The Art of Killing Well (3 page)

“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.

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 their 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.

The baron was as gracious as always, as if we were at Montecatini taking the waters; but over the rest of the family, if this were a letter and not a diary, it would be appropriate to draw a veil. One of the two sons, Gaddo, seems to hate me for no apparent reason. But at least he limits himself to sarcasm, which is more than can be said for his younger brother, who has accused me almost openly of being a usurer. As for the distaff side, the baron's daughter is probably not a bad person, but I fear she is much too
clever for the rest of the family, except perhaps for the dowager baroness, Speranza, who sends shivers down one's spine at the mere sight of her; then there are the two old maids of the family – there always have to be old maids in these places – together with their dog, a snarling ball of fur to which I have already been forced to administer a few good kicks in order to keep it away from my trousers.

Given the circumstances, the atmosphere at the dinner table was not idyllic, and after my visit to the kitchen I preferred to retire, which was not the case with the castle's other guest, Signor Ciceri, who has been invited here to photograph the baron and his family, and who seems to me the classic upstart peasant in gentleman's clothes.

To sum up, I came here to relax and spend a few quiet days, and it seems that I will have to find that quiet by myself. Let us hope things improve tomorrow, and that we have good hunting!