The Art of Killing Well Page 2

  The trap came to a halt.

  The coachman got down, adjusted his jacket, opened the door with a somewhat coarse gesture, and a robust foot pressed heavily on the step. In one hand the guest held a book, the cover of which bore an English title, and in the other a wicker basket containing two of the fattest cats ever seen. He was wearing a frock coat and a top hat. Between his whiskers, a broad, good-natured smile could be made out.

  No sooner had he got off than Teodoro cleared his throat and, in a distinct voice, recited his greeting:

  “Signor Pellegrino Artusi, welcome to Roccapendente.”

  Friday, seven in the evening

  It was dinner time at the castle. And this evening, as always when there were visitors, dinner was served in the so-called Olympus Room.

  If the baron and his dinner guests had raised their eyes, they would have had the opportunity to admire the wonderful frescoes of Jacopuccio da Campiglia, a painter known to posterity for having frescoed the entire castle of Roccapendente and even better known to his contemporaries for the incredible number of debts incurred in the taverns and wine shops of the Val di Cornia. It was on this ceiling, where the gods of Olympus chased one another in an eternal, motionless race, that Jacopuccio had given the best of himself, and while Heracles crushed the lion, Orpheus moved the stones to tears and Zeus seduced Aphrodite (pictorial licence, of course: good old Jacopuccio could barely read), they all watched tirelessly over the master of Roccapendente and his family – who, for their part, heads down and jaws going at full tilt, were tearing apart a fish pie of colossal dimensions and completely ignoring all that beauty.

  The one eating slowly was the baron, who must have gazed admiringly at that ceiling a thousand times, without ever tiring of it – but when there was something to eat, you ate.

  The one eating listlessly was Gaddo, who might have the sensitivity of spirit to appreciate beauty but was now busy casting sidelong glances at the self-styled man of letters as the latter stuffed himself with pie, his white whiskers moving up and down in time to the rhythm of his jaws.

  The one eating briskly and noisily was Lapo, who preferred beautiful things of flesh and blood rather than on walls, and was now watching his sister and thinking that if she didn’t dress like a penitent she might almost look like a woman, and then it might actually be possible to find her a husband and get her out of his hair – with that female arrogance of hers, she was always finding fault with him.

  The one eating with small bites was Cecilia, who was looking curiously at the bewhiskered guest and completely ignoring Lapo’s bovine gaze and his all too obvious thoughts (if you could call them that). Men never understood that women were able to guess what they were thinking from their behaviour, the look in their eyes, the way they were sitting, and so on. This was true of all men, let alone Lapo, who had all the intelligence of a fruit bowl. Signor Artusi, on the other hand, was eating away in silence, completely engrossed, clearly savouring every mouthful. He seemed like someone who thought about what he was doing, and Cecilia liked that.

  The one who would have been eating Parisina’s excellent pie was Nonna Speranza, if age and illness had not taken away her appetite and this family of good-for-nothings had not taken away the high spirits we all begin to lose even when we are young. Horses, women, poetry! The only one of her grandchildren with a modicum of brains was unfortunate enough to have been born a woman. As unfortunate as she herself was, confined by a body she had not chosen within a family she would never have chosen if she had had any choice in the matter.

  The one eating without thinking anything at all was Signor Ciceri, his jaw rotating slowly without in any way modifying his smile. In fact, Fabrizio Ciceri rarely lost his smile, and never his appetite.

  And last but not least, the one eating with gusto was the bewhiskered guest, sometimes with his eyes closed. Partly to savour that divine pie, and partly not to feel the eyes of the other dinner guests on him: he had no desire to be overcome once again by that shyness which had always afflicted him in the houses of strangers, a shyness which nobody would ever have guessed at, looking at his hair as rigid as King Umberto’s and his military whiskers.

  “So, Dottore Artusi, what do you think of my food?”

  Sitting at the head of the table, the baron was visibly satisfied. At first, he had seen Artusi serve himself parsimoniously and eat slowly, in small bites, chewing a lot, even though fish pie by its very nature is easy to swallow: the typical demeanour of someone who eats out of duty.

  By the third portion, he had changed his mind. Clearly, Artusi was a long-distance runner, not a sprinter: slow, methodical, steady, relentless. When Teodoro had asked him, “Would the signore like some?” for the third time, he had almost drawn the tray to himself. One never serves oneself three times from the same dish. It is bad manners. It gives the impression that one is only there to eat. But the gleam in the guest’s eyes had told him that they might have to use a shovel.

  Now, Artusi had the placid expression of someone who has removed the wrinkles from his stomach, and the satisfied expression of someone who has eaten really well, and he had no need to be tactful in answering the baron’s question.

  “Excellent, Barone, excellent,” he said, as Teodoro carried away the dish. “I know very little about pies, but this, if you’ll allow me, was superb. And exceedingly well prepared. In fact, I have a favour to ask you.”

  “I think I know what it is. But I’m not the one you should ask. If you like, I can send for the cook immediately.”

  “I’m most grateful. I should be even more so if I were allowed to go to the kitchen in person.”

  The baron was rendered speechless for a moment.

  “You see,” Artusi continued, blushing, “the dish we have just tasted is actually quite complex. As you will have gathered, I should like to include it in my little treatise on the art of good food. But in order to reproduce this delicacy correctly, and make sure that my twenty readers can do the same, I need, I fear, to have things explained to me in the greatest detail.”

  “So you personally tell your cook what to do?” asked Lapo.

  “Not exactly,” replied Artusi. “The first time I get ready to make a dish, I try it out myself. Then, when I am sure of the quantities and the procedure, I pass it to my cook.”

  “So your wife never cooks.”

  “Alas, I’m not married, Signorino Lapo.”

  From the corner where the old maids sat came a brief, breathless little laugh.

  “As I was saying, I need to have everything explained in great detail, and I fear that for others the conversation would be somewhat tedious.”

  You can bet your whiskers on that, said Lapo’s facial expression.

  The baron, though, smiled. “I thank you for that thought. If you would like to stay with us for dessert and coffee, Teodoro will then show you to the kitchen.”

  “I am most grateful.”

  “I hope, however, that you do not linger there for too long, given that we will then be moving into the billiard room to toast our health. Books are useful, but food and drink are necessities, are they not?”

  “Talking of books,” Nonna Speranza said, “I noticed that you have rather a strange one with you.”

  The dessert and the coffee had arrived in the meantime. The dessert was a fresh cheesecake on a base of crumbled butter biscuits, decorated with blueberries and raspberries, and had immediately been polished off by the dinner guests – which was why the coffee was now a necessity.

  The problem was the cup.

  When one has whiskers that are thick, drooping, and two centimetres long, not all glasses and cups are as easy to negotiate. The cup Artusi had in front of him, for example, posed the problem of how to drink the coffee without dipping his precious whiskers in the restorative liquid. While he was studying the situation, he replied, “Ah, so you noticed?”

  “It would have been difficult not to,” Gaddo said in a tone which, some seventy years later, would have made him
a senior officer in the Stasi. “The cover was in exceptionally bad taste.”

  “You should never judge a book by its cover, Gadduccio,” Cecilia said amiably.

  “And you should never speak unless you are spoken to, my dear Cecilia,” replied Lapo without looking at her. “You’re a young lady now, and there are certain things you ought to know. I believe—”

  “Oh, don’t interfere in discussions about books, Lapo,” Cecilia cut in. “It doesn’t suit you. If and when the conversation moves on to the subject of how to fritter away money, we’ll let you know.”

  “Cecilia!” cried her grandmother, also without looking at her. That was all she had to say. After waiting for a moment to make sure that her granddaughter had calmed down, she went on, “If I have understood correctly, it is a book about criminal investigations.”

  In the meantime, Artusi had brought the operation to a satisfactory conclusion, knocking back the coffee while keeping his whiskers surprisingly clean, thanks to the so-called “anteater method” (mouth like a trumpet, lips extended, a quick – and, as far as possible, silent – sucking movement, and so on) so dear to the owners of whiskers in the Western world.

  “That is indeed the case,” Artusi said, putting his cup down, then, as if to apologise for possessing such a uncommon book, “I got it from the English bookseller in the Via de’ Cerretani.”

  Seeing that everyone had fallen silent, Artusi continued, more to fill the embarrassed silence that descends when people do not know each other well than out of any desire to inform the dinner guests, “The main character is a Londoner of private means. Highly intelligent, physically strong and with a cast-iron memory. A trifle eccentric, like many Englishmen. A great violinist, according to the narrator, and prone to all kinds of excesses to escape boredom. Morphine, opium and suchlike, much to the annoyance of the man with whom he shares a flat, a highly respectable doctor.”

  “And this man finds himself involved in a crime?”

  “On the contrary. This fellow seeks out crimes. That is his element, like the sea for fish. He reads the newspapers, asks the police for information, even performs experiments to determine whether such and such a stain is indeed blood and not rust or some other substance. And when he is quite sure as to how a crime was committed, he goes to the police and tells them what they must do and whom to arrest. He describes himself as a private investigator.”

  “Third-rate literature,” Gaddo said, “made to satisfy the tastes of coarse people. Corpses, sensational events, half-naked women and other obscenities. Fit only for servant girls, or merchants.”

  As the baron changed colour, becoming slightly purple, there was heard the croaky voice of Signorina Ferro (Cosima, to be exact – not that it is necessary, because the other old maid never speaks): “Surely the signore is a merchant, am I not right? And even quite well known in his city.”

  “The fact is, Signorina Cosima,” stammered Artusi, his cheeks also somewhat inflamed, “I have been blessed by fate. My father left me a prosperous business, and I have simply followed in his footsteps. Alone, believe me, I wouldn’t have succeeded at anything. Everything I have I owe to my parents.”

  “It is rather the same with us nobles,” Nonna Speranza said. “One inherits a title and uses it all one’s life, even if one is a good-for-nothing who cannot do a single thing except write poems.”

  It was Gaddo’s turn to grow purple, and Lapo who now spoke up: “And what kind of business are you involved in, Signor Artusi, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “Textiles, mainly. Silk, brocades, Oriental fabrics. Sometimes also clothes or tapestries, but not very often.”

  “I see. I seem to recall you also act as a money changer or banker.”

  “I fear you’re mistaken, Signorino Lapo. It is a reputation that has followed me for some time, but it is entirely undeserved, believe me.”

  “Well, Dottore Artusi,” the baron cut in, “if you want to see the cook, I think now is the best moment. Our servants are accustomed to retiring early and rising with the sun.”

  “Which is all to the good. It’s the only way, in my opinion, to lead a healthy life. For the moment I thank you for this delicious dinner, the secret of which I hope shortly to discover.” Artusi laughed behind his whiskers in a forced attempt at humour. “To be quite honest, I can’t promise that I’ll be able to keep you company in your toast. It was a long, tiresome journey, and I’m starting to be of an age when certain efforts exact their price. I therefore wish you a happy toast, and a good night.”

  “Goodnight to you, and thank you for your company,” the baron said, visibly relieved.

  From the diary of Pellegrino Artusi

  Friday, 16 June, 1895

  Arrived safe and sound at the castle of Roccapendente.

  The castle is beautiful, but the interior strikes me as unusually devoid of furnishings, although it may be the sheer size of the rooms and staircases that gives me that impression.

  As far as beauty of appearance is concerned, even the servants are well suited to the castle. I was conducted to my room by a young lady of some twenty years, so tall and of such proud features that I suspected she might originally be from Scandinavia; but, as she preceded me up the stairs, I was able to appreciate her way of wiggling her assets, which appeared to me to be totally Latin.

  I am now of an age when the pleasures of the flesh are those which can be savoured hot from the oven, rather than those involving the heat of passion: which is why I myself was surprised, seeing my guide swaying in front of me, to sense the reawakening of feelings I had long thought dulled.

  The Pellegrino of not a few years ago, reaching the door of his room, would have closed it behind him and with his best smile, sure of what he was doing, would have taken advantage, in every sense of the term, of the hospitality of the house. The Pellegrino of today, having noted the softness of the bed and the quilt, dismissed the maid, asking her to send up the manservant to unpack my luggage; as I did so, I managed to snatch a fleeting caress, which even I thought was pathetic, of those fine marmoreal hips.

  Even the manservant who helped me with my luggage was a young Adonis, tall and proud and bright-eyed, although decidedly talkative for a servant; during the half-hour it took him to lay out my few garments, he several times took the liberty of addressing me. It was thus that I received various pieces of information which I could easily have done without, such as the fact that he could not stand asparagus and courgettes (which would be served at dinner) and that he had never tasted fish (of which there would be a dish). He was even kind enough to inform me that, if I liked making sporting bets on the horses, or on the players of bracciale, I could if I so wished avail myself of his services to place the bet, a task he regularly performed for the baron and his guests. It was a pointless offer, given that I do not usually throw away my money on bets, a fact of which he was of course unaware. In conclusion, as if he had not already done enough to break my tommasei, he had the bad grace to take the basket where Bianchino and Sibillone were now fast asleep and slam it unceremoniously on the chest of drawers, as if, instead of two little animals, it contained potatoes. Already shaken by the journey, my two cats did not appreciate that at all, and immediately hid under the bed, from where, with much hissing, they refused my offers of food and cuddles. Tonight, coming back from the kitchen, I had to win them over with a little of the tuna pie which was served to us at dinner, and which I had managed, with some difficulty, to put aside; now, as I write, they are both curled up in the middle of the bedspread, purring with satisfaction.

  I hope to be able to delight them again with this delicacy when I am back in Florence. But I have to admit that I do not know how likely that is, after the rather singular manner in which the cook explained the recipe to me.

  I thought I had made a wise move in asking if I could go myself to the kitchen instead of having the cook brought to the dining room, since I have often noted that members of the servant class are reluctant to speak in front of t
heir masters. They do not find it easy to express themselves, and the presence of persons of high birth embarrasses them.

  This little woman, on the other hand, proved as gifted with words as she must be little gifted with brain. I was greeted as one might greet a coalman, and was ordered to remain by the door until she had finished doing whatever it was she was doing; and, even after that, I remained by the door, inclined as I was to accept any small madness just to see the procedure for making that delicacy revealed.

  Unfortunately, the woman overwhelmed me with a barely comprehensible explanation, which I shall attempt to transcribe here literally:

  “Alright, then, you use only the whites of the celery and put them in a pan with the olives and the peppers, but not green olives, and not even those big black ones; the best are the red olives, but you hardly ever find them and so you make do with the tiny black ones. After you’ve put in the bread and the tuna, you heat it until you see it’s ready, but make sure it is ready; or rather, make sure the bread is put in the milk when it’s boiling hot, otherwise it doesn’t take at all. Then you break two eggs and beat them, and put everything in the oven with the breadcrumbs, and then take it out after a while.”

  As she was telling me all this, I did not understand a thing; but I consoled myself with the thought that it would appear clearer to me when I reread it.

  Now, reading over what I have written, all I feel is dismay.

  Who knows? Perhaps the night will bring enlightenment; but I have to say that having developed a taste for that dish, it seems likely to remain unsatisfied.

  All this has made the evening all the more bitter, given that the dinner itself was not especially pleasant. Not because of the food, of course, since that old bat with the bonnet proved to be a true expert in her art; but rather, because of my companions at the table.