Chapter 27
“Are you going to tell me what is going on?” Luciana asked after Lily left the kitchen. “You look as though you’ve been run over by a horse and cart. What did she say?”
Violetta sat down. Her head was spinning. “What was that? With getting her to help make the cantucci? You think anyone can make our cantucci?” she asked.
Luciana raised her spindly eyebrows. “You can talk. What was that with getting her to round up the ‘santamerda’?”
“You know, I’m getting mighty sick of you questioning every single thing I do, Luciana!”
“Well, I’m getting mighty sick of it too. If you’d just answer my questions perhaps we would both be happy!”
“You can’t just let anyone come into our kitchen and make our cantucci. It doesn’t work like that.”
“No, it works better! Did you see how she mixed the dough? She was a natural. Those beautiful strong young hands. Look at these smooth straight logs, Violetta. She did that in no time at all while thinking about something else. What on earth are you so scared of?”
“I’m scared of what little we have left going straight down the drain and taking us with it,” Violetta argued, but that wasn’t the truth.
“I know my memory’s going but I’m sure you used to be more fun than this,” Luciana retorted.
“And you used to be six foot tall,” her sister barked back.
“Well, if I was six foot tall now, I would pick you up and throw you out the window.”
“And I would roll down the hill and not stop until I hit the coast where I would set up another pasticceria in competition with your one and squash you like a tiny little cockroach.”
“A tiny little six foot tall cockroach. Good luck with that!”
They bickered like this for a couple more hours as they baked Lily’s dough and grumpily made more of their own in nowhere near the time or fashion.
Then the widow Ciacci’s head poked up at the window.
“I have a report to make,” she trilled. “No need for a meeting as it’s only an update.”
“Get on with it,” snapped Violetta.
“Burn the cantucci again, did we?” the widow Ciacci asked cheerfully. “Honestly, there isn’t a molar left among the lot of us, you may as well try your hand at marshmallow.”
“I said get on with it!”
“Well, I’ve just been to the bank to—oooh!” She disappeared from the window. “Allora! Not again,” they heard her say from the street below. Her chair had seen better days, that was for sure.
Luciana poked her head out the window but her neck was too stiff to look downward.
“I’m OK,” the widow Ciacci called up, and eventually there she was again. “Serves me right for using flour and water instead of going to the alimentare for glue. Anyway, as I was saying, I had to go to the bank to get money out because I lost thirteen euro playing pachesi with my sister-in-law. She’s quite the whiz, could make a fortune in the back streets of Palermo let me tell you. But anyway, when she came to meet me to pick up the cash—first time she’s ever turned up anywhere on the dot as far as I know— she told me that she’d nipped away from her job at the salon on Via Ricci while a ‘pretty blonde American,’ that would be our calzino’s amore, was having her roots done. Fancy that! Her roots! Do you know what this means?”
“The salon on Via Ricci?” asked Violetta.
“She’s not a natural blonde!” crowed the widow Ciacci.
“I don’t think anyone is a natural blonde,” said Luciana.
“Did you say the salon on Via Ricci?” Violetta asked again.
“Yes, yes, Via Ricci.”
Violetta turned to her sister. “Didn’t you tell her to tell the widow Ercolani to recommend any salon other than the one on Via Ricci?”
Luciana looked puzzled. “I think I did, although you didn’t bother to tell me why. Or did I?”
“Yes, yes, you did,” assured the widow Ciacci. “but she didn’t go to the tourist office in the end. The widow Pacini saw her cutting across just up the hill here. She found the salon on Via Ricci all on her own, but I wouldn’t worry too much if I were you, Violetta. Eugenia Barbarini may have her problems, but she’s a very good hairdresser, according to my sister-in-law, as long as she remembers to take her pills. Or is it if she doesn’t take her pills?”
“Eugenia Barbarini,” Violetta echoed.
“Yes, Eugenia Barbarini, you know—strumpet daughter of the late loony Maria, sister of crazy Carlotta, mother of the peculiar kid who was in your store yesterday.”
“I know who she is,” Violetta said, her mind whirring as the widow Ciacci’s chair gave way a second time. “Allora!” they heard again, then Violetta poked her head out the window.
“Get the town perimeter covered and when you find Lily try to keep her contained. Don’t ask why, just do it. And get widow Del Grasso to head straight to Poliziano and tell her to use the restroom first this time. If Lily turns up and stays for more than two glasses of wine, I want to hear about it, pronto.” Then she shut the window and pulled the curtain.
“What on earth is going on?” Luciana asked her. “You look like the same horse and cart has come back and run you over a second time.”