The Art of Killing Well

by Marco Malvaldi

  Oh, no, please don’t say that. You managed to silence him, and now you’re giving him the chance to start all over again.

  “I thought you were overcome with a fit of laughter,” said Lapo wickedly.

  “I had the same impression,” concurred Gaddo.

  That’ll teach you to mind your own business, and next time you can choke in peace.

  Artusi mumbled for a moment, then resumed, “Well, the thing is, the doctor was saying that, with the enactment of the new penal code, thanks to the work of Crispi and Zanardelli, ours would finally be a united country.”

  “I gather you do not agree.”

  “Trees don’t grow from the top down, Dottore Bertini.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Watch out, Pellegrino.

  Artusi was a shy person, that much was true, but especially when he was young, there had been two specific kinds of situation in which he lost all restraint and became inflamed with passion to such a point that it was difficult to hold him back. The second situation in which this loss of self-control occurred was in political discussions.

  As a member of Giovine Italia and a fervent Mazzinian, our bewhiskered friend from Romagna had held the same principles that animated the doctor. But now, having lived long and seen much, he knew that the ideals of which people speak are so elevated that the man who follows them, because of always looking upwards, often does not see where he is putting his feet.

  And when he talked to young idealists, Artusi often lost his temper.

  This time, being at a nobleman’s table, he immediately calmed down.

  “I do not dispute that to be united a country must have laws in common, and that is a great goal to aim for. I merely observe that trees don’t grow from the top down. It takes time, fertiliser, a yardstick. This country has consisted since time immemorial of two large, unrelated sections, and to claim that they can become a single country with a snap of the fingers, just by passing laws, strikes me, frankly, as too much to hope.”

  “Signor Artusi is right,” Lapo cut in. “We are one country, the South is another. There was no need to burden us with such backward provinces. People who organise subversive movements, like those Fasci who want a socialist revolution and have put the country to fire and sword.”

  “Forgive me, Signorino Lapo, but that’s not what I meant at all. I hope our country will become one, I truly do. What I’m trying to say is that using the force of the law to unite two such different regions isn’t the right way.”

  “Well, as far as I’m concerned, I really don’t see the need,” said Lapo. “We’re as different as oil and water. We couldn’t mix even if we wanted to.”

  In the silence that followed, while Ispettore Artistico tried to establish the right attitude to adopt towards the young fool – indifference, a show of authority, hitting him in the mouth with a tray – Artusi laughed and wiped his moustaches with a professorial air.

  “What are you eating, Signorino Lapo? I mean, with what is your fish dressed?”

  “With mayonnaise. Would you like to taste it?”

  “No, thank you. Do you know what mayonnaise is composed of?”

  “I have no idea. I’m sure there’s egg. And lemon, I think.”

  “Exactly right. Now, tell me, do you know how it’s made?”

  Silence. Cooking is woman’s work, said Lapo’s eyes. The only thing a real man does in the kitchen is to creep up behind the cook and … well, no need to continue.

  “Then please allow me a brief culinary digression. Mayonnaise is a stable emulsion of oil in a watery base, constituted by lemon juice and vinegar. In practice, it’s like a whole lot of tiny drops of oil spread through a watery base. The stability of such drops is given by a component of egg yolk known as lecithin.”

  Artusi drew two or three drops in the air.

  “Lecithin is a molecule which is believed to be shaped like a kind of tadpole – forgive the crudeness of this explanation – which has a hydrophilic head, that is, a head which melts in water, and a lipophilic tail, that is, a tail which melts in oils and fats. When we beat water and oil together, the drops which form are stabilised by the presence of these small tadpoles, which arrange themselves with their tails inside the drop and with their heads in the water, thus anchoring the surface of the drop in its own watery environment and avoiding the emulsion breaking up and the whole thing turning back to oil floating in water.”

  “Well explained,” said the doctor.

  “Indeed,” said Gaddo. “But what of it?”

  “What of it? Simply that to make mayonnaise we need to proceed calmly and methodically. If we put everything together and then beat it, nasty lumps form. In the trade, it is said to have curdled. We have to put the egg yolks in a bowl, beat them a little, and then slowly add a trickle of oil and stir with a spoon until everything is well mixed. Very slowly at first, almost drop by drop, and then towards the end we can increase the speed with which we add the oil, but not too much. Then, at the end, we add lemon juice or vinegar or even, as the French do, mustard.”

  “And what are you trying to get at with this explanation?”

  “What I’m trying to get at is mayonnaise. Something that isn’t water and isn’t oil, and yet is even more precious than the components with which we start, with a thick, creamy texture all of its own, even though it is obtained by mixing liquids. Partly for that reason, and partly because of its versatility, which allows us to flavour it as we please, it is rightly considered the queen of sauces. But it takes patience and method to obtain it, we have to go carefully and slowly. It can’t be done with brute force. And we need something that persuades water and oil to stay together, that works on both in the same way, especially as, if the mayonnaise curdles, the only way to save it is to add another egg yolk, preferably hard-boiled. There is no point adding lots of salt, or adding more water, or more oil. That won’t get us anywhere.”

  Dinner was over, and the gathering had divided first by gender (men to the billiard room, women to the sitting room) and then by birth: Lapo and Gaddo had decided to abandon the castle, to take the trap and go to Bolgheri to cheer themselves up a little after the terrible weekend, and then return nicely rested to their usual activities – that is, although with differing talents and attitudes, to not doing a damned thing from morning to evening.

  The non-nobles, apart from the doctor, who had gone to see how the baron was, had remained in the billiard room, not so much because they especially liked each other and wanted to be together as because Ispettore Artistico had expressly asked both of them if he could have a quick word with them.

  Alone now, as Ciceri idly sent balls bouncing across the green table, the inspector said, “I’m going to need some explanations from you, if you don’t mind.”

  “At your disposal, Ispettore,” said Signor Ciceri.

  “Would you both be so kind as to tell me the exact purpose of your visit here. In the most detailed and exhaustive way possible. Will you begin, Signor Artusi?”

  “As you wish, Ispettore. You may know that I enjoy a certain fame as a gourmet, having some time ago published a small book of recipes. Well, this spring I went to Montecatini to take the waters, as I do every year, and I lodged at the Locanda Maggiore, as did our host, the baron. On that occasion we started reminiscing about how different the spa had been when both of us had started going there, since the baron, too, was an enthusiastic visitor to the place. I should explain, Ispettore, that when I went to Montecatini for the first time there was no other accommodation but the Locanda dei Frati, apart from a woman named Carmela Calugi who rented out rooms. The water was free, and the village peaceful: not like now, when there are taverns, hotels, theatres, and every kind of entertainment. Mind you, I’m not saying that’s a bad thing. When—”

  The inspector raised his hand to interrupt Artusi.

  Although having neither the moustache nor the glittering eye nor the bony hand of Coleridge’s Ancient Mariner, the inspector was able to recognise
the birth pangs of a never-ending story, and did not want to spend half the evening listening to the story of Artusi’s youth.

  “Forgive me, Signor Artusi, but would you mind getting to the point?”

  “I’m sorry, Ispettore, but this is the point. The baron talked to me about how the hotel situation had changed over the years, and I could only concur. To cut a long story short, he told me of a plan of his – in brief, to use part of his castle as a hotel for visitors and tourists of a certain lineage – and he asked me for my opinion. Somewhat impudently perhaps, I told him that, having never lodged with him, I did not know what to say.”

  Artusi picked up a ball and threw it towards one of the cushions, sending it unwittingly into the hole.

  “In truth, the idea struck me as a little odd. I mean, Ispettore, would you expect tourists to come to the moors of the Maremma, filled as they are with marshes and mosquitoes? By way of reply, he told me I was right and invited me to spend some time here. As a lover of good living, he said. You’ll try my food, my rooms, my stables …”

  The inspector shuddered at the thought of the poor horse.

  “… and then you’ll tell me what you think. What was I to do, Ispettore? So here I am. To be cynical, I have to admit that so far I certainly haven’t been bored.”

  “Thank you. And what about you, Signor Ciceri?”

  “Well, Ispettore, there isn’t much to say. The baron made my acquaintance in Florence, where he visited my photographic studio and asked me if it was possible to photograph his castle and take a few pictures of the hunt and the life of the place. The offer was an attractive one, and the price favourable. And here I am.”

  “I understand. Well, gentlemen, there is nothing else to say. It has been a long day, and we all deserve a little amusement.”

  Smiling, the inspector went and took a cue from the rack. Simultaneously Artusi rose from his chair, also smiling.

  “You will excuse me, Ispettore, but these games do nothing for me. When I’m at a table I prefer to be sitting rather than bending.”

  With that paunch of yours, you’d need a cue that was three metres long even to reach the table.

  “Apart from anything else,” concluded Artusi, smoothing his unkempt whiskers, “I must call on the cook.”

  “Is there a little hanky-panky going on?” asked Signor Ciceri mischievously as he took a cue for himself.

  “Oh, no, come on. The cook must be sixty if she’s a day.”

  And what about you? said Ciceri’s eyebrows.

  “I mentioned to the baronessa that I know the recipe for a special soup for the sick, substantial and nutritious but not heavy on the stomach, and she asked me to teach it to the cook so that she could make it for her son.”

  “Oh, these Italian mothers,” replied Ciceri distractedly. “They’re all the same, baronessas or not. Their first concern is that their son eats enough for three people. Everything else is of lesser importance.”

  “How right you are. Well, goodnight, gentlemen.”

  “Goodnight to you.”

  “We need a way to mark the score,” said the inspector after Artusi had left the room, applying chalk to the tip of his cue.

  “Isn’t there a movable scoreboard?”

  “I don’t see any. Never mind, we’ll use a sheet of paper. There are some over there, behind you.”

  Turning, Ciceri took a sheet from a writing desk of rare ugliness and divided it into two columns with a stroke of the pen. On the right he wrote Ispettore and on the left Ciceri.

  “Perfect,” said the inspector. “Shall we begin?”

  Halfway through the game, by which time various numbers had already been written in the columns on both sides of the sheet, the inspector took off his jacket (it isn’t easy to play billiards with your jacket on) and as he did so he uncovered a sheet of paper sticking out from his inside pocket. Noticing it, he took it out with an innocent air.

  “Ah, I almost forgot. Do you know anything about this letter, Signor Ciceri?”

  The sheet of paper glided from the inspector’s hand onto the billiard table.

  Signor Ciceri picked it up. And turned pale.

  “Signor Ciceri?”

  Silence.

  “I have the feeling you recognise it. In fact, I’d even hazard a guess that you wrote it. You see, the figures on the date are written in a very particular way. They look rather like the ones you’ve put down on the score sheet.”

  Putting the paper down, Ciceri looked at the inspector. “Alright. What can I say? Yes, I know this letter. In fact, I wrote it myself.”

  “I see. Given that you are being so reasonable, perhaps you could tell me the whole story.”

  With regained calm, Signor Ciceri put down his cue and began. “It’s quite simple. One day this fellow comes into my studio and tells me he’s the Barone di Roccapendente and that he got my address from his dear friend Barone Caradonna. He tells me that he needs money for some urgent business of his and that he doesn’t have a large enough sum at his disposal. I reassure him that I may be able to lend him, out of friendship obviously, the sum he’s looking for, and I ask him to come back the following morning.”

  “Of course. You needed to find out something about him. Guarantees. Isn’t that so?”

  Signor Ciceri smiled, with a smile that the inspector knew well: that of the bastard who is telling you you have understood perfectly well but can’t prove a damn thing.

  “The following day I get him the money, and he swears to me that within a month he’ll be back in Florence to honour his commitment. That happened on the tenth of April, in other words, about two and a half months ago. Obviously, friendship is all very well, but ten thousand lire isn’t chicken feed.”

  “Obviously. So how much is your friendship worth, fifteen per cent?”

  “Come on, Ispettore, do I strike you as someone who’d squeeze his customers?”

  Bold as brass, this Ciceri. And they talk about Southerners! This fellow could give points to the worst camorristi I’ve ever met.

  “In any case, the baron was as good as his word. Yesterday, when we got to the village, we made a little detour to the office of Signor Corradini, the gentleman who keeps the betting book at the local racecourse. The baron withdrew his winnings and was finally able to unburden his conscience of this debt of his.”

  “A genuine act of charity on your part. And what about the whole photography story?”

  “Come on, Ispettore, you wouldn’t expect me to present myself at my friend’s house and ask for money? That wouldn’t be delicate. It can be difficult, though, to get an invitation. You know, some of these noblemen who are down on their luck have families, and often these families don’t look kindly on the invitation of a nobody without even a quarter noble blood. But if the guest in question is an artist, things change, don’t you think?”

  “And don’t you think the baron will have no difficulty in telling me that you came here to demand money from him?”

  “Why should he do that? He’s already had a lot of unpleasant things happen to him this weekend. Are you so sure he’d tell you something like that, now or later?”

  No, you bastard. You’re right. The baron won’t say a word, like all those who end up dealing with usurers. For now I can’t do anything to you, but I’m damned if I’m going to forget your name and where you live.

  From the diary of Pellegrino Artusi

  Sunday, 18 June, 1895

  So many unexpected things have befallen me today that I would find it hard to write them all down. I find myself the guest in a manor house where the butlers are murdered, which does not usually happen to me. This morning the master of the house was shot, and that was followed by a tremendous hubbub; this afternoon the culprit was apprehended, and turned out to be none other than the young Juno from whom I received confidences.

  If it is true that diversion comes from divertire, to change direction, to do or experience things to which we are not accustomed, I must admit that this weekend
has been genuinely diverting.

  This evening, after dinner, I went to find the cook in her realm, to show her how to make soup for convalescents; I found her in a state of great agitation. Immediately she assailed me with a stream of the most indecent abuse, which offended me more than a little. But then, listening more carefully, I realised that the stranger on whom she wished various intestinal pathologies was not myself, but Ispettore Artistico. Brandishing a ladle like a weapon, she asked me if I too happened to be one of those who were saying that Agatina was a murderess and should be hanged; to which I replied that I did not think that at all.

  This appeased her somewhat: I told her why I was there, and after five minutes we were chatting away like two old friends, so much so that I took the liberty of asking her a favour. If I prepare the soup, I said, and you prepare your gypsy pie (such is the name of the tuna-based delicacy I could not get out of my mind), each of us, by observing, will learn from the other what to do, and in the meantime you can tell me about Agatina – since I had understood that this was her prime concern.

  So we got to work; she began by peeling a yellow pepper over the fire, and then went and put in a pan some celery cut into large pieces, to which she added the pepper in little strips and olives without the stones. In the meantime, she brought about two decilitres of milk to the boil and soaked some slices of stale bread in it.

  After putting some tuna in oil into the pan, crumbling it with her hands, she mixed it until the concoction had absorbed all the fat. Then she added the soaked bread and two eggs, mixed everything together and put it in the oven.

  While she was doing this, she told me how this dish had been taught to her by actual gypsies, years earlier, when her father was a horse trader who had dealings with these nomads. Such dealings were intense, and often, being a matter of business and moreover with people of a fiery nature, the negotiations led to quarrels, which died down as easily as they had flared up, and it was then necessary to make peace: and ever since the world began peace has been made at the table.