The Art of Killing Well (8 page)

Saturday, 17 June, 1895

To think that only yesterday, arriving at this manor, I imagined peace and quiet, would be to admit I was an idiot. Today's events have been so numerous, and so absurd, that it seems to me madness to write them all down
.

This morning we awoke to a scream and a corpse, which was already a long way from what I consider peace and quiet; as if that were not enough, the dead man did not have the good sense to pass into the other life on his own account, but was reduced to a cadaver by someone else. A police officer (who at least struck me as a decent person) was summoned, and he interviewed all of us and is now, as far as I know, proceeding to question the servants
.

But none of this needs to be written about: one writes a diary to jog one's memory, and I shall remember this murder as long as I live, even if I lose the use of my mind. What I prefer to express on these pages are those feelings which my sense of decorum and my advanced age do not allow me to express in the flesh
.

Today, having retired to a corner of the garden in search of a little of that peace and quiet I had imagined on arriving here, I was distracted by the noise of a young girl weeping bitterly through the branches; and, looking behind the hedge, I was more
than a little surprised to see that it was none other than the proud and beautiful housemaid who showed me to my room yesterday. It is pointless here, with no-one but myself as a witness, to pretend feelings other than those that every man has in seeing a beautiful girl in tears: the desire to take her in his arms and console her, in the various ways that nature suggests, for her sorrows, whatever they may be. Having handed her a cambric handkerchief, I asked her if she had known poor Teodoro well, given that I had noticed she was holding a photographic portrait of the deceased in her hand. After a little more weeping, she told me that she had been betrothed to him, and that they were due to have been married very shortly. Stunned by this, I gazed at the photograph and could find nothing better to say than that he really had been a very handsome young man, thus causing a further outpouring of tears. She told me that the young man had recently found the money they needed to marry, after selling his few possessions to invest in a business together with an acquaintance of his, and he had confided in her that they would be leaving for the city in the following month, and that he intended handing in his notice very soon
.

Such a sad story, told by a young woman of such Junoesque features, could not leave me indifferent, and several times during the course of the day I caught myself thinking of what might have been if I were a good deal younger than I in fact am
.

By way of contrast, after my interrogation dinner was served. To do justice to this occasion would require the pen of one of those fine French poets so beloved of Signorino Gaddo who derive such pleasure from their own and other people's misfortunes, and who
are so good at narrating the sorrows and anxieties of all and sundry: my own meagre virtues as a scribbler are, I fear, inadequate to the task
.

At dinner, then, I found myself seated between the two Bonaiuti Ferro sisters. The atmosphere was decidedly unreal: one of the two constantly asked me for details of my cooking, the house where I live and my affairs in general, while the other (who it is now clear to me is completely soft in the head) constantly nodded, displaying a three-toothed smile that would have made a pig lose its appetite. This grotesque conversation took place in the most absolute silence, in that none of the other dinner guests had any desire to talk, which is only understandable. To make matters worse, throughout the dinner I had the eyes of the baron's two sons on me, both looking at me as if I had just vomited on my plate
.

Of Signorina Cosima's intentions there can be no more doubts, I fear. I got my last two sisters off my hands only with great difficulty, paying a thousand francesconi each out of my own pocket to marry them off, and I have had enough of dealing with old maids about the house to want to have any under my feet again
.

I also have a fairly clear idea now of what the baron's two sons think of me; if they could, they would clap me in irons and hand me over to the authorities without further ado, as a usurer and a poisoner
.

To sum up, I came here to advise the baron on his kitchens and to spend a quiet week, instead of which I find I am in danger of being either accused of murder or betrothed to a mad old woman who could be silenced only with quicklime. I shall have to follow
the story of the two white stones and find a way to get out as soon as possible; after which, if the good Barone di Roccapendente wants to see me again, he will have to wait to be invited to my house
.

On Sunday morning, the castle awoke drenched in rain. The bad weather had begun during the night, and it continued unabated all morning, heedless of the baron's plans (he had been hoping to offer his guests a walk in the woods with rifles on their shoulders, to bag a few fowl to be roasted) and much to the joy of the labourers (for once, they could stay in on a Sunday and wouldn't have to break their backs in the fields). It is particularly awful when it rains and is hot; because staying indoors is stifling, but it is not advisable to go out. Only a madman would go out in such weather. That was why the individual in the oilskin cloak and boots who was heading for the gazebo facing the pond must have been decidedly deranged.

Having reached the shelter of the gazebo, the madman removed his cloak, revealing two beautiful white whiskers to the world. If the author wanted to show off his pointless erudition, now would be the right moment to tell you that this type of facial appendage is technically called
favoris en côtellette
, and was considered extremely elegant by gentlemen in the mid-nineteenth century. Since, however, the author suspects that very few of you have a genuine interest in the formal classification of the various
kinds of whisker, it may be better to drop the matter.

Having also divested himself of his boots, Signor Artusi sat down circumspectly on one of the deckchairs in the gazebo, searched in his jacket, took out the book with the illustrated cover that had so disgusted Signorino Gaddo, and opened it with great pleasure, resting his chin on his chest to be able to read better, and there he remained, like a big walrus with a book in its hand.

One of the problems of having
favoris en côtellette
, as you all know, derives from the fact that, when it rains, they become somewhat wet and, if you happen to have a book in front of you, they tend to drip water on it at the slightest movement. That is probably why, if someone wants to appear really repellent, nowadays, he does not grow side whiskers like an Austro-Hungarian army officer, but gets himself a nice piercing under the lip, which is much quicker.

For this reason, after a few minutes spent dripping over the pages, Artusi closed the book and put it down on the wooden floor of the gazebo. Almost immediately, a cheerful, crystalline voice made itself heard above the rain:

“If you've finished, you could lend it to me.”

Artusi lifted his head in surprise, then broke into a genuine smile. “Signorina Cecilia, what a surprise. Please, come and take shelter.”

“I thank you, but there's almost no need, it's easing off,” said Cecilia, also freeing herself of a kind of rainproof cloak. “Some of the servants told me they had seen you going out, and I thought this was the only place I would find you.”

“That was a good deduction. Here I am. Would you permit me to ask you what drove you out into the rain to look for me?”

“You have just done so, therefore it is pointless for you to ask permission. My grandmother wanted you to know that, should you wish to attend Mass, our chaplain will celebrate it in the chapel in the garden at eleven o'clock on the dot. I took the liberty of remarking to my grandmother that you struck me as someone who would be more upset to miss a meal than to miss Mass, and by way of reply here I am.”

“I'm sorry, Signorina Cecilia, I shouldn't like anything unfortunate to befall you. As you so rightly observed, I'm not the kind of person to bother with Mass. Please don't misunderstand me: I love the company of priests, but sitting beside me at a wooden table, not standing in front of a marble one.”

“Don't worry, I understand you perfectly. As for the walk in the rain, it is an excellent excuse to be alone for a while without anybody asking me what I am doing. I am almost grateful to you. I am surprised, though, that you prefer a creaky wooden gazebo in the rain rather than a comfortable armchair. If I were not afraid of being indiscreet, I should ask you why.”

Because that old sow, your aunt Cosima, follows me everywhere I go, Artusi would have liked to reply. This morning at breakfast she pestered me for a good hour, and when I went to get my book I heard that cur of hers barking in the drawing room, which meant that the old woman was there and had probably plumped herself down next to the armchair I had singled out for myself. In addition, the beast was barking undisturbed, without
anybody obeying the impulse to give it a kick, a sign that the old busybody must have been on her own. On her own and ready to make eyes at me all morning. I preferred the rain: at least pneumonia kills you quickly.

“A yearning for peace and quiet, like you, signorina,” he said aloud. “I am accustomed to an outdoor life, and for years loved walking in the rain. I feel almost rejuvenated when I can still summon up the courage to do so. Alas, that rarely happens these days.”

“You mean you used to do it often?” Cecilia sighed. “You must have had quite an adventurous life, Signor Artusi. My father speaks of you as being a man of a thousand talents.”

“Oh, your father is too kind.”

“I wouldn't say that. You are a successful merchant, you've written a cookery book which I have heard is of great value. And I know you have also written about literature.”

“That is correct,” said Artusi in a self-important tone. “
Some Observations on Thirty Letters of Giusti
, and a
Biography of Foscolo
. I wrote them, and someone somewhere may even have read them, although I seriously doubt it.”

“In any case, you are a person of encyclopaedic culture, and you know how to apply it to a large number of things.”

“No, signorina, I am simply someone who has been fooled so many times that he has learned it is better to do things for himself in so far as he can, and trust nothing but his own eyes and his own senses. This is very much the case when it comes to cooking. Anyone can say anything he likes in books, but if once having read
my book, the reader is not able to apply my recipe and derive pleasure and nourishment from it, he certainly can't invite me to dinner and have me cook for him. As Giusti says,
Making a book is less than nothing, if the book does not remake people
. And that is the sentence, you know, that gave me the idea of writing my own cookery book.”

Artusi looked at the girl, worried that he might be boring her. Seeing that on the contrary the girl seemed curious, he continued, “I have always liked to eat well. Besides, I come from Romagna, where even though we may not be on the level of Bologna, we have a cuisine worthy of respect. Well, living alone as I do, I began to pay a great deal of attention to the food I was eating, and to become interested in the way it was prepared. I read dozens of books and, believe me, they didn't get me very far. Until one fine day, something happened which was the straw that broke the camel's back. I found some fresh lambs' brains in the market, and wanted to fry them in the Milanese way, because when it comes to fried food there is nobody to touch the Milanese. So I took down Luraschi's
New Economical Milanese Cook
, opened it and began.”

Looking at his young listener, Artusi assumed an expression of interest turning to dismay, and opened wide his arms.

“I still recall that recipe. It's engraved on my memory. This is what it said” – here he adopted a decent imitation of the Milanese accent – “‘Clean and blanch the brain then have it cooked as above: remove it from the brasure, pass it through a sieve, adding a spoonful of flour thickened with two ounces of butyrate, let this fricassee boil for five minutes, stirring it all the while, then add a
liaison of two egg yolks, the juice of half a lemon, a little chopped parsley, pour the whole mixture over the brain already cut into pieces, and piece by piece together with a little sauce coat it with breadcrumbs and emborage it, and make it hard by frying in the boiling fat; serve with fried parsley.'”

Cecilia looked at him with a scowl.

“I read it once, and didn't understand a thing,” he went on. “I tried again, and thought I had grasped the meaning, and tried to do what I thought I had grasped. I lost my temper and did it all wrong. Those poor brains came out as one of the most disgusting, most inedible fried dishes I have ever come across. I had taken good brains and completely ruined them.”

Artusi raised his eyebrows, in that age-old gesture that means, “Would you like to know what I did then?”

“Seeing that delicacy, which had cost me a fair amount of money, reduced to nothing, I was overcome with a fit of anger. Emborage? Brasure? What kinds of words were those? How big was that spoonful meant to be, and how much flour should I have put in? How on earth could I open a book, convinced I would find a recipe in it, and find instead a puzzle to be solved? I thought of what my mother, a woman who could barely write a letter that wasn't full of mistakes, would have been able to put together with that book in front of her, and made my decision.”

Artusi stiffened his back, in an almost military fashion, and concluded peremptorily with these words:

“A cookery book should be understandable to all, because we all eat and we all have a right to eat good food well cooked, it
should be written in Italian, because we're Italians, and not in that French jargon which is understood only in northern regions, and it should give the quantities, damn it, in grams and litres, which are the same for everyone, and not in ounces or ladlefuls or pinches or hints, when they deign to give the amounts at all. And if such a book does not exist, I'll write it myself. And that's what I did.”

Having said this, Artusi looked at Cecilia, with a self-satisfied expression on his face, and smoothed his unkempt whiskers with one finger.

Cecilia laughed. “You see? You are someone who can cope in a thousand situations. In your place, people like my father and my brothers would not have succeeded at anything. And I think that's why my brothers show you their contempt.”

“Don't be so hard on your father, Signorina Cecilia. Basically, you have been clothed, educated and brought up by him.”

“You're right. Anything I need, I just have to ask for it and it is given to me, provided it is suitable for me. But what I really need – to learn to do something – is either unsuitable or forbidden. So my fate is to remain here, embalmed in all these corsets, waiting for a suitor a little less stupid and unbearable than those who have been presented to me over the past year. So I will get married, have lots of nice children who will grow up just as useless to the world as I am, perhaps even more so, and quite unaware of what is around them and … I'm sorry, I'm talking too much.”

“I beg you, signorina, continue. It is a pleasure for me to see that at least one of the baron's three children trusts me.”

“Oh, as far as that goes … Gaddo sees you as someone who has succeeded in doing something, and that irritates him like smoke in the eyes. He isn't stupid, nor is he wicked: if someone taught him, and made him realise that success doesn't descend on one by divine right, just because one is noble, he might succeed at many things.”

Cecilia was silent for a moment, as if to convince Artusi that what she was saying was not dictated by affection, but by reality. Given that her interlocutor was silent but looked dubious, she continued:

“The trouble is that my dear brother has no terms of comparison, and this makes him think that he is much more intelligent and cultivated than he really is. He has always found it difficult to make friends, and he grew up together with Lapo, who although he is still my brother is certainly no genius. My grandmother always says of Lapo that the best one can say, if one is forced to say something good about him, is that he dresses well.”

Artusi said nothing. Cecilia had not cited herself as a term of comparison, for all too obvious reasons. She was a woman, and this was 1895. At that time, as far as public opinion was concerned, a woman barely had a soul.

This was an era when Italy was taking shape, and people were passionate about politics. They were years in which there was much discussion of unity, constitutions, rights and freedom. Unfortunately, barely two years had passed since New Zealand – a country literally a world apart from us, being on the other side of the globe – had been the first on earth to give votes to women.
As an Italian woman, our Cecilia would have to wait another fiftyone years to vote, assuming she survived cholera outbreaks, two world wars and the three or four pregnancies which presumably awaited her. She could not vote, and she could not be elected. The only possibility she had to play an official public role would be if someone tried to rape her, and failing to do so, killed her: in that case, very probably, she would have been made a saint by popular demand. As a career prospect, it must be admitted that it had its limitations.

All this Artusi and Cecilia said to each other with their eyes, in much less time than it has taken you to read it. After which, Artusi resumed cautiously: