‘Now a fine grating of nutmeg, like the winter snow dusting down from the mountains…’
‘How much?’
Her lullaby-like reverie disturbed, the crone glared at him.
‘How much what?’
‘How much nutmeg!’ screamed the chef.
She stared at him in apparently genuine amazement.
‘Ma quello che basta, stupido! ’
Just enough. Thanks, grandma.
‘Enough, but not too much,’ Rinaldi’s mentor continued dreamily. ‘For us it’s traditional. How could a foreigner like you understand? Are you a Catholic or a Turk? Never mind, you’re a man, that’s the problem. Men should stay out of the kitchen. They don’t have a clue about cooking. How can they, when they’re not in tune with the rhythms of nature? We women have them in our bodies like the tides. Listen to nature, only to nature! Follow your innermost impulses and you can never go wrong!’
Romano Rinaldi just succeeded in resisting the temptation to follow this advice by swinging the frying pan round and beating the old bat to death with it, but it was touch and go. He knew that he wouldn’t be able to hold out much longer. Somehow he finished the order and carried the dishes out to the serving counter two at a time. As he took the last one, the now familiar howl erupted from his tormentor. The waiter duly appeared and arranged four of the plates on each arm, but the ninth defeated him.
‘Bring that,’ he ordered Rinaldi.
Lo Cheffollowed him out into the dining area, where the birthday celebrations were now in full swing. The waiter curtly directed Rinaldi to present the dish he was carrying to a girl of about sixteen who was sitting at the head of the table, a string of pearls which might or might not have been genuine about her neck, and a glow that certainly was on her face. The padded case in which the necklace had been presented lay open on the table.
Romano Rinaldi laid her pasta down with a flourish.
‘It’s your birthday, signorina?’ he enquired.
The girl nodded. Rinaldi bowed deeply.
‘ Tanti auguri. May I ask your name?’
She shrugged awkwardly and blushed.
‘Mi chiamano Mimi, ma il mio nome e Lucia.’
Romano Rinaldi touched her hand for the briefest of moments, then turned to the table in general and launched into the big tenor aria from the end of the first act of La Boheme, wittily changing Rodolfo’s description of himself to ‘Who am I? I’m a chef. What do I do? I cook.’ This provoked much laughter and applause, but the real pleasure for Rinaldi was the realisation that his voice was perfectly adapted to the intimate acoustics of this space, and absolutely on key. In the studio he had to be miked up and his vocal interventions electronically tweaked in post-production to raise flat notes, lower sharp ones, and generally boost the volume, but now he didn’t need any of those tricks. All that mattered here was pitch, range and style, and he had all three in spades.
As he forged forward, he realised with a certain pleased astonishment that he wasn’t just imagining this in his usual drunken or stoned stupor. It was real, and everyone else in the room felt it. The entire company fell silent, transfixed by the narrative thrust of Puccini’s melodic line and the naked glory of the human voice. Every eye was fixed on Rinaldi in respectful silence as he completed the entire aria with inexhaustible confidence, climaxing effortlessly on the difficult high ‘La speranza!’ which he held for fully ten seconds, bringing cries of ‘Bravo!’, before lowering his voice to a tender pianissimo for the concluding bars.
The result was a spontaneous and prolonged ovation from everyone in the restaurant. Standing there in his sauce-spattered apron, Rinaldi acknowledged his audience with appreciative bows, then turned to the overwhelmed birthday girl, kissed her hand lightly, and floated back towards the kitchen. As he passed the pizza oven, Normo stared at him in stunned silence. Rinaldi smiled casually and rounded the corner into the corridor, where he promptly slammed into some punk dropout with pink hair on his way back from the lavatory.
The youth, who was evidently drunk, ended up on the floor. When Rinaldi offered him a hand he received a torrent of obscene abuse in return, but just ignored it and walked on down the passageway. In that moment of exaltation, nothing could touch him. This was even better than la coca! Not only was he the star of the evening, but he’d just had a fabulous insight that would save his career from the disgrace of that disastrous cookery contest and propel it to still greater heights of glory and riches. Real Work: a new concept, a new show, a new book, a new…
Something hot, wet and sticky exploded on the wall beside him. The street kid he’d accidentally knocked over grabbed another of the plates of pizza that Normo had set out on the counter and hurled it at Rinaldi.
‘Stronzo di merda, vaffanculo!’
‘You’re barred, you bastard!’ screamed Normo ritualistically, but he couldn’t take any action, shut away as he was behind the counter. As for the two waiters, they seemed disinclined to enter the fray. The aggressor reached for another pizza. Rinaldi stepped smartly into the kitchen and dug the replica pistol out of the pocket of his jacket. Waiting until the third pizza and its plate exploded against the door to the lavatory, he stepped back into the corridor.
‘Out,’ he said decisively, waving the barrel of the pistol at the intruder.
The youth stared at the weapon with fascination rather than fear.
‘Hey, that’s my gun!’
‘Out!’ Rinaldi repeated, whirling the troublemaker around by his left arm and marching him towards the door.
37
‘Remember what I said about us being left free to concentrate on public order issues?’ Zen murmured to Bruno sarcastically.
He jerked his thumb back over his shoulder.
‘Here’s your chance to make the big arrest that brings promotion.’
The patrolman rolled his eyes.
‘It’s just one of those little punkabestia creeps who hang out under the portico of the Teatro Communale and in Piazza Verdi. We don’t bother much with them. The drug dealers take care of the really violent ones. They don’t want any trouble on their turf.’
‘Neither, apparently, does lo chef,’ Zen remarked as the troublemaker passed their table on his way to the front door, escorted by the foreign cook who was screaming ‘Out! Out!’ and prodding the younger man in the back with what was presumably some kitchen implement.
‘Holy Christ!’ said Bruno. ‘That’s Vincenzo Amadori.’
‘What a charmer.’
‘What do we do?’
Zen shrugged.
‘No longer our case, is it?’
‘Don’t forget your stuff, Vincenzo!’
The cry came from the boyfriend of the young woman whom Zen had noticed earlier. He had grabbed the blue nylon duffle bag he had brought and was now squeezing through the tables towards the door.
‘There could be evidence in that bag,’ said Bruno urgently. ‘We should take him!’
Zen lit a cigarette. Time to buy a new pack, he thought. The tobacconists would be closed by now, which just left the machines.
‘Suit yourself,’ he said. ‘There’ll be a lot of paperwork, you can say goodbye to the rest of your evening, and in the end the Carabinieri will get all the…’
But Bruno was already on his feet and gone. Ah, youth!
