The Good Left Undone(5)
Matelda lifted the cheese like a barbell. “Are you sure you can spare it?”
“Sì, sì.” He chuckled. “She brought me a wheel. It will last us until the next Carnevale.”
“Thank you, Signore. Please, take a few apples.” Matelda opened the paper sack.
“I’ll take one.”
“Are you sure? I have plenty.”
“One is all I need. Buon compleanno.” Figliolo smiled.
It would be like a Figliolo to remember her birthday with a hunk of cheese. They once owned the most popular restaurant in town, where families in the village went to celebrate. The mother had been a good cook, the father a fine manager. All the Figliolo children had worked in the restaurant. They were good-looking people, which helped when you wanted to attract customers. Figliolo’s sisters were long gone, but Matelda remembered their black hair, slim figures, and red-polished nails.
“Do you have plans to celebrate your birthday?” Figliolo asked her.
“With great humility. My goal is to be alive this time tomorrow morning. And the one after that, if God is kind.”
“May God bless you and give you what you need because what you want will get you in trouble.” Figliolo blessed himself. “The Cabrellis have always been fighters. You’ll be all right.”
Matelda picked up the newspaper. “Here, you take it.”
“You sure?”
“There’s no news anymore, just obituaries. I don’t need any reminders of what’s coming.”
“You’re a kid, Matelda.” Giusto was ninety-three years old. “You’re just getting started.”
* * *
The final apple peel fell like a gold ribbon into the sink. Matelda sliced the meat of the apple into slivers with her paring knife. She patted the dough on the cookie sheet before artfully placing the apple slices on top of the dough. She scattered pats of butter on top of the apple and sprinkled the mixture with sugar. Matelda dusted cinnamon over the sugar before pulling the four corners of the dough to the center, making a purse as her mother had taught her. She slid the strudel di mele into the oven.
Matelda fed the pets. Their mutt, Beppe, ate quickly and fell asleep under the sofa. “You’re just like your master. Eat. Nap. Eat,” she teased the dog. Argento walked along the top of the bookcase in the living room, performing her daily circus act. “And you!” She shook her finger at the cat. “You are crazy! You’re too old for heights.” The cat ignored her, but that was nothing new. Argento acted like the Roffos lived with her, instead of the other way around.
Matelda pulled off her apron and straightened the living room.
Four gray sofas with low, modern lines formed a square around the coffee table, enough to accommodate the entire family when they visited. A vintage Leica camera, a primitive sculpture, and glass jars filled with seashells collected by their grandchildren were tucked among Matelda’s bookshelves. She brushed a feather duster over the books.
Satisfied, Matelda pulled a yellowed scrap of paper out of the Capodimonte vase on the table. She lifted a small painting off its hook under the stairs, revealing the hidden metal door to a wall safe. She cocked her good ear against it, followed the sequence of numbers on the slip of paper, and spun the dial like a seasoned safecracker. She heard the click of the wheel. The door of the safe snapped open. She reached inside and removed a velvet jewelry case. Leaving the safe open, she put the case on the table on her way to the kitchen.
Matelda lifted the strudel out of the oven and placed it on the counter to cool. Steam rose from the golden folds of crust dusted with sugar. Matelda opened her notebook on the counter and wrote the list of ingredients and instructions to make the pastry. Her daughter, Nicolina, was collecting the family recipes. Matelda never used recipes; she made the dishes as her grandmother and mother had taught her: Assemble the best ingredients. No measuring. Use your instincts.
Matelda unscrewed the top off the moka pot. She lifted out the strainer and measured freshly ground espresso beans into the strainer cup. She filled the bottom chamber with water. Using the blunt end of the spoon, she patted the grounds across the top of the rim to make them level before gently twisting the top onto the pot. She placed it on the stove and lit the burner.
The kitchen filled with the earthy scent of morning when Matelda realized she had spilled coffee onto the scatter rug under the sink. Matelda bent over, cursed, and rolled the rug like a cigar. She carried the rug out to the terrace and shook it over the side. She hung it on the railing.
Matelda shivered in the cold, pulled her sweater tightly around herself without buttoning it, and crossed her arms over her chest. The surf had begun to churn along the coastline. The brisk winds that blew over the peaks of the Alpi Apuane and whistled through the Pania della Croce practically guaranteed there would be at least one more storm before spring. Matelda could not recall a Toscano winter more severe than the one they had just endured. She gave the rug one more shake before folding it.
She turned to go back inside when she heard a screeching sound from the sky. She looked up and saw a fat seagull dive through the fog. “Shoo!” she shouted, unfurling the rug toward the bird. But instead of flying off, the bird veered toward her, so close the sharp tip of its hooked yellow beak nipped her cheek.
“Beppe!” Matelda shouted for the dog. The dog leapt through the open glass door and barked at the bird. The cat slunk out onto the terrace, curious about the fuss. The seagull swooped down to taunt the cat, who arched his back and hissed.