A Funeral in Mantova

by David P. Wagner

  She gestured that it was fine, and wandered toward the water, pulling her knees up as she went so they wouldn’t stiffen up in the cold. Rick switched to Italian.

  “Ciao, Betta. Sorry I didn’t get back to you last night.”

  “You sound out of breath.”

  “Out for a morning run along the lake. It’s beautiful. How is your, uh, case going?”

  “We’re going to be wrapping it up this morning. I thought I might take a couple days off, catch a train up to Mantova this afternoon. I’d love to see the Mantegnas again.”

  So the draw for a trip to Mantova would be the art. Very typical of the Betta of late. He glanced at Lexi, who was still pulling her knees up to her chest to stay loose. “Betta, this is a fascinating job, but the guy is keeping me busy day and night, I wouldn’t have any time to spend with you.”

  There was hesitation before she replied. “Va bene. I understand. Have you been to the castle?”

  “Yes, it turns out Signor Rondini is an art collector, so we went yesterday and saw the Mantegna masterpiece. Today we’re going to learn about cheese production. It’s nonstop with him.”

  “I’ll be anxious to hear all about it when you get back to Rome.”

  “And you can tell me about your case.”

  “Yes. Yes, I’ll do that. Call me when you’re back.”

  “Will do. Ciao, Betta.”

  He took a deep breath and squeezed the phone back into the pocket.

  “We’d better get going or you’re going to stiffen up from the cold.” Lexi was running in place. “Everything all right?”

  “Yes, everything’s fine. It was a friend from Rome checking up on me.” He wondered if she could hear that it was a female voice on the other end of the call.

  “It’s good having friends who care about you, Rick. Same way back?”

  Before he could answer, she was off, quickly up to regular speed, making long, smooth strides. He started running, maintaining the same distance behind her as before, moving his eyes between the grassy scenery, the lake, and her figure. The runner they had passed earlier was on his return loop, and smiled again at Rick. Three others came behind him and also waved, indicating that this was a popular morning route for the locals, despite the fog which was again wafting off the water, occasionally obscuring Lexi’s form just ahead of him. They passed the castle and turned into the small square that would take them to the hotel’s street. He was almost even with her now.

  As Lexi approached the corner, a male figure with gray facial hair appeared around it, looked at Rick, and raised his arm. The man was close to Lexi, and she took the gesture as menacing. After a quick lash with her leg and a chop of her arm, he was on the ground looking up with a dazed expression on his face. She stood over him, arms raised and body tense. Rick reached them a moment later.

  “Easy, Lexi, I know who this guy is.”

  “You do?” She was taking in short breaths. “I’m from Chicago, Rick. It was a reflex reaction. Hope I haven’t caused an international incident.”

  “Probably not.” He switched to Italian. “You can get up, Signor Folengo. I’ll protect you against her. You shouldn’t go around making threatening moves at people, especially those who know how to defend themselves.”

  The man got slowly to his feet, pushing back the long gray hair that had fallen across his face. He looked like he had not bathed since snarling through the window of the car at the Rondini farm gate. He tried to brush off a patch of mud from his knee, but only succeeded in spreading it over his already dirty jeans and hand. “I recognized you and was calling for you to stop. She could have hurt me, and then you both would have been in great trouble with the police. But how do you know my name?” He was standing now, and edging back from Lexi, who continued to stand her ground.

  “Somehow, I don’t think the police would take your side.” Rick purposely did not answer his question.

  “Who is this creep, Rick?”

  He told her, then returned to Italian and Folengo. “Why would you want to talk to me?”

  “It was your employer I wanted to talk to. I assumed that the rich relative from America would be staying at the most expensive hotel in the city, and I was on my way there.”

  “Do you really think, after that scene at the farm, that Mr. Rondini would want to talk to you?”

  “Perhaps not, but I also have a petition to leave with him. We are a large group, and we want to have our voices heard. The very well-being of the Po Valley depends on our message getting through.”

  “Rick?” She had her hands on her hips.

  “Oh, sorry Lexi. The guy wants to give your boss a petition.”

  “For that he had to attack me? Take it and we’ll see what it says.” A touch of her businesswoman persona had crept into her voice.

  He turned to Folengo, who, from his expression, did not appear to understand English. “Give me the petition, and I’ll see that he knows about it. I can’t promise he’ll read it. I assume this is about the sale of the land, like your protests?”

  “You assume correctly.” He pulled an envelope out of his pocket and passed it to Rick. He was about to speak when Lexi raised a hand.

  “Basta,” she said, to which the man froze, then turned and hurried off. They watched him disappear around the corner.

  “Basta? So you do speak Italian, Lexi.”

  “Really? I thought it was Spanish. That makes me bilingual.”

  “Let’s get back to the hotel before we catch a chill.”

  Angelo was in a more talkative mood. Instead of staring out of the car windows, as he’d done on previous drives into the Lombard countryside, he grilled Rick and Lexi about their encounter with the “ecofreak,” as he characterized Folengo. Not that there was much to see from the Mercedes; the fog that had obscured the views of the lake for the morning runners had settled over the fields. As soon as the car emerged into some sunshine, it would be engulfed again. Marco kept the speed low, and he had turned on the car’s penetrating, red fog light on the rear to make it visible to any traffic approaching from behind. As everyone living in the Po Valley knew, pileups caused by low visibility could happen at any time, but especially on the autostrada where too many drivers insisted on high speeds, despite the conditions. There was little traffic this morning on the two-lane road from Mantova to the Rondini dairy, but Marco took no chances.

  Angelo was laughing. “Lexi, you did well to take that creep down. I wish I could have been there to see it. I hope he’s there when we get to the gate so I can catch the look on his face when he sees you sitting in the back seat.” He chuckled. “What a bunch of garbage in that letter. I think I’ll tell Livia to sell the farm to a developer, just to piss off the guy.”

  There were no protesters at the gate. Marco slowed and turned in before pulling up to the house. The driver hopped out to open Angelo’s door, and Rick did the same for Lexi. They walked up the steps to the house, but before reaching the door, Livia opened it and gave Angelo a welcoming hug. She greeted Rick and shook hands with Lexi.

  “It’s good to see you again.”

  “Thank you for inviting me along, Mrs. Guarino,” said Lexi.

  “Please call me Livia. Come in, everyone. Can I offer you coffee before you take the tour?”

  “We just had some at the hotel with breakfast,” answered Angelo. “Whenever you’re ready, we are.”

  Livia’s fingers brushed her face. “I won’t be going with you on the tour. Francesco had an accident last night on the way home from the office. Nothing serious, but he’s upstairs and I want to keep an eye on him. I’ve asked Carlo to show you around.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” said Angelo. “Is there something I can do?”

  “No, no. We’ll be fine. I hope you’ll enjoy seeing how the cheese is made.” She opened the door and walked out to the porch with them. “Carlo wi
ll be there at the office.” She pointed at a low structure a hundred yards away, visible behind the row of trees. The fog had lifted enough to see it and the other buildings of the dairy. “Come back when you’re finished, and I’ll offer you that coffee again.”

  “We’ll do that.”

  They descended from the porch to the car and the driver got out to open the rear door.

  “Over to that building, Marco,” said Angelo as he stuffed himself into the back. Rick and Lexi took their assigned seats.

  They drove slowly along the gravel road between two fenced fields, cows in one, open grass in the other, to reach the connected buildings. They were made with prefabricated cement, the lines of the ribbed walls interrupted only by small, high, windows, or by doors that rolled up to open. A shiny steel tank, which Rick assumed held milk, towered over the parking area, next to machinery that looked to be for cooling, something not needed on a day like this one. This outside view gave Rick the impression of a fanatical cleanliness. The cement walls were scrubbed and the stainless steel storage tank looked like it had been polished that morning. He could imagine what it was going to be like inside.

  The car drove onto the pavement that surrounded the building and up to the door which Livia had pointed to from the house. Parked in front was a pickup truck which looked vaguely familiar to Rick. He remembered where he’d seen it when Zucari came out of the office with Emilio Fiore, the neighbor from across the road. The manager noticed the arriving Mercedes and said something quickly to Fiore, who nodded and walked toward the far end of the building. By the time Rick was opening the passenger-side door, Fiore had disappeared around the corner of the building and Zucari was walking toward the arriving car.

  Knowing that the manager spoke no English, Rick prepared to earn his pay. After greetings were exchanged and Lexi introduced, they moved inside, leaving Marco leaning against his car. The entrance door brought them into a small waiting room outside the office of the Rondini dairy. Through glass partitions they could see two women working at computers in cubicles that took up half the room, the rest of it filled with files and office machines. As in the office itself, decoration in the waiting area was minimal; on the wall behind three chairs hung a company calendar, a map of northern Italy, and two posters from the Parmigiano-Reggiano Consortium. While they stood in the outer room, Zucari began his explanation of the process. He spoke in short sentences, which made it easier for Rick to interpret, but also gave Angelo and Lexi the impression the man was annoyed that he was taking time away from his real work.

  He began by pointing to the map and explaining that Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese, by law, was produced only in certain geographical areas within the regions of Emilia Romagna and Lombardy, a system similar to the geographic designations for wines. Within those areas, thanks to the climate and soil, the quality of the milk was unique, and milk was, of course, the most important factor in making the end product. The diet of their cows was strictly controlled, never included silage or fermented feed, and the milk was always fresh from the previous evening. No additives or preservatives were ever used to make the cheese. The process followed a strict procedure beginning with the milking of the cows and ending more than a year later when the cheese was ready to be tested, certified, and finally put on the market.

  “Follow me, please, and I’ll show you how it all begins.” He opened a heavy door with a small window, and motioned them to follow him.

  The change from a small, drab, office of paper and computers to a bright, spacious workroom of milk and cheese was overwhelming to the senses, beginning with a strong odor of fermentation. The room held a dozen copper cauldrons, each the size of a large, round bathtub. They were filled with a white mixture and watched over by men dressed completely in white, including their caps. Everything was immaculate: white tiled floor, steel pipes, cauldrons, and workers.

  “The milk from the late afternoon has been resting through the night,” Zucari explained, with Rick interpreting, “and in the morning it is put into these cauldrons and mixed with other natural ingredients to curdle and ferment it. With the heat of the cauldron it begins to coagulate almost immediately. As it cooks, it is stirred with mixers.” He pointed to machines that looked like small outboard motors, clamped to the side of each cauldron. “During the process he tests the mixture using a spino, a tool that goes back centuries.”

  Rick did not attempt to translate the word, but simply pointed to what the man at the cauldron closest to them was using. It looked like a small, round, birdcage on the end of a thick wooden pole. The worker stirred it slowly in the milky mixture that was thickening into cheese as they watched.

  “With the price of copper, these kettles must have cost a fortune,” said Angelo. He walked to one of the cauldrons and peered into the glutinous mixture, with Lexi at his side.

  Rick stood back with the manager. “Wasn’t that Emilio Fiore who just left?”

  Zucari looked at him with a penetrating frown. “You met him after the funeral, Signor Montoya, and you know his farm is across the road.”

  “I did meet him, and he told me himself that he and Roberto Rondini didn’t get along well at all.”

  “I’ve never had a quarrel with the man. He’s here to look at some equipment we have which he’s thinking about purchasing for himself. When he asked to see it, I was glad to help.”

  New management. Rick tried to figure out a way to ask about the woman Zucari was with the previous evening, without revealing that he knew she had been the mistress of his deceased boss. Before he could come up with something, Angelo and Lexi walked back to join them.

  “Quite an operation,” Angelo said, and Rick translated for the manager, who appeared glad to leave aside talk of the neighbor and continue his description of the process.

  “Once the milk has coagulated enough, two of the men dip into the cauldron using those cloths.” He nodded toward a shiny table loosely piled with large rectangles of white material. “A ball of the cheese mixture is lifted out and hung over the cauldron to drip out excess liquid, then wrapped in its cloth to be fitted in those molds.” He pointed to another table with a row of ring-shaped pieces of plastic that looked like huge cookie cutters. “With experience they can tell just how much will fit into the molds. They wrap the cheese in the cloth, squeeze it inside the molds, and label them with the month and year.” He walked to a long metal table on wheels where another row of molds was lined up. The rings enclosed the newly formed cheeses, wrapped inside their white cloths and marked with small, round stickers. “They will rest here for several days and harden into the wheels whose shape and size are the hallmarks of Parmigiano-Reggiano.”

  “It’s not cheese yet?” said Angelo, tapping on the plastic ring.

  “It’s not the finished product yet,” Zucari answered.

  “How much milk does it take to make a wheel of the cheese, and how much will it weigh?”

  Rick translated the answer, then made the conversions from liters to gallons, and kilos to pounds. “So about a hundred-fifty gallons of milk, and each wheel weighs about eighty-five pounds.”

  “This way, please,” said Zucari when Rick was finished.

  The three visitors followed him to the far end of the room under the eyes of a half dozen white-clad workers. He pushed through a set of swinging metal doors, once again polished to a glossy sheen. The room they entered now was equally large, but in contrast to the bright light of the cauldron room, it was dimly lit. Most of its space was taken up by long rectangular troughs filled with bobbing wheels of cheese. At the far end of the room, a man dressed in the standard white outfit walked along, slowly turning them in the liquid. Unlike the other room where the air was filled with the noise of pumps and other machines, here the only sound was the sloshing of the white wheels in the water.

  “The cheese stays in this salt solution for several weeks, continuing the maturation process and absorbing the salt. The
forms are regularly turned by hand to give the surfaces a uniform consistency.”

  Once again Angelo and Lexi wandered off to get a closer look.

  “How long have you been working here, Signor Zucari?”

  The manager watched Angelo as he answered. “About twenty years.”

  “How did you get the job? If you don’t mind me asking.”

  “Why should I? My father knew Roberto Rondini and asked him to take me on, as a favor. That’s the way things work here in Italy, Signor Montoya. I worked my way up to become manager.”

  “Things work that way in America, as well, Signor Zucari. Clearly you had an aptitude for the work, or you wouldn’t have ended up where you are.”

  “I’d like to think that.”

  The floating wheels of cheese were too much for Angelo to resist. He pushed one below the surface and watched it bob up and down, earning a smile from Lexi but an annoyed look from the room’s lone worker. The two visitors rejoined Rick and Zucari.

  “What’s next?” Angelo asked.

  “From here the wheels go into the aging room for the final step in the process. The rooms are kept at a precise temperature and humidity, and the wheels are periodically turned to assure that the aging is uniform throughout. They will be on the shelves for a minimum of twelve months, but up to and exceeding twenty-four. They are then tested by specialists from the consortium, first by tapping on them with a small, steel hammer, and then, if necessary with a needle, and at last resort a sampling dowel. When the quality of the cheese is confirmed, then, and only then, is it branded with the seal of Parmigiano-Reggiano and can be sold as such.”

  Zucari’s eyes darted to a large metal clock on the wall and then to his own watch. He turned to Rick. “I’m afraid I forgot that I must deal with an issue of importance. It should take only a moment. Please tell Signor Rondini that I regret the interruption. You can go through those doors to the aging rooms.”

  He nodded at Rondini, walked quickly back toward the first room, pushing through the swinging doors. Rick told them what he’d said.