La Cucina

by Lily Prior

  Suddenly, while I was lost in thought, I felt a shadow pass swiftly between me and the light. I shivered again. There was nobody there, I had checked. What was the matter with me this evening? Nerves, that was all. I promised myself that as soon as I reached my apartment I would take a comforting bath followed by a dish of fried calves’ brains. That was sure to cure me of these jitters.

  I decided to stop work there and then and leave the library. Crocifisso would make sure everything was secure. I had finished most of the shelving: there was only one stack left for the girls in the morning. I almost ran down the huge staircase that hugged the stone walls of the central hall. I had never felt like this in the library before. Despite my air of assumed composure I felt very uneasy indeed.

  I could hear the sports commentator’s voice rising with excitement as one of the teams scored a goal. It was a comfort to hear the noise of normal life going on. I was foolish to be frightened.

  “Good night, Crocifisso,” I called as I headed for the door, “I’m finishing a little early.” There came no reply.

  “Good night!” I shouted louder, thinking he could not hear me over the sound of the transistor.

  I walked over to his little booth, but to my surprise it was empty. I waited for a few moments, thinking he had gone to the rest room, but he did not reappear. This was strange: he did not usually begin his rounds of the building so early.

  I felt I could not go without speaking to him, so I waited. Ten minutes passed. I switched off the transistor and strained my ears for the sound of his footsteps in the echoing corridors. There was no noise, just the regular ticking of the great clock, like a giant’s heartbeat. What should I do?

  I did not allow myself to feel the fear that was welling up inside me. But I knew that something was very wrong. The library did not feel right that night; the warm and kindly feeling of the grand old place had somehow gone. I had never, in twenty-five years of working there, ever felt frightened before. Goose bumps hung on my body like water did after la doccia. I could not shake them off.

  I walked through the ground floor corridors calling for Crocifisso. My footsteps clattered eerily on the tiles. The air had become thick. There was no trace of Crocifisso, but I found one of the fire doors into the rear alley open. This was not right at all. The alley was in darkness now: it was almost nine o’clock. Was there anyone there? I peered out into the darkness but could see nothing. All the usual nighttime noise of Palermo sounded strangely far off. Had anyone come inside? Perhaps Crocifisso was in danger. Perhaps while I had been wasting time he had been engaged in a bloody struggle with an intruder.

  I ran back to the front office. I would use the telephone to call the police. Yes, of course, that’s what I would do. I grabbed the receiver but there was no sound: the telephone lines were out. I could feel a ball of fear in my stomach. I had to help Crocifisso. Where was he? I ran up the stairs to the upper floors and quickly scanned the chambers and corridors. There was no sign of any disturbance or anything unusual.

  The basement. The thought of the basement came to me with a lurch. I would have to go down there. It would have to be the basement. In the movies, horrible things always happen in basements.

  I slithered down the spiral staircase, almost missing my footing in the haste to propel my body forward before its natural reluctance would apply the brakes. The lights were off. I knew the basement so well that I quickly found the switch, even in the darkness. Only a loud irregular breathing broke the silence. I realized it was my own. As the lights came up I was afraid of what I might see.

  “Crocifisso,” I called. “Are you down here? Are you all right? Answer me.”

  It must have been instinct that guided me toward the section housing the first editions. The precious works were kept in display cases, tables with glass covers protecting the pages from dust and greasy fingers.

  My feet walked me toward one of the display cases. From a distance I could see it had been disturbed. I noticed my cheeks were wet. I was crying. There was something wrong with the glass case. Very wrong. There was something in it that should not have been there. I rubbed my eyes to clear away the tears that were blurring everything. There was a form in there. It looked like a human form. A body. Someone’s body. Crocifisso’s body. I knew immediately and instinctively that he was dead. Anyone who has ever seen a dead body will agree that it has a look of its own. The display case had become a glass-topped coffin. I looked down at his face, at Crocifisso’s face. I touched the glass over his face with my fingers. My tears dripped onto it.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The body was removed from the glass case and taken away in an ambulance to the mortuary. The blade of a knife had sliced through Crocifisso’s heart. As a result, the first editions were badly stained with blood and I could not clean them.

  I thought the police would want to ask me lots of questions, but they had no interest in me at all and, if anything, treated my attempts to explain what little I knew as a nuisance. None of them would listen to me. Finally, in frustration, I approached a man who seemed to be senior to the others. I was sure I had seen his face somewhere before, but I could not place him.

  “I found the body, signor,” I said. “Shouldn’t I tell someone about it?”

  “Look, signora,” he said, “There are a hundred murders a week in this city. What makes you think this one is special?”

  Poor Crocifisso, even in death he was a nobody. Before I left the library I went into his booth to collect his few possessions to return to his wife. How would she manage now? In his desk drawer I found the tin of nucatoli I had made for his children and given him earlier that day to take home. I packed them with his transistor radio, a few personal items, and his cap into a carton. I would deliver them tomorrow.

  As I came out into the street I saw a familiar figure in the shadows heading toward the Piazza Bologni. I recognized the figure. The height was right. The build—a little stocky—the walk, the clothes. Surely it was l’Inglese. What was he doing here? He was supposed to be away on business until Friday. What did this mean? Had he not gone away after all? It was very strange. I had to catch up with him and find out what was going on.

  I crossed the Via Vittoria Emanuele and followed him. He was walking fast. I couldn’t allow myself to lose sight of him. He was at a distance too far to hear me call out to him. I marched as quickly as I could, trying to reach him.

  He cut down between La Martorana and San Nicolo and on through the narrow streets toward La Cala.

  My heart was thumping in my breast from the exertion, making me feel nauseous, but I had to catch him. The adrenaline kept me going. I had to know what this meant. Why was he in Palermo now when he was supposed to be away?

  Had he lied to me? If he had lied about this, had he lied about other things? Suspicion ran along beside me, encouraging me. Had his whole story been a tissue of lies?

  I would catch him. I would force the truth out of him. I would look him in the eye and ask him what all of this meant. He was outpacing me. I had to run faster. How my lungs burned.

  Now, after one final burst of effort, I was closing in on him. Why did he not turn around at the sound of my footsteps? From the Via Alloro he cut through into the Via Scopari and disappeared into a doorway. There was a steep staircase leading down to a bar in the basement. I hurried down without hesitation. I would catch him now. I had to know the truth.

  I threw open the door, panting. L’Inglese was at the bar ordering a drink. He turned round to face me. Only it was someone else. It was not l’Inglese at all. What a fool I looked, standing puffing in the doorway like a steam train. The sailors standing around and drinking laughed at me.

  “Are you all right, Mother?” they asked cheekily.

  I hurried out again and staggered up the staircase. What a fool you are, Rosa Fiore, I said to myself. I burned with embarrassment.

  But then I felt a sudden joy. It was not him. It was not him. He was not here. He had gone away. He had not lied to me. It
was all right. Everything was as it had been before. He was honest and good, and I had been wicked to doubt him. I had no reason to doubt him. I was just being stupid. He was wonderful and I loved him. I was just overwrought: a murder is never good for the nerves. I needed to get home and fry those brains and calm myself. I was so relieved.

  I walked slowly along the Via Vittorio Emanuele, the most direct and safest route to my apartment. I could not rush anymore. My chase of the wrong man had left me close to collapse. Having crossed the Quattro Canti I walked on past the library. All was quiet. Poor Crocifisso.

  At last I reached my apartment and immediately lit the gas stove. I warmed some oil in a pan and sliced some bread. Why would anyone want to kill Crocifisso? He was the doorman at the public library, of interest to no one. I unwrapped the bloodied paper packet of brains. No brains are as sweet as those of a baby cow. I felt them with my fingers. How cool and soft and tantalizing. I dropped them in pink clusters into the hot oil. They spat.

  I guess the policeman, if that is what he was, was right. In this city murders were not remarkable. There did not even have to be a reason. Though of course that would be scant consolation to the man’s wife and seven children.

  I sandwiched the brains between the slices of bread and bit into them hungrily. A simple dish, but succulent. Only then, when my stomach was full of food, did the horrors of the day begin to recede, and I was able to find a little peace.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The library felt awful after Crocifisso’s death. It was as though the old place were shocked at what it had witnessed.

  The regular readers were in a state of deep sorrow. Many had known Crocifisso since he joined the library, fresh out of military service, back in the late twenties. They had danced at his wedding; they were godfathers to his children. Now they were to carry him to his final resting place. The old men sat and talked for hours on end trying to understand it. They asked the same question: why? why? why?

  The library assistants did not stop crying for days. No work was done as they spent all their time huddled together consoling one another. The egoist Costanza became subject to bizarre fainting fits, which could only be cured by a lengthy spell lying down on the couch in the director’s office. Soon disorder was finding its way onto the shelves: books were replaced in the wrong places, catalog cards went missing. I had to work extra hours to put things right.

  There were still three days to go until l’Inglese’s return: I was counting the hours. I ached to have him hold me in his arms as tightly as he could. Only that would make the pain go away.

  We still had the funeral to get through. The entire library community attended. We went together in a line led by the director to the little church of Santa Maria del Spasimo, over near the Botancial Gardens.

  Signora Rossi, Crocifisso’s wife, had to be held up by her neighbors. The seven bambini were lined up in order of size next to the coffin, which had to be paid for by subscription. Although it was not lavish, we did our best to give him an honorable send-off. I was surprised to see the police inspector and one of his colleagues hovering by the cemetery gates. I knew that man from somewhere, but where?

  Afterward we returned to the Rossis’ one-room apartment in the Via Rocco Pirri. I had prepared some food for the mourners: a large sfincione, some cured ham, and mustazzoli cookies to follow. The bambini ate hurriedly; it seemed la signora had forgotten to feed them since the tragedy. She sat in a corner with a look of complete despair in her eyes. No one could reach her, not even the bambini who tugged in vain at her skirts. The library assistants made such a din with their wailing that the director had to send them all home.

  Following the funeral, we all made an effort to try and return to a semblance of normality. The director held a staff meeting and told the library assistants that although we were all distraught over Crocifisso’s death and the manner in which it had taken place, we could not allow standards to slip, and we had to apply ourselves to our duties. There was redemption in work, and while we were carrying out our given tasks, we were honoring Crocifisso’s memory.

  The director also took this opportunity to introduce the new doorman, the one-eyed Restituto Raimondo, whom we should welcome with warm hearts into our midst.

  Restituto Raimondo bowed. He bore the mark of the desperation that had forced him to take a murdered man’s job.

  At last Friday came and l’Inglese returned. I was so hungry for comfort I almost squeezed the breath from his body. Between sobs, I recounted to him the events of the past few days, and he held me tight and let me cry myself calm.

  “It’s all right, old girl,” he said, rocking me back and forth. “I’m back now. Everything is going to be all right.”

  “Is it?” I asked, my eyes blurry with tears.

  “Yes, it is.”

  This was just what my soul hungered to hear.

  That night l’Inglese was so gentle in his lovemaking that for the first time I experienced what a comfort sex could be to a tired and troubled mind. Up until now I had only experienced this solace through my labors in the kitchen.

  Afterward, as he held me close, I asked what business it was that had called him away.

  “Rosa, don’t ask me. It’s better that you don’t know.”

  “Better for whom? It’s not better for me. I hate not knowing anything about you.”

  “But Rosa, you know everything about me. Everything that it is important to know. All the rest is nothing. It’s not important. What we have between us is everything.”

  “But what do we have? I’m not sure. It scares me sometimes.”

  “We have each other, of course. A horrible thing has happened, I know. And I’m sorry I wasn’t here to help you. But don’t start fretting about everything else. Don’t look for things to worry about. Rosa, I love you.”

  “You do?” I asked, incredulously.

  “Of course I do. Couldn’t you tell?”

  “I wasn’t sure.”

  “Well, I do. Do you love me?”

  “It’s hard to love someone you don’t know anything about. What was it that called you away?”

  “I can’t tell you that. Not just yet. For your own safety. But when this is over, I promise, I’ll tell you everything. And then we’ll see if you love me or not.”

  “When what is over?”

  “I can’t tell you. Don’t make me lie to you. Please don’t ask me any more questions. Just trust me. You do trust me, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I trust you,” I said, although I was not entirely convinced that I did.

  L’Inglese soon fell into a sweet deep sleep, while I lay awake thinking. Grudgingly, I had to accept this mystery, for now at least. It was not until much later that I learned the men who had murdered Crocifisso had in fact been looking for l’Inglese himself.

  CHAPTER NINE

  It was a perfect end-of-summer evening. For a long time the huge red sun had perched on the edge of the ocean before, in an instant, dropping down out of sight. It was the kind of evening that stays hot even after the sun has gone down, and all around objects retain a rosy glow absorbed during the day from the sun’s rays.

  I was wandering barefoot in the gardens of l’Inglese’s villa at Acquasanta. I was filled with joy, an all-consuming feeling of the utmost pleasure that rolled around inside me, filling all of my empty spaces.

  Inside the house, l’Inglese was preparing supper. Tonight he was going to cook for me; he had been making preparations all day, and would not allow me into the kitchen. I love surprises, and anticipated our meal with a deep-seated excitement. I knew this man was incapable of disappointing me; he was equally incapable of doing the expected. If I had learned anything about him over the past few weeks it was that he was always completely unpredictable.

  Oh, what a summer we’d had. It’s like my whole life was a mere dress rehearsal for this moment. How I had changed over the last few weeks. From the dull spinster librarian I had suddenly turned into a woman, a real woman.

>   The staff in the library couldn’t believe it; even Costanza had stopped laughing at me. In fact, she now regarded me with awe. She knew the truth, that she herself could not manage such a man; he frightened her despite her bravado with the opposite sex. He was a man who would not play games.

  For the first time in my life I was completely happy. I had the feeling that if I were to die tomorrow I would be satisfied with my life; I had known what it was to experience life and to experience love.

  The marble walkways of the garden were still warm from the sun and felt slightly chalky under the soles of my bare feet. Just a few weeks ago I had been leading a sort of half-life, a life with the light switched off, a life of half-darkness; now I was open to every new experience: the feel of the stone beneath my feet, the color and the smell of the ocean, the caress of the breeze on my cheek, the texture of the air against my skin. I breathed deeply, as if inhaling the world anew: dew, the sound of far-off laughter, the tinkling of fountains, cool water, distant bells slightly flat in tone, children playing, the birds singing and the insects buzzing, the cicadas in the leaves, a large dog barking in the distance, and far, far away the rumble of the railroad, the pattern of shadows through the palm fronds, the fleeting glimpse of a lizard against a white wall before its shadow grazed past the corner of the eye.

  The garden at Acquasanta was the nearest place to paradise that I had ever seen. Well-trimmed palm trees and sweet-smelling pines were interspersed with fruit trees bearing oranges, lemons, grapefruits, and kumquats. The branches bowed down under the weight of the golden fruit.

  Low box hedges bordered the flower gardens. There were cornflowers and sweet peas and arum lilies. Terracotta pots the size of men trailed trains of ivy and overflowed with pink geraniums.