The Body in the Piazza (22 page)

She continued to walk them through the steps, making a mound of the flours with a well in the center, adding water, and kneading. Faith felt her mood improve. She was on her second glass of wine and everyone was having so much fun. They'd moved on to the kneading stage—kneading, the rhythm and feel of the dough becoming a smooth mass, was always comforting.

“How are you doing, sweetheart?” she asked Tom. It wasn't the gnocchi he had said he wanted to make, but it was close. She'd teach him to make gnocchi when they got back home if he wanted.

“This is great, but hard work. Do we really have to knead for so long?”

“If you want good
pici,
yes,” Faith said.

“We could have a peachy
pici
party in Maine this summer,” Tom said. “And challenge the guests to say it ten times?” She decided to indulge her husband. Just so long as he didn't bring up gnocchi and nookie.

“What kind of sauce are we making for the pasta?” Hattie asked.

“The dough will need to rest for thirty minutes or more—up to an hour—so I thought we would make three sauces then and also
Il Secondo
—a pan-seared veal chop with sage and balsamic vinegar that gets finished off in the oven. But for now, why don't we take our glasses outside—you know Italians live outside whenever we can—and Mario will bring a few things we made for the antipasto?”

“
Perché no
—why not?” Luke said. “This is a very useful Italian phrase, like
andiamo,
so let's do it, let's go!”

He had certainly adapted well to the Italian way of life, Faith thought. She wondered whether he had roots in the country. The French people she knew would consider it high treason to leave their native
pays
except for vacations. No matter how old or rich a culture, what language was spoken, the scenic splendors, and above all the cuisine, there was no place for them that came close to La Belle France.

It was still light out, which made the days seem to go on forever. Tom looked slightly bronzed, the result of all the sunshine. There had not been a drop of rain the whole trip. Faith knew the growers needed it for the grapes and olives, but was thankful bad weather hadn't spoiled their precious time here. As for the other things, the things that were not at all precious, she packed them up in the storage containers of her mind and reached for a
crostini
. Francesca had made some with different toppings from those of the other night. Faith picked one thickly spread with olive pesto, made tangy, Francesca had explained, by adding capers and a squeeze of lemon to the garlic and olive puree. Faith loved the traditional pesto with EVOO, basil, and pignoli, but liked to vary it with pestos made from parsley, mint, arugula, or cilantro—but always lots of garlic. She followed the pesto
crostini
with lardo, a succulent sliver of that heavenly fat on the toasted bread—why were all the things that tasted so good so bad for you?

They were talking about cookbooks. Olivia mentioned Elizabeth David, which seemed to find favor with Constance, who then brought up the person who she declared started it all—Mrs. Beeton.

“It's been
the
food bible for over a hundred and fifty years. I can tell you it's on my shelf—right next to that adorable Jamie Oliver.”

Clearly Constance had a weakness for attractive men. As usual she was sitting next to, and close to, Luke. It made Faith think more kindly of the difficult woman, so she didn't correct her. Poor Isabella Beeton was dead at twenty-eight, never knowing she would become quite literally a household name and also never hearing the criticism that most of her recipes were copied from other sources. Not that she had claimed they were original, but Faith kept her mouth firmly shut as she savored one more
crostini
—chicken liver this time. No need to smash Constance's kitchen idol.

Luke had no such compunction, offering up his own lares and penates. “
Cara signora,
I'm afraid your Mrs. Beeton is a recent addition. The honor of the first cookery writer goes to our own Caelius Apicius.
De Re Coquinaria,
‘On the Subject of Cooking,' was written in the late fourth century for professional chefs in Rome.”

“Is that the book that describes all those Roman favorites like ostriches, peacocks, and even little dormice?” Sally turned the corners of her mouth down.

Luke nodded. “It was translated sometime in the 1930s, and while not—what do you call it, a page turner?—it's interesting to see how many of the things we prize today, like truffles, as well as cooking techniques, are the same.”

“I would like to see a copy of that book,” Francesca said. “Perhaps we could duplicate some of the more simple recipes.”

Faith had looked through the book a long time ago, and what she remembered was that whoever wrote it, another culinary conundrum, had been an early proponent of letting nothing go to waste. It seemed every part of the animal, and the vegetables, was used as stuffing or was stuffed. She was surprised to hear that Sally was familiar with the book, although Dover Press had a current reprint. She was not surprised, however, that Luke was. He was an epicure obviously. But what was that about “our own Caelius Apicius”? The Frenchman was becoming more Italian with each passing day.

The
crostini
had made her thirsty and she needed some water. She tried to catch Francesca's eye. They should be going inside soon. Sufficient time had passed to let the dough rest before making the pasta, but Francesca, and Gianni also, were deep in conversation with their guests. She had the feeling the Rossis were staging the evening as they had the whole day, the whole week so far. When people were having a good time, they let it go on. The dough would still be fine twenty minutes or so from now. Deciding not to wait for some water, Faith went around the house to the back door of the kitchen and walked over to the sink to fill her empty glass from the tap.

Mario was at one of the stations. He was startled by her entry and dropped the container he'd been holding. Salt spilled all over the floor. He looked horrified, and she wondered what the big deal was—extremely superstitious? And then everything became clear.

It was Mario. Mario spoiling the cream, Mario depositing decapitated
serpi
in the tubs, and now Mario mixing fine salt into the flour that they would be using to dust the tables, and the finished pasta as well. It would ruin the dish.

He started speaking rapidly in Italian and as she was trying to figure out how she could prevent him from taking off and get one of the Rossis at the same time, Francesca came through the other door.

“I think we are ready to finish making the meal.” She had a big smile on her face that did not disappear when she saw the mess. She said something that Faith assumed was along the lines of “no problem, get a broom.”

“It's Mario! Mario is the one playing all these nasty tricks!” Faith stretched her arm out and pointed her finger at him. How to say “
J'accuse
” in Italian?

“What are you talking about?” Francesca's eyes went to the table and she took it all in. Immediately she rushed across the kitchen, grabbed his arm, and began yelling.

“Do you want me to get Gianni—and Tom?” Faith asked. Reinforcements seemed like a good idea.

She wasn't sure Francesca had heard her, she was shouting so loud, and then suddenly she stopped. Mario was sobbing some words out. A little boy caught, soon to be punished. Francesca pushed him onto one of the stools. He didn't move a muscle.

“What to do? What to do?” Francesca said, looking over at her friend.

It seemed pretty obvious to Faith. If not have him arrested, then immediately escort him off the premises. What had Mario said that was causing Francesca to hesitate, as she clearly was?

“There is a woman,” Francesca said, “not too far from here who has a cooking school, has had it for many years. I spoke to her to tell her we were going to be doing this. She wished me luck and said she had more students than she could take. That there was room for everybody.”

“She changed her mind?” Faith said. She knew where this was going. Francesca nodded. “It's not that she's losing students. At least that's what Mario says, but when she thought about it she wanted to be the only one.”

“That's ridiculous! There are cooking classes and cooking schools all over Tuscany—and especially in this area!”

“I shouldn't have gone to her in the first place. Maybe she wouldn't have known about us.”

“So she hired Mario to make sure you failed.”

Francesca paused to unleash another stream of invective in Italian at the hapless young man.

“He paid Alberto to quit, which Alberto wanted to do anyway, because he has a girlfriend in Milano and he was afraid she might leave him if he was gone for so long. I'm afraid I have no choice, Faith. I need someone for the classes, especially for the rest of this one.” She paused. “I never told Gianni about what has been happening, so I don't have to tell him now.”

“But can you trust Mario? What will he tell that woman, and by the way, she's the real villain here!”

“I think I can trust him now. He has rented his place in the Roma apartment and has nowhere to go, no job. It's not a good time to be without work, especially for the young people. He won't find another one easily and he knows his way around a kitchen. As for the woman, he will tell her he was discovered and if she makes more trouble, we will go to the
polizia
. She will stay away from us.”

Faith thought a moment. “If anything more happens, you'll know where to look and he'll have that hanging over his head, so maybe this isn't such a bad idea.”

And, she said to herself, now we know it wasn't one of the group. There was an odd sort of relief in that. She'd been so sure there had been an undercurrent. Well, there still was, but at least it wasn't slithering.

“Look, you go and stall people a little more,” Francesca said. “Pour more wine. I want to talk to him and be sure.”

Mario had stopped crying and now looked completely terrified. Francesca was scary when she was mad. Faith had seen it once all those years ago and if she'd been Mario, she'd be shaking in her boots, too, or rather the chef Mario Batali–like Crocs he was wearing.

Out on the terrace, there was no need to stall. As at the picnic, no one seemed to want to move. Tom was asking Gianni about buses to Siena. Faith knew he wanted to visit the cathedral and especially the adjoining Piccolomini Library with its sixteenth-century Pinturicchio frescoes. He'd confessed to her that he wouldn't mind taking a little time off from the culinary part of the week, and it seemed like tomorrow was the best choice. Friday was the last day, and he wanted to be here for that—everyone would depart Saturday morning and the new group would arrive on Sunday, as they had. Thinking about the new arrivals coming on the heels of those departing, Faith knew Francesca was right. She couldn't fire Mario. Gianni's sister had filled in before, but it had been difficult for her to leave her family, and she only spoke Italian. Faith resolved to have a little heart-to-heart with the young man before she left, however. She might be across an ocean, but she'd be watching him.

“There is a very good bus from the village. I can take you in the morning. Siena is not far. If you like, you could take my scooter instead,” Gianni said.

Faith saw her husband's eyes light up. She also saw herself in black throwing a rose on top of a coffin, Ben and Amy clinging tearfully to her. She started to object. It wasn't Tom's ability to manage the Vespa, it was the other guys . . .

“It's very tempting, except Faith wants to stay here, and Gina Lollobrigida isn't available to sit pillion, so I think I'll stick with the bus, but thank you.”

“Now
that
was an actress,” Len said. “I must have been, I don't know, in my teens and we went to some artsy movie theater in Montclair that was showing old Bogie movies and we saw her in
Beat the Devil
. Mamma mia!”

“Maybe I should get a pail of water from the pool and throw it at you,” Terry said, gesturing with her half-full wineglass. It seemed she'd toss that, but instead she drained it and gave her husband a wicked look. “So like you're going to pay for implants?”

Time to change the subject.

“Be sure to bring back some
panforte
for the kids,” Faith said. “I know it's sold all over, but it will be special to have it come from Siena.”

Hattie piped up, “It's not like Aunt Sister's fruitcake, that's for sure! I think I still have a couple of them from the 1980s.”

Again Faith gave a thought to the aunt/niece's food knowledge.
Panforte
was indeed an Italian fruitcake.

“I don't know what your aunt's recipe involves,” she said. “And maybe it's one of those fruitcakes that's supposedly been passed around from family to family, trying to get rid of it for years, but
panforte
is
quite different from what we think of as fruitcake. It has dried fruit—always lemons and oranges—almonds and honey, but it's moist and chewy, thin with confectioner's sugar on top.”

“It sounds delicious,” Sky said. “I've never heard of it.”

Gianni chimed in, “It is from the medieval time and even though you can find it other places, Siena is the place where it's most famous. Some say that you have to have seventeen ingredients for the seventeen
contrade
in the town.”

“Why don't I bring back enough for us to have as dessert tomorrow night?” Tom offered just as Francesca
and
Mario came outside.

“
Grazie mille,
Tom. Now, time to work,” she called gaily. “Roll up your sleeves.”