Simple Prayers by Michael Golding

VEDOVA STAMPANINI had known that Miriam was going to have a baby, she would have made her a hearty
sopa di verzurra,
a fragrant
polastrone rosto,
and a feather-light
crosta di mele.
As she did not know, and merely wanted to make her something because she liked her, she decided on a nice, crisp
pan duro
with aromatic herbs. Of all the many people who made their hearts and homes freely open to Miriam upon her arrival on Riva di Pignoli, the Vedova Stampanini was the one who treated her most like family. Three times a week the old woman helped her to soften her consonants, and lengthen her vowels, and adopt the more standard phrases of the Riva di Pignoli slang. For Miriam this was a privilege, for after losing ten children, but not the capacity to laugh, the Vedova came closest of anyone on the island to the sort of understanding Miriam yearned for. For the Vedova, however, it was something more. The young girl's presence was like the opening of an extra window in her small, dark hovel; when she came for her lessons the Vedova noticed spoons in the straw and knots in the rafters she hadn't seen in twenty years.
    A
pan duro,
therefore, would be excellent: brittle, teased with oil, slightly bubbly, slightly burnt. But if she was going to make a
pan duro,
why not make two? A little salt and flour, some olive oil, some herbs, where was the extra work in an extra portion? The Vedova knew Miriam wouldn't care if she made a second one — and more important, she knew Giuseppe Navo would be delighted.
    The Vedova Stampanini and Giuseppe Navo were lovers— though they had never once, in fifty-seven years, made love. It had begun in the earliest days of the Vedova's marriage: one night, over a plate of sardines and a white-bean stew, the then young fisherman (who was eleven years the Vedova's junior) gave her a look across the table that caused her to pour so much coriander onto her plate, she had to run to the well and douse herself with water. Giuseppe Navo soon became a regular guest at her dinner table; her husband and children would listen to his stories of the sea while she returned the heat of his glances with saffroned beef and gingered capons and hot-and-cold cinnamon jellies. It became common to make “one for Giuseppe Navo” whenever she made one of anything. A meal would scarcely be a meal without his well-heaped plate.
    The practice continued throughout the Vedova's marriage, through all the many years of birthing and burying her many children. When he couldn't come to table a plate was always left, in the garden, by the cold press, for Giuseppe Navo. And when twenty-one years had gone by, and all the Vedova's children, and even the Vedova's husband, had died, a strange thing happened: Giuseppe Navo came to the Vedova's door one night flushed with desire for her, shot her the feverish look that had passed through more than two decades perfectly intact — and the Vedova handed him a crayfish pastry and a bowl of milk cabbage. And Giuseppe Navo was content. For after over eight thousand meals of searing looks met by spicy delights, neither the Vedova nor the fisherman wished to tamper with the recipe. For the next thirty-six years they continued to meet — and to eat — with the same thrill of secrecy that had given them so much pleasure when there was still someone there to keep secret from.
    Which was why the Vedova smiled as she placed the salt, the flour, and the oil on the table that had borne the weight of all those glances, and paid extra attention as she measured out the herbs. Rosemary, oregano, basil, sage; all she lacked was a bit of thyme. The Vedova knew that neither Miriam nor Giuseppe Navo would notice if the
pan duro
lacked thyme, but why do a thing, she asked, and not do it well? So she put on her straw hat, took up an old straw basket, and set out toward the field of wild thyme that grew along the north rim of the island.
    The bright June sun was hotter than she'd expected. It made her small, drawn body