the commissario found himself imagining more and more frequently what it would be like to repeat that experience, or even just to see Enrica again up close; in order to understand what she felt, and to some extent, what he felt too.
As he climbed Via Santa Teresa, walking into the smells of the forest that mixed with those of the sea from behind him, Ricciardi thought about Rosa, his
tata
, who as always understood sooner and much more clearly than he just what he himself desired. Who knows how, Rosa had established a strange friendship with the girl, on the basis of which Enrica would regularly visit, sometimes staying until he came back; magically, she often managed to brush by him on the stairs or at the downstairs door, greeting him with a smile and a word.
By now Ricciardiâthe man who was terrified of love because he saw its fatal effects every day, the same Ricciardi who had long since decided that it was impossible for him to have a woman at his side because sheâd have to share in his curse, the man who never saw a future beyond the days necessary to complete an investigationâhad begun to live for the moment when, returning home, he might possibly cross paths with Enrica. He didnât know what might happen, nor whether that emotion might have a tomorrow; he knew only that living without that glimmer of sweet tenderness at the end of the steep climb that was his daily lot was now something that seemed almost impossible.
He looked at his watch and quickened his step.
Â
Rosa set down her cup, which sheâd been holding with the hand that shook less; still, the porcelain rattled against the saucer, causing a few drops of tea to spill onto the tablecloth. Enrica bowed her head over her tea, pretending not to have noticed; the
tata
appreciated this show of tact. She liked this girl better every day.
She went on with what sheâd been saying:
âSignoriâ, you have to keep this in mind: the truly important thing about a Cilento Easter dinner is the first course, the pasta. Any housewife knows how to cook a nice piece of meat or a leg of lamb, even though we really ought to be talking about a leg of kid goat, which is no simple matter, either; but the
primo
, the first course is, as we say, fundamental. And every detail deserves careful attention.â
Enrica listened, concentrating. She liked to cook, she did it every day for her own family and she was honestly convinced that it was be a good way to demonstrate love; but hearing Rosa describe the cooking of her hometown, the rigor with which she respected its traditionsâshe found it, somehow, deeply moving. She understood that it was something more than just a way of providing for oneâs loved ones, ensuring they were well fed while at the same time pleasing them. She knew that it was also a way of establishing a profound link with generations of women in love who had left behind not words, but aromas and flavors.
And she understood why the elderly
tata
, who knew that she was ill, felt the need to ensure that her way of loving the man she thought of as her childâthe man who was now the object of her own dreamsâcould in some way be carried on.
â. . . and so,â the
tata
went on, âdeciding which pasta to cook with the ragú becomes crucial. You can choose cavatelli or fusilli, itâs the same dough. Of course, cavatelli are easier; but what my young master likes best are the fusilli, so Iâd advise you to make those for him. First: you have to get yourself some rods from a broken umbrella; of course, you clean them thoroughly, in vinegar and boiling water. Then you put the flour on the
scannaturu
, which would be that plank of wood, what do you all call it? The cutting board. Form a sort of volcano, with a hole in the middle, and pour lukewarm water in a little at a time, until youâve made a loaf of dough, smooth as can be, and soft to the touch. At that point,â and here she