Death in Sardinia by Marco Vichi Read Free Book Online

his journey through the Algerian fire. He didn’t really feel like thinking about women at the moment. His last affair, which had ended badly, still weighed heavy on his mind. Milena, a twenty-five-year-old Jewish girl, had left a wound inside him that hadn’t yet healed. To chase the thought from his head, he put another piece of that devilish osso buco in his mouth.
    Pietrino Piras came home from a difficult walk on crutches. The doctor had told him that the more he moved, the more quickly he would heal, and he couldn’t wait to get back to Florence. He didn’t like sitting around twiddling his thumbs.
    And Florence meant being with Sonia. He was dying to see her. At the moment she was in Palermo with her family and would spend the entire holiday with them. They talked over the telephone three or four times a week, and his mother kept trying to find out who this girl was who called so often asking for her Nino. He pretended it was nothing and wouldn’t even tell her the girl’s name. He was always jealously guarded about his things, and especially about Sonia.
    It was lunchtime. In one corner of the kitchen stood a small Christmas tree adorned with the same baubles of coloured glass he’d known since childhood. His mother had decorated it that morning, much later than in years gone by. A fire had been burning in the hearth since the morning. Pietrino sat down at the table with his father, and Mamma arrived with a serving bowl of spaghetti in tomato sauce.
    ‘Zia Bona dropped by,’ she said, filling their plates.
    ‘She’s going to get the spumante for Christmas dinner.’
    ‘Mamma, this is enough pasta for four …’
    ‘Eat, Nino, the doctor said you must eat.’
    ‘It’s too much.’
    ‘It’s not, you’ll see.’
    ‘If you force him he won’t eat any meat afterwards,’ Gavino said to his wife.
    His parents coddled him like a child. They were happy to have him at home, even if it was because of that frightful incident. Piras’s mother, Maria, was a small woman but full of energy. She worked like a slave and never let up. She spoke in Sardinian dialect, but had gone to school up to the third grade and knew Italian fairly well. She always wore a headscarf tied under her chin and had dramatic eyes. She took care of the animals. She and Gavino had a few chickens, a lot of rabbits and two pigs.
    ‘Gigi and Pino won’t be coming this Christmas, either,’ said
    Maria. They were the two other sons, both older than Pietrino.
    They were married and had been living in France for many years.
    ‘We’ve known that since October. Why repeat it?’ Gavino said.
    ‘Well, they could have come,’ Maria said.
    ‘They’ll come next year,’ said Gavino, pretending it didn’t bother him.
    ‘I understand them, Mamma, it’s too expensive.’
    ‘Not even for Christmas …’ said Maria, staring at her plate.
    They carried on eating in silence. There was only the sound of fire consuming wood.
    Gavino kept himself busy working his small plot of land.
    He’d lost an arm in combat in ’45, while fighting at Bordelli’s side. But he worked as if he had three arms instead of one. He dug holes, pruned trees, harvested tomatoes. He was very proud of his plot of land and wanted to do all the work himself for as long as he could. Every morning at dawn a friend would come by in a little Fiat 600 van, buy a bit of everything, and sell it at the market in Oristano.
    Pietrino realised he was hungrier than he thought and finished all the spaghetti on his plate. His mother smiled with satisfaction when she took the empty dish away. Mothers are always right. The wine was tart and light and still smelled of grapes. Gavino made it himself, repeating each year everything he’d seen his grandfather and father do.
    Maria brought two frying pans to the table. Polenta with cavolo nero 5 and pezz’imbinata , little strips of pork marinated in red wine and then grilled. Pietrino knew those flavours well. They were as much a part of