The Bottom of Your Heart by Maurizio de Giovanni, Antony Shugaar Page B
Authors: Maurizio de Giovanni, Antony Shugaar
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happy that, thanks to Nelide, his old
tata
was having an easier time of it.
Toward the young master, Nelide felt a mixture of fear and veneration: precisely what Rosa wanted. On her nieceâs rugged, square face, marked by narrow lips under a faint mustache, she could see the germ of the same protective sentiment she felt toward that melancholy, unhappy man, whom she had looked after for a lifetime with a missionary zeal.
Now, therefore, yet another of the countless examinations to which Rosa subjected her unsuspecting niece was underway: the Cilento cooking test. Rosa was convinced that tradition was crucial to a healthy stability, and she stubbornly continued to cook according to the rules sheâd learned from her mother and grandmother, and that she had absorbed from the very air sheâd breathed as a child and as a young woman.
Nelide wiped her palms on her apron. She stared grimly at the piles on the tabletop: everything was there, but she still wasnât satisfied.
Good, thought Rosa. Her left hand, fingers knit, sensed the tremor in her right hand. It was as if, every so often, it went to sleep. She knew what this was. She knew because this was how her father had died, growing weaker day by day and then falling asleep, until he finally just stopped breathing. She hoped that it would be as gentle for her, but thatâs not what scared her.
Her biggest worries were for Ricciardi. What fate awaited him? Who would look after him? Nelide was certainly fine when it came to immediate necessities: seeing that he ate regularly, pressing his clothes. But relations with the sharecroppers, making sure that payments were collected as they came due, managing the familyâs estate? The young master had never taken any interest in such matters, and if it were left up to him, the entire estate to which he was sole heir would dwindle away.
Her thoughts went to the Baroness Marta di Malomonte, Ricciardiâs mother. Ah, Baroness, she thought, you too spoke so little. Why didnât you explain to me what your son is like? Why didnât you tell me how I ought to act with him?
Nelide scratched her cheek. Perhaps, Rosa thought to herself, she ought to place her trust in this young woman. Perhaps Nelide could take over from her. After all it was a simple matter of sticking to certain deadlines and picking up the threads of what she had done month after month for many years. She had more confidence in that grim-faced seventeen-year-old than in all the men sheâd met in her lifetime.
Of course, it would have been preferable to hand over her responsibilities to a woman who had entered the family by the front door, not the service entrance. She had hoped, she had insisted, she had begged her young master to open himself up to the natural evolution of a man, to an engagement followed by a wedding.
That Enrica, the daughter of the Colombos, had struck her as the perfect one. She had a kind heart, she was gentle and sweet but also, and Rosa had sensed this intuitively, determined and strong. Whatâs more, she was in love.
The absurd thing, to Rosaâs uncomplicated mind, lay in the fact that Ricciardi, too, beyond the shadow of a doubt, was in love with Enrica. And yet he hadnât lifted a finger since the day he realized he was losing her, that she was distancing herself from him. For that matter, how could she blame Enrica? The years pass and a girl has a right to a future.
One thing was certain: if he wished to set up housekeeping and start a family, that woman from the north, the one with a car and a driver, wasnât right for him. She was fine if you wanted a good time, perfect for going out to the theater or the movies, but not as the mother of his children.
Who could say, perhaps theyâd find each other again, Enrica and her young master. Only then it would be too late for Rosa to pass along her knowledge.
Nelide nodded vigorously, as if someone inside her head had just given her a
tata
was having an easier time of it.
Toward the young master, Nelide felt a mixture of fear and veneration: precisely what Rosa wanted. On her nieceâs rugged, square face, marked by narrow lips under a faint mustache, she could see the germ of the same protective sentiment she felt toward that melancholy, unhappy man, whom she had looked after for a lifetime with a missionary zeal.
Now, therefore, yet another of the countless examinations to which Rosa subjected her unsuspecting niece was underway: the Cilento cooking test. Rosa was convinced that tradition was crucial to a healthy stability, and she stubbornly continued to cook according to the rules sheâd learned from her mother and grandmother, and that she had absorbed from the very air sheâd breathed as a child and as a young woman.
Nelide wiped her palms on her apron. She stared grimly at the piles on the tabletop: everything was there, but she still wasnât satisfied.
Good, thought Rosa. Her left hand, fingers knit, sensed the tremor in her right hand. It was as if, every so often, it went to sleep. She knew what this was. She knew because this was how her father had died, growing weaker day by day and then falling asleep, until he finally just stopped breathing. She hoped that it would be as gentle for her, but thatâs not what scared her.
Her biggest worries were for Ricciardi. What fate awaited him? Who would look after him? Nelide was certainly fine when it came to immediate necessities: seeing that he ate regularly, pressing his clothes. But relations with the sharecroppers, making sure that payments were collected as they came due, managing the familyâs estate? The young master had never taken any interest in such matters, and if it were left up to him, the entire estate to which he was sole heir would dwindle away.
Her thoughts went to the Baroness Marta di Malomonte, Ricciardiâs mother. Ah, Baroness, she thought, you too spoke so little. Why didnât you explain to me what your son is like? Why didnât you tell me how I ought to act with him?
Nelide scratched her cheek. Perhaps, Rosa thought to herself, she ought to place her trust in this young woman. Perhaps Nelide could take over from her. After all it was a simple matter of sticking to certain deadlines and picking up the threads of what she had done month after month for many years. She had more confidence in that grim-faced seventeen-year-old than in all the men sheâd met in her lifetime.
Of course, it would have been preferable to hand over her responsibilities to a woman who had entered the family by the front door, not the service entrance. She had hoped, she had insisted, she had begged her young master to open himself up to the natural evolution of a man, to an engagement followed by a wedding.
That Enrica, the daughter of the Colombos, had struck her as the perfect one. She had a kind heart, she was gentle and sweet but also, and Rosa had sensed this intuitively, determined and strong. Whatâs more, she was in love.
The absurd thing, to Rosaâs uncomplicated mind, lay in the fact that Ricciardi, too, beyond the shadow of a doubt, was in love with Enrica. And yet he hadnât lifted a finger since the day he realized he was losing her, that she was distancing herself from him. For that matter, how could she blame Enrica? The years pass and a girl has a right to a future.
One thing was certain: if he wished to set up housekeeping and start a family, that woman from the north, the one with a car and a driver, wasnât right for him. She was fine if you wanted a good time, perfect for going out to the theater or the movies, but not as the mother of his children.
Who could say, perhaps theyâd find each other again, Enrica and her young master. Only then it would be too late for Rosa to pass along her knowledge.
Nelide nodded vigorously, as if someone inside her head had just given her a
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