Rosa was delivering the cooking lesson from her chair, pulled up next to the kitchen table.
“The minestra strinta, that’s something he loves. The ingredients are all sitting right here, I prepared them especially to let you take a look at them, one by one: chicory, swiss chard, and these right here are the cardoons. Now we’re going to boil them, then we drain them nicely, and finally we dry them in this towel here, you see? We twist the towel tight, which is why it’s called minestra strinta, tight soup or squeezed soup. Then we put it all in a pan with the hot oil, the garlic, the chili pepper, and the potatoes, which we’ve already boiled and mashed very thoroughly. Did you see all that? Is everything clear?”
Enrica looked at the vegetables and the other ingredients, and replied sweetly.
“Yes, Signora. It’s all clear. As usual, something simple and delicious, like everything you cook. And if you tell me that he likes it, then I’ll learn how to make it. The problem is whether all this serves any purpose, or not.”
“And just what is it that you mean by that, Signori’?”
“What I mean by that is that frankly I don’t understand this man, Signora. I have no experience with men, that’s true: but I do have a married sister, I have plenty of girlfriends, and I do go occasionally to the movies. I listen to songs, I talk to people. And my mother . . . my mother never talks about anything else, how important it is to have a man by your side, that I’m well on my way to becoming an old maid, and so on and so forth. And if a man really is interested in a woman, then he makes that known. He tries to see her, he speaks to her, he gets as close as he can. He sends flowers, he talks to her parents, he tries to make friends in common. But this man does nothing.”
“But that isn’t true! Didn’t he write you a letter? And isn’t it true that every night he goes to his window to gaze at you?”
“Yes, this is true. And it’s also true that I can feel it, that he’s interested in me and that he likes me. I can see it. I’m not so beautiful, and as I told you, I have no experience: but a woman knows it, when someone likes her.”
“There you go. So?”
“So, something’s not right. There must be a reason that keeps him from making himself known. He’s shy, that’s true; and he’s also very reserved, I understand that. But too much time has gone by, even a shy man by now would have found a way, however roundabout, to talk to me differently, to arrange for us to go out together. I’m telling you, something’s not right.”
Rosa sighed. Her eyes roamed, looking at nothing.
“He was a strange child, you know? He always played alone. There were plenty of other children in the baron’s castle: the children of the farmers, of the housemaids, more noise than you could possibly imagine, they made more noise than the chickens in the henhouse. Not him. He was beautiful and, as you know, very intelligent. And he talked and talked to me and to his mother; he told us about all the things he imagined and we listened to him, whole hours at a time spent listening to him. But not with the other children, no, he didn’t play with them . . .” She stared at Enrica. “There’s something, yes. Something in his head, in his soul, I couldn’t say. A sign, a mark of some sort, that forces him to be by himself. I may be ignorant and old, but I’m not senile and I know perfectly well that there’s something. But my young master is good and kind, sweet and caring. It’s not right that just because he thinks he needs to live his life alone, he really should have to.”
Enrica listened, toying with a stalk of swiss chard.
“So what should I do? If I wait for him, I really do run the risk of waiting forever, because he might never be able to overcome this barrier. If I don’t wait, then I’m giving up on the man of my dreams. Because I know that he’s the one, the man of my dreams. I can feel it in my belly, the way it twists every time I think about him. And I can feel it in my legs, the way they tremble whenever I see him.”
Rosa slapped her open hand flat on the tabletop, making the lemons jump.
“Then listen to what your legs and your belly are trying to say you need to do! If he has something in his head, and it’s keeping him from making a move, then it’s up to you to take the initiative.”
“If he likes me because I am the way I am, then why should I change? I’m a thoughtful, normal person. I tried a different approach, on Christmas Eve, and you know it. I don’t even know what came over me, I would never do that kind of thing. But I felt the need to wish the love of my life a merry Christmas, and that’s what I did. And ever since then he seems to be closer to me, he has more of a . . . smile about him, even when he doesn’t smile at all. But he never asked me out. I have the impression that at night, when he comes home and sees me leaving this apartment, it makes him happy, but that’s not enough.”
Without realizing it, she had begun to cry. The tears were streaking her cheeks and her glasses fogged up slightly. Rosa felt a pang in her heart.
“Signori’, I beg of you, don’t be like that; you shouldn’t even think these things. Why, in your opinon, did I come looking for you? Don’t you think that I worry day and night about what will happen to my young master, when I’m dead and gone? And what do you think, that I just walked out into the street and grabbed the first girl I saw? He wants you, nobody but you. And if you want him, then you have to go out and get him. Before some other woman steps forward and, taking advantage of some weakness of his, takes him and makes him miserable for the rest of his life.”
“But if he wants me, why on earth would he give in to another woman?”
“The danger, Signori’, is always there. Certain women have . . . resources, shall we say. And if one of these women, like that widow from up north who goes around town in a car with a driver, you know who we’re talking about, finds the way, then he’s lost. For example, my young master is good-hearted: so good-hearted. His conscience is a dangerous thing; if she convinces him that she’s suffering terribly without him, then his conscience might start bothering him. That’s a danger.”
Enrica wiped her eyes.
“What can I do to keep that from happening?”
“My lovely girl, you need to take action. Let’s cook him this meal: on Sunday, he has to work, he always works on holidays, so you can eat Easter lunch with your own family. But that night you can come to dinner here. You can eat with him, the things that you’ve cooked for him. That way that knucklehead will start to understand what it means to have a person close to him, and you can toss your hat in the ring, so to speak.”
The girl sat openmouthed.
“Me? To dinner, here? Impossible, how on earth could I do that? And after all, no one’s even invited me. I could never do it.”
Rosa put on an offended expression:
“What about me? Are you saying I’m no one? I live here, I can certainly invite a person to dinner if I like. So I’m inviting you, and if you refuse to come, then you’ve insulted me and I can no longer speak to you. Are you trying to insult me?”
Enrica stammered:
“Me, insult you? No, never, absolutely not. But . . .”
“Good, then it’s all taken care of: for dinner, on Easter Sunday. Now, let’s get busy, we have less than two days.”