Vipers by Maurizio de Giovanni, Antony Shugaar Read Free Book Online Page B

acted it out with her hands, “flatten and roll out the sausages of dough around the umbrella ribs.”
    Enrica, satisfied, nodded her head.
    â€œBut none of this is the real secret. The proof of a good cook is making sure that the fusilli are all the same, because that ensures that they’ll cook uniformly; if there are some that are thicker and others that are finer, it’s practically impossible for them to cook right—some will be raw in the center while others will be overcooked. You need patience: the ones that don’t turn out right have to be rolled out again. But once you have the touch, there are no problems and you can do it the first time. And I think you, my girl, have plenty of patience, am I right?”
    Enrica sighed.
    â€œYes, Signora, I have plenty of patience. My father calls it being hardheaded, to tell the truth; but when he says it he smiles and strokes my cheek.”
    Rosa laughed, a fine infectious laugh.
    â€œWell, that’s certainly true, from a certain point of view you could call patience being hardheaded. And with my young master, one needs a great deal of patience. The point is that he doesn’t know what he wants. Men never know what they want, and you know why not? Because they think that the world ends tomorrow, so they only worry about what’s happening today. But we women can see as clear as the light of day what’s going to happen next, and we have to be responsible for it. So a little at a time . . .”
    Enrica continued:
    â€œ. . . a little at a time we need to lead them to do what we want them to do, letting them think that it was all their idea.”
    Rosa clapped her hands, contentedly.
    â€œThat’s exactly right, well done, my girl! But now you should leave, because he’s about to get here and if you don’t you won’t manage to run into him on the stairs. By now he’s used to that, you should see his face, like a corpse’s, when he misses you by just a minute.”
    The young woman stood up and gave the elderly lady a kiss on the cheek, then she ran for the door. Rosa’s words followed her down the stairs:
    â€œAnd tomorrow we’ll talk about the ragú!”
    Â 
    She had just stepped out the front door when he appeared before her, as if they’d made a date.
Buonasera
, she said to him.
Buonasera
, he replied.
    She even liked his voice: deep and full of emotion. She found him irresistible; she could understand why a woman like that Signora from up north, that rich, elegant, and shameless woman who drove around in a car with a chauffeur, would have developed a crush on him, though she could have had all the men she wanted. But she was also convinced that the way to his heart that she had chosen was the right one.
    She hesitated, then stopped and said:
    â€œYou know, Signora Rosa . . . that trembling in her hand is getting worse, I think. Sorry, I know it’s none of my business, but . . .”
    He interrupted her, in a sad voice:
    â€œDon’t say that. Your visits give her great pleasure; she’s so happy, I leave her alone for far too much time. I know, she’s not well. But it’s not easy for me to think that she’s growing older. You know, I . . . I have no one but her.”
    She wanted to hold him tight, crying out that it wasn’t true—that he wasn’t alone and would never again be alone, if only he could say that’s what he wanted.
    Instead, she just said:
buonasera
.

IX
    O n the morning of March 22nd, the springtime decided on a sudden and precocious change of attitude. The sky turned gray and the wind sprang up, a hot wind that stirred the sweet smells together with the rank odors that rose from the
vicoli
down in the harbor and in the Spanish Quarter, disorienting dogs, horses, and people who had believed that the season had changed once and for all.
    Ricciardi, as usual, got to police headquarters very early.