Out of Egypt by André Aciman Page B

out to greet them and, before they had time to retreat, strong-armed them and asked them to please, follow this way.
    She watched the sheepish tourists being escorted to the worst table on the terrace. “I do hate Italy sometimes,” she added. “But then there are days when I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else.”
    We crossed the bridge and made toward Campo Morosini. Except for occasional groups of young tourists braving the early afternoon heat that Sunday, Venice appeared deserted. The quiet piazza with its white marble and travertine masonries offered scant relief from the sun. Along its western edge, two establishments that were totally vacant at this time of day sported straw chairs neatly packed, three to a table, all of them baking under closed Cinzano umbrellas that studded the cobbled sidewalk. On the piazza, the shops were closed.
    She bought me an ice cream.
    â€œDo you need to buy souvenirs or things?”
    I shook my head.
    â€œYour mother spends all of her time buying gifts for everyone each time she visits me. I assumed you would too. How about books?”
    â€œNo. I came to visit you.”
    â€œYou came to visit me,” she repeated, visibly pleased anyone should do such a thing.
    We threaded our way through the narrow, empty streets of Zattere while the sun, following an oblique path, cast an ochre-hued glow along the stuccoed fronts of the little buildings
lining Calle del Traghetto. One could still make out the faint clatter of plates being washed after late Sunday family luncheons. Several corners later, we arrived at her home. She lived on the ground floor, though the place was sunken below street level. Like most Venetian apartments, hers was extremely small, and her bedroom, with its low ceiling and small window, had all the makings of a sparsely furnished monk’s cell. On the nightstand was an old portable tape player surrounded by a scatter of cassettes: Callas and di Stefano, Wanda Landowska, Paul Anka. She could have been an undergraduate in a college dormitory. On her dresser I caught a picture that could only have been of me, though I had never seen it before. For a moment I was baffled to see that a part of me had traveled all the way to Venice and had been sitting in someone’s bedroom for twenty years before I myself had finally come upon it.
    Inside the only other room in her apartment sat two old grand pianos, side by side, leaving little space for anything or anyone else. I had to squeeze behind the first piano to reach the second. The room looked more stuffy yet, because the walls were lined with very old cork tiles. I could not tell how one would go about opening the window.
    â€œI leave the room shut throughout the year. It stinks of cigarettes. But this is exactly how I learned to play. None of my students has ever complained. And if they did—”
    She showed me the kitchen where she cooked, ate, wrote letters, read, watched television, corrected homework.
    She began to clear the table.
    â€œCan I help?” I asked.
    â€œSure, just tell me where you propose to put all of these papers.” She dumped an entire bundle of brochures, flyers, scores, newspapers, and unanswered mail into my arms. I looked around and acknowledged defeat.
    â€œOn top of the first piano.” I could tell she was happy.

    â€œMeanwhile, I’ll heat up some water and cook the gnocchi. I made them myself. I’ve also baked some vegetables. If there is one thing I know how to do,” she said, kneeling down to light the stove with a match, “it’s how to make good gnocchi.” She tried another match.
    â€œThis may interest you,” she said, still concentrating on lighting the stove. “It was your grandmother who taught me how to cook. I gave her piano lessons, she taught me how to cook. ‘One day you’ll need to cook a man a real meal, and piano music is all very nice, but men need un bon biftek, vous comprenez ce que