of Mediterranean cuisine. "Followed shortly by the Russian and then the German. Their offerings are a mere confusion of ingredients. " They were picnicking in Van Riebeeck Park, the two of them and Beatrice. Pasquale had spread a cloth over one of the cement tables near the river and laid out a feast of breads (focaccia,filone and schiacciatina), sun-dried tomatoes, roasted brinjals and zucchini, marinated peppers, olive and potato pie, mozzarella and pecorino cheeses, wines and mineral water. "Just look at the English roast and Yorkshire pudding as an example of gustatory paucity - and don't raise your eyebrows at my words - or the English sponge cake, for that matter. It's spiritless food. Dry. Lacking in delicacy. English sponge can never be compared to such as panforte Senese with its moist content of fruits and spices. Or bostrengo, a rice cake full of fruits with rum and coffee and cocoa and honey. Actually, now that we're talking about it, I think I'll bake one when we get back. We'll eat it at midnight tonight. With coffee. And Anisetta." He took a mouthful of wine, and continued, "A tomato served without garlic, without basilico or parsley has potential, yes. I can't deny that because it's a glorious vegetable. But does it have character on its own? Yes, indeed, if organically grown and picked when sun-ripened. And can it be rendered tasteless? Yes - by the many cooks in this city who are guilty, daily, of destroying the very spirit of the poor tomato and then giving its pulped carcass 6 a deceptive Italian name. If there were kitchen justice they would hang for such a cnme. "Meat not fragranced with rosemary and origanum, not studded with garlic, not marinated in wine has no character either - it has no innerness. You might as well dry your tneat on a campfire. Or roast a cat. Actually that Devonshire in Constantia serves cat, I'm sure of it. People think they're eating hare. And they pay for it. God! The world is full of fools." "Let me be the devil's advocate," interrupted Primo.