Chapter 14 – Epilogue: The pizza

The next day, the principal and the teacher of Sayowa’s school were informed of her return. The news was also sent to the presenter who had came to speak the previous Friday (the blond lady).
Mutondo had barely expressed any emotion when he got his sister back, but he did not leave her side the whole evening nor the morning after.
Inyambo and Stefano, the big and the small, sitting under the tree of the round house’s courtyard, behaved as if the discussion of the previous night had never happened. They chatted like two teenagers, throwing voluntary silly comments and inside jokes left and right.
Sayowa, crossed legged on the ground, listened to them, laughed at their jokes.
– So, are we doing that pizza or not, Stefano said.
– Do you guys have everything you need? Inyambo asked.
– We’ll give it a try! Let’s see, what should we start with? First thing, Sayowa, can you put the oregano to dry?
– The what?
– The branch I gave you yesterday, with the little leaves that smell good.
Sayowa went into her house to grab her chitenge, came back and showed the small branch to Stefano.
– That one?
– Yes, that’s it. You hang it upside down, somewhere dry. We’ll take care of it at the last moment.
– But what is it? It’s not on the list.
– Surprise. Go.
Sayowa found a piece of string, tied the twig to a beam of Inyambo’s house, came back to get her instructions from the Italian chef.
– Then, we need flour. Peel your chitenge and make us a nice powder with that wheat.
Sayowa when to fetch a big wooden pestle and a broom, swiped the concrete slab and placed the grains. With wide precise and regular movements, she grinded, singing to give herself rhythm.
Stefano wanted to try. He took the stick and knocked it clumsily down, trying to imitate Sayowa’s song, which forced a laugh out of the assembly.
Once the flour was ready, she hastily put it away in a bag not to lose it.
– Put some in a bowl, we’re gonna try to make leaven. That, I never did, so I can’t promise anything.
Stefano mixed a little flour with water and stirred lazily.
– Now we leave it in the open air and we wait until tomorrow, let’s see if anything happens. What next?
– You’re the expert, Inyambo pointed out.
– Let’s try mozzarella. I’ve seen my grandmother do it when I was little.
– You still are.
– Shut up. When I was a kid. Just to tell you, this is the old-fashioned way. To start, we need milk.
– Mutondo, that’s your area.
The young man went off for a few minutes and came back with a metal bucket filled quarter way with fresh milk.
– What now boss?
Inyambo’s tone was mocking.
– We need to curdle it. And I have a secret ingredient for that. Sayowa, the second branch please!
Sayowa lifted it up in the air.
– Fig tree leaves, Stefano explained. It adds acidity. We put it in, we leave it until tomorrow and we cross fingers.

For lunch they shared a portion of pap served with spinach.
– Are there days when you eat something else? Stefano asked.
– There are, Inyambo replied.

In the afternoon, they saved the few extremely ripped tomatoes left in Mutondo’s field. They cooked them to make puree.

In the evening they stayed up late. The two elders shared anecdotes about their past while the grandkids listened.
As he was telling how they one day got charged by a rhino, Stefano suddenly yelled:
– Shit, my lemons! They must be burning up in the car!
They spent the rest of the night contemplating the stars, competing to know who could name the most constellations, until they started to make up silly names.

Sunday morning, Sayowa removed the cover from the bucket of milk and found that it had started to coagulate.
– Good, very good, Stefano commented.
They left the container in the sun, in the open air “to let it dry”.

Around noon he gathered the thick substance created, before the disgusted eyes of his hosts, cut it in small pieces which he left to rest on a wooden plank.

Later, he checked his leaven attempt. The liquid had become slightly foamy, agitated by small bubbles.
– I don’t know how it’s gonna be, but let’s do the base. Sayowa, are you looking?
In a bowl he mixed the flour and the proto-leaven, added a twist of olive oil, a bit of salt which he scratched directly off the crystal from the coast. He asked Sayowa to help him pour water, little by little, while he was kneading the mixture until he was able to make a firm ball. He then covered the bowl with a cloth.
– Now we wait and we hope it rises.
– Does it always take this long to make a pizza? Sayowa said.
– Why, you’ve got somewhere to be? Well, usually we have readymade mozzarella and yeast. But we’re having fun no?
She had to admit she was having a good time.
– Speaking of mozzarella, we need to take care of it.
They returned to their pieces of curdled milk. He plunged them into boiling water, making them compact and elastic.
– Ouh, this looks not bad at all.
He stretched them into long ribbons which he soaked several times into warm water. He then made spheroids which he wetted with cold salty water.
He presented the final result: small dripping agglomerates, barely solid.
– Ready! It’s not perfect but what you gonna do. We’re going to cook it anyway, so we should survive.

When evening fell, Mutondo lit a fire under the stone oven he had borrowed from a neighbour for that special occasion.
Stefano asked Sayowa to go fetch the oregano and put it on a stone above the fire.
– And now my friends, the magic of Italian cuisine! We’re going to make the pizza! Go get me an oven tray. Do we still have some flour?
– Well no, we put it all in the dough. Corn flour is okay?
– Why not. It’s just so that it doesn’t stick. Let’s see our base.
It seemed to have slightly swollen.
– Good effort. We sprinkle with flour (corn flour then), we roll our wonderful base out.
With a rolling pin, he created a thin oval shape, almost perfect, sprayed it conscientiously and abundantly with olive oil, continued with a layer of tomato puree, sliced the pseudo-mozzarella, thus creating the final layer of the pizza.
Just before putting it in the oven, he crushed the dried out oregano leaves on its surface.

After cooking fifteen minutes, they collected the disk. Sayowa sliced it in four and each of them received a piece.
They ate in silence, blowing on the burning hot cheese to cool it down. They were staring at one another while masticating. The Italian man ended their mutism:
– Okay, it’s not my greatest achievement, but considering the conditions in which we made it, it’s not too bad right?
– It’s delicious, Sayowa said more out of politeness than of conviction. Thank you Stefano!
– And thank you Sayowa for bringing home the ingredients and the chef, Inyambo completed.

Once the meal was over, they sat in a circle around the fire, Sayowa and Inyambo on the trunk, Stefano on a camping chair, Mutondo on the ground.
– That’s all there is to eat? the young man asked.
Inyambo had a loud laugh.
– I think there’s more pap in the fridge.
– I agree. It was not bad, but a quarter of a pizza is not enough to feed a man, Stefano said.
They both headed for the house to continue their diner, leaving the grandfather and the granddaughter by themselves.
The big hand tenderly squeezed the small shoulder. The almond-shaped eyes met the wrinkled face. They contemplated each other for a moment.
– You won’t tell your mother what happened right?
Sayowa laughed, the same laugh as Inyambo.
– At least not before a few years, or she’ll kill me, he continued.
She put her head against his shoulder.
– I hope you’re not mad at me Sayowa. I wanted you to see that the world is bigger, more beautiful and more complex than what you’ll be shown throughout your life. I don’t know if I’m explaining well.
Sayowa looked at the flames dancing.
– I understand Kuku. I understand.

Index
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And finally…

Thomas Botte19 décembre 2019