The Art of Killing Well (14 page)

The dinner guests looked at one another for a moment with a touch of dismay in their eyes.

It was well known that when the doctor, already quite prolix by nature, started talking about socialism and government you couldn't shut him up. In fact the only way to reduce him to silence would have been to throw him out of the house. But that seemed less feasible now, after he had treated the baron, which was why most of those at the table (who, by the way, did not care a fig about politics) were overcome with anxiety.

“Just now, you were talking about the penal code: May I remind you that the Zanardelli code that people are talking about was actually passed in the early months of the Crispi government? And it was at last a code based on humanitarian principles, which mentions the divisibility of punishment, not a collection of laws drawn up specially to execute whoever commits an offence, and is equally applicable to all the regions of the kingdom. It is thanks to this that we can at last call ourselves a truly united country, by God. But you know …”

From the end of the table came a sudden snort, a kind of strangled laugh, as if it had remained entangled in the imposing whiskers belonging to the man responsible.

“Are you alright, Signor Artusi?”

Artusi made an affirmative sign with his hand, then turned red in the face and began to move his head up and down like a big turkey.

“Oh, my God, did a bone stick in your throat?” said Signorina Cosima anxiously, rising from her chair.

Artusi nodded.

“Wait, here I am … Please remain calm and don't move a muscle. The best thing to do in this case … If you'll allow me to give you a few pats on the back …”

At the idea, perhaps, of being touched by Signorina Cosima, Artusi had such a violent hiccup that the trapped morsel broke free of his illustrious gullet and went down the right way, thus sparing the dinner guests the inconvenience of two deaths in the same weekend. Then he knocked back a large glass of water with great pleasure while the gathering, heartened by this diversion which had strangled the doctor's speech at birth, clustered around him, full of concern.

“Did you get it out?”

“Oh, my poor dear.”

“Are you feeling better now?”

“Can you breathe freely?”

“Here, have some more water. Little sips, please.”

Artusi obeyed, while Signorina Cosima looked at him with amorous anxiety.

“Please forgive me, I'm mortified. I became distracted because I was so absorbed and interested in our doctor's speech that …”

Oh, no, please don't say that. You managed to silence him, and now you're giving him the chance to start all over again.

“I thought you were overcome with a fit of laughter,” said Lapo wickedly.

“I had the same impression,” concurred Gaddo.

That'll teach you to mind your own business, and next time you can choke in peace.

Artusi mumbled for a moment, then resumed, “Well, the thing is, the doctor was saying that, with the enactment of the new penal code, thanks to the work of Crispi and Zanardelli, ours would finally be a united country.”

“I gather you do not agree.”

“Trees don't grow from the top down, Dottore Bertini.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Watch out, Pellegrino.

Artusi was a shy person, that much was true, but especially when he was young, there had been two specific kinds of situation in which he lost all restraint and became inflamed with passion to such a point that it was difficult to hold him back. The second situation in which this loss of self-control occurred was in political discussions.

As a member of Giovine Italia and a fervent Mazzinian, our bewhiskered friend from Romagna had held the same principles that animated the doctor. But now, having lived long and seen much, he knew that the ideals of which people speak are so elevated that the man who follows them, because of always looking upwards, often does not see where he is putting his feet.

And when he talked to young idealists, Artusi often lost his temper.

This time, being at a nobleman's table, he immediately calmed down.

“I do not dispute that to be united a country must have laws in common, and that is a great goal to aim for. I merely observe that trees don't grow from the top down. It takes time, fertiliser, a yardstick. This country has consisted since time immemorial of two large, unrelated sections, and to claim that they can become a single country with a snap of the fingers, just by passing laws, strikes me, frankly, as too much to hope.”

“Signor Artusi is right,” Lapo cut in. “We are one country, the South is another. There was no need to burden us with such backward provinces. People who organise subversive movements, like those Fasci who want a socialist revolution and have put the country to fire and sword.”

“Forgive me, Signorino Lapo, but that's not what I meant at all. I hope our country will become one, I truly do. What I'm trying to say is that using the force of the law to unite two such different regions isn't the right way.”

“Well, as far as I'm concerned, I really don't see the need,” said Lapo. “We're as different as oil and water. We couldn't mix even if we wanted to.”

In the silence that followed, while Ispettore Artistico tried to establish the right attitude to adopt towards the young fool – indifference, a show of authority, hitting him in the mouth with a tray – Artusi laughed and wiped his moustaches with a professorial air.

“What are you eating, Signorino Lapo? I mean, with what is your fish dressed?”

“With mayonnaise. Would you like to taste it?”

“No, thank you. Do you know what mayonnaise is composed of?”

“I have no idea. I'm sure there's egg. And lemon, I think.”

“Exactly right. Now, tell me, do you know how it's made?”

Silence. Cooking is woman's work, said Lapo's eyes. The only thing a real man does in the kitchen is to creep up behind the cook and … well, no need to continue.

“Then please allow me a brief culinary digression. Mayonnaise is a stable emulsion of oil in a watery base, constituted by lemon juice and vinegar. In practice, it's like a whole lot of tiny drops of oil spread through a watery base. The stability of such drops is given by a component of egg yolk known as lecithin.”

Artusi drew two or three drops in the air.

“Lecithin is a molecule which is believed to be shaped like a kind of tadpole – forgive the crudeness of this explanation – which has a hydrophilic head, that is, a head which melts in water, and a lipophilic tail, that is, a tail which melts in oils and fats. When we beat water and oil together, the drops which form are stabilised by the presence of these small tadpoles, which arrange themselves with their tails inside the drop and with their heads in the water, thus anchoring the surface of the drop in its own watery environment and avoiding the emulsion breaking up and the whole thing turning back to oil floating in water.”

“Well explained,” said the doctor.

“Indeed,” said Gaddo. “But what of it?”

“What of it? Simply that to make mayonnaise we need to proceed calmly and methodically. If we put everything together
and then beat it, nasty lumps form. In the trade, it is said to have curdled. We have to put the egg yolks in a bowl, beat them a little, and then slowly add a trickle of oil and stir with a spoon until everything is well mixed. Very slowly at first, almost drop by drop, and then towards the end we can increase the speed with which we add the oil, but not too much. Then, at the end, we add lemon juice or vinegar or even, as the French do, mustard.”

“And what are you trying to get at with this explanation?”

“What I'm trying to get at is mayonnaise. Something that isn't water and isn't oil, and yet is even more precious than the components with which we start, with a thick, creamy texture all of its own, even though it is obtained by mixing liquids. Partly for that reason, and partly because of its versatility, which allows us to flavour it as we please, it is rightly considered the queen of sauces. But it takes patience and method to obtain it, we have to go carefully and slowly. It can't be done with brute force. And we need something that persuades water and oil to stay together, that works on both in the same way, especially as, if the mayonnaise curdles, the only way to save it is to add another egg yolk, preferably hard-boiled. There is no point adding lots of salt, or adding more water, or more oil. That won't get us anywhere.”

Dinner was over, and the gathering had divided first by gender (men to the billiard room, women to the sitting room) and then by birth: Lapo and Gaddo had decided to abandon the castle, to take the trap and go to Bolgheri to cheer themselves up a little after
the terrible weekend, and then return nicely rested to their usual activities – that is, although with differing talents and attitudes, to not doing a damned thing from morning to evening.

The non-nobles, apart from the doctor, who had gone to see how the baron was, had remained in the billiard room, not so much because they especially liked each other and wanted to be together as because Ispettore Artistico had expressly asked both of them if he could have a quick word with them.

Alone now, as Ciceri idly sent balls bouncing across the green table, the inspector said, “I'm going to need some explanations from you, if you don't mind.”

“At your disposal, Ispettore,” said Signor Ciceri.

“Would you both be so kind as to tell me the exact purpose of your visit here. In the most detailed and exhaustive way possible. Will you begin, Signor Artusi?”

“As you wish, Ispettore. You may know that I enjoy a certain fame as a gourmet, having some time ago published a small book of recipes. Well, this spring I went to Montecatini to take the waters, as I do every year, and I lodged at the Locanda Maggiore, as did our host, the baron. On that occasion we started reminiscing about how different the spa had been when both of us had started going there, since the baron, too, was an enthusiastic visitor to the place. I should explain, Ispettore, that when I went to Montecatini for the first time there was no other accommodation but the Locanda dei Frati, apart from a woman named Carmela Calugi who rented out rooms. The water was free, and the village peaceful: not like now, when there are taverns, hotels, theatres,
and every kind of entertainment. Mind you, I'm not saying that's a bad thing. When—”

The inspector raised his hand to interrupt Artusi.

Although having neither the moustache nor the glittering eye nor the bony hand of Coleridge's Ancient Mariner, the inspector was able to recognise the birth pangs of a never-ending story, and did not want to spend half the evening listening to the story of Artusi's youth.

“Forgive me, Signor Artusi, but would you mind getting to the point?”

“I'm sorry, Ispettore, but this is the point. The baron talked to me about how the hotel situation had changed over the years, and I could only concur. To cut a long story short, he told me of a plan of his – in brief, to use part of his castle as a hotel for visitors and tourists of a certain lineage – and he asked me for my opinion. Somewhat impudently perhaps, I told him that, having never lodged with him, I did not know what to say.”

Artusi picked up a ball and threw it towards one of the cushions, sending it unwittingly into the hole.

“In truth, the idea struck me as a little odd. I mean, Ispettore, would you expect tourists to come to the moors of the Maremma, filled as they are with marshes and mosquitoes? By way of reply, he told me I was right and invited me to spend some time here. As a lover of good living, he said. You'll try my food, my rooms, my stables …”

The inspector shuddered at the thought of the poor horse.

“… and then you'll tell me what you think. What was I to do,
Ispettore? So here I am. To be cynical, I have to admit that so far I certainly haven't been bored.”

“Thank you. And what about you, Signor Ciceri?”

“Well, Ispettore, there isn't much to say. The baron made my acquaintance in Florence, where he visited my photographic studio and asked me if it was possible to photograph his castle and take a few pictures of the hunt and the life of the place. The offer was an attractive one, and the price favourable. And here I am.”

“I understand. Well, gentlemen, there is nothing else to say. It has been a long day, and we all deserve a little amusement.”

Smiling, the inspector went and took a cue from the rack. Simultaneously Artusi rose from his chair, also smiling.

“You will excuse me, Ispettore, but these games do nothing for me. When I'm at a table I prefer to be sitting rather than bending.”

With that paunch of yours, you'd need a cue that was three metres long even to reach the table.

“Apart from anything else,” concluded Artusi, smoothing his unkempt whiskers, “I must call on the cook.”

“Is there a little hanky-panky going on?” asked Signor Ciceri mischievously as he took a cue for himself.