"Death in Girotondo"
Chapter 1 - The Last Meal
Angela carefully prepared the meal. She was nervous. It was Thursday night and Thursday nights were always nerve wracking. She could feel it in her stomach. Tight pangs of anxiety knotted inside her belly. And wow had she gotten a belly. For years she had been proud of her figure the one thing she knew she could control and then the late stage miscarriage, one successful pregnancy and the slowing metabolism of middle age had crept up on her. Every few months she would pinch her waist and over the years her pinch had changed from a playful two-fingered tweak to a full-handed tug until now when she didn’t pinch, tweak or tug it any more at all. Sometimes she sat it down on the kitchen bench and tried to soothe it with peppermint tea. But that was when she had the time during hunting season right now she had more imperative concerns.
She remembered how she used to sing to steady her nerves as she prepared Bruno’s meals early in the marriage, the pretty young wife eager to make the perfect meals for her strong handsome husband. No more singing now. Now she hummed - quietly. She hummed slowly and steadily. The humming felt more appropriate and would sometimes relax those knots without interrupting her work or disturbing his with some ill-considered verse. Even though every so often she had to stop herself. The humming could sometimes feel like a trepiditious count down. And all that unconscious foreboding was definitely not good for her stomach.
It was March. It had been a cold March unusual for Tuscany, more winter than spring so Angela had decided to cook Bruno a traditional winter meal. She spread all the ingredients out in front of her. The smells were strong. The salamis affected her the most. She could feel the warmth of their aroma hitting the back of her nostrils. It made her hungry. It always did and she broke off some pieces and threw them into her mouth. She thought to comfort her lack of self-control by a little white lie to herself that she needed to check the quality. But of course she didn’t need to worry about quality. The butcher always sold her the best, proud that a Grimaldi patronized his shop. The salami bit into her jaw and the salt dug into the callous she had been nursing the last few days. She stopped the humming. It hurt.
Angela scolded herself for getting distracted. She needed to get a move on. Bruno would be back soon and as surely as it was Thursday he would be in a bad mood. Thursday’s he met with his writer’s circle and listened to others reading their own work. He always started in a bad mood because he hated having to spend the time listening to anyone else but his editor had quite firmly suggested he get outside input so he had been forced to put together his little group. Unfortunately, the little group had recently been invaded by an Englishman who actually had some talent, and Bruno’s very real lack of talent had become starkly obvious. She always knew he hated listening to the others reading their work. It reminded him of everything his attempts lacked. He was under no more illusions about his talent but now everyone could see it, even if they wouldn’t dare say a word. After the meeting, he would have gone drinking with his usual gaggle of so-called friends, the hangers-on. It wasn’t surprising really - they got free drinks all night. Or almost free, the price, listening to Bruno’s latest stories, although that could be a steep price. The stories were so black as to provoke real suicidal thoughts or if not black absolutely pornographic which Bruno tried to pass off as love stories.
Angela forced herself to focus, to speed up. She became mechanical as she sliced salami piece after salami piece. The meat folded away from the knife and tumbled onto the bruschetta. The bread was still warm and the butter melted. The salami nestled into the golden butter and attached itself to the bread. Then she took out the garlic paste. It was fresh, its color opalescent, its fragrance rich. She layered the paste on the butter. The two melted slowly into the bread. She placed the bruschetta in the oven. She turned back to the large pine table in the middle of their grand kitchen. The bottles with olives sat on the table in anticipation. It was almost as though they were waiting at the beginning of a conveyor belt. These were the Grimaldi estate’s finest olives. They had only been picked a few months before. She had seasoned them. Now she had brown olives, green olives, spicy olives and the purest plain olives sitting proudly in nothing but their juices.
Angela suddenly felt tired and empty. It had been a long day and she had been preparing Bruno’s meal for several hours. She slouched unto the kitchen bench, leant back her head and closed her eyes. But she was still for only moment before the anxiety returned. She checked the lamb. It was perfect. She stirred the wild boar sauce. Her eyes streamed as the steam hit them from the bubbling pot of boar mingled with rich ripe-to-bursting tomatoes and fresh herbs straight from her herb garden.
She remembered that he had scolded her the last time for not having enough cheese with his appetizer. He liked cheese. It tasted great with his red wine. The Morellino from his family vineyards squared up beautifully with most cheeses. Angela darted to the walk in freezer. She pulled some red peppers out from the back. He always insisted on red peppers with his cheese. That and olive oil. She had run out of fresh red peppers. She scolded herself. She prayed he wouldn’t notice. Thank goodness she kept some frozen just in case. Mind you, she kept a back up of every kind of food conceivable in her freezer. The price for getting it wrong was too high. She shuddered at the memories of so many failed dinners, all the shouting, and the pain.
“Ciao Mama.”
Giuseppe appeared behind his mother. In the flurry of last minute preparation Angela had not seen him enter the kitchen. Bruno would be back at any moment but she melted at the sight of her son. He was so short, even for a three year old. And skinny, his pajama’s hung off him. He must have been the skinniest kid in the world. You could actually see his heart beat through his ribs and his hair was all patchy. It had only just begun to grow in. He looked like he had just walked out of a prison camp, except, of course, for the silk pajamas with the Grimaldi family crest. His glasses sat awkwardly on his crooked face. His face was always a bit crooked. Angela agonized that this was because he cried so much.
“Honey, you need to go to your room. Papa’s coming back soon and you should be out of his way.”
Angela stroked Giuseppe’s head to soothe and persuade him. She needed him out of the way quick.
“But I need to do a pee mama.”
“OK, ok, quick.”
Angela hurried Giuseppe to the bathroom. She pushed him on as if she could see Bruno stumbling towards the piazza, through the arches and to their front door. He always slammed the front door behind him. She didn’t know why and she never asked grateful for the thirty-second warning it gave them.
The door slammed. It was him. She froze. So did Giuseppe. Then, he sprayed his pee away from the toilet and onto the floor. Angela gasped. She shook Giuseppe clean, gathered up his pajama trousers and bundled him into his bedroom. Then she shot back into the kitchen. And she managed all of this before Bruno reached the bottom of the stairs. As she raced to get his appetizer onto the large, hand painted, Tuscan serving dish, she could hear him coming up the stairs. He was panting. His feet were thick on each stair. He was drunk. When he was drunk he always dragged his feet up the steps. Every pant was accentuated by a slide. She felt sick again. She remembered she had forgotten to pour his red wine into the decanter. She froze. That meant she wouldn’t have the time to wipe up the mess in the bathroom and an involuntarily whimper escaped her lips.
“I hope my food’s ready. It’s late.” Bruno bellowed.
“Ciao amore. Go right ahead. I’ll be there in one second.” Angela offered, hopefully.
She could hear him mumbling to himself as he stumbled towards the dining room. She knew she was safe in the kitchen. He never entered her kitchen. It was, after all, below him.
“Where’s my wine?” He shouted.
She sprinted into the dining room and poured the bottle into the decanter. She dared not look at him.
“And where’s my appetizer?”
“I’ll be back in one second, darling. It’s ready.”
“Hmm. I’m going to the toilet.”
Bruno pushed his chair back and sloped off to the toilet. Angela slumped and prayed he would be too drunk to notice the mess. If not this would not be a pleasant night. She closed her eyes and squeezed inside. She squeezed hard looking for some inner strength. She stumbled upon her technique a long while back when he started beating her. She discovered it as she clenched her stomach muscles when she was lying on the floor and could see he was about to kick her in the belly again, only harder this time. When she squeezed hard enough she didn’t feel a thing.
Angela walked back to the kitchen. There was no point in her making it worse for herself. It would be bad enough.
“Oh, my God. What is this! Oh Christ. This is disgusting. Christ, it’s the boy. Christ.”
Bruno had spotted the pee on the floor. He knew it must be Giuseppe.
“Ready darling!”
Angela shouted out. She prayed it would distract Bruno. It did not.
“Giuseppe. Come here, now. Come here this instant!”
Giuseppe could not hear. His head was under the pillow. His head was often under his pillow at night. If he pushed down hard enough he could almost entirely smother the shouting away.
“Giuseppe. Come here, right now!”
Bruno screamed out and then charged into Giuseppe’s bedroom. He hated the boy the instant he saw him buried under his blankets and his pillow. He looked so pathetic. He reminded him of Giacomo. Bruno snapped. He flew across the room and grabbed the pillow. He threw the pillow aside and grabbed the boy by his hair. Then he dragged Giuseppe out of his bed and across the room. Giuseppe was screaming. Angela appeared in the doorway shaking. Bruno saw her and yelled at her to get back to the kitchen. She hesitated and then she followed his command.
Angela could hear Giuseppe shouting for her as Bruno started hitting him. She was powerless. She was useless. She walked slowly to the kitchen. She shut the screams out and she hated herself for it.
Bruno punched Giuseppe once too often and the boy fell to the ground. Angela knew there would be bruises and lacerations on the side of his head. There always were. She retuned to the kitchen after having taken the appetizers to the dining room. Bruno ate alone. He had insisted on it many years ago. He said she was too much of a peasant to eat with him any more. He always said things like that when they fought but that time he meant it and she had preferred it.
Angela pulled the lamb out of the oven. She needed to baste it. She was worried to death. Giuseppe was too silent. She dared not check on him. Bruno would see her and she didn’t want to draw any attention in that direction so she kept basting the lamb.
“What is this?!” Bruno bellowed from the dining room. “What is this peasant meal? It’s no longer winter. We’re in spring. It’s March. I will not eat this food in March! Who the hell do you think you are!”
Bruno flung his plate across the table and stormed out of the dining room and into the kitchen. He was drunk and mad as hell. He needed blood. Angela looked at him shocked and then quickly put her head down and got on with her task. She dared not look up at him. She was carving the end of the lamb to see how it was cooking.. Bruno accelerated over to her. And then everything went into slow motion. He raised his arm and fist high into the air. He always hit her on the side of the head so as not to leave any noticeable marks and as his fist descended towards Angela’s head Angela squeezed so hard she seemed to squeeze right out of herself and watched astonished as her arm took action. It jolted forwards as if under its own instructions and pushed the carving knife deep into his belly. Bruno gasped and stared at Angela in total disbelief. Angela stared at Bruno equally dumbfounded. She had not ordered her arm to behave so. She found his stomach strangely tough to push against. More like leather than lamb. He stared at her with those eyes full of hatred. It seemed like a lifetime of those stares had passed through her. Then he mustered enough strength to punch her hard on the head. As he did she forced the knife deeper into him and yanked it up. This act she had quite consciously ordered her arm to perform from her safe vantage point overhead. She needed to end it. She felt the blinding pain in her head and she knew she was back.
They both slumped to the floor and lay next to each other. They had not lain next to each other for a very, very long time.
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