Cabaret (20 page)

E
arly the next morning I went down to the market and filled two baskets with provisions. I bought the hottest chilies I could find, ripe tomatoes, garlic, onions, a big bunch of basil, and some salad leaves. From the fishmonger, Selmo Manfredi (who didn’t recognize me and called me Barbara, although I had known him for years), I got some wonderful eels, which swam around happily in their plastic bag of water. I bought fresh
maccheroni
at the Pastificio Gobbo, and eggs from the chicken man. Lastly, I picked up two bottles of red wine, a box of candles, a bunch of marigolds for the table, and fruit: nectarines, figs, apricots, strawberries, and cherries.

When I arrived at work, Signora Dorotea didn’t recog-from now on nize me either initially, and thought I was a customer wanting to arrange a funeral.

“Freda, what’s happened to your hair?” she screamed.

“Looks like you’ve had an electric shock.”

“It’s the latest thing,” I said, but I don’t think she was convinced.

It was so good to be back.We sat over a cup of coffee and some pastries, and caught up on everything that had happened. I told her the staggering news that Uncle Birillo had left Aunt Ninfa for someone called Mimosa Pernice.

“Sometimes, Freda, I think you go around with your eyes shut,” she said. “He’s been seeing her since 1957 to my certain knowledge.”

“Sometimes,” I replied, “you think you know everything.

But there’s one thing you definitely don’t know.”

“What’s that?” she asked, her eyes gleaming with impatience to hear the gossip.

“You don’t know who’s coming to have dinner with me tonight.”

“Ooooooh,” she said, delighted. “I think I can guess!” Just then the telephone on the desk rang, and Signora Dorotea picked it up.

“Onranze Funebri Pompi,” she announced in her deep business voice. After a pause she added, “Just one moment,” and handed me the receiver.

“Freda?” came a voice I immediately recognized.

“I came through for you, didn’t I? All it took was a few phone calls from me. Now, one good turn deserves another.

I’ll rub yours if you rub mine and all that. I got a stiff sitting here, see, and it needs to disappear, no questions asked, and I think to myself, Freda’s the girl to help me out here…”

“No,” I said loudly. “No, no, no.” And then I put the phone down.

S
ignora Dorotea sent me off early to prepare myself, and by six I was in my little kitchen brewing the hottest chili sauce in history.
Aphrodisiac Foods
assured me the hotter the chili, the more fiery the passion—

so I was taking no chances and chopped five big ones and sautéed them in oil with an onion and a lot of garlic. Then I added my sun-ripened tomatoes, salt, and torn leaves of basil.

I left it cooking slowly on a low heat, and soon the intoxicating perfume was drifting through the apartment and out into the street causing passersby to raise their noses into the air.

The
maccheroni
, in its white paper bag, was set by the stove and would be plunged into boiling water at the last minute. This would be combined with the sauce and served for the first course.

Next, the eels, which I had been keeping in the bathroom basin. Grasping each in turn, I killed them by delivering them a smart blow to the back of the head with the rolling pin.Then I skinned them, gutted them, gave them a brisk rub down with a cloth to remove their shine, and sliced them into chunks. Interspersed with coarse sea salt and fresh bay leaves, they would roast gently in the oven, releasing their sumptu-ous perfume. “Eels, as everybody knows, are a potent aphrodisiac,” announced the recipe book. “Serve these to your lover and wait for the temperature to rise.” Finally I washed and dried my wild salad leaves and arranged them on a platter and piled the succulent fruits into a dish.

Then I set the table and put the marigolds in the center, dotted a few candles around the room, put a record on the stereo, and opened the wine to breathe. I stood back to admire my handiwork, and I do think I had arranged it all rather well.

I had an hour left to prepare myself. First, I took a hot deep bath to which I added a long draft of Pure Passion (
guaranteed to promote lust,
it said on the label,
or your money back
). I raised my leg and looked at it closely. It was as strong now as it ever was.The color had returned to normal, and the wound where the snake bit me was now scarcely visible. I knew that at last I would be having sex, and I could hardly control myself at the thought of it. Although I had been waiting twenty-six years and approximately seventy-eight days, I honestly didn’t think I could wait a moment longer.

I got out before I began to pucker, dried, rubbed in lo-tion, stirred the tomato sauce, and generally wandered about naked singing to myself with a delicious feeling of anticipation bubbling up inside me. It was now seven-forty and I knew I had to get dressed. In the bedroom I looked straight into another eye through the hole in the floor. Nello Tontini. Peeping Tom. Well, let him look. I didn’t care. In fact I jiggled about a bit provocatively on purpose.

I had it in mind to wear the long red dress with the plunging neckline and the thigh-high slit in the skirt, together with the very flimsy coordinating underwear. Nello Tontini approved. I could tell by the steam rising up through the hole. I just had time to fling on a pair of shoes, slick on some lipstick, fluff out the perm, and light the candles before there was a tap on the door.

Sure enough, it was the Detective. He lurched when he saw me.

“Freda,” he gasped, “you look different.”

“It’s my hair,” I replied. “I had it done.” He came inside, and his intoxicating aroma overwhelmed me. The smoldering look in his dark eyes showed me I wouldn’t be disappointed. He was wearing a smart black suit, and a pink shirt with an open collar. He handed me a box of chocolates.

In the parlor, Pierino and Gloria were intent on their courtship rituals on the back of the sofa. She had ruffled her feathers, and he was preening them gently. I turned on the music—a Brazilian samba—which they seemed to like. Perhaps it reminded them of home.

“Dance?” I asked the Detective.

And we began to move, sometimes holding each other close—and his body felt hard and strong and warm—and sometimes, when the music dictated, at arm’s length, twirling and shimmying in time to the beat. The Detective was an ex-cellent dancer, I have to say—he was very fast on his feet for a man his height, and he had a natural rhythm. When we finally came to a halt, breathless and laughing, I noticed the parrots had broken off their nibbling, and were looking at us in astonishment.

Now that the initial ice had melted, we chatted with ease about work, the weather, the trials of city life in the summer heat. I poured him a glass of wine.The food was almost ready.

By candlelight I served the first course of
maccheroni al-l’arrabbiata,
and watched intently as the Detective raised the initial forkful to his lips. Soon tears came into his eyes and his nose began to stream.

“It’s,” he gasped, “very”—then he started coughing, and hurried to swallow his wine—“good,” he spluttered. “Hot”—

pant—“just how I”—croak—“like it.”

“I like it hot too,” I said, looking deep into his eyes, and at the same time licking my lips ostentatiously. Now it was my turn to taste the dish. I put a morsel into my mouth and immediately felt the most intense burning sensation as it exploded on my tongue, set fire to my gums, and scalded my throat.

I ran into the kitchen, spat into the garbage, and stuck my head, with my mouth open, under the tap.

The Detective followed me in. “Are you all right?” he asked. “Can I get you a glass?” He went to the cupboard and reached one down (it seemed he knew where everything was, but of course he had already conducted a thorough search of the place). While I tried to cool my ravaged throat—I now knew just how a trainee fire-eater feels—the Detective flipped through
Aphrodisiac Foods
with a smile on his chili-stung lips.

“I think,” I said in a strange strangulated voice, “we’ll move right along to the main course.” I opened the oven and reached in for the eels. Their bulging eyes looked at me with reproach. I could feel the Detective standing close behind me, and the air between our two bodies was fizzing with electricity.

I had the Detective carry in the salad while I followed with the eels.

“Mmmmm, Freda, these are amazing,” he said with his mouth full. “You know, I read somewhere once that eels are a powerful aphrodisiac.”

“Is that right?” I replied. “I didn’t know that.” Whether it was true or not, they were certainly delicious, and we soon ate them all up.

The light outside began to fade. The room grew warmer.

The Detective removed his jacket, releasing more of his seductive body odor.The wine somehow disappeared from both bottles.

We moved on to the fruit, and the Detective fed me a seg-ment of nectarine across the table with his fingers. I opened my mouth and allowed him to put it inside. It was a perfect fruit, so juicy, and soft, and felt so good on my swollen tongue. Some of the juice escaped from my lips and trickled down into my cleavage.

“Allow me,” murmured the Detective.

He came and knelt at my side, and started licking the glistening trail of juice.When his tongue touched my skin, involuntarily I shot up into the air. It was the most erotic experience of my entire life. I sprawled back in my chair with abandon and allowed the Detective to lick every bit of exposed flesh (I have to confess I even tried to expose more of it by pulling surreptitiously at my dress). Often I let out little gasps and squeals of delight—I couldn’t help myself.

I felt like a double bass feels when its very deepest notes are being played. There was the plucking of a string—a res-onating—in my groin that was making me lurch. I grabbed hold of the Detective’s head and pulled his mouth toward mine.We began kissing with such passion that my chair tipped over backward and we fell to the floor with a crash. Thankfully neither of us was hurt, and we were able to laugh about it.

Quickly, anxious not to lose the moment, I climbed on top of him, held his face between my hands, and pressed my lips hard into his. Oh, his kisses were electrifying! I had to have so many of them. All of them. I never wanted them to stop. It was all so urgent. I was seized with a kind of desperation I could never have imagined before this moment.

I knew I had to get his clothes off. And I had to get them off right now. It couldn’t wait. I ripped off his shirt, then fought with his pants, thrashing and flailing with a determina-tion he found funny.

I tore off my own dress, sending a cloud of sequins tinkling into the air, and unencumbered by the long skirt, I was able to get more of a grip on the Detective’s underwear.

At last he was naked, and I feasted my eyes upon him. His willy was the most magnificent thing I had ever seen. It was twice the size of Ernesto Porcino’s, and I couldn’t wait to sample its delights.

I reached toward it. At this precise moment a key turned in the front door. If it was Nello Tontini, I would murder him with an ax. Then Pierino started squawking madly and flapping his wings,

“Papa!” he shrieked. “Papa’s home!”

A big thank you to:

The inspirational Roger Gillman, and the staff at Gillman’s Funeral Service

The unparalleled Julia Serebrinsky The dauntless duo, Jean Naggar and Jennifer Weltz The incredible Christopher Prior

L
ily Prior is the author of the novels
La Cucina,
Nectar, Ardor,
and
Cabaret.
She lives in London and Italy with her husband, baby son, and pug.

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