La Cucina

by Lily Prior

  It was some time later that Costanza found me straddling the back of the sofa. I must have passed out. I didn’t have time for breakfast. Low blood sugar, that was all. Of course, no one believed me. Costanza made sure that they didn’t.

  The university students and the regular readers eagerly anticipated the next installment. It was, after all, far more interesting than the textbooks, the dusty periodicals, and yesterday’s thumbed copy of L’Ora.

  The day dragged on. All I wanted was to retreat inside my little apartment on the Via Vicolo Brugno and bolt the door behind me.

  It was, however, not to be. Donna Maria Frolla was watching out for me as I walked up the steps, and followed me inside scrutinizing me closely with her one good eye. Her pug, Nero, gave me an arch look: his sleep too had been disturbed.

  “It’s a man, Rosa, isn’t it?” she said with authority. “I knew it had to be a man. I said last night to Papa, ‘It’s a man. It would have to be a man to make our Rosa take on like this.’ Signora Prezzo came in to the store this morning for her coffee—one hundred grams of finest blend, as usual—and she said to me, ‘Signora Frolla, there’s a man in the case—there has to be,’ and of course she’s right. Although to be sure Quinto Cavallo, the goldsmith from number seven, him with the workshop in the Via d’Oro—one hundred grams ricotta, one hundred grams prosciutto, one cioccolata grande, one pane, regular as clockwork on a weekday morning around eight—he pointed out that it could be The Change. A similar thing happened to an aunt of his over somewhere in the west, in Trapani or Marsala. Or was it a cousin? Was it out east? Anyway, when her turn came she carried on something terrible. Up all night. Couldn’t sleep. Banging and crashing about in the kitchen, making enough noise to raise the dead. Strange dreams. Feverish looks. ‘It’s the menopause,’ he said, ‘I’m prepared to put money on it.’ I said to Papa, ‘It’s hormones of one kind or another, to be sure’…”

  “Nonna Frolla, please…” I interrupted, burying my head in my hands in shame.

  “There’s no ‘please’ about it,” went on the centenarian in full flow. “You’ve lodged with me for twenty-five years. Came here a slip of a girl, green as grass, to the big city. I had my doubts on seeing you standing on the other side of my counter with your little bag and your parrot—”

  “Pretty parrot, pretty parrot,” chimed in Celeste, recognizing her presence in the conversation.

  “…wanting my rooms. Still, I took you for all that, and never have I had a moment’s trouble with you. That is, until last night. First, there’s the small matter of a formaggio all’ Argentiera being prepared in this very kitchen at three o’clock this morning. Fortunately it didn’t wake Papa and me.” A glint appeared at this point in her one good eye.

  “But nevertheless, I’ve had complaints from the tenants. Caused all sorts of trouble it has. Then, after that, there was the noise. The queerest groans and gasps, shrieks and screams, loud enough to raise the entire neighborhood from its slumbers; not becoming in a single woman. Then the parrot joins in.”

  “Parrot, parrot, parrot,” squawked Celeste.

  “Enough noise to raise the dead. And when I roused you there was no explanation offered for it. Now, my girl, I need to know what is going on. Is there a man in it, or is it something else?”

  “There isn’t a man, Nonna,” I said, looking away.

  “Then what is it?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I don’t know what it is. I just haven’t been myself lately. Working too hard, I suppose…”

  “Well, whatever it is it will have to stop, I tell you that now, upsetting the tenants, I can’t have it, Rosa, I tell you, I just can’t.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Nonna chattered on for a long time, prying and speculating on the cause of my malaise. When she finally left I sat at the open window, looking out on the darkened city illuminated by twinkling lights.

  He was out there somewhere. Under that same moon, those same stars. I could almost feel him. Why was he having this effect on me? I had asked myself a thousand times. I had finished with foolish thoughts of love many years ago. I had crushed my heart like a clove of garlic in a mortar, crushed it into a dry powder that had simply drained away as sand through an hourglass, like the years of my youth, until there was nothing left. Or so I thought. What was now deep within me, stirring at my very core like the branches of the spring trees bursting overnight into fresh pink petals?

  What was it about this Inglese that so affected me? I had only seen him twice, and then only briefly. He was not attractive, at least not in a conventional sense, and even if he were, I was immune to such things. I was not in love with him. That was not possible. I was incapable of love. Perhaps it had no connection to him at all. Perhaps the feeling of longing was merely coincidental with his appearance at the library.

  Where was he now?

  What was he doing?

  If I went out into the streets now would I meet him strolling along in his come-to-bed shoes?

  He was probably out with someone else. Someone like that hussy Costanza—someone skinny with a shrieking laugh and too much lipstick.

  What would he do until Monday?

  Where would he go?

  Should I have allowed him to see the manuscripts before Monday?

  No, I could not have done that. He would have to wait like everyone else. Can you imagine the gossip if I had allowed him special privileges? No, I had done the right thing, even though he called me a petty bureaucrat, thinking I was an embittered old maid enjoying my little bit of power. But it wasn’t like that. Those are the rules.

  Today he said I drove him to distraction. He said I was a tantalizing woman. Was I really like that? Could I really be a temptress?

  I suddenly had an impulse to see myself naked. I had only been naked in front of another person once, Bartolomeo, all of those years ago. I was much younger then and my body was better. Also, it had been dark.

  Suppose l’Inglese saw me naked. What would he think? Something told me he was the kind of man who would insist on having the lights on. I’ve read in women’s magazines that many men are like that. I blushed at the mere idea.

  How would it be if he removed my clothes? Could I really allow it? Quickly I removed my cardigan and sensible shoes. Then I unbuttoned my dress and, by wiggling my shoulders, let it slip down around me and onto the floor.

  Emboldened, I turned on the radiogram. “O la va, o la spacca!” was playing and I smooched around the apartment in time to the music. As I danced I caught sight of myself in the full-length mirror. Framed by the rectangle of light thrown by the lamp in the hall, I saw my upper arms were white and spongy. I turned sideways and looked at my profile, taking care to stand up straight and breathe in.

  Then I pulled my slip up and over my head, began to fold it, and then, remembering that I was trying to be seductive, twirled it around and threw it over my shoulder.

  Underneath, my corset was gray with wear, and my fat thighs bulged over the tops of my stockings. How I hated my thighs.

  Undeterred and still playing the coquette, I lay back on the bed, kicking my legs to the music. Slowly I unbuttoned my stockings and rolled them down my legs.

  I stood up again, extricated myself from the corset and was, finally, naked. My stomach felt bulbous once it was released from the tight grip of its bindings. My breasts, hanging free, were the size of enormous watermelons.

  I cradled them in my folded arms and imagined l’Inglese stroking them, kissing them, and nibbling at the nipples. I sighed.

  Suddenly, emerging from my reverie, I developed goose bumps. I had the unmistakable feeling that I was being watched. Was it, could it be, Him?

  Turning to the window I caught sight of Signor Rivoli, the bank manager, who lived in the opposite apartment, watching me from his balcony through the strong lenses of his spectacles.

  I slammed down the blind and hurriedly slipped back into my clothes.

  My body was not wonderful, but it would have to do.


  CHAPTER FIVE

  Monday came at last. I awoke with a stomach full of butterflies, with wings of indigo, pink, and crimson.

  I got up, slipped out of my nightgown and wandered into the kitchen naked. I tied a frilly apron around myself to prevent splashes and began to prepare a pan of maccu, the wonderful fava bean soup, for my lunch. Something strange had happened to me. Subconsciously I was preparing myself for what was to come. Slowly but certainly my true self was throwing off its armor and was preparing to be set free. I cannot explain to you why that was so. It was something as inevitable as the birdsong and the rutting of pigs.

  I slowly and carefully peeled the beans that had been soaking overnight while humming a little tune. Sometimes I smiled to myself for no particular reason. When the beans were ready I placed them in the large terracotta pentola with some fresh water, fennel sprigs, and sea salt. I brought them to a boil and then allowed them to simmer until tender. This takes a long time.

  While the fava were simmering I got ready to go out. In the shared bathroom I began my toilette. I stood in the little tub still singing softly and squeezed the water from my sponge on to my face and neck, my arms and breasts, stomach and legs. Thankfully, today, there was water. I dried myself well and applied cologne to my broad expanses of flesh. Snowfields of Nicolosi.

  The obese Signor Placido from the floor above almost wrenched the handle off the door in his anxiety to use the bathroom.

  “How much longer are you going to be in there?” he shouted.

  I ignored him. When I was ready, and not before, I emerged from the bathroom clutching my robe around me, and trailing a cloud of scent that made Signor Placido sneeze as he rushed along the corridor to the bathroom.

  Then I wandered back into the kitchen to stir the maccu, which was bubbling merrily on the little stove. Even the maccu was happy this morning. The very air was infected with a sense of excitement.

  I dressed with care: the pink two-piece that I had made specially to honor the mayor’s visit to the library in the spring of ’55. Everyone had complimented me on it. Even the director. And he is not given to wasting syrupy words on the staff. Least of all me. Yes, the effect was quite pleasing. Pink certainly gives a pleasant glow to the complexion. Of course I had not forgotten the new corset; it gave my figure a lift, just as the saleslady said it would.

  I stirred the pan again. It is important not to let the beans stick to the bottom and burn.

  I combed my hair; the new permanent looked good.

  I planned to leave off my little fur-lined boots. I would wear my good shoes, which were almost new. They looked so nice with the pink two-piece. I looked more like a businesswoman than a librarian. Signor Rivoli admired my appearance in the looking glass. I spied his reflection and slammed the shutters closed. Peeping Tom.

  At last the beans were tender and could be squashed by the spoon against the sides of the pentola. I took a spoonful, blew on it gently, and tasted.

  “Don’t burn your tongue, Rosa. Don’t spill any on the suit,” I said to myself.

  A little more salt. A liberal twist of black pepper. A splash of olive oil. Delicious. This would make a most nutritious lunch served with a slice or two of a pane rimacinato and perhaps a little pecorino cheese. Now I was almost ready.

  Just a little lipstick. There. Gorgeous. And now the dowdy mackintosh to cover it all up.

  CHAPTER SIX

  It was a perfect day. The pink powder-puff trees along the Via Roma were the same hue as the two-piece. They shook their heads in the breeze, casting a million petals into the air. Some fluttered in my face and lodged in my hair, giving me the appearance of a middle-aged bride.

  I was trembling as I finally mounted the steps of the library. My entire life now seemed but a preparation for this day.

  The doorman, Crocifisso, whistled in admiration as I came in. In the rest room I suddenly became afraid of appearing overdressed, and did not want to remove my raincoat. I took it off. Then put it back on. Then took it off again. This was foolish. I could not sit in my mackintosh all day. I also couldn’t return home to change. I had to make the best of it and try and appear natural and normal and confident in my fine clothes.

  How Costanza laughed when she saw me hiding behind the counter in the basement!

  “My, Signorina Fiore, you look beautiful today. I do believe you are wearing a little lipstick. And that pink suit. So pretty. Is it a special occasion? Are you expecting anyone in particular to come in? A man, perhaps? A foreigner? Someone who wants to look at the manuscripts?”

  She tottered away shrieking with false laughter to regale the other girls with an exaggerated account of what she termed Signorina Fiore’s New Look.

  I locked myself in the staff rest room and took a long look at myself in the mirror. I looked ridiculous. My fat, stupid, made-up face was staring back at me from inside the glass.

  “You fool,” I said to myself, tears burning behind my eyes. “You have made yourself look ridiculous. Look at you. Acting like a teenager. At your age. You have really given them something to laugh at now.”

  I slumped down onto the seat and gave way to tears.

  A knock at the door interrupted my self-recriminations.

  “Oh, signorina,” came a voice I instantly recognized. “Is that you in there? I was told it might be. Won’t you come out and show me the manuscripts? It is Monday. I have my permit ready for inspection. Do come out, signorina. Please come out.”

  I wiped my eyes and pinched my cheeks to give them the color my humiliation had drained away.

  “I am coming, signor; please give me a few moments.”

  Then I saw the handle turning. Thankfully I had remembered to bolt the door.

  “Signorina,” he whispered loudly through the crack. “I know you’re in there. Come out. Come out and get me.

  “I know you want to,” he added after a pause.

  I hurriedly smoothed my hair back, adjusted the pink two-piece, and unfastened the door.

  When I opened it, l’Inglese stepped right up, filling the doorway so I couldn’t escape. We looked into each other’s eyes. I willed my eyes to hide my secrets from him, but it was too late for that now. His rich masculine scent overpowered me and made me weak. The tip of his nose touched momentarily against mine, causing a frisson that rippled out to my fingertips, my toes, the ends of my hair. His breath came deep and heavy. I knew he was breathing me, inhaling me deeply inside himself. I looked at his lips: they were moist, soft, flexing. I grew terribly hot, sweaty, and nauseous. I felt I was about to lose consciousness.

  I stumbled and fell against him. He caught me and held me tightly in his arms, more tightly, perhaps, than was necessary.

  “Air,” I gasped. “I can’t breathe. I need some air.”

  L’Inglese hauled me from the rest room into the wider space of the lower gallery, where he laid me down gently on the floor. Quickly he climbed on top of me and began to unfasten my blouse.

  At this point the director came in. He could not believe his eyes when he saw the chaste Signorina Fiore lying spread-eagled on the floor with an unknown man seated on top and removing her clothing. His mouth fell open and his words caught in his throat. L’Inglese turned at the sound of the director’s spluttering.

  “No assistance is necessary, signor. I have the situation under control.”

  “What are you doing to my librarian, signor?” demanded the director once he had regained his composure. “Signorina Fiore, are you all right?”

  I was roused from my stupor by the sound of the director’s voice.

  “Oh, Signor Bandiera, I must have fainted. It is nothing. Please help me to my feet.”

  Reluctantly l’Inglese relinquished his position and clambered off.

  “Shall I call one of the other ladies, signorina?” asked the director, still eyeing l’Inglese with suspicion.

  “No, please, signor, pray do nothing. I am quite well. I was just going to show this gentleman the manuscripts. He is a sc
holar. From England. He has a permit.”

  “Very well, signorina, carry on, if you are sure you are well enough,” the director said with an edge to his voice as he strode across the room and stepped up the spiral staircase. I could tell my prospects of future advancement at the library had been curtailed by this episode. The director did not like surprises.

  “At last, signorina, we are alone,” whispered l’Inglese into my ear.

  “Now please, please,” he added imploringly, “show me what I have long longed to feast my eyes upon. No, signorina, not that, not yet” —seeing my fingers make an unconscious movement to the remaining fastened buttons of my blouse.

  “No, that later. First show me the manuscripts.”

  Unsteadily I led him through the cavernous basement to the locked room where the manuscripts were contained in the aged oak cabinets specially constructed to house them. I unlocked the door with a key that hung from a chain around my girdle and switched on the special diffuse lights that do not damage the precious contents.

  Carefully I removed from their cabinets the manuscripts of Archestratus, Athenaeus, and Apicius and laid them before L’Inglese, who could scarcely contain his excitement. I left him poring over them, lost in a world of ancient epicures and stupendous banquets, while I returned to my files and sharpened pencils in the outer office.

  At the end of the day, l’Inglese had still not emerged from the room. As Crocifisso was locking up the various galleries, I entered the room to find l’Inglese still absorbed, making copious notes from the manuscripts in calligraphic handwriting.

  “Signor, the library is now closed,” I murmured. “It is past seven o’clock. I must ask you to finish what you are doing so I may replace the manuscripts.”

  “Please, a moment longer, beautiful signorina, I have practically finished. Just a few moments more.”

  I sat down and waited. Shortly l’Inglese closed the final bound copy and stretched out his arms and neck and shoulders.